I can see God walking–well, let me be clear about what I can and cannot see because there’s two views alternating in some systolic, diastolic rhythm: God, an old man with regulation long beard, ambling, comfortably but with a certain elation, a certain pride in his step; and then the more difficult image of walking itself–there is walking, an archetypal activity . . . God as pure mind, ummmm. For the moment let’s stay with the old man (okay, I know there’s going to be problems with this for some of you, but I think there’s going to be problems whichever way I play it). So, where was I, oh yes, God walking, walking along a pristine beach in his newish creation. I love that word, pristine; it makes me think of arriving home with a new shirt, purchased perhaps only an hour ago, the receipt’s still in the bag, but then very quickly the shirt’s no longer in the bag, it’s out, but still pristine in its clear plastic envelope. I remove it, search out the little plastic clips, the cardboard under-collar, undo the buttons, the shirt opens out, emanating its new smell–newness and pristinity shine out of it. Of course, I have to try it on, feel it, begin the process of wearing it in and wearing it out.
Loss and suffering are already prefigured.