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malicieux.

Some nights I imagine God as an overgrown toddler, waddling up proudly to display for our admiration a demented and unrecognizable painting, clutched between two grubby and ink-stained fat paws. Perhaps there is nothing wrong with the world, I tell myself. Perhaps it is merely that our God is not yet a child. Perhaps merely patience is called for.

Other nights, though, I imagine the opposite is true. It isn’t that God is dead, no, but rather that he has become so slow and doddering in his ancient and drooling senility that we have outpaced him. We have rushed into the future. We have been moving too fast. We have been scrambling desperately forward, but if we were only to sit down and wait for while, and to catch our breath while he hobbled arthritically closer, blind and wheezing and kind, we would not feel quite so helplessly lost.

Most nights, though, the naive child is only I, and most nights, it is only I peering through cataracts and ache at an ever faster and ever more glorious world. Outside I hear passing cars slowing echoing the surf, challenging the light of the moon. What did any of us do to deserve the sweetness of this earth? What did any of us do to deserve to lose it?