by Alan Johnston, Pottsville
I was feeling the contraction of self-measuring, a downward spiral staircase of small self judgments – when it came to me – God can’t count, stairs or the like.
Probably he didn’t even finish primary school. I’ve since discovered that rumours of him being numerically challenged are rife in certain out-of-the-way sections of the blogosphere.
God can’t count. OK, so the number of zeroes in my bank balance doesn’t matter. Nor does my hat size. But what about the millions of noisy minah birds, thousands of bandicoots, potoroos, numbats and all the other pre and post-ark species? It’s a stock-take nightmare.
Think of a number, you know, the one most important to you: age, salary package, years of working on yourself, weight, tally of friends, alimony, number of degrees, client base, overdraft – well he doesn’t.
Love without measure, no counting, no comparison, no competition at all – just a natural, glorious equalness that brooks no distinctions.