In our image

by Arran James

Last night it took a long while to get to sleep. On the cusp of it a thought came to me that tasted markedly Feuerbachian: having no memory of our birth, and lacking the possibility to witness our own deaths, we are experientially without beginning or end. Is it so strange we might invent God? A concept that whatever else it does expresses these moments that fundamentally escape our autobiographical narration in its most potent form; memory. The figure of Christ, of the God-made-Flesh, becomes the trope of wakefulness, the trope of all mortality.

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