Djimlah shook her head. “How can He be only an eye? Have you ever seen a person being only an eye?”
“He isn’t a person,” I retorted. “He is God, which is very different from being a person,” and yet as I spoke the words, something I had just learned popped into my head, that man was created in the image of God. Magnanimously I mentioned this to Djimlah.
“I always knew that,” she agreed, “and I know whom He looks like, too. He looks like grandfather at his best.”
“Your grandfather is old,” I protested. “God isn’t an old man.”
Djimlah pondered this. “Well, He has lived ever since the beginning of the world—and grandfather is only sixty.” She looked at me puzzled. “That’s funny. I never thought much about His age.”
“Yes,” I put in more perplexed still, “and His Son, if He had lived, would have been almost nineteen hundred years old.”
She turned abruptly, and her face in the little hollow was very near mine.
“What son?” she inquired with interest.
“Jesus Christ, our Lord,” I answered.
“Your prophet? Why, He wasn’t His Son. Allah never married,” and again the words flashed into my mind that there was neither giving nor taking in marriage in heaven. Yet I stood by my orthodoxy.