In the beginning, from the inky black mouth of God, into a darkness so deep that any subsequent darkness seemed ironic, a pale simulacrum of true night, there was a word. Whispered? Thundered? Who knows? Who knows whether it made any sound at all? Spoken into a vacuum as it was, where no atom existed to catch the vibration and bounce it across space. The word tumbled from God’s lips and simply hung there, a passenger with no train to board. It did not matter; there was no one, anyway, on the other end of the line.

Even if there were a receiver, the word would have been meaningless, a code with no key, for the thing to which the word referred did not yet exist. And what meaning can a word have, with no object behind it, to support and uphold it? Without the force of its signified, a word is merely a sound—powerless, meaningless, empty. The word of God, though, enjoyed its own atomic weight. Imagine the mass of the planet tucked into something the size of a pea. It sat like a ball of lead on God’s tongue, the potential of it pulsing, growing hot. When it rolled from God’s lips, it split like an atom and exploded. Something from nothing, that is the concept. A word that would shake and shatter the darkness, conjuring its own signified. A word that through its very utterance could not just plant the image of a thing but bring forth the thing itself. A word that would expand, burst into a thousand bonfires, growing to the size of galaxies. A word that would not look any longer like a word but like a universe.

In any case, there is this: that before there was anything, there was the word, Let there be light. So. Let light be.

Continued in Confrontation 118.