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How can we not think of extinction, and by that I mean not the inexorable movement of time across the field of ideas that we so prize, but rather physical extinctions, the actual end of humanity, as our children or our children’s children are murdered by the rising tide of our own wastes, our own hatreds?
Ask the question of yourselves, Christian peoples and scholars: Where does extinction fit within your finely wrought theology? Is my grandchild’s death some years hence, whether it be by drowning in some future storm, or of poisoning in some mad fit of hatred, a realisation of the eschaton?
How much beauty will be left unrevealed when our time is gone? How many dances left without steps, how many scansions left rhyme-less, how many songs unsung and lines undrawn? Is this your eschaton, your end-time and fruition?
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