The tall elder rubs the diamonds hung around his neck as he studies this odd Yahweh fellow closely. Bewildered, he scratches his head. Yahweh—such a strange and simple name that tells nothing about him or where he’s from. He’s short, scrawny, pale, and unkempt. And he can’t speak properly. He clucks instead of clicks. Maybe he’s hungry or sick. Poor fellow.
The elder sighs loudly and wonders if this stranger can even handle complex ideas. Perhaps he’s not the brightest point of light in the night sky. After all, he just stood there while a giant warthog tried to impale him to a tree.
