"I don’t know what to do about them, they won’t get out of the way."

"Who?" said Stef.

"There’s disaster rolling down the hill and they won’t move."

"Who won’t? Whom are you talking about?"

"I can’t make them pay attention, they just stand there ..." Steinbeck sounded as if he might break into tears. "They won’t heed me ..."

Stef was growing irritable. "Who?" he repeated. "What are you lamenting? Who won’t move?"

"My characters!" Steinbeck exploded. He was writing Of Mice and Men.1

This could be God speaking about us, his children. "We just won’t move." We won’t listen. We won’t think, and accidents, breakdowns, nuclear wars, and the like rush down upon us like an avalanche.

But, certainly, this does not totally answer the question of suffering. No! It is only a part of the answer.

On his…