My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Their Different God
Their God was different. He gave as well as took. It was sharing, not a one way traffic. Other gods demanded. They thundered and threatened. They required statues with angry faces and bodied modeled on our own. But their God cared. He loved them and they shared in a specialness the sharing created. He had no need of sacrifice. It added nothing to him, and he had meaning apart from their response. He needed no cajoling, no groveling. He hadn't to threaten and so they could learn he was real.
Labels:
differences,
God
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