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.
The more we try to say, the less we truly add and so as we try to define God we instead diminish him. We limit the limitless trying to squeeze it into the narrow space required by our insecurity. The result is a smaller, rather than a grander, God.
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