This, from James Ford who writes on the Bhuddist Channel of Patheos, speaks deeply to me — a person who loves the Bible yet does not believe it is an unerring direct transmission from God. But it is the sacred book I was born to and cannot get away from. Because even if God did not write the books of the Bible except through imperfect human tools who could not help but wheedle their own tribal and vengeful feelings into it, He IS there. It is foolish to think that our spiritual texts are not human, equally foolish to ignore them for doing so. As Ford states:
In other words, God is in us, and therefore in our books, though some reveal Her more than others. Dostoevsky’s The Brother’s Karmazov, as the author mentions, is one such book for me. But also J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Silmarilion, especially the opening song of creation, the Ainulindale (don’t scoff until you’ve read it). There are few books that have moved me like C.S. Lewis’s Till We Have Faces, unless it is T.H. White’s heartbreaking and funny masterpiece, The Once And Future King. And, of course, there’s Moby Dick. And Steinbeck’s The Winter of our Discontent. And Art Spiegelman’s Maus.