Supposedly, just prior to his death, C.S Lewis started a short story. It was about a man who was blind all his life. After a miracle, he gained the sense of sight he never had. This is my rendition of a similar story.
Upon regaining sight the man was, as you might expect, a bit overwhelmed. Once the radical paradigm shift settled into him a bit, he asked his wife a question.
"Where is this light you are always talking about? You've told me that that's a tree. I know that. I can see it. I can see you. I can see our home as well. But what about light? Where can I find it?"
His wife was obviously perplexed. How do you show light to someone? How do you contain it for them to see? She tried pointing him to the sun. To which he replied that she already told him that that was the sun. She tried the same thing with a lamp. But she had already labeled that too. So she tried to explain,
"Well you don't really see light. Light is what allows you to see. Before you regained sight, you were in the dark. Now you're in the light. And it's that light that causes you to see everything."
The man was confused. He wanted to be able to grasp the light. To understand it. So he read up on it. He studied wavelengths and and rays and all the science tied to light. He spent hours upon hours, days upon days, years upon years trying to grasp the concept.
One day, while sitting in his study, he realized it was the light in the lamp that allowed him to even do such studying.
And he realized it was the light from the sun outside, the light that he hadn't seen in days because of his studies, that allowed him to be overwhelmed with amazement and wonder from the birds and the trees.
He realized it was light that allowed him to see his wife, the woman he loved more than anything in the world.
And rather than take the time to appreciate all that the light chose to show, he spent time trying to grasp the light itself. Completely missing what it allowed him to see and encounter all around him in every moment.
He left his study and began to live in the light. Not worried about how it was, but letting it inform every moment he lived in the time he had left. And he felt free.
How often do we turn God into something we try and grasp? Maybe we should start seeing God like light. Something we can't fully grasp, ever. But he / she / it allows us to see things in a whole new way. God, like light, doesn't so much exist as he / she / it but rather calls things into existence. And we have the privilege to encounter all of that wonderful beauty. If we look around with appreciation instead of argue and debate and theorize about what / where / how it is.