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My father loved to read. He read novels and poetry. He read biographies and autobiographies. He read theology, history, a wide variety of periodicals and journals, and the sports page. If there was any place where he was likely to lose track of time, it was in a bookstore. He loved to read.

And he believed in reading, too. During his years as a homiletics professor, he required his preaching students to read. Not just books about preaching and preachers. He assigned them novels, poems, short stories, and essays. He wanted them to stretch themselves and to sharpen themselves.

And yet, for all that he read and loved to read, he would have said with John Wesley that he was a man of one book. There was only one thing that he read every single day. There was only one book that he had read continuously from his childhood into his nineties. And there was one book that he commended above all others.

When he was in his eighties, my dad began to realize that he wouldn’t have time to read everything that he wanted to. And so he became somewhat more discriminating about his reading. He would only invest the precious and finite commodity of time in what was truly worthwhile. And yet, even though he had read the Bible more than sixty times, he never set it aside. It remained the thing that he read first and read most.

There were four of us in our family—my mom, my dad, my sister, and I. Whenever we made a long family trip, therefore, we could all fit in a single hotel room. And among the many fond memories I cherish of our family trips, one of the sweetest was what I awakened to each morning. When I would begin to stir, I knew what I would see when I opened my eyes: my dad, situated in a chair by some lamp or window, reading his Bible.

That was his pattern every day, of course, whether at home or on the road. It was when we were all sharing the same room, though, that I would always see it. When we were back home, meanwhile, if I awakened and went downstairs early enough, I would find the familiar scene in our living room. My dad would be seated near the fireplace, usually with our dog contentedly at his side. And he would be reading his Bible.

I suppose that, at a human level, it was the very breadth of my father’s taste in reading that made him such a lover of Scripture. After all, the Bible has it all. It has stories and poetry, tragedy and comedy, history and philosophy, letters and biography. An earlier generation liked to refer to the Bible as “the good book,” and my dad would have said it is a very good book, indeed. He loved its rich characters, its insightful storytelling, and its wisdom.

But there’s more. The Bible is unlike any other good book in that it is uniquely God’s story and God’s word to us. And so my dad’s daily Bible reading was not like his reading the sports page over a bowl of cereal. His Bible reading was part of his morning prayer time. It was not just another good book; it was part of his walk with God.

After he passed away, I went through my dad’s bookshelves, both in his office at the seminary and in his study at home. I took for myself several of his Bibles. And I find that they are full of underlining, notes in the margins, and exclamation points. He never stopped learning from God’s word, and he never stopped being blessed and inspired by it. No wonder, then, that he so cherished his daily Bible reading time and never let anything displace it, for it was central to how the Lord spoke to him.

As a proud son, I am tempted to brag about my dad’s ability and accomplishments. Prominent among those accomplishments are the dozens of books that he wrote. Yet more important to him than the books that he wrote was the book he read.

That is the book you are embarking on reading in this year-long Grand Sweep. My dad will serve as your tour guide in your journey through the Bible, and you’ll be in good hands, for he knows the terrain so well. He spent his whole life in it.

—David Kalas