…I suddenly thought how there comes a time in one's religious experience when nothing can be added to, or subtracted from, what one understands as "belief." There it is, I tell myself, my 'belief,' minuscule though it may be in some eyes, it is oceanic in mine.
—Ronald Blythe, Out of the Valley
I'm not entirely sure what Blythe means here, and therefore not sure that my understanding is what he intended, but it struck me immediately as a description of my faith. It's not that I think I have nothing more to learn or am not always developing in my understanding of what I believe, but that it has some of the characteristics of an object: it's a single unified thing, which can be explored infinitely but which does not itself change.
Minuscule: I lead an ordinary life with ordinary virtues and vices; I don't spend a lot of time studying theology; my devotions are pretty routine and certainly not extravagant; I'm unnoticed in my parish. But yet
Oceanic: the faith is everything to me. It's the medium in which I exist and by which I exist; in one sense I would be dead without it. And it is incomprehensibly huge.
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