He’s sick, a young priest coming back to his senses, throwing up some gastric fluids, some residues of his thoughts. It is Thursday and his church is on fire. And it is in those stories that faith, wherever it comes from, wherever it originates, sinks in. Minds are prone to despair but they are also quite susceptible to stories, that’s their other natural capacity. Faith, on the other hand, comes from very a different capacity perhaps even brews in a different place in our bodies, our lungs, our noses, whatever guides our intuition to smell our own deaths and to breathe our own lives. How could they, if that is their main, maybe their only, ability? Doubt is mind’s natural condition.
Minds truly run havoc without a stable, nameable, referable reality to put their finger on. Chesterton (“The Man Who Was Thursday,” Ch. ‘No,’ said the Professor, ‘for fear he might tell me.’” - G. ‘Why,’ asked the Secretary, ‘for fear of bombs?’ ‘I suppose we might find it out from him but I confess that I should feel a bit afraid of asking Sunday who he really is.’ “‘I suppose you are right,’ said the Professor reflectively.
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