Faith is an act of a finite being who is grasped by, and turned

Title: The Shape of Infinity

Host: The cathedral was empty except for the lingering echo of footsteps and the faint scent of wax and stone. The candles along the altar burned low, their small flames bending and straightening as if whispering secrets to the air.

Outside, the world was rain and thunder — a storm rolling through the ancient arches, reminding the walls of time. Inside, there was only stillness, that strange kind of quiet that humbles even thought.

Jack stood near the altar, his hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the enormous stained-glass window. Its colors — sapphire, crimson, gold — flickered faintly with the storm’s lightning, as though the saints themselves were breathing.

Jeeny sat in one of the wooden pews, her face soft, thoughtful, illuminated by a single, trembling flame.

Jeeny: “Paul Tillich once said — ‘Faith is an act of a finite being who is grasped by, and turned to, the infinite.’”

Jack: (quietly) “He makes it sound like surrender.”

Host: His voice carried the echo of the cathedral itself — deep, low, reverent, but wary.

Jeeny: “It is surrender. But not the kind that weakens. The kind that transforms.”

Jack: “I’ve never been good at surrender. I like understanding things — not bowing to them.”

Jeeny: “Understanding is control. Faith isn’t.”

Jack: “Then it’s blindness.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s sight beyond logic. The kind that begins when intellect admits its limits.”

Host: A gust of wind slipped through a crack in the heavy door, making the candle flame shudder. Shadows trembled across the floor like restless thoughts.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always envied people of faith. They seem... calm. Anchored. Like they’ve outsourced their anxiety to eternity.”

Jeeny: “That’s not faith. That’s comfort. Faith isn’t calm. It’s struggle.”

Jack: “Struggle with what?”

Jeeny: “With the infinite — and with yourself. Tillich called it ‘being grasped.’ You don’t choose it; it chooses you.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Sounds like abduction by divinity.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe the infinite doesn’t ask for permission when it breaks through the finite.”

Host: The thunder rolled, echoing through the high ceiling, filling the silence between them with sacred punctuation.

Jeeny: “Tillich believed faith isn’t believing that something exists. It’s believing in something greater than the self — something that redefines what existence even means.”

Jack: “So faith’s not about dogma?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s about depth. He said faith is the state of being ultimately concerned — whatever that means for you.”

Jack: “For me, that would be truth.”

Jeeny: “Then truth is your infinite.”

Jack: “And for you?”

Jeeny: “Love.”

Host: Her eyes lifted toward the window, where lightning flashed across the painted glass, illuminating the face of a saint — serene, sorrowful, alive in light.

Jack: “So you think the finite — us — can really touch the infinite?”

Jeeny: “Not touch. Be touched.”

Jack: “That sounds dangerously romantic.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Faith is the ultimate romance — between the mortal and the eternal.”

Jack: “And like all romances, it ends in heartbreak.”

Jeeny: “Or resurrection.”

Host: The rain began to ease, but its rhythm lingered — a pulse that matched their conversation, steady, human, hopeful.

Jack: “You know, I can’t decide if Tillich was profound or poetic. ‘A finite being turned to the infinite.’ It sounds like an equation without solution.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it faith, Jack. If you could solve it, it would be science.”

Jack: “And you’re fine with that — the not knowing?”

Jeeny: “No. I wrestle with it every day. Faith isn’t peace — it’s wrestling in the dark and still refusing to let go.”

Jack: “You mean like Jacob and the angel.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every act of faith leaves you limping.”

Host: Her voice softened — reverent, almost fragile. The wind outside carried a sigh through the crack in the stained glass, a ghost of air that felt like something listening.

Jack: “You make it sound painful.”

Jeeny: “It is. Anything real is. Faith isn’t a shield; it’s exposure. You open yourself to something that can undo you.”

Jack: “And people call that salvation.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s the only way we remember we’re not gods.”

Jack: “That’s the part I hate — the smallness.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the point. The infinite can’t be grasped by equals. It has to find humility to reach upward.”

Jack: “You really think we can reach that far?”

Jeeny: “We don’t have to. The infinite bends down.”

Host: The light through the window shifted again — faint blue now, calm, clean. The storm was passing, but its echo lingered like prayer residue in the air.

Jack: “You know what scares me? Not the idea of the infinite — but the idea that it might be indifferent.”

Jeeny: “Then faith is rebellion. It’s the refusal to believe the universe doesn’t care.”

Jack: “So faith is defiance.”

Jeeny: “Yes — the most sacred kind.”

Jack: “You mean like shouting into the void?”

Jeeny: “Like trusting the void can hear you.”

Host: His eyes flickered — a mix of skepticism and something softer, almost like yearning. The candle between them had burned low, wax pooling like time itself.

Jeeny: “Tillich said faith wasn’t about certainty, but about courage — the courage to accept that we are finite and still act as though our choices touch eternity.”

Jack: “That’s beautiful. And tragic.”

Jeeny: “All great truths are both.”

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s what makes faith impossible for me. I want evidence.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe faith’s your evidence — the fact that you keep asking, keep doubting. Doubt is faith’s shadow.”

Jack: “Then the infinite and I are on speaking terms.”

Jeeny: “You always were. You just didn’t like the language.”

Host: The bells from the cathedral tower began to ring, deep and resonant — not calling worshippers, but time itself.

Jack: “You think Tillich really believed in God? Or just in the idea of infinity?”

Jeeny: “Both. He believed God was the name we give to the infinite — not a person, not a thing, but the ground of all being.”

Jack: “So faith is the act of being aware of being?”

Jeeny: “Yes. To live consciously within mystery.”

Jack: “And when we die?”

Jeeny: “We fall back into it.”

Jack: “You make it sound peaceful.”

Jeeny: “It is, if you’ve learned to stop resisting.”

Host: The last echo of thunder rolled away. The candle finally burned down to nothing, leaving only the faint glow of twilight through the colored glass.

Host: And in that soft, sacred silence — the air still trembling from the storm — Paul Tillich’s words felt less like theology and more like confession:

That faith is not the illusion of certainty,
but the courage to be finite in an infinite world.

That the human soul, fragile and small,
is never more alive than when it reaches for what it cannot hold.

That to be grasped by the infinite
is not to escape the limits of life,
but to let those limits become holy.

The bells faded.
The rain stopped.

And in that moment, the finite and infinite met —
not in thunder, not in proof,
but in the quiet understanding
that faith is not victory,
but surrender made radiant.