“Heavens, no! He’s too vast, too incomprehensible. I love you—and Oswald—and the R.F.C., Joan, and biology. But he’s above and beyond that sort of thing.”
“Could you pray to him?” asked Joan.
“Not to him,” said Peter.
“I pray,” said Joan. “Don’t you?”
“And swear,” said Peter.
“One prays to something—it isn’t oneself.”
“The fashion nowadays is to speak of the God in the Heart and the God in the Universe.”
“Is it the same God?”
“Leave it at that,” said Peter. “We don’t know. All the waste and muddle in religion is due to people arguing and asserting that they are the same, that they are different but related, or that they are different but opposed. And so on and so on. How can we know? What need is there to know? In view of the little jobs we are doing. Let us leave it at that.”
Joan was silent for a while. “I suppose we must,” she said.