Some words carry very little weight, while others carry the weight of the world. When it comes to the Christian faith, few phrases are more frequently uttered, yet more easily emptied of meaning, than “I believe.” These two small words, which open the Apostles’ Creed, are among the most consequential a person can utter. To affirm, “I believe” is far more than a private feeling or a passing preference. It is to state a decisive, personal act of trust in the God who has spoken.
Rooted in the Heart
The Creed was originally composed in Latin, and the word translated “I believe” is credo—literally, “I set my heart upon.” It describes a deliberate act: considering evidence, weighing claims, and then consciously fixing one’s heart and trust upon a specific reality. The Greek behind the English carries a similar sense—to trust, to have faith in, to rely upon. Neither word describes a fleeting impression. In both languages, the words are weighty—as they ought to be in English.
It is worth noticing where this word appears in the Creed. It opens the confession—“I believe in God the Father”—and recurs at each major turn: “I believe in Jesus Christ” and, “I believe in the Holy Spirit.” The repetition is intentional. Each time, it is a fresh declaration, a restatement of the same settled conviction applied to each person of the Trinity in turn.
A Word Cheapened
Contrast this with how the phrase functions in ordinary speech. “I believe the Springboks will beat the All Blacks this weekend.” “I believe things will work out.” Used this way, “I believe” is more like an empty hope—a feeling or a private wish that carries no real weight and demands no real commitment. It is reversible, non-binding, and easily abandoned the moment circumstances change.
The belief described in Scripture is entirely different. It is, in the words of Hebrews 11:1, “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” For example, “By faith we understand that the universe was created by the word of God, so that what is seen was not made out of things that are visible” (Hebrews 11:3). None of us witnessed creation. None of us stood beside Abraham when he trusted God’s promise. Yet, by faith, we lay hold of these realities as certainly as if we had. This is not evidence-free wishful thinking; it is confidence anchored in the character and trustworthiness of the God who has revealed himself.
Scripture is honest about the tension involved in belief. The father of the demonised boy in Mark’s Gospel cried to Jesus, “I believe; help my unbelief!” (Mark 9:24). Faith is not the absence of struggle. Doubt is not the opposite of faith—unbelief is. There is always, in this life, some remaining doubt alongside belief—and God does not despise the one who brings both to him honestly.
Confession, Not Recitation
This raises an important, though perhaps almost unconscious, question for anyone who recites a creed regularly: Are we confessing, or merely reciting? To recite is to speak from memory, disconnected from the heart. It is no different, in principle, from performing a poem for an audience and sitting down again, unchanged. A confession is a declaration that displays the actual reality of one’s heart before God and others.
The danger of formal, repeated creeds is real. In traditions where congregations recite ancient words from a book each week without reflection, the words can become an inoculation against ever truly believing them—a substitute for conviction rather than an expression of it. The answer is not to abandon the practice, but to guard the heart within it. Scripture’s own pattern is instructive: The Ephesian believers were reminded that salvation itself is “the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast” (Ephesians 2:8–9). Belief is not manufactured by discipline alone; it is given. But that gift is often prepared for through ordinary, repeated exposure to truth—through hearing, through practising the disciplines of faith, through the daily rehearsal of what is true, even before full conviction has taken root.
This is no different from how faith is nurtured in children, or in new believers still finding their feet. We tell them what is true and encourage them to walk in it before they have fully grasped or embraced it themselves. To use an almost forgotten term, we catechise them. We do so not out of pretence, but because this is how God ordinarily works: tilling the soil, planting the seed, and waiting for him to give the growth.
A Personal Act Within a Shared Body
The Creed’s structure is instructive. It is framed in the first person—“I believe”—not “we believe.” This is significant because a corporate recitation using “we” can allow individuals to hide within the group, mouthing words that have never become personally theirs. The first person (“I”) confronts each worshipper directly: Is this actually true of me? At the same time, this personal act is never meant to be private or isolated. It is spoken alongside others who make the same confession, each strengthening the resolve of their neighbour. Hebrews 11:6 warns, “Without faith it is impossible to please him, for whoever would draw near to God must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who seek him.”