And so Adam, in that his speech to Eve, uttered his faith in the

Host:
The cathedral was vast and silent, its stone arches curving like ribs of some ancient creature that had once held the breath of divinity. Candles flickered in the nave, their light painting trembling halos across the worn faces of marble saints. The air smelled faintly of incense and rain, of centuries of whispered prayers still echoing in the cold.

At the far end of a long wooden pew, Jack sat with his coat draped beside him, his gaze fixed on the stained-glass window above the altar — Adam and Eve beneath the Tree of Knowledge, their faces radiant and ruined. Jeeny stood near the aisle, holding a small leather-bound book, its pages weathered, its margins inked with faith and philosophy.

Her voice, low but resonant, broke the quiet:

“And so Adam, in that his speech to Eve, uttered his faith in the promise made to her of her seed, and so in that respect Adam himself came in under her covenant.” — Thomas Goodwin.

Jeeny: closing the book softly “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The idea that even in the fall, there was faith — that Adam believed in the promise given to her, and through that belief, he was redeemed by her hope.”

Jack: half-smiling, his voice rough “Beautiful, maybe. But it’s also irony at its finest. The man who broke the world ends up finding salvation in the woman he blamed for it.”

Jeeny: turning toward him “Maybe that’s the point. Redemption often hides in the very thing we condemned.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just theology trying to tidy up a cosmic mistake. Eve sinned, Adam followed, and humanity paid the bill. No covenant can fix that math.”

Jeeny: softly, but with conviction “But Goodwin isn’t talking about math, Jack. He’s talking about mercy.”

Host:
The rain began to fall outside, the sound drumming softly against the cathedral’s high windows. Jeeny’s voice echoed faintly in the hollow of the sanctuary, her words mingling with the rhythm of water and candlelight.

Jeeny: “Think about it — in Genesis, when Eve receives the promise that her seed will crush the serpent’s head, it’s not victory yet. It’s prophecy. But Adam speaks her name — ‘Eve, mother of all living.’ That’s not blame; that’s faith. He believed life would still come from loss.”

Jack: quietly, studying the window “Or he was just trying to make peace with failure.”

Jeeny: “No. He was acknowledging grace. Adam had fallen, but when he called her ‘mother of all living,’ he accepted the covenant God had given her — that out of her weakness, deliverance would come.”

Jack: with a hint of cynicism “So Eve becomes both the reason for the fall and the vessel of salvation. A poetic paradox — the Bible’s full of them.”

Jeeny: “Not paradox — restoration. Adam’s faith didn’t erase his sin, but it realigned his heart. It’s the beginning of humanity’s second chance.”

Host:
The candles near the altar flared, the wind from a draft rippling through the space like a spirit moving unseen. The light cast shifting patterns across the floor, weaving the shapes of two figures — one bent in doubt, the other lifted in faith.

Jack: “You talk about faith like it’s something instinctive. But Adam had no priest, no doctrine, no scriptures. Just guilt and loss. What makes you think his belief wasn’t desperation?”

Jeeny: “Because desperation can be holy too. When everything is gone and you still choose to trust, that’s not delusion — that’s worship.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Yes. Faith doesn’t always begin in light. Sometimes it begins in ruin.”

Jack: leaning forward, his tone quieter now “So, Adam’s first act after the fall wasn’t defiance — it was trust.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith spoken through guilt — that’s the heart of Goodwin’s words. Adam believed in Eve’s promise, not because he was worthy of it, but because love still was.”

Host:
A choir of thunder rolled in the distance, the sound heavy but strangely sacred. Jack’s gaze lingered on the stained glass, on the serpent coiled at the foot of the tree, on Eve’s hand outstretched not in temptation, but — now that he looked closer — in offering.

Jack: “Strange, isn’t it? How every story begins with disobedience. Maybe the first covenant wasn’t faith at all — maybe it was forgiveness.”

Jeeny: “Faith and forgiveness are the same breath, Jack. One spoken, one received.”

Jack: after a pause “So Adam believed in Eve, and Eve carried the promise of redemption. That means the beginning of salvation came not from power, but partnership.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Male and female, guilt and grace, fall and faith — all bound together. It’s not hierarchy. It’s harmony reborn.”

Jack: half-smiling now “And yet, we’ve spent centuries turning that harmony into war.”

Jeeny: “Because we forgot that covenant was never about dominance — it was about trust. Even God, in His omnipotence, chose to trust humanity again.”

Host:
The rain eased, turning to mist against the high windows. The light that filtered through the stained glass now seemed softer — the colors more forgiving. Jack’s shoulders, once tense, relaxed, his tone shifting from defiance to reflection.

Jack: “You know, I think what I like most about Goodwin’s line isn’t the theology — it’s the humanity. The idea that Adam’s first real faith wasn’t in God, but in Eve. That’s… kind of beautiful.”

Jeeny: smiling gently “It is. Because believing in another person is often the most divine act of all. When he spoke her name with hope, he entered into the same faith that God had in them both — that love could outlast failure.”

Jack: quietly, almost to himself “Love as covenant. Even after exile.”

Jeeny: “Especially after exile.”

Host:
The cathedral fell silent again. Only the faint drip of water from the eaves remained, mingling with the last flicker of candle flame. The two figures — skeptic and believer — sat side by side in that sacred hush, not arguing anymore, but understanding.

Jack: “So maybe faith isn’t certainty. Maybe it’s the decision to keep naming life even when death’s all around you.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s exactly what Adam did — he named life. He spoke promise into loss.”

Jack: smiling faintly “And maybe that’s what we’re all doing — trying to speak light into what’s left of the garden.”

Jeeny: “Then perhaps we’re all still part of Eve’s covenant — bound by hope, called to believe.”

Host:
The camera would linger on the stained-glass window now — Adam and Eve bathed in eternal color, no longer just the symbols of sin, but of renewal. The light through the glass touched the floor between Jack and Jeeny, merging their shadows into one.

And as the last candle trembled out, Thomas Goodwin’s words seemed to hum through the silence — not as doctrine, but as revelation:

Faith does not begin in perfection, but in promise.

Even in exile, even in error — the divine still whispers:
Believe, and be bound again to grace.