But I always think that the best way to know God is to love many

Host: The countryside was painted in gold and lavender — a living echo of one of Van Gogh’s own dreams. The sun had just begun its descent, spilling liquid amber across the fields of wheat, each stalk swaying like a whispered prayer. The air was thick with the scent of earth, smoke, and distant rain — the kind of smell that reminds you you’re alive.

An old barn stood at the edge of the field, its roof broken in two places, its beams bleeding orange light through the cracks. Inside, surrounded by scattered canvases, tins of paint, and brushes stiff with color, sat Jack — sleeves rolled, shirt stained, eyes weary. He wasn’t painting anymore. He was just looking at the unfinished canvas before him, the brush limp in his hand.

Through the open doorway, Jeeny stepped in. Her hair caught the sunlight, her boots trailed dust. She paused, her eyes falling on the half-formed landscape — bold strokes of yellow, blue, and something like longing.

Jeeny: “Vincent Van Gogh once said, ‘But I always think that the best way to know God is to love many things.’”

Host: Her voice was soft, but the words filled the space, settling between the scent of turpentine and the hum of cicadas outside.

Jack: (without looking up) “He said that before he cut off his ear, right?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But maybe he understood God better than anyone who kept both ears.”

Jack: (smirking) “You think God hides in paint and madness?”

Jeeny: “No. I think He hides in devotion — in the act of loving something so deeply it undoes you.”

Host: She moved closer, her hand grazing the edge of a nearby canvas — a portrait of a face half in light, half in shadow.

Jeeny: “You’ve been sitting here for hours.”

Jack: “I’m trying to finish this piece, but every time I paint, it starts feeling like I’m lying.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because you’re trying to make something perfect instead of something honest.”

Jack: (quietly) “Perfection’s easier. It doesn’t bleed.”

Jeeny: “Neither does stone.”

Host: A breeze drifted through the doorway, carrying the smell of wildflowers and the faint sound of church bells from the village beyond the hill.

Jeeny: “You know what Van Gogh meant, don’t you?”

Jack: “He meant obsession disguised as holiness.”

Jeeny: “No. He meant that to love the world, in all its brokenness, is holiness.”

Jack: (finally looking at her) “You think love replaces God?”

Jeeny: “No. I think love reveals Him.”

Host: The sunlight struck the canvas again, and the colors seemed to shift — the blues deepening, the yellows burning like small suns. Jack turned back toward it, eyes tracing the brushstrokes he’d once made with certainty but now doubted.

Jack: “When I was younger, I thought art could make sense of things — give chaos a name. Now it just feels like I’m cataloguing pain.”

Jeeny: “Then you’re finally painting something true.”

Jack: (dryly) “That’s comforting.”

Jeeny: “It should be. Van Gogh didn’t paint to escape suffering; he painted to make friends with it. That’s what loving many things means — not picking the beautiful and ignoring the bruised.”

Jack: “You sound like a priest who reads poetry instead of scripture.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what priests should be.”

Host: A bird landed just outside the doorway, cocked its head, and then took off again — a small interruption, but one that made both of them glance toward the fading sky.

Jeeny: “You see that? That’s what Van Gogh understood. The sacred isn’t somewhere above us — it’s right there, in the brief flight of something fragile. In the detail we almost miss.”

Jack: “In paint that dries before you’re done?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. In impermanence.”

Host: He dipped his brush back into the paint — slowly, deliberately. The movement was gentle, almost reverent.

Jack: “So what you’re saying is that knowing God isn’t about believing — it’s about noticing.”

Jeeny: “And loving what you notice, even when it hurts.”

Jack: “You think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s everything.”

Host: The light shifted again, softening into the golden hour — that fleeting time when everything seems possible and perishable all at once.

Jack: “I used to think love was meant to save me.”

Jeeny: “Love doesn’t save. It wakes.”

Jack: “And God?”

Jeeny: “He’s what you see after you’ve opened your eyes.”

Host: He stopped painting. The brush hovered just above the canvas.

Jack: “You make it sound like faith is an act of attention.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every time you look closely at something — really see it — you’re praying.”

Jack: (softly) “Then I’ve been praying my whole life without knowing it.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve been closer to God than most who talk to Him every day.”

Host: The shadows lengthened, and the first stars began to reveal themselves in the deepening blue. The field outside glowed like it was alive, whispering to the night.

Jeeny: “You know, Van Gogh loved everything — the sky, the fields, the people, even the pain. Maybe he wasn’t trying to find God. Maybe he was trying to be found.”

Jack: (after a pause) “By what?”

Jeeny: “By wonder.”

Host: He looked at the painting again. In the swirl of yellow and blue, he saw it now — not the shape of perfection, but the trembling heartbeat of presence.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why his paintings still breathe — because he didn’t paint what he saw. He painted what he loved.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s what makes them immortal.”

Jack: “You think love does that? Defies time?”

Jeeny: “Love is time — transformed into memory that refuses to fade.”

Host: The evening deepened into a velvet quiet. Fireflies began to appear in the tall grass outside, tiny sparks against the approaching dark.

Jack set down the brush and wiped his hands on his apron, leaving streaks of ochre and cobalt.

Jack: “You know something?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “I think I finally understand what he meant. Maybe knowing God isn’t a destination. Maybe it’s just… the willingness to love more things than yesterday.”

Jeeny: “And to love them without needing to own them.”

Jack: “Or fix them.”

Jeeny: “Or even understand them.”

Host: The two stood in silence as the world around them turned to shadow and light. The unfinished painting gleamed faintly in the dim, like something alive, something waiting.

And as the night finally took the field, Van Gogh’s words came alive in the quiet — no longer a quote, but a truth embodied:

That to know God
is not to rise above the world,
but to sink deeply into it —

to love the small,
the fleeting,
the flawed,
and the ordinary —

until everything,
even sorrow,
begins to shine.