But I don't necessarily define my faith by going to church every

Host: The sky had the color of old denim — soft, washed out, and streaked with light. The pier was nearly empty, except for the cries of gulls and the slow creak of the tide pushing against the wooden posts. The sea looked endless — a restless mirror of blue and thought.

Jack sat on the edge, his boots dangling above the water, a cigarette half-burned between his fingers. Jeeny stood a few feet away, her coat blowing in the salt wind, her eyes fixed on the horizon where the sun was slowly unspooling itself from the clouds.

A small radio played from a fisherman’s shack behind them, the voice on it reciting an interview with a familiar name — the words drifting toward them on the wind:

“But I don’t necessarily define my faith by going to church every Sunday.”
— Miley Cyrus

The quote hung there, like the salt mist — invisible, but everywhere.

Jeeny: “That’s brave, saying that out loud.”

Jack: “Or convenient. Depends on who you ask.”

Host: The waves lapped against the wood — soft, steady, like a heartbeat that didn’t need proof of itself. Jack flicked the ash into the water and watched it dissolve.

Jeeny: “Why does every confession sound like rebellion to you?”

Jack: “Because it usually is. People say things like that when they’re trying to make peace with their own distance.”

Jeeny: “Or when they’ve realized that God doesn’t need attendance records.”

Jack: “Easy to say when you’ve stopped showing up.”

Host: She walked closer, her boots thudding lightly against the wood. The wind tossed her hair across her face, and she smiled — that quiet kind of smile people wear when they’re about to say something that matters.

Jeeny: “You think faith lives in pews. I think it lives in the space between breaths — when you’re alone, scared, but somehow still grateful.”

Jack: “Faith without church is like music without a stage.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s like music without a microphone — raw, private, but still real.”

Host: Jack looked up at her, eyes half-shadowed by the falling light. There was no sarcasm this time — just the kind of silence that comes from a thought too complicated for easy answers.

Jack: “You grew up religious, didn’t you?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. Sunday school, choirs, casseroles after service. The whole thing.”

Jack: “And now?”

Jeeny: “Now I pray when I run, when I drive, when I breathe. I don’t go to church every week. But I still believe.”

Jack: “So you’re saying God jogs with you?”

Jeeny: “Maybe He does. Maybe He runs beside anyone who’s still trying to move forward.”

Host: The sun broke through the last of the clouds then, and for a moment, the world turned gold. The ocean lit up like a promise. Jeeny tilted her face toward it, closing her eyes.

Jeeny: “You know what I think church really is, Jack? It’s not a building. It’s the act of remembering you’re small — and loved anyway.”

Jack: “And what if you forget?”

Jeeny: “Then something — or someone — always reminds you.”

Host: He smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth twitching with reluctant respect.

Jack: “You talk about God like He’s a person.”

Jeeny: “I talk to Him like one, too.”

Jack: “And what does He say?”

Jeeny: “Usually nothing. But somehow that’s enough.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the sound of the gulls further down the pier. The radio had switched to a soft song — something about love, about loss, about faith that doesn’t need to shout.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my grandfather used to take me to church every Sunday. He’d dress in his one good suit, polish his shoes until you could see yourself in them. I’d sit there bored out of my mind, staring at the stained glass, waiting for the benediction so I could run outside.”

Jeeny: “And yet you still remember the glass.”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Jeeny: “That’s what faith does. It hides in the details. You don’t realize it’s holding you until something breaks.”

Host: Jack looked out toward the ocean again — the light shifting, the surface restless but constant.

Jack: “You really think belief can survive without ritual?”

Jeeny: “I think ritual can survive without belief. People do things out of habit all the time. But faith? Faith survives anywhere it’s invited — in churches, in cars, in quiet kitchens, in heartbreak.”

Jack: “So what, church is optional now?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s just not the only way in.”

Host: The words landed softly, like rain that didn’t want to disturb the sea. Jack rubbed his thumb over the filter of his cigarette, his expression unreadable.

Jack: “You make it sound easy. Like faith is portable.”

Jeeny: “It is. It was never meant to stay behind walls.”

Jack: “Then why do people keep building them?”

Jeeny: “Because walls are comforting. They make the sacred easier to contain.”

Jack: “And you don’t want to contain it?”

Jeeny: “I want to live it.”

Host: The light dimmed again as the sun sank lower, leaving streaks of red and purple across the water. The sound of the waves deepened, the kind of sound that filled the silence of unspoken prayers.

Jack: “You ever think maybe people need the church — not for God, but for each other?”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. But sometimes, the church stops being about each other and starts being about itself. And that’s when people leave. Not because they’ve lost faith — but because they’re trying to save it.”

Jack: “So you left to save yours?”

Jeeny: “No. I just realized it never lived there to begin with.”

Host: The last light broke across her face, a kind of quiet divinity that didn’t need to be named. Jack exhaled, the sound half sigh, half release.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe faith isn’t a building. Maybe it’s a bridge.”

Jeeny: “And maybe it’s built one conversation at a time.”

Host: The camera pulled back — two silhouettes framed by a sinking sun, the water below reflecting gold and mercy in equal measure. The radio crackled faintly, then went quiet.

The tide rolled in, slow and deliberate, washing against the pier — erasing footprints, softening edges, baptizing what had been said.

And as night folded itself around them, the quiet truth of Miley Cyrus’s words whispered through the sound of the sea:

Faith isn’t measured by attendance. It’s measured by presence.
And sometimes, the most sacred prayers are the ones you live — not the ones you speak.