Chance is perhaps the pseudonym of God when he did not want to

Host: The afternoon light slanted through the stained glass of an abandoned chapel, splintering into rays of red, gold, and dust. The air was thick with the smell of old wood, wax, and rain leaking through the cracks in the roof. A storm had just passed, but the echo of thunder still lingered, like a memory refusing to fade.

Jack sat on the steps of the altar, his coat damp, his hair disheveled, his hands resting on his knees. Jeeny stood near the window, her fingers tracing the light that filtered through a fragment of blue glass.

Host: The chapel was silent, except for the drip of water and the distant sound of a bell from another church, somewhere beyond the fog.

Jeeny: (softly) “You ever wonder if things happen for a reason, Jack?”

Jack: (without looking up) “No. I think things just happen. The universe doesn’t plan, it just spins. We’re the ones who invent meaning to make the chaos bearable.”

Jeeny: “But what if the chaos is the meaning? What if every accident, every meeting, every loss is just a signature in disguise — something too vast to recognize?”

Host: The light shifted, casting her face in a halo of amber, as if the sun itself had paused to listen. Jack smirked, but there was a tremor beneath it.

Jack: “You’re quoting Anatole France, aren’t you? ‘Chance is perhaps the pseudonym of God when He did not want to sign.’ I’ve heard that one before. It’s poetic — but it’s also wishful thinking. A divine loophole for people who can’t accept randomness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s humility. Maybe it means that God — or whatever we want to call the unknown — still acts, but without needing the credit. Maybe Chance is just how the divine hides from ego.”

Host: The rain began again, light, rhythmic, tapping against the glass like the heartbeat of something invisible.

Jack: “That’s a nice way of saying we’re puppets who can’t see the strings.”

Jeeny: (turning toward him) “No — it’s a way of saying that even when we can’t see the pattern, it might still exist. When your plane got delayed last year, and you missed that conference — do you remember what happened?”

Jack: (frowns) “Yeah. The flight I was supposed to be on crashed during landing. Everyone died. I know what you’re getting at.”

Jeeny: “Then tell me — was that luck, or something else?”

Host: Jack’s hands tightened. The light flickered as a cloud passed. The sound of wind through the cracked walls made the candles tremble.

Jack: “It was probability, Jeeny. Weather patterns, mechanical failure, statistics — that’s it. Not destiny, not God. Just numbers.”

Jeeny: “And yet those numbers spared you. Don’t you ever feel something more than math in that?”

Jack: (quietly) “I felt survivor’s guilt, not grace.”

Host: The word hung like smoke, dissolving slowly. Jeeny walked toward him, her boots echoing on the stone floor.

Jeeny: “You see the pain, but not the possibility. Maybe Chance isn’t there to protect us — maybe it’s there to wake us. To make us listen. To make us change.”

Jack: “You think a plane crash is God’s message?”

Jeeny: “I think everything might be. Even the things that hurt.”

Host: A ray of sunlight broke through the clouds, illuminating the altar where Jack sat — the same spot where hundreds once knelt, hoping for a sign. The light turned the dust in the air into golden particles, floating, dancing, alive.

Jack: “You want to make meaning out of randomness. I get it. It’s comforting to think there’s a hand behind it all. But sometimes chaos is just chaos. People die, storms hit, and good men lose everything — not because it’s meant to happen, but because the world doesn’t care.”

Jeeny: “Then why does it still move you? If it’s all meaningless, why are you even angry?”

Host: Jack’s head lifted. Her question cut like a needle — small, precise, impossible to ignore.

Jack: “Because I keep hoping there is a reason. I just can’t find it.”

Jeeny: (kneeling beside him) “Maybe you’re not supposed to find it. Maybe you’re supposed to live it. Chance doesn’t need to explain itself — it just shows us where to go next.”

Host: A drop of rain fell through the broken roof and landed on the floor between them, splitting into ripples that spread until they touched both their feet.

Jack: (half-smiling) “You make it sound like the universe is a poet.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe we’re just the punctuation in its sentences — small, but part of the story.”

Host: The storm had passed now. The sky outside was silver, the trees still dripping, their leaves glowing under the light. Jack stood, staring up at the crossbeam where a single ray of sun fell like a spotlight on nothing — or everything.

Jack: “So you’re saying that God hides in coincidence — that He doesn’t sign His work because He wants us to look closer?”

Jeeny: “Maybe He wants us to wonder. To stay curious, not certain. Certainty kills faith faster than doubt ever could.”

Host: The air grew still, the light now steady and warm. Jeeny’s eyes caught the reflection of the glass, her face glowing with that quiet belief that never needed proof.

Jack: (after a long pause) “You know, I used to think everything was chance. But sometimes, when I look back, I see these… threads. Like my life was stitched by an invisible hand, even when I thought I was lost.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the signature — the one you never noticed until now.”

Host: He laughed, a small, unsteady sound that carried a weight of both relief and regret.

Jack: “You think He signs all our stories, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “I think He signs the silences — the parts we call accidents. The missed trains, the random encounters, the moments that feel like nothing, but change everything.”

Host: The wind shifted, blowing the door slightly open, letting in a rush of fresh air and light. Jack looked toward it, as if the world outside had just invited him to begin again.

Jack: “Maybe Chance isn’t the absence of God. Maybe it’s His way of playing fair.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Or maybe it’s His way of teaching us to see Him — even when He doesn’t want to be found.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the two figures standing in the ruins of the chapel, their faces soft beneath the stained light, the rain now stopped, the world washed clean.

In the silence, the bells from a distant steeple began to chime, each note rising like a whisper from the divine — or from Chance itself — reminding all who listened that not every signature must be seen to be real.