Every man must do two things alone; he must do his own believing

Host: The churchyard was quiet beneath the bruised sky of late afternoon. The air hung heavy with the scent of wet earth and old stone, and a faint wind moved through the crooked line of tombstones, whispering the forgotten syllables of names. The bell tower had rung an hour ago, but its echo still seemed to linger — as if the sound itself refused to die.

Host: Under an ancient oak, Jack stood staring at a small marble headstone. His hands were tucked deep in his coat pockets, shoulders slightly bowed, not from the cold but from thought. A few feet away, Jeeny stood beside the stone fence, her black umbrella half open, her eyes moving between Jack and the restless sky.

Jeeny: (softly) “Martin Luther once said, ‘Every man must do two things alone; he must do his own believing and his own dying.’”
(She looks toward the graves.) “Standing here, it makes more sense than it ever did on paper.”

Jack: (without turning) “Yeah. Belief and death — the two things nobody can fake, and nobody can share.”

Jeeny: “You can’t delegate them.”

Jack: “No. Not even to the ones who love you most.”

Host: The wind stirred again, carrying with it the faint rustle of leaves — a sound like the breathing of the earth.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? We live our whole lives surrounded by people — teachers, friends, partners — and yet, when it comes to the most defining acts of existence, we’re utterly solitary.”

Jack: “That’s the paradox of being human. We’re social by nature, but spiritual by solitude.”

Jeeny: “So maybe Luther wasn’t being grim. Maybe he was freeing us — reminding us that belief and death aren’t punishments, but personal rights.”

Jack: “The last forms of autonomy.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain began again, light and deliberate, beading on the umbrella and the cold marble. Jeeny stepped closer to Jack, her voice softer now, as if the weather itself demanded reverence.

Jeeny: “You ever think about what you believe, Jack? Really believe — when no one’s around to nod or argue?”

Jack: (after a long pause) “I think… belief is the only thing that can’t be borrowed. You can inherit a religion, quote a creed, memorize a prayer — but faith, real faith, has to be wrestled into shape. Alone.”

Jeeny: “Wrestled?”

Jack: “Yeah. Like Jacob in the dark. It’s not given — it’s fought for. You come out of it wounded, but convinced.”

Jeeny: “That’s a hard way to believe.”

Jack: “The only honest way.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, turning the ground to dark patches of mud, softening every footstep. Somewhere beyond the trees, a crow cawed once, then fell silent again.

Jeeny: “And the dying part? You ever think about that?”

Jack: “More than I used to. Not in a morbid way — just as a fact. You can surround yourself with people at the end, but the moment itself? It’s yours. Nobody can cross that line with you.”

Jeeny: “No one can hold your hand past the threshold.”

Jack: “No. You go through alone. The way you came in.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “You make it sound almost symmetrical.”

Jack: “Maybe it is. Life’s bookends — entrance and exit, both solitary, everything in between just the noise of learning to accept it.”

Host: The clouds began to break, thin streaks of light spilling through like mercy. The rain slowed, became mist — the air shimmering with the faint aftertaste of renewal.

Jeeny: “You think that’s why Luther said it — to remind us not to fear solitude, but to prepare for it?”

Jack: “Maybe. He was a man who stood against an empire with nothing but conviction. He knew that belief isn’t measured by followers, but by courage.”

Jeeny: “And dying — that’s the ultimate act of courage.”

Jack: “If it’s done awake, yes.”

Jeeny: “Awake?”

Jack: “Most people die numb — medicated, distracted, pretending it’s not happening. But if you meet it conscious, if you face it with the same honesty you face your beliefs — that’s transcendence.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Dying as an act of faith.”

Jack: “Exactly. Faith in something beyond fear. Or nothing at all — but still facing it with dignity.”

Host: The bell tolled once more from the church tower — deep, resonant, final. Jack and Jeeny both turned toward the sound, their reflections faintly visible in the wet stone of the graves.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Luther was trying to strip the illusions away. The way kings, priests, and power all tried to mediate belief — he was saying: no one can stand between you and your conscience.”

Jack: “Or between you and your ending.”

Jeeny: “It’s an act of rebellion, really — to claim your soul as your own.”

Jack: “And your death.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: A long silence followed. Only the faint dripping of rain from the tree branches filled the space — that and the steady pulse of wind through the grass.

Jeeny: (softly) “You know what’s strange, Jack? The older I get, the less I fear dying. But the more I fear dying without ever having truly believed in anything.”

Jack: (quietly) “That’s because belief is living. The rest is just existing.”

Jeeny: “And you? What do you believe?”

Jack: “That courage is sacred. That love is the only thing that outlives us. And that maybe — just maybe — death is the world’s way of teaching us how to let go.”

Jeeny: “That’s a beautiful belief.”

Jack: “It’s all I’ve got.”

Host: The sun broke through, lighting the droplets on the tree branches, making them glimmer like tiny candles in the air. The graveyard no longer felt heavy — only still, like the world had momentarily paused to listen.

Jeeny: “You know, when Luther said that line, I think he was also giving us permission — to walk our own path, even if it leads us alone.”

Jack: “Yeah. He was saying solitude isn’t punishment. It’s purification.”

Jeeny: “The soul distilled to its purest form.”

Jack: “The self that faces the divine — or the void — without translation.”

Host: The light shifted, golden and kind. Jeeny closed her umbrella, letting the last drops of rain hit her shoulders.

Jeeny: “So maybe belief and dying aren’t two different things. Maybe they’re both acts of surrender.”

Jack: “Maybe they’re both ways of finally telling the truth.”

Host: The church bell was silent now. The storm had passed. The air shimmered with the clean quiet that comes only after confession.

And in that soft stillness,
Martin Luther’s words seemed to settle between them —
not like doctrine, but like understanding:

that life’s final freedoms
are the ones no one can share;
that faith and death
are the twin frontiers of the soul,
each faced alone,
each proof of who we are without witness;
and that solitude,
in its most sacred form,
is not loneliness —
but the meeting of the self with eternity.

Host: Jack turned to Jeeny, his expression calm, resolute.

Jack: “You walk with people as far as you can. But the last steps — they’re always yours.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Then let’s walk each other to the edge.”

Host: And together they did —
two figures beneath a sky still trembling with light,
their footsteps quiet but sure,
the world around them newly washed,
their silence holding the weight of faith,
and the grace
of those who are not afraid to walk alone.