Every year we celebrate the holy season of Advent, O God. Every

Host: The church was almost empty, bathed in candlelight and the scent of pine. Outside, the snow fell in slow, reverent flakes, each one catching the glow from the stained-glass windows before disappearing into the hush of the night. Inside, time moved differently — slower, deeper — as if every flickering flame carried a heartbeat of something ancient.

At the far end of the pews, Jack sat with his head bowed, hands folded loosely, his coat still damp from the cold. Jeeny knelt two rows behind him, her eyes half-closed, her lips moving silently — a prayer only the candles could hear.

The choir had finished an hour ago, but the echo of their hymn lingered in the rafters like perfume, mingling with the smell of wax and evergreen. Above the altar hung a banner embroidered in gold thread — the words shimmering softly in the light:

“Every year we celebrate the holy season of Advent, O God. Every year we pray those beautiful prayers of longing and waiting, and sing those lovely songs of hope and promise.”
— Karl Rahner

The quote glowed like an invocation. A reminder. A whisper.

Jeeny (softly): “Every year we wait for something that already came.”

Jack: “Or something that never does.”

Host: His voice echoed softly, not blasphemous, but weary. It carried the tone of someone who had prayed once, and waited too long for an answer.

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in waiting anymore, do you?”

Jack: “I believe in time. It does what it wants, whether I’m patient or not.”

Jeeny: “That’s not faith, Jack. That’s resignation.”

Jack: “Same thing, just with less poetry.”

Host: She stood, brushing the snow from her coat sleeve. The candles wavered as she walked forward, her boots echoing softly on the stone. Jack didn’t look up until she stopped beside him.

Jeeny: “Advent isn’t about waiting for something new. It’s about remembering the waiting itself. The hope that once dared to believe in light.”

Jack: “And every year we light the candles, sing the songs, make promises we won’t keep. You call that hope — I call it ritualized denial.”

Jeeny: “No. I call it survival.”

Host: Her eyes caught the flame nearest her — its light trembling but unbroken. Jack sighed, resting his elbows on his knees.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my mother used to bring me to church this time of year. She’d say, ‘Advent is God’s way of teaching us patience.’ I used to stare at the candles and think, Maybe patience is just what people invent when they’re too afraid to admit they’re lost.”

Jeeny: “Maybe she was right, though. Maybe patience isn’t fear. Maybe it’s faith’s longest note.”

Jack: “Faith’s gone out of tune.”

Jeeny: “No. You just stopped singing.”

Host: Her words floated gently, like incense. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy — it was listening. The old church seemed to hold its breath, waiting with them.

Jeeny: “Every year, Advent asks the same question: Can you still believe in a promise you can’t see?”

Jack: “And every year, I ask the same one: What if I don’t?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep lighting the candle anyway. That’s the whole point.”

Host: Jack looked at her — really looked. The flicker of the flame painted her face in gold and shadow, the kind of light that makes truth look fragile.

Jack: “You make it sound like faith is just pretending long enough for something to happen.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s remembering that even in the silence, something already has.”

Host: A draft moved through the aisles, the flames bowing slightly as if in prayer. Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimed — not midnight, but close.

Jack: “You know what I think Advent really is?”

Jeeny: “Tell me.”

Jack: “A yearly rehearsal for disappointment.”

Jeeny: “Or a yearly reminder that disappointment isn’t the end of the story.”

Host: She reached down and picked up one of the small Advent candles from the pew rail — purple wax, still warm from the evening service. She handed it to him.

Jeeny: “Hold this.”

Jack: “Why?”

Jeeny: “Because it’s easier to talk about darkness than to carry a little light.”

Host: He hesitated, then took it. The flame shimmered weakly at first, then steadied — small, but steady, defiant.

Jeeny: “You see? That’s all faith really is — not the fire, but the decision to keep it from going out.”

Jack: “And if it goes out?”

Jeeny: “Then you light it again. God isn’t afraid of tired hands.”

Host: He stared at the candle — its wax running slowly, tracing pale rivers down his fingers. For the first time that night, something in his eyes softened, like frost giving way to thaw.

Jack: “You know, when Rahner wrote that — about the songs, the prayers, the hope — maybe he wasn’t talking to God. Maybe he was talking to us.”

Jeeny: “What do you mean?”

Jack: “That we keep waiting for heaven to come down, when maybe heaven’s been waiting for us to show up.”

Jeeny: “Then this — all of it — is rehearsal.”

Jack: “Yeah. For remembering.”

Host: The organ creaked faintly as the wind rattled the high stained glass. Outside, the snow kept falling — thick, deliberate, cleansing.

Jeeny: “You ever notice that hope isn’t loud? It doesn’t shout, it whispers.”

Jack: “And half the time we’re too tired to hear it.”

Jeeny: “That’s why Advent exists. To teach us how to listen again.”

Host: The two of them sat in quiet. The candlelight trembled on the marble, dancing against the carvings of saints who had once known doubt and light alike. The air was warm with breath, old prayers, and the quiet pulse of belief rediscovered.

Jack broke the silence, his voice quieter now, touched with something that sounded almost like reverence.

Jack: “You ever wonder what God thinks when He hears us pray for the same thing every year?”

Jeeny: “I think He smiles. Because it means we haven’t given up.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The final candle near the altar burned its last inch, the wick glowing steady and bright.

Jack placed the candle she’d given him beside it, the two flames merging, small but radiant.

Jeeny: “There. Now you’re part of the waiting too.”

Jack: “Yeah.” (pauses) “Maybe waiting isn’t emptiness after all.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s fullness disguised as silence.”

Host: The camera drifted back — the two figures in the pews, the light of their candles blending with the rest, until the church seemed to breathe — alive again, filled with that quiet, patient hope Advent always promises.

Outside, the snow kept falling.

The world waited, as it always had, for what was already here.

And the last words Karl Rahner left hanging in the air seemed almost to whisper through the stillness:

Every year we wait. Every year we sing. And every year, hope finds us again — not because God moves closer, but because our hearts finally do.