Faith is like a kernel of wheat.

Host: The sky was bleeding into amber, the last light of the day stretching across a field that smelled of dust, smoke, and memory. A faint breeze rolled over the wheat, shimmering like golden water under a dying sun. In the distance, the hum of a tractor faded, and the world seemed to hold its breath.

In the middle of that field, on a wooden fence, Jack sat — his boots muddy, his shirt half-buttoned, a cigarette glowing faintly in his hand. Jeeny stood nearby, her hair pulled back, the wind tugging at a few strands. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, where a handful of wheat kernels rested in her palm.

Jeeny: “Joe Bob Briggs once said, ‘Faith is like a kernel of wheat.’”
(she looks up) “Simple, right? But I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Jack: (exhales smoke) “Because it’s vague enough to sound wise. I mean, what does that even mean, Jeeny? That faith can be ground into flour? Or that it rots if you don’t plant it?”

Host: The wind picked up, bending the stalks like waves on a golden ocean. The sound was soft, almost musical, the rhythm of growth and decay.

Jeeny: “You always take things so literally, Jack. He meant that faith, like a seed, only works when you bury it — when you trust it’ll grow, even when you can’t see it.”

Jack: “So you’re saying we have to believe blindly? Throw a part of ourselves into the dark and just hope it sprouts?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because if you don’t, nothing grows. You can hold onto the seed forever, but it’ll never become what it’s meant to be.”

Host: A pause. The sky darkened, and the first stars blinked awake. Jack flicked his cigarette, watching the ember die in the soil.

Jack: “You talk about faith like it’s some kind of miracle, Jeeny. But most of the time, it’s just wishful thinking. People plant things that never grow — dreams, beliefs, prayers. The soil doesn’t care what you hope for.”

Jeeny: “And yet, people keep planting. That’s what faith is. Not the guarantee, but the act itself. Even when you know it might not come up.”

Jack: “Sounds like delusion dressed up as virtue.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s courage. To hope when you have reason not to. To believe that what you sow matters, even if you’ll never see the harvest.”

Host: The wind softened, carrying the scent of earth and rain. Somewhere, a dog barked, then fell silent. The night was creeping in — slow, gentle, like a blanket drawn over a restless world.

Jack: “You sound like my grandmother. She used to pray every morning for rain. Sometimes it came, sometimes it didn’t. She’d still thank God either way. I never understood that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it wasn’t about the rain. Maybe it was about the gratitude — the trust that something bigger was still at work, even when it wasn’t visible.”

Jack: (smirking) “You really think there’s something ‘bigger’ out there, Jeeny? Or are we just talking to ourselves and calling it faith?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. But even if it’s just us, the conversation still matters. It keeps us human.”

Host: A moment of quiet — Jack looked at the ground, at the kernel she’d dropped. The tiny seed lay in the dust, ordinary, silent, but somehow it felt sacred. The moonlight caught on its shell, and for an instant, it glimmered.

Jack: “You think something that small can really change anything?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that ever does, Jack. One kernel becomes a stalk, a field, a harvest. It’s slow, it’s unseen, but it multiplies. That’s what faith is — the multiplier of the invisible.”

Jack: “And what if the soil is bad? What if no one waters it? What if it dies before it starts?”

Jeeny: “Then you plant again. Because faith isn’t about results — it’s about persistence. Even failure can feed the soil.”

Host: The wind shifted, lifting her hair, catching the loose strands in a kind of halo. Jack’s eyes softened, though he tried to hide it. He picked up the kernel, rolled it between his fingers, and then pressed it into the earth.

Jack: “There. You happy? I just buried my skepticism.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s a good start.”

Jack: “You really think one act like that means anything?”

Jeeny: “It means everything. Every belief, every change, every revolution started with one small, unseen act of faith. Someone who planted something they might never see grow.”

Host: The night settled deeper, wrapping the field in darkness. The stars multiplied, scattered like seeds across the sky. A cricket sang, a lone, steady rhythm — the heartbeat of the earth.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? The more you talk, the more I start to think faith and farming aren’t so different. You sweat, you wait, you lose, you try again. Maybe the believers aren’t the blind ones — maybe they’re just the ones who keep working the ground.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith isn’t a feeling, Jack. It’s labor. It’s the willingness to get dirty, to trust that what you plant might one day feed someone you’ll never meet.”

Jack: (quietly) “And what if you’ve got nothing left to plant?”

Jeeny: “Then you borrow someone else’s faith until yours returns.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, gentle, solid, like a hand placed on a shoulder. Jack’s eyes glimmered, the light of the moon reflecting off his tears — or maybe it was just the wind.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… I think I get it now. Faith isn’t about knowing it’ll grow — it’s about planting anyway.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because even a kernel holds a universe inside it.”

Host: The camera would pull back slowly — the field now a sea of shadow and silver, the stars above mirroring the seeds below. Two figures in the dark, small and yet infinite, their voices fading into the wind.

And somewhere, deep beneath the soil, that tiny kernel rested — silent, buried, believing — waiting for its time to rise.