Faith is my foundation because you work on a faith basis that you

Host: The morning light filtered through the tall windows of the old church café, its beams falling in thin, golden lines across the floorboards. Outside, the city was still waking, a slow hum of engines, footsteps, and the faint sound of bells from a nearby chapel. Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat by the window — a pair of souls wrapped in the quiet warmth of coffee and conversation.

Jack’s jacket lay slung over his chair, his sleeves rolled up, the morning’s tension already forming in his grey eyes. Jeeny’s hands were folded around her cup, her expression calm but luminous — like someone carrying light in her chest.

The quote rested between them on a torn piece of paper, its ink smudged slightly: “Faith is my foundation because you work on a faith basis that you believe God has his hand on you.” — Richard DeVos.

Host: The sunlight caught the edge of Jeeny’s hair as she looked up, her voice soft but certain.

Jeeny: “Faith as a foundation… it’s such a powerful idea. It’s not just religion. It’s the belief that you’re part of something larger — that even when everything falls apart, there’s still a hand guiding you.”

Jack: “Guiding you?” He leaned back, his brows furrowing. “You mean controlling you. That’s what I hear in that quote — surrender. The idea that someone else, some invisible hand, decides your path. That’s not strength, Jeeny. That’s dependency.”

Host: A bus rumbled past, its reflection sliding across the café wall like a moving shadow. The smell of bread and coffee mingled in the air, grounding the sacred in the ordinary.

Jeeny: “Dependency? No, Jack. It’s trust. Faith isn’t about abandoning control — it’s about knowing you’re not alone in your struggle. Richard DeVos built an empire believing that. When he said God had His hand on him, he wasn’t giving up control; he was finding courage to act.”

Jack: “Or using faith as justification for ambition. It’s easy to say ‘God’s guiding me’ when your business thrives. But tell me, Jeeny — where’s that hand when the world collapses? When the faithful starve, or when children die in earthquakes? Does God withdraw His hand then?”

Jeeny: “You’re not questioning faith, Jack. You’re questioning fairness. They’re not the same thing.”

Host: The light shifted, a small cloud crossing the sun, the café briefly dimming. The silence thickened, filled only by the faint clink of spoons against porcelain.

Jack: “Fairness defines belief, Jeeny. If a God can lift one man into wealth while another dies unseen, then faith becomes an illusion. A comforting lie.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Faith isn’t a transaction — it’s a stance. It’s choosing to believe in goodness even when reason tells you not to. It’s standing on invisible ground and walking forward anyway.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, not from doubt, but from conviction. Jack’s fingers drummed on the table, the rhythm of skepticism beating against her quiet certainty.

Jack: “Invisible ground,” he repeated with a faint, cynical smile. “That’s poetic, Jeeny, but dangerous. People build nations, wars, and corporations on ‘invisible ground.’ Faith can move mountains — sure — but it’s also buried countless lives under them.”

Jeeny: “And yet, without faith, we wouldn’t climb at all.”

Host: A streak of light broke through the cloud again, illuminating their table. Dust particles floated like tiny planets, suspended between belief and doubt.

Jeeny: “Think about history, Jack. The abolitionists, the civil rights leaders — people like Martin Luther King Jr. They stood against impossible odds. Their power didn’t come from proof. It came from faith — faith that justice would rise, even when everything said it wouldn’t.”

Jack: “And yet, for every King, there’s a man who uses that same faith to justify tyranny. Crusades, inquisitions, holy wars — all built on the same foundation you’re praising.”

Jeeny: “Because humans corrupt faith. That’s the tragedy, not the truth. Faith itself — pure faith — is never violent. It’s the misuse of it that poisons the world.”

Host: The café door creaked open, a gust of cold air spilling in, carrying the faint sound of a choir practicing nearby — distant voices blending in imperfect harmony.

Jack: “You talk like faith is a light we all have, but you forget — not everyone sees it the same way. One man’s faith builds a hospital, another’s bombs it. If God truly has His hand on us, His fingers must be trembling.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they are. Maybe He trembles because He gave us freedom. Faith isn’t God’s control, Jack — it’s our response to His silence.”

Host: That sentence hung in the air, heavy and beautiful. Even Jack’s eyes softened for a moment, the cynicism cracked by quiet wonder.

Jack: “Our response to His silence…” He said it slowly, as if tasting the meaning. “You really think silence is divine?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes silence is mercy. Sometimes it’s a test. Maybe faith isn’t about hearing God, but continuing when you can’t.”

Host: A beam of light broke through the window, catching the edge of Jack’s jawline, highlighting the conflict behind his calm. His hands were still, but his eyes — his grey, searching eyes — looked haunted.

Jack: “I envy that certainty. I really do. But I’ve seen too much of the world’s chaos to believe in invisible order. I’ve seen good men rot in hospital beds, and liars win elections. If there’s a divine hand on us, Jeeny, it’s got a strange sense of justice.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about justice. Maybe it’s about journey. Faith doesn’t promise fairness, Jack. It promises meaning — that the pain isn’t random, that the fall isn’t final.”

Host: The sunlight spread across the table like a quiet blessing. The sound of the choir grew louder — a fragile, imperfect, human harmony echoing through the morning air.

Jeeny: “You see chaos, I see pattern. You see absence, I see purpose. The same events, different eyes. That’s faith.”

Jack: “And what happens when your eyes go blind, Jeeny? When even the light feels like darkness?”

Jeeny: “Then you walk by memory. You remember that once, the light was real — and that’s enough to keep moving.”

Host: Her words lingered, the kind that settle not on the mind but on the soul. Jack looked down, his thumb tracing the rim of his cup, lost in thought. Outside, the bells began to chime — slow, solemn, resonant.

Jack: “You really think God has His hand on you, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not because I’m special, but because I’m human. Because He has a hand on all of us — even you, Jack, though you don’t see it.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just steering my own ship in a storm, hoping not to drown.”

Jeeny: “Even sailors pray, Jack.”

Host: The café grew brighter, the morning now fully awake. The steam from their cups rose like silent prayers, disappearing into the light. Jack’s expression softened — not converted, but humbled.

Jack: “You know, maybe faith isn’t blindness after all. Maybe it’s courage — the courage to keep walking even when you doubt the ground beneath you.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith and doubt aren’t enemies, Jack. They’re partners. Without doubt, faith is arrogance. Without faith, doubt is despair.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The bells outside stopped, leaving only the soft murmur of the city — the rhythm of life continuing. Jack finally stood, pulling on his jacket, the light catching the faintest of smiles on his face.

Jack: “You win this one, Jeeny. But don’t expect me to start praying.”

Jeeny: “I don’t want you to pray, Jack. I just want you to believe that maybe — just maybe — you’re not alone.”

Host: He paused, looking out the window. The street below was alive now — people walking, laughing, rushing toward their own unknowable fates. For a second, Jack’s eyes followed a small child skipping beside her mother, her hand reaching upward instinctively, trustingly.

Jack: “Maybe that’s faith,” he whispered. “Reaching for a hand you can’t see.”

Host: Jeeny smiled — not triumphant, but peaceful. The light from the window bathed them both in soft gold, like the quiet touch of something unseen.

And as they sat, the camera would slowly pull back — the church bells distant, the city breathing, the morning light swelling — until only the echo of Jeeny’s final words remained, like a gentle hymn over the noise of the world.

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t about knowing, Jack. It’s about walking — and trusting that somewhere, a hand is waiting to catch you.”

Host: The scene fades, leaving behind only the glow of the morning and two half-empty cups, still warm with belief.