Faith is not a sense, nor sight, nor reason, but taking God at

Host: The night stretched wide and silent, the kind that made every sound seem deliberate, every breath a confession. The church at the edge of town stood half-lit, its old wooden door slightly open, inviting the curious, the lost, and the weary-hearted.

Inside, candles flickered along the worn pews, their flames soft and alive, painting gold onto the ancient stone walls. The scent of wax and faint incense hung in the air, like an echo of prayer that never quite stopped.

Jeeny sat near the altar, her hands resting on a small Bible, the pages delicate and loved. Her face was calm, though her eyes carried the ache of someone who had wrestled too long with silence. Jack stood near the doorway, half in shadow, watching her — his coat still wet from the rain outside, his expression the sharp mixture of skepticism and yearning that often lives inside the same soul.

Above them, faint and carved into the altar itself, were the words that started it all tonight:

“Faith is not a sense, nor sight, nor reason, but taking God at His work.”
— Faith Evans.

Jack: dryly “Taking God at His word? That sounds convenient, doesn’t it? No evidence required, no questions asked — just sign the contract and hope He’s good for it.”

Jeeny: quietly, still looking at the Bible “Faith isn’t a contract, Jack. It’s a relationship. You don’t test it, you trust it.”

Jack: stepping closer, voice low but sharp “Trust? Trust in what, exactly? In invisible promises? In a silence that answers prayers with more silence? I can’t take anyone at their word when I’ve never heard their voice.”

Jeeny: “You think you haven’t heard it because it doesn’t sound like thunder. But maybe it sounds like persistence, like the fact that you keep coming back to argue with me about God.”

Jack: laughing softly, bitterly “That’s not faith. That’s habit.”

Jeeny: “Maybe habits are just faith that hasn’t admitted itself yet.”

Host: The candles swayed with a small gust, their light trembling across Jeeny’s face, catching the faint wet shimmer in her eyes. Jack’s boots echoed as he stepped into the aisle, the sound too loud in the quiet room.

Jack: “You’ve always been good at finding poetry in superstition.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And you’ve always been good at mistaking doubt for depth.”

Jack: “I’m just honest. Faith makes people believe because they’re afraid not to.”

Jeeny: “And reason makes people disbelieve because they’re afraid to.”

Jack: “You’re turning this into wordplay.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m turning it into balance. Faith isn’t the opposite of reason, Jack — it’s what happens when reason reaches its limits and something in you still moves.”

Host: The rain began again, gentle against the roof, a rhythm like breathing. The light shifted as a car passed outside, briefly illuminating the dust floating in the air — particles of time suspended between belief and doubt.

Jack: quietly “You know what bothers me most? That people call faith strength. It’s not strength; it’s surrender. It’s closing your eyes and hoping the world catches you.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s opening your eyes when there’s nothing left to see and walking anyway.”

Jack: “And when you fall?”

Jeeny: “You fall into the hands of the One who told you to walk.”

Jack: shaking his head “And what if those hands aren’t there?”

Jeeny: “Then faith says — they are.”

Host: A soft silence filled the space, thick as smoke. The kind of silence that lives not in absence, but in waiting. Jeeny’s voice softened now, less like argument, more like remembering.

Jeeny: “When I was little, my mother used to say, ‘Don’t wait for proof of light, Jeeny. Light yourself a candle and walk toward it.’ That’s faith — not seeing, not understanding, but trusting that the next step exists.”

Jack: “Your mother had a gift for making hope sound practical.”

Jeeny: “Hope isn’t practical. It’s divine stubbornness.”

Jack: “You talk about God like you’ve seen Him.”

Jeeny: “I haven’t seen Him. I’ve felt Him. In forgiveness that didn’t make sense, in peace that didn’t belong to the moment, in breath that came back after I thought it was gone.”

Jack: with a quiet scoff “You call that evidence?”

Jeeny: “No. I call it encounter.”

Host: The wind picked up again, rattling the stained glass window above them. A sliver of moonlight broke through, spilling across the pews, catching the dust motes in slow dance. Jack looked up, as if expecting the ceiling to collapse under the weight of her words — but it didn’t.

Jack: after a long pause “You ever think faith is just the human mind refusing to face chaos? We invent patterns so we don’t fall apart.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe the patterns were always there, and the mind was created to find them.”

Jack: “So you believe in design.”

Jeeny: “I believe in intention — that nothing is wasted, even the pain.”

Jack: softly “Pain doesn’t feel holy, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No. But sometimes holiness hides inside it, waiting for you to look differently.”

Host: The candles were burning lower now, their flames shorter, steadier. Jeeny’s fingers traced the edges of the open Bible, gently turning one page as though each word carried weight. Jack watched, and something in his gaze — something defensive and weary — began to soften.

Jack: quietly “You really do take God at His word, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I take Him at His work. The word can be debated, but the work… it’s everywhere. In the sunrise. In the forgiveness you give when you shouldn’t. In the chance to start again when you swore you couldn’t.”

Jack: “You make it sound beautiful.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. Faith isn’t blind — it’s luminous. It doesn’t deny reason; it redeems it.”

Jack: after a pause “I envy you.”

Jeeny: smiling sadly “Don’t. Faith isn’t comfort, Jack. It’s courage disguised as trust.”

Host: The rain had quieted again, leaving only the soft hiss of candle wicks and the distant heartbeat of thunder. Jeeny stood, her small frame outlined by the soft light of the altar. Jack stayed where he was, his hands in his pockets, his heart still caught between defiance and wonder.

Jack: “You think God still speaks?”

Jeeny: “All the time. The question is whether we’ve stopped listening.”

Jack: “And how do you listen?”

Jeeny: stepping closer “By being still enough to notice what doesn’t make sense — and loving it anyway.”

Jack: softly, almost to himself “Faith is not a sense, nor sight, nor reason…”

Jeeny: “…but taking God at His work.”

Jack: looking at her now “And you think He’s still working?”

Jeeny: “Look at you, Jack — you’re still here, still asking. That’s proof enough for me.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the two figures standing beneath the quiet burn of candlelight, one made of logic, the other of light. Between them, the air shimmered with something wordless, something sacred — not certainty, but surrender.

Outside, the storm had finally stopped. The sky cleared, and the first stars began to appear, small and defiant against the darkness.

And as the scene faded, Jeeny’s last words lingered in the soft glow — not sermon, not argument, just truth:

“Faith begins where reason kneels — and listens.”