Faith is permitting ourselves to be seized by the things we do

Host: The night had fallen heavy over the old train station, its platform glistening under the dim orange lamps. The rain came slow, steady, like breathing. The sound of drops tapping on the metal roof mixed with the faint hum of the city beyond — distant, restless, half-asleep.

Jack stood near the edge of the platform, his coat collar raised, the faint smoke of his cigarette curling upward and vanishing into the night. Jeeny sat on a wooden bench, her umbrella closed, her hands folded, eyes tracing the rails that disappeared into darkness.

A single train passed — its lights cutting through the fog, its whistle echoing like a ghost’s cry. When it was gone, silence settled, soft but infinite.

Jeeny: “Martin Luther once said, ‘Faith is permitting ourselves to be seized by the things we do not see.’”
She spoke softly, her voice carrying through the still air. “I think about that a lot — about how we live between what’s visible and what’s felt. Between fact and faith.”

Jack: “You mean between reality and illusion,” he said without looking at her. “Faith’s just a fancy word for trusting shadows.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s seeing light before it arrives.”

Jack: “That’s poetic,” he said, flicking the ash from his cigarette. “But the world doesn’t run on poetry. You can’t build bridges, or heal wounds, or feed people with things you don’t see.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, “but you can begin with them. Every bridge, every cure, every act of love started as something unseen — an idea, a hope, a belief that it was possible.”

Host: The wind picked up, scattering leaves across the empty platform. A faint echo of an old announcement played through the speakers, warped and distant, like a memory trying to speak. Jack’s eyes followed a single leaf as it swirled, then fell still between the rails.

He turned to Jeeny finally, his face half-lit by the glow of a nearby lamp.

Jack: “You talk like faith is a virtue. But history’s full of people who believed in things they couldn’t see — and it led to crusades, wars, mass delusion. Faith can make people blind, Jeeny. It’s a dangerous drug.”

Jeeny: “So is doubt, Jack. Too much of it, and you never move. You think too long before every step, and life passes by like a train you didn’t board.”

Jack: “At least doubt keeps you honest.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said gently. “It keeps you safe, not alive.”

Host: A pause hung between them, long enough for the rain to shift into a fine mist. The lamplight shimmered through it like gold dust in water. The station clock ticked — slow, deliberate.

Jeeny’s voice softened, though her eyes glowed with conviction.

Jeeny: “When Luther said that, he wasn’t talking about religion alone. He was talking about trust — in God, yes, but also in life. In something greater than your control. Faith isn’t blindness; it’s surrender. It’s saying, ‘I can’t see where this road goes, but I’ll walk it anyway.’”

Jack: “That sounds like naivety dressed up as courage.”

Jeeny: “You think courage means knowing every outcome? No, Jack. Courage means stepping forward when you don’t.”

Jack: “That’s recklessness.”

Jeeny: “That’s faith.”

Host: The fog thickened, curling around them like a living thing. A distant train horn moaned somewhere deep in the night — slow, melancholic. Jack dropped his cigarette, crushed it under his boot.

He spoke quietly, more to himself than to her.

Jack: “You know, when my brother was in the hospital, they kept telling us to ‘have faith.’ That word felt like a joke. I watched him fade day by day. The machines kept him alive, not belief. I don’t think faith did anything except give us false comfort.”

Jeeny looked at him, her eyes deep, reflecting the shimmer of the platform lights.

Jeeny: “Maybe faith wasn’t supposed to save him, Jack. Maybe it was meant to save you.”

Jack: (bitterly) “Save me from what?”

Jeeny: “From the feeling that nothing ever matters. From despair. From the kind of cold that no medicine can reach.”

Jack: “That’s the thing, Jeeny. I like the cold. It’s honest.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly. “It’s lonely.”

Host: A gust of wind lifted her hair, sending a few strands dancing across her face. She didn’t brush them away. She just sat there, still, her eyes distant, her voice quiet, but steady as heartbeat.

Jeeny: “You think faith is foolish because you equate it with control. But faith isn’t about control. It’s about trusting what’s beyond it. Like planting a seed — you don’t see the roots growing, but you believe they are. That’s what keeps you watering it.”

Jack: “And if it never grows?”

Jeeny: “Then you still tried,” she said. “And that’s something. Because it means you believed in the possibility of life when everything around you said death.”

Jack: “You sound like one of those preachers.”

Jeeny: “Maybe,” she smiled faintly. “But at least they keep the fire burning. You’d rather sit in the dark just because you can’t prove the sun exists.”

Jack: “Maybe the dark’s where truth hides.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s where fear pretends to be truth.”

Host: The station clock struck ten. The sound echoed, metallic and long, through the hollow space. Another train approached — its light growing, its wheels singing on the wet rails.

Jack’s face softened as he watched it approach — the glow spilling across his coat, catching in his eyes.

Jeeny rose from the bench, stepped closer, the train’s roar rising like a wave between them.

Jeeny: “Do you know what I think, Jack?”

Jack: “What’s that?”

Jeeny: “I think faith isn’t about what’s real. It’s about what’s possible. It’s the bridge between where we are and where we could be.”

Jack: “And what if the bridge collapses?”

Jeeny: “Then you swim. Because at least you tried to cross.”

Host: The train thundered past, its wind rushing, rain scattering, the platform vibrating beneath them. When it finally passed, silence returned — but a different kind, lighter, as if something had shifted.

Jack turned toward Jeeny, the faintest smile on his lips.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I envy people like you. People who can believe without evidence.”

Jeeny: “And I envy people like you,” she said softly. “People who think evidence is enough.”

Jack: “Maybe the truth’s somewhere between us.”

Jeeny: “It always is.”

Host: The last drops of rain began to fade, leaving the air clear, the smell of wet metal and earth rising gently. The lamps glowed brighter now, reflecting in small puddles across the platform — mirrors of light in the darkness.

Jeeny stepped toward the tracks, her reflection shimmering beside Jack’s. For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then, quietly, she said:
Jeeny: “Faith isn’t closing your eyes, Jack. It’s opening them to something bigger than what they can see.”

Jack: “And if I can’t see it?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s already seeing you.”

Host: The camera pulls back slowly, the two figures framed against the vast, empty platform — one looking at the light, the other into the dark — both bound by the same unseen thread: the need to believe in something, even if only the possibility of belief itself.

And as the train lights fade, and the rain stops, the night — vast, patient, eternal — holds them both, seized by something unseen, yet deeply, undeniably real.