Faith is the sense of life, that sense by virtue of which man

Host: The evening was thick with fog, and the city lights bled into the mist like bruised stars. A small café clung to the corner of an old street, its windows glowing with amber warmth against the cold air. Inside, the smell of coffee mingled with the faint hum of an ancient jazz record. Jack sat near the window, a cigarette trembling between his fingers, the smoke curling like a thought refusing to die. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a cup, her eyes soft yet burning with some inner conviction. The rain tapped gently on the glass, like a heartbeat beneath their silence.

Jeeny: “Tolstoy once said, ‘Faith is the sense of life, that force by which we live.’ I think he was right, Jack. Without faith, people would have nothing to hold them together. We’d just… drift.”

Jack: “Faith, Jeeny, is a comforting illusion. It’s the story people tell themselves when truth feels too heavy. You call it sense of life—I call it fear of nothingness.”

Host: The light flickered, catching the outline of Jack’s jaw, the tightness around his eyes. Jeeny watched him, her expression calm, though her voice trembled slightly with passion.

Jeeny: “You think faith is just fear? Then what kept the soldiers walking through the mud in the trenches of the Somme, knowing death was all around them? What kept people alive in Auschwitz, whispering prayers into the dark? It wasn’t logic, Jack. It was faith—some spark that said, ‘Keep breathing. There’s meaning still.’”

Jack: “No. It was instinct, not faith. The body wants to survive. Even a rat fights to live. You don’t need God for that.”

Jeeny: “Then why do we create meaning out of suffering? Why do we still believe in love, in justice, in tomorrow—even when the world breaks us? There’s something more than instinct there, Jack. Something sacred.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, drumming against the windowpane like a slow pulse. The café seemed to shrink, drawing their words closer, binding them in the same air thick with tension and truth.

Jack: “You call it sacred. I call it the mind’s defense mechanism. Faith fills the void because we can’t stand to face it. It’s a beautiful lie, but a lie nonetheless.”

Jeeny: “You say that because you’ve been hurt by it.”

Host: Jack’s gaze shifted to the window, where the reflection of passing cars shimmered like ghosts. His jaw tightened. The cigarette burned low.

Jack: “Maybe. Maybe I’ve seen too much blind belief turn into cruelty. The Crusades, suicide bombers, people killing for their version of heaven—tell me, Jeeny, where’s your sacredness in that?”

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t what causes that, Jack. It’s what they think is faith—control, fanaticism, power disguised as belief. Real faith doesn’t destroy. It saves.”

Host: A long pause. The music scratched faintly in the background. The rain softened, and steam rose from Jeeny’s cup, curling between them like a fragile bridge.

Jack: “Then tell me this. Why does the universe seem so silent? If faith is the force of life, why does it feel like no one’s listening? Why do prayers echo into nothing?”

Jeeny: “Maybe because you’re listening for an answer, instead of seeing the one that’s already there.”

Jack: “Meaning?”

Jeeny: “The sunrise, every morning. The child who laughs even in hunger. The hand that reaches out to help a stranger. That’s faith. Not the belief in a god above—but the belief that life itself is worth holding on to.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, delicate but unbreakable. Jack looked at her, his eyes shadowed with something deeper than doubt—weariness, perhaps. A man who once believed, and then stopped.

Jack: “You think I don’t want to believe in something like that? I’ve tried, Jeeny. I’ve watched good people die, innocent dreams crushed. I saw a man once—he lost his wife in a car crash. Every night he sat outside the hospital chapel, whispering prayers into the dark. After six months, he stopped. Not because she came back—but because nothing did.”

Jeeny: “And yet, he kept breathing.”

Jack: “That’s not faith. That’s habit.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s faith disguised as habit. The body moves because the soul still hopes. Even when hope is invisible.”

Host: The clock ticked. The rain turned into a fine mist. Jack exhaled, the smoke rising like a confession. Jeeny’s eyes glistened, though her voice held steady.

Jeeny: “Tolstoy lost his faith, too, once. He wrote that he wanted to die because life felt meaningless. But then he found faith again—not in religion, but in the ordinary. The peasants, the workers, the children—he saw how they kept living, how their faith was woven into the act of existence. That’s what he meant: faith isn’t belief in something—it’s the motion of life itself.”

Jack: “So even when life has no meaning, faith pretends it does?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It creates it.”

Host: The café door opened briefly, letting in a gust of cold wind. The bells jingled softly. A young man entered, drenched, clutching a bouquet of flowers, his smile trembling with hope. Jeeny’s eyes followed him; Jack’s did, too. The moment hung like a mirror between them.

Jack: “You think that’s faith?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The hope that she’ll be there waiting. The courage to walk through the storm believing in love. That’s faith.”

Jack: “Or foolishness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But tell me, which makes life worth living—the certainty that we’ll die, or the foolishness to live as if it matters?”

Host: Silence. Only the sound of rain again, whispering against the window. Jack’s hand trembled slightly as he stubbed out the cigarette. He looked up, a faint smile breaking through the darkness of his features.

Jack: “You always make it sound so beautiful.”

Jeeny: “Because it is.”

Jack: “Then maybe… maybe faith isn’t the opposite of doubt. Maybe it’s what keeps us walking through it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith isn’t certainty, Jack. It’s the refusal to stop—even when you’re afraid.”

Host: The music swelled—piano, soft and slow. The fog outside began to lift, revealing the faint glow of the moon. The world, for a moment, seemed to breathe again.

Jack: “So we keep walking.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s faith.”

Host: The camera of the night lingered on their faces—his lined with doubt, hers lit with hope. The rain ceased, and a single beam of light from a passing car cut through the mist, illuminating their table like a quiet benediction. They sat there, two souls, suspended between reason and belief, between darkness and light, bound by the quiet truth that faith—however fragile—is the heartbeat that keeps the world alive.