Faith is the virtue by which, clinging-to the faithfulness of

Host: The wind howled softly through the cracks of an old stone church at the edge of a sleeping town. Candles flickered along the altar, their flames swaying like tiny souls caught between breath and silence. The rain outside whispered on the windows, tracing slow paths down the glass as if the sky itself were weeping in prayer.
Jack sat on a wooden pew, his hands clasped, his eyes cold and thoughtful. Across from him, Jeeny knelt, her head bowed, her lips moving in quiet faith. Between them stood a shadow of reverence, and perhaps, a question too heavy for either to bear alone.

Jeeny: “William Ames said, ‘Faith is the virtue by which, clinging to the faithfulness of God, we lean upon him, so that we may obtain what he gives to us.’”
Her voice trembled like light caught in dust. “That means… we don’t have to carry everything, Jack. We just have to trust.”

Jack: (smirking slightly) “Trust? You mean… surrender. Blindly leaning on something you can’t see, can’t prove, can’t even argue with.”

Jeeny: “You don’t have to see what’s real, Jack. You just have to feel it.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his shadow stretching across the floor like a dark line between them. The sound of the rain grew heavier, each drop a quiet drumbeat of doubt and memory.

Jack: “Feelings are fragile. They change with weather, with mood, with loss. You can’t build a life on that. Faith’s just a word we use to avoid thinking about how small we are.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly. “Faith’s the only way to remember that being small doesn’t mean being forgotten.”

Host: A gust of wind pushed through the open doorway, carrying the scent of wet earth and old wood. The candles flickered, and for a moment, the light wavered between life and darkness. Jack looked at Jeeny with the kind of pain that comes from memory, not argument.

Jack: “Do you remember when my father died?”
Jeeny nodded, eyes glistening.
Jack: “People told me to have faith. That God had a plan. That there was a reason. You know what I saw instead? A man who gave everything—his time, his work, his heart—and got nothing but silence in return.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the silence was the answer, Jack. Maybe the gift wasn’t what you wanted but what you needed—to keep searching.”

Jack: (bitter laugh) “Searching for what? A God who hides? A meaning that never shows itself?”

Jeeny: “For peace, Jack. For the strength to live without knowing.”

Host: Her words fell like raindrops into an already flooded heart. Jack turned his gaze to the crucifix, the wood worn smooth from a century of touches and tears. He breathed, deeply, slowly, as if to find logic in the air itself.

Jack: “Faith sounds like dependence. Like giving up control. How can you respect a world where the only way to survive is to kneel?”

Jeeny: “It’s not kneeling, Jack. It’s standing on something greater than yourself. Faith isn’t weakness—it’s relationship. To lean on God is not to abandon your strength, but to remember its source.”

Jack: “And what if that source doesn’t answer?”

Jeeny: “Then faith is the courage to keep leaning anyway.”

Host: The clock in the corner ticked, loud and deliberate. A beam of moonlight slipped through a stained glass window, painting Jeeny’s face with hues of crimson and gold. Her eyes, dark and unflinching, met his—steady as a prayer that refuses to end.

Jack: “You make it sound easy. But tell that to the mother in Aleppo, who lost her children to bombs and still prays for mercy. Tell her that her faith will give her what she needs.”

Jeeny: “I would,” Jeeny said, voice trembling, “because maybe her faith is the only thing that lets her wake up tomorrow. The world takes from her everything—but not the capacity to hope. Faith isn’t a shield, Jack. It’s a pulse.”

Jack: “A pulse can stop.”

Jeeny: “Then at least it beats once more before it does.”

Host: Silence again. Only the wind spoke now, whispering through cracks in the walls like the breath of ghosts. Jeeny stood and walked toward the altar, her fingers grazing the wood, the texture of old prayers still lingering beneath her touch. Jack followed with cautious steps, his boots echoing softly on the stone.

Jack: “You talk as if faith is an act of bravery.”

Jeeny: “It is. It’s easier to despair than to believe. Easier to build walls than to lean on something unseen. But when you cling—to love, to God, to the faintest thread of meaning—you resist the pull of nothingness.”

Jack: “So faith is resistance?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Against the temptation to stop hoping.”

Host: The candles burned lower, their flames drawing shadows longer, softer. Jack stood beside Jeeny now, both facing the altar. He looked at her, really looked, as if seeing for the first time not a believer, but a human being who had chosen to keep her heart open despite the world’s cruelty.

Jack: “You know, once I worked with a man—a doctor, in Syria. He’d lost half his team in an airstrike. Yet every morning, he prayed. Not for safety, but for strength to go back. I thought he was mad.”

Jeeny: “Was he?”

Jack: “No. He was the bravest man I ever knew.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s what Ames meant. Faith isn’t asking God to change the world. It’s asking Him to change us so we can face it.”

Host: Jack’s shoulders lowered, the tension slipping away like smoke. His voice softened, heavy with understanding.

Jack: “You think faith gives meaning to suffering.”

Jeeny: “No. I think faith gives us someone to hold while we suffer.”

Jack: “And if He doesn’t hold back?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe He’s the strength in your grip.”

Host: The rain began to ease, its rhythm gentler, like the heartbeat of something forgiven. The candles guttered one by one, until only a single flame remained—burning stubbornly in the dark. Jeeny turned to him, her face half-lit, half-shadowed.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to believe like I do, Jack. But maybe… lean, just once. On something beyond yourself. On the faithfulness that keeps the stars burning even when the night feels endless.”

Jack: “And if I fall?”

Jeeny: “Then I’ll be here to help you stand again.”

Host: Jack looked down, a faint smile creeping through the weariness of his face. For the first time in years, his eyes carried a trace of peace, as if a burden long hidden had shifted. He exhaled—a slow, trembling breath that seemed to empty not only his lungs but his doubt.

Jack: “You always had a way of making the impossible sound… human.”

Jeeny: “Faith doesn’t make life easier, Jack. It makes it bearable.”

Host: Outside, the clouds parted, revealing a pale moon climbing above the bell tower. The rain had stopped. The streets below shimmered with quiet light, reflecting the glow of the last candle—a single flame, still burning, still leaning toward the unseen.

Jack reached out, his hand brushing Jeeny’s as they both watched the flame. Neither spoke. There was nothing left to say—only the silent understanding that faith, like love, is not the absence of reason, but the courage to keep standing when reason ends.

Host: And so, beneath the echo of a fading storm, two souls stood together—not believers or skeptics anymore, but humans—leaning, quietly, on the mystery that still held them both.