Faith may be defined briefly as an illogical belief in the

Host: The evening fog had rolled in thick and low over the pier, wrapping the wooden planks in a veil of pale grey smoke. The waves lapped softly against the pillars, whispering a rhythm older than prayer. Far down the shore, a single lighthouse pulsed in intervals of white light — steady, faithful, indifferent.

Jack leaned against the railing, a cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers, the embers flickering like the dying eye of a small star. Jeeny sat on a nearby bench, her coat drawn close, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed on the slow dance of fog and sea.

Between them, written in her notebook in looping, careful script, was a single line:

“Faith may be defined briefly as an illogical belief in the occurrence of the improbable.”
— H. L. Mencken

The wind carried the scent of salt and ash, and for a long while, they said nothing — as if the ocean itself were holding the conversation for them.

Jack: dryly “Mencken always had a way of cutting through sentiment like a scalpel. Faith — an illogical belief in the improbable. Sounds about right. Humans will believe anything if it helps them sleep.”

Jeeny: softly, without looking up “And yet, isn’t that what makes us human — that we believe in more than logic allows?”

Host: The foghorn sounded in the distance — deep, resonant, the voice of something ancient that had seen too much. Jack took a drag, exhaled, and watched the smoke disappear into the mist.

Jack: “You call that noble. I call it denial. Faith is just emotional insurance — the comfort of pretending chaos has a purpose.”

Jeeny: “Maybe chaos does have a purpose. Maybe faith isn’t denial; maybe it’s defiance.”

Jack: “Defiance?”

Jeeny: “Yes. To believe in something you can’t prove — to look at the improbable and still whisper ‘maybe’ — that’s not blindness, Jack. That’s courage.”

Host: The lamplight from the pier shimmered across the fog, turning it gold in patches, blue in others — a moving canvas of uncertainty.

Jack: “Courage or delusion — the line’s thin. Faith builds cathedrals, but it also builds crusades. It comforts, but it also kills. Mencken wasn’t wrong — faith isn’t logical. That’s why it’s dangerous.”

Jeeny: “Logic built bombs, too. So did reason. Every human tool cuts both ways. Faith just cuts deeper because it lives closer to the heart.”

Jack: “The heart is the most unreliable witness in the world.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s the only one that tells the truth.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but it trembled slightly, like the ocean when it’s holding back a storm. Jack turned, watching her face — the faint glow of the pier light tracing the edges of her expression, half serenity, half sorrow.

Jack: “So you believe, Jeeny? In miracles? In the improbable?”

Jeeny: “I believe in possibility. That’s all faith really is — the refusal to close the door completely. When a doctor says ‘there’s nothing more we can do,’ faith says ‘maybe there is, but you can’t see it yet.’”

Jack: “That sounds poetic. But probability doesn’t care about poetry. The universe runs on math, not mercy.”

Jeeny: “And yet here we are — talking, breathing, existing. Statistically improbable, isn’t it? Life itself is faith made flesh.”

Host: The sea spray hit the railing, cold and sharp. Jack brushed it from his sleeve, his eyes narrowing toward the horizon — invisible through the fog.

Jack: “You sound like every sermon I’ve ever stopped listening to. Faith, hope, meaning — all dressed up to hide our fear of not knowing.”

Jeeny: “And yet, not knowing is where faith begins. Logic builds fences; faith opens gates. The difference is what you do when the evidence runs out.”

Jack: “I stop walking.”

Jeeny: “And I keep walking.”

Host: A seagull screamed somewhere in the mist — a single note that vanished into the sound of the waves. Jeeny’s eyes lifted toward the sound, her voice soft but steady.

Jeeny: “You know what I think faith really is? It’s not a belief in miracles. It’s a stubborn refusal to let despair have the last word.”

Jack: “You think faith can rewrite despair?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can outlast it.”

Host: The fog thickened again, swallowing the lighthouse beam until only its faint rhythm remained — light, dark, light, dark. Jack tapped ash over the railing, his expression contemplative now, his earlier cynicism shifting into something quieter.

Jack: “You ever lose faith?”

Jeeny: “Every day. And every day, I find it again — sometimes in a stranger’s kindness, sometimes in silence, sometimes in just surviving.”

Jack: “That sounds exhausting.”

Jeeny: “It’s living.”

Host: The waves hit harder now, the wind tugging at their coats. The ocean’s voice grew louder — not violent, but vast, reminding them of their smallness.

Jack: “You know, Mencken would’ve mocked that answer.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Of course he would. He mocked everything that didn’t fit in his equations. But even mockery is a form of awe — it’s fear in disguise.”

Jack: “Fear of what?”

Jeeny: “Of the infinite. Of anything that can’t be measured, replicated, or explained.”

Host: Jack dropped the cigarette into the dark water below. The embers hissed, then vanished. He stood there a long time, silent, listening to the tide.

Jack: “You think faith and logic can coexist?”

Jeeny: “They have to. Logic defines the boundaries. Faith gives us the courage to cross them.”

Jack: “And when both fail?”

Jeeny: “Then you learn to breathe in the dark.”

Host: Her words lingered like incense, dissolving slowly into the fog. For a moment, neither spoke. The world around them felt suspended — the air itself thick with meaning.

Then Jeeny stood, pulling her coat tighter, and walked toward the end of the pier. The light from the lighthouse reached her, illuminated her for an instant — a silhouette of quiet conviction framed by infinite uncertainty.

Jack followed her with his eyes, then whispered — almost to himself:

Jack: “Maybe faith isn’t about believing in the improbable. Maybe it’s about refusing to surrender to the inevitable.”

Jeeny: turning back, smiling softly “That’s the most faithful thing you’ve ever said.”

Host: The fog began to lift, slowly, revealing the faint outline of the horizon — the suggestion of dawn beyond the darkness.

And as they stood there, two figures caught between reason and reverence, the night itself seemed to breathe.

Because faith, in the end, wasn’t about logic or illusion —
it was the stubborn heartbeat of hope
against a universe that didn’t owe them an answer.

And sometimes, that heartbeat — quiet, irrational, improbable —
was enough.