God loves each of us as if there were only one of us.

Host:
The cathedral was nearly empty — vast and echoing, like a memory made of stone. The candles flickered in their brass holders, casting trembling halos against ancient arches that reached upward like hands frozen in prayer. The air smelled of wax and time — a sacred stillness woven from centuries of whispered confessions.

Through the stained-glass windows, shards of moonlight fell onto the marble floor, painting it in pieces of blue, crimson, and gold. Every color moved when the wind stirred the trees outside, as if heaven itself breathed.

At the far end of the nave, Jack sat in the last pew — his head bowed, his hands folded loosely. His grey eyes looked not at the altar but at the floor, tracing the pattern of cracks that seemed to spell out every question he’d never dared to ask.

Across from him, lighting a votive candle, was Jeeny. The soft flame illuminated her face — calm, luminous, alive with something he didn’t quite understand. She lingered there for a moment, her eyes closed, as if listening to something too quiet for sound.

When she finally turned, her voice carried across the space like the beginning of a hymn.

Jeeny:
“Saint Augustine once said, ‘God loves each of us as if there were only one of us.’”

Her words hung in the cathedral’s still air, resonating off the pillars and walls until they became part of the architecture itself.

Jack:
He looked up slowly, his voice low. “That sounds like something a man says when he’s desperate to believe it.”

Jeeny:
“Or when he’s finally learned that he doesn’t need to,” she replied. “Because love that great doesn’t depend on belief. It simply is.”

Host:
The candlelight flickered, the shadows dancing on the saints carved in the stone — their faces gentle, watching.

Jack:
He gave a faint, weary laugh. “You think God has time for that? For each of us, individually? There are eight billion of us now, Jeeny. Eight billion little storms of failure, fear, and noise.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe that’s the miracle,” she said softly. “That infinity still finds intimacy. That eternity still bothers to know your name.”

Host:
A distant organ note sounded — faint, accidental, like the echo of a forgotten song. The air vibrated with it. Jack’s hands tightened, though his voice stayed even.

Jack:
“I used to pray,” he said. “Every night. For my father, for my mother, for things I thought I wanted. But the prayers always felt like letters sent to an empty house.”

Jeeny:
She took a slow step closer, her expression tender, not pitying. “Maybe the letters weren’t meant to be answered,” she said. “Maybe they were meant to remind you that you were still capable of speaking to something beyond yourself.”

Jack:
He glanced up at the crucifix at the front of the church, his voice rough. “So you think God listens?”

Jeeny:
“I think love listens,” she said. “And if God is love, then yes — He listens, even when we stop talking.”

Host:
The silence deepened, not heavy, but holy. A candle guttered beside the altar, and the faint hiss of its flame sounded almost like breath.

Jack:
“You know,” he said, “Augustine was a philosopher before he was a saint. He wrestled with guilt, desire, doubt — all the human mess we pretend we’ve outgrown. Maybe he said that line because he was trying to convince himself that even he was lovable.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe,” she said. “But that’s the beauty of it. Love doesn’t wait for you to deserve it — it arrives in spite of you. That’s what makes it divine.”

Host:
A draft of air swept through the cathedral, making the candles shudder. Their light trembled but didn’t fade. Jeeny’s eyes followed the flicker, then she smiled faintly.

Jeeny:
“See? That’s what Augustine meant. Even when the wind comes, the flame stays. That’s grace — not invincibility, but endurance.”

Jack:
He leaned back in the pew, his eyes softer now. “So you think God loves us all equally? The saints and the sinners, the believers and the skeptics?”

Jeeny:
“Not equally,” she said. “Individually. He doesn’t divide His love — He multiplies it. That’s what infinity means. To love each person as if no one else existed.”

Host:
For a moment, neither spoke. The world outside had gone utterly still. Only the sound of the flames whispering and the faint drip of wax filled the vast space.

Jack:
“You make it sound so personal,” he said. “Like God’s right here — listening to us argue about Him.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe He is,” she said, smiling. “Maybe He’s the silence between our words.”

Host:
The line settled between them, soft as light, deep as truth. Jack looked at her — really looked — and something in his face cracked open, a subtle yielding.

Jack:
“When I was a kid,” he said, “I used to think the light that came through stained glass was proof of heaven. The way it changed colors, how it could turn ordinary air into something holy. Then I grew up and learned it was just physics — light bending through pigment.”

Jeeny:
“And maybe that’s still heaven,” she said. “The miracle isn’t in the light itself. It’s in the way it chooses to shine through something flawed and make beauty out of it.”

Host:
Her words echoed faintly beneath the cathedral’s domed ceiling. Jack’s eyes drifted upward, following the beams of light shifting through the glass — blue falling over his hands, gold across her hair.

Jack:
“So maybe God loves us that way too,” he said softly. “Through our flaws. Not because we’re worthy, but because He can’t help Himself.”

Jeeny:
“That’s it,” she whispered. “Love that can’t help itself — that’s divine.”

Host:
Outside, the moon broke through the clouds, sending a pale silver glow through the highest window. For a brief, breathtaking instant, the whole cathedral seemed to shimmer — every color alive, every surface awake.

And in that moment, both of them — the skeptic and the believer — sat in silence, awed not by answers, but by the presence of something vast and gentle, something that felt like understanding.

Then the camera pulled back, rising slowly past the pews, past the candles, past the crucifix illuminated in quiet splendor.

And as the image faded into darkness, Saint Augustine’s words echoed through the stillness — not as theology, but as truth:

That love is not divided by the number it touches,
but magnified.

That the divine does not see us as a crowd,
but as a single heartbeat — each one heard, each one known.

For the mystery of God’s love
is not in its reach,
but in its attention —
the miracle that in an infinite universe,
you are still seen,
and still cherished,
as if you were the only soul that ever lived.