Happiness is neither without us nor within us. It is in God, both

Host: The evening light poured through the stained-glass windows of the small chapel, scattering color across the worn stone floor — crimson, amber, violet, gold. Each hue trembled softly in the twilight, as if the light itself were praying. The air smelled faintly of candle wax and old wood — the quiet perfume of places that have heard more confessions than songs.

The silence was alive, not empty. It was the kind that holds breath, expectation, and something sacred.

Jack sat near the back pew, his hands clasped, his head bowed, but not in prayer — more like contemplation, the kind that happens when the world outside feels too loud and the soul too restless. His eyes, grey and tired, followed the slow flicker of the candles near the altar.

Jeeny stood beside one of the windows, tracing her fingers across the colors cast upon the wall. Her face, lit by hues of blue and red, seemed both distant and present — like she was hearing a music no one else could.

Between them, on the bench between the hymnals, lay a small book — Pensées, open to a page marked with a folded paper. The underlined passage read:

“Happiness is neither without us nor within us. It is in God, both without us and within us.”
— Blaise Pascal

Host: The words seemed to breathe, alive in the fading light — not as a statement, but as a riddle whispered to anyone brave enough to listen.

Jack: (quietly) “Neither without us, nor within us.” (pauses) Then where the hell is it supposed to be?

Jeeny: (softly, still looking at the glass) Maybe that’s exactly the point — it’s not supposed to be owned.

Jack: (half-smiles) So happiness isn’t mine, and it isn’t yours. It just… visits?

Jeeny: (turns to him) No, Jack. It abides. It exists beyond possession — like light. You don’t own it, but you can step into it.

Jack: (leans back) Light’s easy to find when you’re standing near a window. Try finding it in the dark.

Jeeny: (quietly) Maybe that’s when you start realizing light was never yours to summon — it was always there, waiting to be seen.

Host: The candles wavered as a faint breeze slipped through the old window frame. The chapel’s long shadows shifted — alive, almost listening.

Jack: (sighs) I used to think happiness was something you built — job, house, success, love. Brick by brick.

Jeeny: (nods) That’s what most of us are taught. To construct happiness like architecture.

Jack: (grimly) And what happens when it falls? When all those bricks crumble?

Jeeny: (gently) Then you learn it was never the building. It was the foundation.

Jack: (raises an eyebrow) Which is what — faith?

Jeeny: (smiles softly) Or the quiet recognition that there’s something larger than yourself — both around you and within you.

Host: The light shifted again — now darker, deeper, the colors dimming but not dying. A bell rang faintly in the distance — one, two, three slow tones — carrying through the air like the heartbeat of eternity.

Jack: (quietly) You know I’m not a believer.

Jeeny: (nods) I know.

Jack: (after a pause) Then what do I do with this? With Pascal’s words?

Jeeny: (softly) You don’t have to believe in God to understand that happiness isn’t self-contained.

Jack: (tilts his head) Go on.

Jeeny: (turns to face him fully) Think of it this way — when you love, where does it happen? Inside you or outside you?

Jack: (smirks faintly) Both, I guess.

Jeeny: Exactly. Love exists between souls. Maybe happiness does too — not locked in our hearts, not floating in the sky, but in the space between what’s divine in us and what’s divine around us.

Jack: (quietly) The space between.

Jeeny: (nods) The meeting point — the intersection of spirit and world.

Host: A single candle guttered out, its smoke curling upward like an unfinished question. Jack watched it disappear into the shadows.

Jack: (after a moment) When I was a kid, I used to sit in church with my father. He’d close his eyes, whispering prayers I didn’t understand. But sometimes… sometimes, when the choir sang, I felt something. Not joy exactly — more like quiet. Peace.

Jeeny: (softly) That was it. That’s what Pascal meant. Not the noise of happiness, but the stillness of it.

Jack: (half-smiling) So happiness is silence?

Jeeny: (smiles gently) Not silence — harmony. The world outside and the world inside finally in tune.

Host: The light now was almost gone. Only the glow of the altar candles remained — warm, trembling, faithful. Jeeny’s shadow stretched long across the stone floor, joining Jack’s near the pew.

Jack: (softly) So if happiness is in God — as Pascal says — what happens to those who don’t believe? Are they doomed to be joyless?

Jeeny: (quietly) No. Because belief isn’t ownership either. It’s awareness. Even those who don’t name the divine still touch it — in love, in beauty, in kindness. God is the thread running through all of it.

Jack: (nods slowly) You make it sound like God’s less a being and more… a presence.

Jeeny: (smiles) Exactly. A presence both without and within — the way light fills a room without asking permission.

Jack: (quietly) And happiness is noticing that light.

Jeeny: (softly) Yes. Even when it flickers. Especially then.

Host: A soft rain began to fall outside, its rhythm steady against the stone walls. The sound filled the silence with its own form of prayer.

Jack: (after a pause) I’ve chased happiness all my life. Promotions. Travel. People. I thought it was something out there. Then I tried looking inside — meditation, discipline, silence — and still, it kept slipping through my hands.

Jeeny: (gently) Because it’s not either-or. Pascal said so. It’s both. The moment you try to contain happiness, it disappears. The moment you let it flow through you, it returns.

Jack: (quietly) So it’s not about finding it… but aligning with it.

Jeeny: (nodding) Like tuning an instrument to a note that’s already been playing since the beginning of time.

Host: The rain grew heavier now, but the rhythm was soothing — a heartbeat outside matching the quiet breath inside.

Jack: (softly) You know, Jeeny… maybe happiness was never supposed to make us feel big. Maybe it’s meant to make us feel small — part of something infinite.

Jeeny: (smiling) Yes. Small, but significant. A note in the larger song.

Host: The candle flames shimmered, dancing in response to a faint breeze. The light played across their faces — two reflections caught between surrender and wonder.

Jack: (softly) Maybe that’s what I’ve been missing. The sense that I’m not alone in my joy — that it belongs to something greater.

Jeeny: (nods) That’s the paradox of happiness. It feels personal, but it’s universal. It touches the part of us that’s most human and most divine at the same time.

Jack: (whispers) “Neither without us nor within us…” (pauses) It’s between.

Jeeny: (smiles gently) Between heaven and heartbeat.

Host: The rain began to slow, the drops quieter, gentler — like the sky was exhaling. The chapel, too, seemed to breathe easier now. The candles stood steady, unwavering.

Jack: (softly) I think I understand now. Happiness isn’t a goal. It’s grace — a moment when what’s inside us finally recognizes what’s beyond us.

Jeeny: (quietly) That’s all faith ever was. Recognition, not reward.

Host: Jack looked up at the window, where the last glimmer of light filtered through the glass. The colors had dimmed, but they remained beautiful — not because they were bright, but because they endured.

Host: And in that moment — between faith and doubt, between silence and rain — both of them understood what Pascal had seen centuries ago:

Host: That happiness is not a possession to be guarded, nor a feeling to be chased. It is the meeting of the eternal and the human — God’s breath moving quietly through our being.

Host: The last candle flickered once, then steadied — its small flame reflecting in both their eyes.

Host: Outside, the world turned softly toward night. Inside, the quiet felt full — and holy.