Having a clear faith, based on the creed of the church is often

Host:
The cathedral bells were tolling, their solemn music drifting over a city that had forgotten how to listen. Evening light spilled across the cobblestones, gold fading into blue, as though heaven itself were dimming its lamp for the night. Inside the small stone courtyard of an old Jesuit seminary, the air smelled of rain and incense, of the kind of silence that invites reflection but never insists on it.

Jack sat on a weathered bench beneath a fig tree, collar unbuttoned, tie loosened — the city’s cynic in a holy place. In his hand, a half-burned cigarette trembled slightly between his fingers, unlit. Across from him, Jeeny stood near the fountain, her face caught between the light of a votive candle and the gathering dusk. The water’s gentle rhythm filled the spaces between their words.

Jeeny: [softly] “Pope Benedict XVI once said — ‘Having a clear faith, based on the creed of the Church, is often labeled today as fundamentalism. Whereas relativism, which is letting oneself be tossed and swept along by every wind of teaching, looks like the only attitude acceptable to today’s standards.’”
Jack: [smirking faintly] “That’s quite a sermon for a quiet evening.”
Jeeny: [gently smiling] “Truth has a habit of intruding at inconvenient hours.”
Jack: “So he’s saying conviction’s out of style?”
Jeeny: “He’s saying conviction’s become suspicious. Faith’s now treated like a crime against modern intellect.”
Jack: [leaning back] “Well, can you blame people? Conviction built crusades and inquisitions before it built cathedrals.”
Jeeny: [turning toward him] “And relativism builds nothing at all. It just rearranges the ashes.”

Host:
A gust of wind swept through the courtyard, rattling the leaves and the iron gate. The candlelight wavered, small flames fighting against the breeze, much like the conversation — fragile, stubborn, alive.

Jack: “You sound like you still believe in the idea of absolute truth.”
Jeeny: “I do. Otherwise, what anchors us? If every opinion’s equal, then nothing is sacred, not even dignity.”
Jack: [quietly] “And yet, the world seems more tolerant now than it used to be.”
Jeeny: “Tolerant? Or indifferent?”
Jack: “Aren’t they the same thing?”
Jeeny: [with conviction] “No. Tolerance listens. Indifference shrugs. And today, everyone’s shrugging beautifully.”

Host:
The sound of distant traffic echoed faintly through the cloister, mixing with the murmur of the fountain. Jack flicked his cigarette into the gravel, the ember dying instantly — a tiny symbol of something abandoned halfway.

Jack: “You know, I grew up with religion drilled into me. Every Sunday, the same phrases, the same rituals. After a while, it started to feel like someone else’s script.”
Jeeny: “So you walked out.”
Jack: “Yeah. I told myself I was seeking freedom.”
Jeeny: “And did you find it?”
Jack: [pauses] “Depends on the day. Some days, freedom feels like weightlessness. Other days, it feels like falling.”
Jeeny: [softly] “That’s because freedom without faith has no gravity.”

Host:
A long silence settled between them, filled with the sound of water and the quiet hum of approaching night. Jeeny’s gaze was steady, her voice taking on a soft fire — the kind that warms rather than burns.

Jeeny: “Benedict wasn’t defending dogma for the sake of power. He was warning us about drift — how easily truth turns into preference.”
Jack: “Truth is a dangerous word these days.”
Jeeny: “Because it demands something of us. Relativism lets us off the hook. You can be right, I can be right, and no one has to change.”
Jack: [dryly] “Sounds convenient.”
Jeeny: “Convenience is the devil’s favorite theology.”
Jack: [grinning] “That’s poetic.”
Jeeny: [smiling back] “Poetry’s just faith that learned rhythm.”

Host:
The first stars appeared, faint and shy against the evening haze. The candle near the fountain sputtered out, leaving a thin thread of smoke that drifted upward, uncertain but persistent.

Jack: “So what, you think the modern world’s lost its moral compass?”
Jeeny: “Not lost. Sold it for comfort. We call doubt humility, and conviction arrogance. But the truth is, we’re afraid — afraid to be sure of anything, because certainty demands action.”
Jack: [softly] “And action has consequences.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s safer to drift. To say, ‘everything’s relative,’ while the world burns around us.”
Jack: [thoughtfully] “You make it sound like faith is rebellion.”
Jeeny: [smiling faintly] “It is. The quietest, most dangerous kind.”

Host:
The church bells began again, marking the hour. The sound carried across the courtyard, ancient yet unbroken — like a heartbeat reminding time that it still serves eternity.

Jack: [after a pause] “I used to envy people who believed. They seemed… steadier. Like they had an internal compass I couldn’t buy.”
Jeeny: “Maybe belief isn’t steadiness. Maybe it’s endurance — holding the line even when the ground shakes.”
Jack: [leaning forward] “You make it sound like a war.”
Jeeny: “It is. Between what we feel and what we know. Between what we want and what we’re called to be.”
Jack: [quietly] “And relativism?”
Jeeny: “Relativism surrenders before the battle even starts.”

Host:
A plane passed overhead, its hum fading into the dark sky. Jeeny walked toward the fountain, dipping her fingers into the cool water. The ripples spread outward, distorting her reflection for a moment before settling again.

Jeeny: “Benedict was right. We mistake openness for virtue. But an open mind with no foundation isn’t enlightenment — it’s erosion.”
Jack: [watching her] “So where does that leave people like me? The skeptics. The questioners.”
Jeeny: [turning to him] “Exactly where faith begins. At the question.”
Jack: “You mean doubt and faith coexist?”
Jeeny: “Of course. Doubt is the muscle that keeps faith from atrophy. The problem isn’t doubt — it’s apathy.”
Jack: [smiling faintly] “You really believe that?”
Jeeny: “Yes. Because I’ve doubted everything and still found love staring back.”

Host:
A light rain began to fall, soft and steady, each drop catching the glow of the lanterns that lined the walkway. Jack tilted his head upward, letting the rain touch his face — baptism by accident.

Jack: “You think faith still has a place in a world like this? One that worships progress and mocks tradition?”
Jeeny: [softly] “Faith has never belonged to the world. That’s what makes it holy.”
Jack: “And those who cling to it?”
Jeeny: “They’re the ones who remember what truth costs — and pay it willingly.”
Jack: [smiling sadly] “You make it sound noble.”
Jeeny: “It’s not noble. It’s necessary. Without belief, we drift. Without truth, we drown.”

Host:
The rain deepened, washing over the courtyard, blurring the outlines of everything — benches, stone walls, faces. Yet the candles at the altar inside the chapel remained untouched, their light steady through the glass.

Jack and Jeeny watched them — two small flames refusing to go out.

Jack: [quietly] “Maybe that’s what faith really is — light that keeps burning, even when it shouldn’t.”
Jeeny: [softly] “Exactly. Conviction in a storm.”
Jack: [after a long pause] “And relativism?”
Jeeny: [looking toward the fountain] “The storm pretending to be peace.”

Host:
The rain slowed to a whisper, and the church bells faded into memory. The city lights beyond the courtyard flickered faintly, uncertain of what they illuminated.

And as they stood there beneath the trembling stars, the truth of Pope Benedict XVI’s words settled quietly between them —

that clarity of faith is not arrogance, but courage,
that conviction is not blindness, but vision refined by fire,
and that truth, though out of fashion, remains undefeated by opinion.

For in a world that confuses doubt with depth,
and tolerance with surrender,
faith still whispers through the noise —

steady, deliberate, unbroken —
a light not meant to please,
but to guide.