He, however, who begins with Metaphysics, will not only become

Host: The university library was a cathedral of lamplight and silence. The air smelled faintly of dust, ink, and the slow decay of paper. Stacks of books towered like quiet monuments to human arrogance — the kind that believes truth can be bound in covers. Beyond the tall windows, rain drummed against the glass, soft but unrelenting, like reason testing faith.

At the far table, Jack sat amid an avalanche of open volumes — Plato, Aristotle, Aquinas, Kant — and, at the top, a thin book with a title in gold: The Guide for the Perplexed. His coffee had gone cold. His eyes had not.

Across from him, Jeeny leaned on her elbows, her hair falling over the pages of her own book — though she hadn’t turned a page in an hour. The lamplight painted her in warmth; his side of the table was shadow.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Maimonides once wrote, ‘He, however, who begins with Metaphysics, will not only become confused in matters of religion, but will fall into complete infidelity.’”

Jack: (closing the book slowly) “So the philosopher warns against philosophy.”

Jeeny: “No — he warns against arrogance disguised as inquiry.”

Jack: “Same thing. Philosophy is arrogance. It presumes reason can weigh the divine.”

Jeeny: “He didn’t reject reason. He just understood its limits. Maimonides said the mind must walk through ethics before it climbs into metaphysics.”

Jack: (smirking) “So, morality first, mystery later?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You learn how to live before you dare to ask why.”

Host: The lamps hummed faintly, their glow softening the edges of the room. Outside, the rain pressed harder against the windows — an unbroken rhythm, like a clock reminding them that time still owned their questions.

Jack: “But isn’t that backwards? Shouldn’t you understand existence before deciding how to behave in it?”

Jeeny: “That’s the mistake he warns about. You start chasing essence, you forget empathy. Metaphysics tempts you to see humans as abstractions instead of souls.”

Jack: “So you’re saying thinking too much leads to infidelity?”

Jeeny: “In his sense, yes. Not infidelity of marriage — infidelity of the heart. The betrayal of wonder.”

Jack: (leaning back) “You mean the scholar who explains away the sacred.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. When you dissect God, you stop hearing Him.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice was soft, but it carried through the room like a string note — steady, vibrating against the heavy air of books and unspoken beliefs. Jack looked down at the open text, the words of Maimonides gleaming faintly in the lamplight, as if challenging him to understand rather than argue.

Jack: “He was a rationalist, though. A scientist of faith. You think he really believed in mystery?”

Jeeny: “He believed in proportion. That reason was the ladder, not the destination.”

Jack: “But without the climb, you never see the view.”

Jeeny: “And if you climb too fast, you fall before you learn how to breathe at the height.”

Jack: “You make caution sound like holiness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe reverence begins where curiosity remembers to kneel.”

Host: The rain softened, but the wind rose, sweeping across the library windows like breath against glass. The shadows of the lamps stretched long across the table — reaching, touching, retreating — as though even light was listening.

Jack: “You ever notice how religion always fears philosophy? It builds walls around its gods like they’re fragile.”

Jeeny: “No, it builds walls because the gods are infinite. The walls are for us — to keep us from wandering too far into the dark.”

Jack: “So faith is a night-light?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Faith is the ability to walk in the dark without needing to light it up.”

Jack: “Then what’s metaphysics?”

Jeeny: “The urge to switch on the lamp.”

Jack: (quietly) “And what’s wrong with wanting to see?”

Jeeny: “Nothing — as long as you remember that light distorts as much as it reveals.”

Host: The library clock ticked in slow, deliberate rhythm. In the distance, thunder murmured — not anger, but reminder.

Jack’s eyes followed a single drop of water sliding down the windowpane. He looked tired, but more alive than before.

Jack: “You know, I think Maimonides underestimated curiosity. Without it, faith just stagnates.”

Jeeny: “He didn’t underestimate it — he feared its impatience. Curiosity without humility becomes hunger. And hunger consumes what it can’t understand.”

Jack: “So what? We stop thinking to stay faithful?”

Jeeny: “No. We think through faith, not against it.”

Jack: “And when the two disagree?”

Jeeny: “Then we let silence mediate. Not every paradox demands a verdict.”

Host: Jeeny closed her book gently, the sound like a soft final chord. The light caught the fine dust in the air, turning it into a thousand golden motes — a silent constellation hovering between them.

Jack studied them, his skepticism briefly dissolving into awe.

Jack: “You know, maybe infidelity isn’t disbelief. Maybe it’s forgetting how to wonder.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The soul doesn’t die from doubt, Jack. It dies from certainty.”

Jack: “And yet, everyone wants certainty.”

Jeeny: “Because it feels like peace. But it’s really just paralysis dressed as wisdom.”

Jack: “So Maimonides was trying to save people from thinking themselves into emptiness.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He wasn’t condemning metaphysics — he was warning us to anchor wonder before it drifts into ego.”

Host: The rain eased into mist. The world outside the window glowed faintly — soft amber streetlights and the blurred reflections of trees swaying like thoughts unspoken. Inside, the silence felt tender, as if the air itself held its breath for the next revelation.

Jack: (softly) “You ever think faith and philosophy are just two languages arguing about the same truth?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But only one remembers to sing.”

Jack: “Which one?”

Jeeny: “The one that knows it might be wrong — but believes anyway.”

Jack: “So faith needs reason to keep it honest, and reason needs faith to keep it human.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Maimonides was saying. Don’t start at the stars before you’ve understood the soul.”

Jack: “Or else you lose both.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The camera would drift slowly upward now — rising from the books to the lamplight, from the lamplight to the rain-wet glass. Outside, the storm had passed, leaving the city glistening — washed, reflective, alive.

The two of them sat in stillness — a philosopher and a believer, blurred into one silhouette by the soft, forgiving glow of the library light.

Jeeny’s voice lingered as the scene faded, quiet but certain, like scripture whispered to reason itself:

“Begin with love before logic, Jack. With compassion before comprehension. Because the moment we try to measure God before we’ve met humanity, we confuse knowing with understanding — and in that confusion, even the wisest mind forgets how to believe.”

Host: The light dimmed, the rain stopped, and in the quiet that followed, the line between faith and philosophy vanished — leaving only wonder.