I am a Christian. I have deep faith... They thought they canceled

Host: The night was thick with the smell of rain-soaked earth and distant street smoke. A flickering neon sign from the diner across the street pulsed weakly — red, then blue, then nothing for a moment before buzzing back to life. Inside, the light was dim, a low hum of the refrigerator mingling with the static crackle of an old radio in the corner.

Jack sat in a booth, sleeves rolled up, staring at his untouched coffee. Jeeny sat opposite him, her hands folded around a chipped mug, her eyes reflecting the glow of the sign outside. The air between them felt like a wire — taut, waiting for a spark.

Jeeny: “Lauren Boebert said once, ‘I am a Christian. I have deep faith... They thought they canceled Jesus, but you can't cancel God.’”
Jack: (chuckles dryly) “You can’t cancel God, huh? That’s the kind of line politicians love — half faith, half performance.”
Jeeny: “Maybe. But the sentiment’s not wrong. You can’t cancel something eternal.”
Jack: “Or something that never picks up the phone in the first place.”

Host: A truck rumbled past, shaking the window. The rain had stopped, but the pavement outside still shimmered — reflecting fragments of light, fragments of belief.

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in God?”
Jack: “I believe in cause and effect. Gravity, entropy, electricity. Things that answer when you test them.”
Jeeny: “And yet, faith isn’t meant to be tested like science. It’s not an equation. It’s trust.”
Jack: “Trust in what, Jeeny? In an invisible force that lets wars happen, children starve, and people like Boebert use His name for politics?”

Host: Jeeny looked at him, the soft glow catching the tension in her jaw. She wasn’t angry — not yet — but something in her eyes flickered with pain, the kind that comes from defending something sacred against a world that won’t stop sneering.

Jeeny: “You think faith is naïve. But maybe cynicism is the easier road. You get to sit back, mock belief, and never risk being wrong.”
Jack: “I was raised in church, Jeeny. I sang the hymns, said the prayers. I believed. Then I watched my mother die while people said, ‘It’s God’s plan.’ You tell me — what kind of plan is that?”
Jeeny: (quietly) “One that doesn’t make sense to us. Maybe it’s not supposed to.”
Jack: “Then what’s the point of faith, if it can’t even make sense of suffering?”

Host: The radio changed songs — an old gospel tune, faint and trembling, like a ghost in the air. The melody brushed across their silence like a hesitant hand over an old scar.

Jeeny: “The point isn’t sense, Jack. It’s surrender. Faith isn’t meant to explain pain; it’s meant to survive it.”
Jack: “That’s poetic, but it sounds like surrendering your mind.”
Jeeny: “No — surrendering your ego. The idea that you control everything.”
Jack: “You’re saying God’s in control, then?”
Jeeny: “I’m saying that something greater than us is.”

Host: A waitress passed by, refilling their cups, the steam curling upward like a small, silent prayer. Outside, a stray dog darted across the street, pausing under the flickering sign before vanishing into the dark.

Jack: “You know what I think? ‘You can’t cancel God’ is just another way of saying people need something they can’t lose — some illusion that gives meaning to chaos.”
Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s the opposite — maybe it’s admitting there’s something they can’t control, and they bow to that truth.”
Jack: “Then why does faith always turn into a fight? Why do people weaponize it? Why does every politician invoke God when they need votes?”
Jeeny: “Because faith is powerful, and power attracts corruption. That’s not God’s fault — that’s ours.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but underneath, there was a tremor — not fear, but something fiercer: conviction. Jack looked at her the way a man looks at a fire — drawn to its warmth, wary of its burn.

Jack: “So what does Boebert’s quote mean to you? ‘They thought they canceled Jesus.’ Sounds like theater.”
Jeeny: “Maybe it’s more than that. Maybe it’s a reminder that you can’t destroy what’s divine. Humanity tried — nailed it to wood, buried it — and still, love came back three days later.”
Jack: (leans forward) “And yet the world’s no kinder now. Two thousand years of faith, and we still lie, cheat, and kill.”
Jeeny: “That’s not God failing, Jack. That’s us refusing to learn.”

Host: The light outside buzzed again, dimming for a heartbeat, then flaring bright — like the pulse of a stubborn star. The air in the diner felt heavy with something ancient — a weight older than scripture, older than doubt.

Jack: “You really believe God can’t be canceled?”
Jeeny: “You can cancel books, people, even history — but not the hunger for something beyond ourselves. That’s what God is: not a man in the clouds, but the longing that keeps us reaching higher.”
Jack: “So God’s a metaphor?”
Jeeny: “God’s a mystery. The kind you live, not solve.”
Jack: “And when people twist that mystery to serve themselves?”
Jeeny: “Then faith becomes theater, yes. But don’t blame the actor for the script someone else rewrote.”

Host: A pause lingered — soft, electric. Jack looked down at his hands, tracing the rim of his cup. For a moment, the usual edge in his voice softened.

Jack: “You know, when my mom was dying, she held my hand and said, ‘Don’t stop believing — even if you don’t believe in the same thing anymore.’ I never understood that.”
Jeeny: “Maybe she meant that faith changes form, not essence. You lost God in church, but maybe He followed you anyway — in your doubt, in your questions.”
Jack: “You make it sound like doubt is holy.”
Jeeny: “It is. Faith without doubt is fanaticism. Doubt is what keeps belief honest.”

Host: The rain started again — gentle now, like the sky had tired of anger. The drops streaked the windows, each one catching light from the neon sign, glowing for an instant before sliding into nothing.

Jack: “You really think God can’t be canceled?”
Jeeny: “I think people can try. They can mock, legislate, distort — but you can’t cancel what keeps rising. Not just Jesus. Hope. Mercy. Grace. They’re woven into the human condition.”
Jack: “Maybe that’s biology, not divinity. Maybe it’s just how our brains evolved — hope as a survival instinct.”
Jeeny: “And maybe evolution itself is the handwriting of the divine.”

Host: Her words landed softly, but they struck something in him — an echo buried deep beneath years of hardened logic. He didn’t answer right away. He just stared out at the street, where the lights rippled in the puddles like small, trembling halos.

Jack: “You know… maybe God’s not the problem. Maybe it’s the noise around Him.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. The noise is man-made. God’s the silence underneath.”
Jack: “And silence, it seems, is the one thing we can’t stand.”
Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe that’s why He hides in it.”

Host: The waitress flipped the “Closed” sign on the door. The radio crackled into static, then fell silent. The diner felt timeless — two souls suspended between disbelief and devotion.

Jeeny: “Jack, faith isn’t about certainty. It’s about relationship — between the seen and unseen, between the human and the divine. You don’t have to choose sides.”
Jack: “Maybe not. Maybe doubt’s my way of believing.”
Jeeny: “Then maybe you never stopped.”

Host: The neon sign blinked one last time before going dark, leaving only the pale glow of dawn spilling through the window. Jack and Jeeny sat in that soft, in-between light — no answers, just a quiet truce.

Host: Outside, the city began to stir — taxis, footsteps, life. But inside the diner, the world held its breath as two voices reached the same fragile conclusion:

that faith, whether shouted from pulpits or whispered in doubt, cannot be canceled — because it does not belong to the world at all.