I am not a person of faith. I'm a Catholic. I was brought up

Host: The evening light poured through the stained-glass windows of the nearly empty church, painting the pews in fractured colors — blue like memory, red like confession, gold like forgiveness. The faint echo of a choir rehearsal drifted from a distant hall, the sound thin but haunting, like a ghost of devotion that refused to fade.

In the second-to-last pew sat Jeeny, her hands folded loosely, not in ritual but in rest. The light caught the curve of her hair, her profile serene yet contemplative. Jack entered quietly, his footsteps echoing against the marble floor, his coat still damp from the rain outside. He carried the solemn air of someone both skeptical and reverent — as though he’d come not to pray, but to understand.

He sat beside her without speaking. The silence was warm — not empty, but alive with unspoken things. Then Jeeny broke it softly, her voice a blend of belief and rebellion:

“I am not a person of faith. I’m a Catholic. I was brought up Catholic, but I’m not a church-going sort of girl. I’m very spiritual. I pray every night. I believe in Heaven and Hell, but I’m not a person that goes to church, like, every Sunday.” — Cristina Saralegui

Jack: (smirking faintly) “So she’s a believer who doesn’t believe in attendance.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Or a soul that believes without subscribing.”

Jack: “You mean spiritual but not religious — the modern compromise.”

Jeeny: “No, not compromise. Continuation. Religion is structure; spirituality is the echo that survives when the walls fall.”

Jack: “Sounds poetic. But without the walls, doesn’t the echo fade?”

Jeeny: “Not if it’s true. Faith built the cathedral; spirit keeps it alive.”

Host: The light shifted, and the glow of the setting sun cut through the colored glass, illuminating dust motes floating in the air like tiny, drifting souls. The cross above the altar gleamed faintly, as if listening.

Jack: “You know, I used to go to church as a kid. Every Sunday. My mother would make me sit still for an hour that felt like eternity. The prayers, the incense, the organ music — it all felt… heavy.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I miss the weight of it. The ceremony. Even if I didn’t believe, it gave life a rhythm.”

Jeeny: “That’s what ritual does. It anchors the formless parts of us. But when it becomes too rigid, it can suffocate the soul it’s meant to serve.”

Jack: “So you stopped going too?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But I never stopped listening. I just started hearing God in other places — in wind, in silence, in people’s eyes.”

Jack: “So you traded structure for sensitivity.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith made me obedient. Spirit made me alive.”

Host: The choir’s faint melody faded, leaving only the creak of wooden pews and the distant hum of city life seeping through the stained glass. A bell chimed softly — six o’clock — its sound long and lingering, like an unanswered question.

Jack: “You know, Saralegui’s words sound like guilt disguised as freedom.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe freedom disguised as guilt. She’s part of a generation raised in certainty, learning how to live with ambiguity.”

Jack: “You think that’s noble?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s honest. You can’t unlearn the prayers of your childhood, but you can learn to speak them differently.”

Jack: “Like poetry instead of penance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith as art, not obligation.”

Host: A candle flickered near the altar, its flame bending and straightening with each breath of air. Shadows moved across the floor, weaving between the light — belief and doubt, dancing together in fragile peace.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always envied believers. There’s comfort in certainty. Knowing someone’s keeping score, watching, forgiving.”

Jeeny: “And I’ve envied doubters. There’s courage in questioning what everyone else accepts.”

Jack: “Maybe both are right — belief and disbelief. Maybe they need each other, like gravity and flight.”

Jeeny: “They do. Every faith has doubt woven into it, like dark threads that make the light visible.”

Jack: “And every doubt secretly wishes to believe.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the paradox that keeps us human — the yearning for the divine, even when we resist its name.”

Host: The rain outside softened, the church now bathed in twilight’s blue calm. The space between them filled with a quiet intimacy — not romantic, but spiritual, the kind of silence that understands without demanding.

Jack: “You ever pray?”

Jeeny: “Every night.”

Jack: “To who?”

Jeeny: “To whoever’s listening.”

Jack: (smiling) “That’s either faith or madness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Maybe faith is a kind of madness — the willingness to speak into silence and still expect an answer.”

Jack: “And what do you pray for?”

Jeeny: “For peace. For strength. For patience with both believers and skeptics.”

Jack: (softly) “Then maybe you’re more devout than you think.”

Jeeny: “No. Just grateful. Gratitude is prayer without posture.”

Host: The candles flickered again, a small tremor of warmth against the growing dark. The church felt timeless — a vessel of both confession and contradiction.

Jack: “You know, what she said — Saralegui — that she’s Catholic but not faithful, spiritual but not devout… it’s the portrait of our age, isn’t it? Everyone wants transcendence, but without submission.”

Jeeny: “Because submission was abused. Faith once asked us to kneel — now it asks us to listen. The form changes, but the hunger doesn’t.”

Jack: “And the hunger’s what keeps us praying, even if we don’t believe.”

Jeeny: “Yes. We pray not because we’re certain God exists, but because we’re certain something sacred should.”

Jack: “So the prayer itself becomes proof.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The reaching is the believing.”

Host: Outside, a car passed, its headlights cutting briefly through the stained glass — white light meeting sacred color. Inside, the last candle burned low, trembling in the stillness like a heartbeat.

Jack: “So, you think God minds if we don’t show up on Sundays?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “If He’s real, He’s not keeping attendance.”

Jack: “Then what matters?”

Jeeny: “Showing up in life. Loving honestly. Forgiving freely. Living kindly. That’s worship in motion.”

Jack: “And prayer?”

Jeeny: “The pause between motions — the breath that remembers you’re human.”

Host: The bell tolled again, softer this time, echoing through the empty aisles. Jeeny stood, smoothing her coat, and Jack rose beside her. Together, they walked toward the open doors, where the night air waited — cool, alive, infinite.

Jeeny: “You know, Saralegui’s not rejecting faith. She’s redefining it. She’s saying you don’t need pews to feel the sacred.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s what spirituality really is — faith without fear, worship without witness.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Not the death of religion, but its evolution.”

Jack: “Then maybe the new cathedral is the heart itself.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And every prayer, a stained-glass window inside it.”

Host: The church doors closed behind them, the echo fading into the sound of rain returning — soft, forgiving.

And in that quiet, Cristina Saralegui’s words took root —

that faith is not attendance,
but awareness;

that the divine is not confined to sanctuaries,
but scattered in small acts of gratitude and grace;

and that sometimes, the truest believers
are those who question reverently,
who pray without proof,
and who find heaven not in sermons —
but in silence.

Host: Outside, the streetlights glowed like candles against the dark.
And somewhere, in the heart of doubt —
faith whispered back.