I built my church on Easter services, Christmas Eve services, and

Host: The morning light broke through the stained glass of an empty cathedral, painting the floor in fragments of color—crimson, gold, and indigo. The air carried a faint smell of wax and old wood, mingled with the ghostly echo of last night’s choir. Outside, the city was awakening—the sound of traffic, the hum of life, but inside, silence ruled.
Jack sat on the front pew, his hands clasped, not in prayer but in thought, his grey eyes fixed on the altar. Jeeny walked softly down the aisle, her boots tapping faintly against the stone, carrying a small cup of coffee, still steaming in the cold air.

Jeeny: “You came early. You don’t usually like… churches.”

Jack: “I don’t. But I like architecture. This place is more about design than faith, anyway.”

Host: A faint smile curved at the edge of Jeeny’s lips. She sat beside him, resting the cup on the wooden pew, her eyes following the slow dance of light on the floor.

Jeeny: “You know the quote? Robert Schuller once said, ‘I built my church on Easter services, Christmas Eve services, and Norman Vincent Peale.’”

Jack: “Yeah. The man who built faith like a brand.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound cheap.”

Jack: “It was marketing, Jeeny. Schuller didn’t build a church—he built a franchise. Easter and Christmas? Those are the blockbusters of religion. And Norman Vincent Peale? The man sold positive thinking like a drug. Optimism as an industry.”

Host: His voice was calm but cutting, each word deliberate, like stone laid upon stone. Jeeny turned toward him, her face illuminated by the blue glow of morning through the glass.

Jeeny: “You think faith should be miserable, then? That it can’t be popular? Schuller reached people who had lost hope. He took Peale’s optimism and gave it wings.”

Jack: “Or gave it a price tag. People didn’t come to hear about God—they came to hear that God believed in them. That’s a clever inversion of theology.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not clever. Maybe it’s human. People are tired of being told they’re broken. They want to believe they can be forgiven, that life can still be beautiful.”

Host: The sunlight brightened, pouring like golden dust over the pews. Outside, a bus engine growled, the world continuing without them. Inside, the two sat suspended in a fragile sphere of stillness.

Jack: “You talk like faith should be therapy. But where’s the truth in that? Shouldn’t faith challenge you, not comfort you?”

Jeeny: “Why not both? Isn’t that what Christ did? He comforted the sick, and challenged the powerful. Maybe Schuller saw that in Peale—how to heal the part of faith that had become too afraid to smile.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice lowering.

Jack: “You know what’s dangerous about that kind of faith? It turns God into a mirror. People end up worshipping their own reflection.”

Jeeny: “And yet, that reflection might be the only way they find Him. Sometimes the mirror leads to the mountain.”

Host: A thin beam of light shifted, catching the dust particles that swirled between them like tiny planets in orbit. Jack’s jaw tightened.

Jack: “That’s poetic, but it’s a slippery slope. Look at what it’s done to modern religion—megachurches, televangelists, pastors with private jets. Schuller built the Crystal Cathedral, sure—but when it fell into bankruptcy, it showed what happens when faith becomes a business.”

Jeeny: “You always see the fall, never the flight. Do you know how many people found hope inside those glass walls? How many walked in broken and walked out believing again?”

Jack: “Believing in what?”

Jeeny: “In themselves. In second chances. Isn’t that worth something?”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the faint creak of wood and the whisper of a distant organ note, left hanging in the air from some earlier rehearsal. Jack’s eyes softened, but his voice remained edged.

Jack: “You’re confusing faith with motivation. Peale told people they could think their way into salvation. That’s not theology—it’s psychology wrapped in scripture.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with that? Didn’t Christ ask us to renew our minds? Maybe belief begins there. Maybe God works through the mind before the soul.”

Jack: “Or maybe that’s just us trying to domesticate Him. Make Him fit into our logic. You can’t intellectualize faith.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can humanize it. You can make it accessible. People don’t come to church for theology, Jack. They come because their hearts are bleeding.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, not with weakness, but with something like fury contained within compassion. Her eyes glistened under the fractured light. Jack looked at her, surprised by the sudden intensity.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve been there.”

Jeeny: “I have. After my mother died, I went to one of those ‘positive thinking’ sermons you hate so much. The pastor didn’t preach about sin. He said, ‘Your mother’s life was a seed, not a loss.’ And for the first time in months, I felt… like I could breathe again.”

Host: The church bells outside began to toll, their sound rolling through the stone like the heartbeat of the city. Jack stared at the floor, silent. The argument had turned personal—too personal for comfort.

Jack: “I get it, Jeeny. I do. But what happens when the feel-good faith fails? When life doesn’t reward your positive thinking? People crash harder. Hope built on optimism isn’t the same as hope built on truth.”

Jeeny: “But truth without love crushes the soul. Schuller knew that. He built a bridge between the Bible and the human heart.”

Jack: “Or between the Bible and the marketplace.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Maybe that’s the point. Even Christ preached from boats and mountains to whoever would listen. You think He’d reject a microphone?”

Host: The argument hung between them like the smoke of extinguished candles. The light through the windows shifted again, now paler, cooler. A pigeon fluttered near the open door, the sound of its wings sharp against the quiet.

Jack: “You always find poetry in contradictions.”

Jeeny: “And you always find corruption in compassion.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The church felt like a theater of echoes—of sermons, of prayers, of voices trying to make sense of an invisible presence. Jack finally exhaled, a sound that felt like surrender.

Jack: “Maybe… maybe he was just a man who wanted people to believe again. Even if his methods were flawed.”

Jeeny: “And maybe you’re just afraid of hope that doesn’t need suffering to be holy.”

Host: Her words landed softly, but their truth hit him harder than accusation. Jack’s eyes lifted to the high arches, tracing the way light kissed the cross above the altar.

Jack: “I guess… people need different languages for faith. For some, it’s silence and struggle. For others, it’s celebration.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why churches fill on Christmas and Easter. Because people crave a glimpse of beauty—even if only twice a year. Schuller understood that. He built his church not on dogma, but on the hunger for joy.”

Host: The tension in the air began to loosen. The bells outside faded into the city’s heartbeat again. Jeeny stood, her hand brushing against the back of Jack’s as she rose. He didn’t pull away.

Jack: “You always manage to make me doubt my cynicism.”

Jeeny: “And you make me test my faith. That’s balance, isn’t it?”

Host: The light through the stained glass shifted one final time, falling across their faces—one half bathed in warm gold, the other in cool blue. It was as if the world itself acknowledged the duality of their truths.

Jack: “Maybe Schuller wasn’t selling God. Maybe he was just trying to keep Him alive in a world that stopped listening.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s what faith really is—not believing in perfection, but believing in the attempt.”

Host: She smiled, and for a heartbeat, even the air seemed to pause. The sun climbed higher, and the glass turned to fire, scattering light across their skin.

In that sacred stillness, neither spoke again. The cathedral held their silence like a prayer—half doubt, half devotion—and somewhere, beneath the whisper of the city, it was hard to tell which one was holier.