I can't prove it scientifically, that there's a God, but I

Host: The chapel stood on the edge of the city — small, quiet, its stone walls softened by ivy and time. Inside, the late afternoon light filtered through stained glass, painting the pews in trembling colors: red, gold, violet — the hues of confession and forgiveness. The air smelled of old wood, candle wax, and dust, and somewhere in the rafters a single bird had found its way in, its wings fluttering faintly against the beams.

Near the altar, Jack sat with his coat folded beside him, his hands clasped loosely, his eyes fixed on the empty space where the priest would normally stand. Across the aisle, Jeeny lit a candle, the flame trembling in the draft like the fragile persistence of faith itself.

On the lectern lay a simple card, left behind by some visitor, perhaps — printed with a quote that felt both humble and infinite:

“I can’t prove it scientifically, that there’s a God, but I believe.” — Billy Graham

Jeeny: (watching the candle) “It’s strange, isn’t it — how belief and proof live on opposite ends of the same prayer?”

Host: Her voice was soft, almost hesitant, like someone afraid of waking something sacred.

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Proof demands control. Belief surrenders it. Science wants answers. Faith makes peace with questions.”

Jeeny: “And you? Which side do you live on?”

Jack: (after a pause) “I live in the space between them. I don’t need proof to admire mystery, but I can’t pretend mystery explains everything.”

Jeeny: “So you admire the architecture, but you’re not sure there’s an architect?”

Jack: (grinning) “Something like that. Though sometimes I wonder if the building itself — this universe, this order — isn’t proof enough.”

Host: The stained glass caught the fading sun, and the light slid slowly across the floor, inch by inch, as if time itself were kneeling.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who wants to believe but doesn’t trust belief.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe I just respect its cost. Belief asks too much and proves too little.”

Jeeny: “And yet people keep choosing it.”

Jack: “Because it gives them something reason never can — peace.”

Jeeny: “Or comfort?”

Jack: “Same thing, sometimes. One’s earned, the other borrowed.”

Host: She turned to face him, her eyes lit by the candle’s flicker — small, luminous, unwavering.

Jeeny: “You think Graham ever doubted?”

Jack: “He was human. Of course he did. But that’s what makes his words matter. Faith without doubt is just arrogance wearing a halo.”

Jeeny: “So belief’s not the absence of doubt — it’s the decision to keep believing in spite of it.”

Jack: “Exactly. Like lighting a candle knowing the wind will come.”

Host: The bird in the rafters took flight, circling once before perching again — its movement drawing their eyes upward, toward the high beams lost in shadow.

Jeeny: “You ever pray, Jack?”

Jack: (shrugs) “Sometimes. When I can’t think of anything else to do. It’s not belief — it’s surrender. A way of saying, ‘I’m small, and I know it.’”

Jeeny: “That’s belief, whether you name it or not.”

Jack: “Maybe. But if I can’t prove it, is it still real?”

Jeeny: “Love can’t be proved either. Yet it builds empires and ruins them all the same.”

Jack: “Touché.”

Host: The silence between them lengthened — not empty, but sacred, filled with the subtle hum of two people reaching toward meaning through different doors.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Graham’s statement is brave. Not because he believed, but because he admitted he couldn’t prove it.”

Jack: “Admitting you don’t know — that’s the closest thing to faith I’ve ever found.”

Jeeny: “Because faith begins where certainty dies.”

Jack: “And where humility begins.”

Host: Outside, thunder murmured faintly — the sound of the earth turning over its questions.

Jeeny: “Maybe we’ve got it backward. Maybe God isn’t waiting to be proved. Maybe He’s waiting to be trusted.”

Jack: “Even without evidence?”

Jeeny: “Especially without it. Because trust without proof isn’t naivety — it’s courage.”

Jack: “Or desperation.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes they’re the same thing.”

Host: The wind slipped through the cracks of the old chapel door, flickering the candle flames. Shadows wavered on the walls — living, dying, then living again.

Jack: “You know, belief’s not really about God. It’s about the believer. It’s about who you choose to be in a world that refuses to explain itself.”

Jeeny: “So you’re saying belief defines us more than it defines God.”

Jack: “Exactly. Because whether He’s there or not, faith forces us to build meaning where there’s none guaranteed.”

Jeeny: “Like building a bridge across fog.”

Jack: “And trusting that the other side exists.”

Host: The clock in the tower struck six. The sound was deep and slow — ancient time reminding human hearts how brief they were.

Jeeny: “You think faith and science will ever meet?”

Jack: “They already do. Every time a scientist looks at the universe and whispers, ‘How?’ and every time a believer looks at the same sky and whispers, ‘Why?’ They’re both just ways of reaching upward.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “So you’re saying curiosity and faith are cousins.”

Jack: “Exactly. Both are born from wonder. One dissects the stars; the other kneels beneath them.”

Host: The rain began outside, steady and cleansing, its rhythm like prayer spoken by the world itself.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s something beautiful about believing in what can’t be proven. It means you’ve chosen mystery over mastery.”

Jack: “And that’s the purest form of rebellion in an age obsessed with evidence.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Graham was really saying — not ‘I believe despite not knowing,’ but ‘I believe because not knowing is sacred.’”

Jack: “Because certainty kills wonder.”

Jeeny: “And wonder’s where God might still speak.”

Host: The candlelight caught her eyes then — soft, unguarded, almost luminous. For a long time, neither spoke. The world outside the chapel vanished into rain and quiet light.

Then Jack exhaled slowly, as if the conversation had peeled something raw from his chest.

Jack: “Maybe faith isn’t about being right. Maybe it’s about being willing to love something you can’t define.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why proof could never replace it.”

Jack: “No. Proof can only end a conversation. Belief keeps it alive.”

Host: The thunder faded. The last rays of daylight slipped through the stained glass, setting the floor ablaze with color — crimson, amber, indigo — as if the world itself were answering softly, I am still here.

And in that moment, Billy Graham’s words lived again — not as argument, but as revelation:

that faith is not the opposite of reason,
but the continuation of wonder;
that the soul’s deepest truths
cannot be measured, only trusted;
and that to believe —
without proof, without certainty —
is not blindness,
but the quiet, trembling act
of seeing with the heart.

The candles flickered low.
The rain slowed.
And in the stillness of the chapel,
two people sat in silence —
one doubting, one believing,
both illuminated
by the same
unprovable light.