I don't know what religious people do. I kind of wished I'd been

Host: The evening air hung heavy with the smell of incense and rain, drifting in through the open window of a small apartment that sat above a quiet bookstore. The city below had begun to dim, its lights flickering on one by one — small, human constellations stitched across the dark.

Inside, the room glowed with soft lamplight and the steady warmth of two people mid-conversation — Jack and Jeeny, both barefoot, calm, and yet somehow unsettled in the way people are when they’re talking about something that touches the unseen.

On the table between them, lay an open book of Buddhist philosophy, a half-finished cup of tea, and a torn page with a handwritten quote on it:

“I don’t know what religious people do. I kind of wished I’d been a Christian with the blind faith that God is doing the right thing. As a Buddhist, you feel like you have more control over the situation, and that you can change your karma.” — Marcia Wallace.

The rain outside softened, like the world listening for what they might say next.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, isn’t it? Control disguised as surrender.”

Jack: “You mean religion.”

Jeeny: “No. Faith.”

Jack: “Same thing, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “Not really. Religion gives you rules. Faith gives you peace.”

Jack: “I wouldn’t know about either.”

Jeeny: “That’s what I like about you.”

Jack: (smirking) “That I’m godless?”

Jeeny: “No. That you question even your own disbelief.”

Host: The lamp flickered, and the light caught the steam from their cups, turning it to gold mist in the air. Jeeny’s voice softened, her eyes reflecting candlelight — that kind of quiet glow that comes not from faith, but from the hope of understanding.

Jack: “You know what I think? Faith’s just emotional outsourcing. People hand over their chaos to something invisible and hope it organizes itself.”

Jeeny: “And you think that’s weak?”

Jack: “I think it’s comforting. But I also think it’s lazy.”

Jeeny: “What’s lazy about hope?”

Jack: “Hope without effort is denial.”

Jeeny: “And effort without hope is despair.”

Jack: (smiling) “You’re good at this.”

Jeeny: “Only because I’ve lived both sides.”

Host: Rain tapped again, the soft percussion of doubt and memory. Jack leaned back, his hand resting on the spine of the open book, his fingers tracing the word karma as if testing its texture.

Jack: “You think Buddhists actually feel more control? I mean, that’s what she says — Marcia Wallace. That you can change your karma. Seems like a paradox to me.”

Jeeny: “It is. Karma’s about cause and effect, not control. But it feels different from faith in a god. It gives you the illusion of authorship.”

Jack: “And illusion’s enough?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it’s the only thing that gets you through the night.”

Jack: “So it’s not peace. It’s bargaining.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound cynical. Maybe it’s conversation. With the universe.”

Jack: “A one-sided one.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But at least it feels like someone’s listening.”

Host: The silence after that sentence hung like a veil — soft, fragile, true. The clock ticked, the rain paused, and for a brief moment, it felt like the whole room was breathing with them.

Jack: “You know, I envy people who believe. Christians, Buddhists, whatever. There’s… structure to it. I’ve got opinions, they’ve got answers.”

Jeeny: “Do you want answers?”

Jack: “No. Just reassurance.”

Jeeny: “That’s the same thing.”

Jack: “No, it’s not. Answers explain the world. Reassurance forgives it.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “And which one do you think faith gives?”

Jack: “Neither. It just gives people permission to stop asking.”

Jeeny: “Or to start asking better.”

Host: The lamplight shifted, the flame trembled, as if reacting to their words — a flicker of shadow over faces honest enough to hurt.

Jeeny: “When my mother died,” she said, voice soft, “I remember envying Christians too. They had this certainty — this idea she’d gone somewhere, that she was safe. I tried to believe it, but I couldn’t. Buddhism didn’t offer that comfort. It just said — life continues, but not her.”

Jack: (gently) “That’s brutal.”

Jeeny: “It’s honest. Karma doesn’t promise reunion. It promises consequence. You can change your karma, but you can’t bargain for miracles.”

Jack: “So where’s the comfort?”

Jeeny: “In doing better next time.”

Jack: “That sounds like an unpaid debt.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe the only peace worth having is earned, not granted.”

Host: The rain began again, harder now, as though the sky itself had joined their argument — a cosmic percussion of belief colliding with logic.

Jack: “You know, I used to go to church with my grandmother. She prayed like she was negotiating with God. I’d sit there, watching her lips move, thinking — what if she’s wrong? What if no one’s listening?”

Jeeny: “And what if she wasn’t wrong?”

Jack: “Then I’ve wasted years refusing comfort.”

Jeeny: “And if she was right, she found peace, and you found questions. Maybe both matter.”

Jack: “So who wins?”

Jeeny: “No one. Or maybe everyone. Faith’s not a scoreboard.”

Host: The sound of thunder rolled in the distance, long and low, ancient as the thought of gods. The room seemed smaller now, more intimate, as if the storm had drawn the walls closer, reminding them of how tiny humans are in the face of meaning.

Jack: “You ever wish you had that blind faith?”

Jeeny: “Every time I’m afraid.”

Jack: “And what stops you?”

Jeeny: “The same thing that gives me strength — awareness. Buddhism doesn’t give you a hand to hold. It gives you a mirror. And sometimes the hardest thing is to look.”

Jack: “And Christianity gives you someone to hold onto.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But faith in another isn’t the same as faith in yourself.”

Jack: “And faith in nothing?”

Jeeny: “That’s just another kind of faith. You believe in the void, but you still believe.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You sound like you’ve made peace with uncertainty.”

Jeeny: “No. I just stopped pretending peace is the point.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through the open window, rattling the candle flame, scattering ash and scent into the air. The moment felt cinematic, like the world had paused — not to deliver answers, but to honor the beauty of two people asking questions out loud.

Jack: “You know, maybe faith and control aren’t opposites. Maybe they’re two sides of survival — surrender when you must, fight when you can.”

Jeeny: “That sounds like Buddhism hiding inside atheism.”

Jack: “Or atheism pretending to be wise.”

Jeeny: “Maybe wisdom is just doubt spoken kindly.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You should write that down.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I just did.”

Host: The storm began to drift away, leaving a soft hiss of leftover rain, the kind that calms rather than drowns. The light dimmed, and for the first time that evening, there was no argument left, only understanding — fragile, shared, and entirely human.

Jeeny: “You know what’s strange, Jack? Maybe the point isn’t whether there’s a god, or karma, or fate. Maybe it’s just about believing that meaning still exists — somewhere, somehow — even if you have to build it yourself.”

Jack: “And what if you can’t build it?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you just sit still until it finds you.”

Host: The camera pulled back slowly, the two of them framed in candlelight, rain-blurred window glowing behind them, the world outside quiet again.

On the table, the quote by Marcia Wallace fluttered slightly in the breeze, as if nodding in agreement — a truth caught between surrender and control, between faith and effort:

“As a Buddhist, you feel like you have more control over the situation, and that you can change your karma.”

Host: And perhaps that was the point —
that whether you believe in God, karma, or nothing at all,
the act of believing itself
is what keeps the soul from standing still.