I gave in, and admitted that God was God.

Host: The cathedral was nearly empty, save for the soft echo of a choir’s hum fading into the vaulted darkness. The candles flickered in trembling halos, painting the air with gold and shadow. Outside, rain fell against the stained glass, each drop a muted note in the slow rhythm of confession.

Jack sat in the last pew, his coat still wet, his hands clasped, not in prayer but in fatigue. Across the aisle, Jeeny knelt — her posture serene, her eyes closed, her lips moving in a whisper that wasn’t quite words. Between them stretched the quiet of two souls searching different directions for the same answer.

Jeeny: (turning her head slightly) “C. S. Lewis said, ‘I gave in, and admitted that God was God.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Admitted. Like surrender after a siege.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it was. But surrender isn’t always defeat.”

Jack: “In my world, it usually is. You fight, you lose, you yield — that’s the sequence. Even Lewis was a rational man; I respect that. But maybe he just got tired of arguing with himself.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he stopped mistaking control for understanding.”

Host: A single beam of light fell through the high window, striking a crucifix at the altar. Dust motes shimmered in its path — tiny, floating fragments of illumination caught between belief and reason.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve done your own surrendering.”

Jeeny: “I have. Not to religion — to humility. To the idea that my logic can’t cage the infinite.”

Jack: (leaning back) “Ah, the infinite — humanity’s favorite excuse for the unexplainable.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Humanity’s reminder that not everything bends to our will.”

Host: The choir’s hum had ceased completely now, leaving only the soft creak of the pews and the distant dripping of rain. The silence grew dense — sacred, almost physical.

Jack: “You know, I used to envy people like you. People who could let go and say ‘God’s got it.’ It must feel... peaceful. But it always felt dishonest to me. Like outsourcing responsibility.”

Jeeny: “And I used to envy people like you — who could demand proof before faith. It looks strong, that skepticism. Until you see how lonely it becomes.”

Jack: “So faith is the cure for loneliness?”

Jeeny: “No. Faith is the bridge between loneliness and meaning.”

Jack: “Meaning built on what? Stories? Rituals? Fear of nothingness?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Maybe on recognition — that we aren’t the center of the story.”

Host: A gust of wind pushed against the stained glass, making the colors tremble on the stone floor — reds, blues, and golds shifting across their faces like living emotion.

Jack: “I’ve seen people pray over miracles that never came. Children dying. Wars burning. You call that divine?”

Jeeny: “No. I call that human. God doesn’t erase suffering; He redeems it. Lewis understood that. His faith didn’t remove his pain — it gave it context.”

Jack: “Context doesn’t feed a starving man.”

Jeeny: “Neither does despair.”

Host: Her words struck like the soft sound of a bell in mist — gentle, but impossible to ignore. Jack’s jaw tightened; he looked away toward the altar, the candlelight reflecting in his grey eyes like distant storms.

Jack: “When I was fifteen, my mother prayed every night while she was dying. I used to listen from the hallway. Her voice got weaker every week. She said she trusted God’s plan. And when she finally died, I thought — what kind of God needs faith as a consolation prize?”

Jeeny: (softly) “The kind that lets us choose how to face what we can’t change.”

Jack: “So, faith is just emotional anesthetic?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s clarity in darkness. Even pain has music when seen through surrender.”

Host: The flame of a candle flickered, struggling in a draft before steadying again. It threw a ripple of gold across Jack’s face — half shadow, half light — as if the world itself couldn’t decide which side to keep him on.

Jack: “You know, Lewis was a skeptic once — an atheist. He called faith wishful thinking. Then one night, he walked into a forest and came out a believer. But I can’t help wondering — did he find God, or just exhaust his disbelief?”

Jeeny: “Maybe disbelief was the door, not the wall.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But unprovable.”

Jeeny: “So is love. Yet you’ve felt it.”

Host: Jeeny stood, her footsteps soft against the old stone floor. She walked to the nearest candle stand, lighting one with deliberate care. The flame rose steady, defiant of the cold air.

Jeeny: “Faith doesn’t ask you to stop thinking, Jack. It asks you to stop mistaking your mind for the whole universe.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You really think surrender brings freedom?”

Jeeny: “I think control is a cage built out of fear. Surrender, when honest, is the unlocking.”

Jack: “And what happens after you give in? Do you just... feel saved?”

Jeeny: “No. You feel real. Like Lewis said — you admit that God is God, and you stop pretending you are.”

Host: Her words hung between them, luminous as the flame she’d lit. Jack looked at her, the stubbornness in his eyes softening into something like recognition — or maybe longing.

Jack: “You think admitting that doesn’t destroy self-worth?”

Jeeny: “It restores it. Because worth built on control collapses when you fail. But worth built on grace survives every fall.”

Host: The rain began again, softer now — a whisper against the roof. The light from the candles shimmered like reflections of something unseen yet deeply present.

Jack: “I’m not sure I believe in God.”

Jeeny: “You don’t have to — belief is not ownership. Sometimes it’s enough to admit the possibility.”

Jack: “And if that possibility turns out to be silence?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you met the silence honestly.”

Host: A long stillness followed. Outside, the thunder rolled far away — like a memory leaving the room.

Jack: (finally) “You know, for years I’ve argued against faith. Not because I didn’t want it to be true — but because I was afraid it might be.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Then maybe you’re closer than you think.”

Host: She walked back to him, sat beside him on the wooden pew. For the first time that night, their silence wasn’t divided — it was shared. The candlelight reflected in both their eyes, steady, patient.

Jeeny: “Lewis didn’t surrender to defeat. He surrendered to reality — that the soul has a horizon wider than reason. You can keep running from that, but someday, reason itself will point you there.”

Jack: “You sound so sure.”

Jeeny: “I’m not. I’m just no longer afraid to hope.”

Host: The last of the rain stopped. The air cleared, and from the highest window, a faint beam of moonlight broke through, falling across the crucifix and spilling down to where they sat. The dust glimmered in it — like stars come home to rest.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe that’s what he meant. ‘I gave in.’ Not lost. Just... stopped resisting.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “And in stopping, he began.”

Host: The moonlight deepened, the candles burned lower, and the cathedral seemed to breathe again — softly, like something ancient remembering mercy.

And in that silence, C. S. Lewis’s words took form between them —

That faith is not surrender to blindness,
but the end of pretending we are the light.
That admitting God is God
is not loss of reason — but its fulfillment.

Host: As they rose to leave, their footsteps echoed through the hollow chamber, fading beneath the vast arches.

Behind them, the last candle flickered once — then steadied,
its flame unwavering,
like a truth that had finally been named.