I grew up Catholic, so the more non-denominational Christian

Host: The church stood on the edge of the city, where glass towers gave way to quiet trees and moss-covered stones. It wasn’t grand — no cathedral spires, no stained glass stories of saints — just a wooden cross, unadorned, catching the morning sun through an open window. Jack sat in the back pew, his hands folded, not in prayer, but in thought. Jeeny stood near the altar, her voice soft, humming a hymn that didn’t belong to any one faith, but to something wider — something freer.

Host: The quote that lingered between them was simple, yet uneasy — “I grew up Catholic, so the more non-denominational Christian experience was a new experience for me.” The words hung like incense smoke in the air, a confession wrapped in curiosity.

Jeeny: “Funny how faith can feel like home and exile at the same time, isn’t it?”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just the human need to organize mystery. Catholics, Protestants, non-denominationals — same God, different management.”

Host: His voice was low, dry, laced with quiet irony. The sunlight touched his face, cutting sharp lines of gold and shadow across his eyes.

Jeeny: “You always make it sound so mechanical. But for me, the first time I stepped into a church without statues or incense… it felt like stepping into the open air after living underground.”

Jack: “Or like losing the walls that kept you safe. You mistake space for freedom.”

Host: Her hands trembled as she rested them on the pulpit, her fingers tracing invisible lines — the memory of old rituals still clinging to her skin.

Jeeny: “I don’t think it’s losing safety. It’s discovering simplicity. You know, growing up, every prayer had a shape — every sin a name, every gesture a rule. But when I heard people speak to God like He was right there — not in Latin, not through confession, but just... directly — it was terrifying. And liberating.”

Jack: “Liberating? Or convenient? When you strip away structure, you can make faith anything you want. That’s not worship — that’s customization.”

Jeeny: “Maybe God prefers honesty over uniformity. Maybe the structure was the cage.”

Host: A stained-glass fragment, still clinging to the old window frame, caught the light, painting a streak of red across Jack’s shoulder. He shifted, uncomfortable, as if the color itself accused him.

Jack: “Faith without ritual loses discipline. The Catholic Church survived centuries because it built a spine — a system. You remove that, and you get chaos — megachurches with laser shows, preachers selling salvation with credit cards.”

Jeeny: “You’re not wrong. But don’t you see the other side? Ritual without heart becomes habit. I’ve seen people kneel out of fear, not faith. Say words they don’t believe because they’re afraid of silence.”

Jack: “Silence is dangerous. That’s where doubt grows.”

Jeeny: “Or where truth finally whispers.”

Host: The air trembled between them — not with sound, but with the weight of two different worlds colliding. Jack, carved from stone and doctrine; Jeeny, moving like water — soft, but unstoppable.

Jeeny: “When I was a child, I thought holiness meant guilt — like the closer you got to God, the smaller you had to feel. But these people... these non-denominational ones — they raised their hands, they sang, they laughed during prayer. It wasn’t rebellion; it was joy.”

Jack: “Joy without reverence is noise.”

Jeeny: “And reverence without joy is a tomb.”

Host: Jack’s brow furrowed. He stared at the cross, plain and wooden — no bleeding Christ, no golden frame. Just two rough beams.

Jack: “You sound like the Reformation. Luther with lipstick.”

Jeeny: “Maybe Luther was just the first person to say, ‘I want to talk to God myself.’”

Jack: “And look how that ended — division, splinters, denominations fighting over who owns truth. Every time someone says, ‘I found a new way,’ another fracture appears.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the problem isn’t finding new ways. Maybe it’s thinking truth can be owned at all.”

Host: The wind shifted through the open door, carrying the faint sound of children laughing outside. The smell of rain-soaked earth replaced the thick candle wax of tradition.

Jeeny: “When I left my old church, I felt guilty. Like I’d betrayed a parent. But then I realized — maybe faith isn’t about loyalty to an institution, but about growing toward understanding. Even Jesus challenged the temple priests, Jack. He healed on the Sabbath. He broke rules for compassion.”

Jack: “And was crucified for it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The price of freedom has always been misunderstanding.”

Host: Her words landed like quiet raindrops, soft but relentless. Jack looked away, his expression somewhere between skepticism and surrender.

Jack: “I don’t trust the looseness of it. I need order. I need form. Maybe I’m too Catholic for anything else.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you just fear what you can’t control.”

Host: He laughed, but there was no mockery in it — only the sound of a man standing at the edge of something vast.

Jack: “And you — you trust too easily. Faith without questioning becomes delusion.”

Jeeny: “And questioning without faith becomes despair.”

Host: The sunlight shifted again, sliding across the floor, lighting both their faces — equal halves of shadow and glow.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what D. B. Sweeney meant. It’s not about leaving something behind. It’s about stepping into another language for the same truth.”

Jack: “But what if every translation loses something sacred?”

Jeeny: “Then perhaps the sacred isn’t the words — it’s the search itself.”

Host: Silence returned. Outside, the church bell rang — a sound neither Catholic nor Protestant, just human. The echo rolled through the trees like a call to remember, not divide.

Jack: “So what are you now, Jeeny? Catholic? Christian? Non-denominational wanderer?”

Jeeny: “Just someone who prays differently now. Someone who believes God listens in every accent.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened. He looked at her the way a man looks at a door he’s afraid to open, yet cannot ignore.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the future — faith as conversation, not commandment.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it always was.”

Host: The light began to fade, leaving a quiet glow on the wooden cross. The hymn she’d been humming earlier returned — wordless, tender, rising and falling like a heartbeat.

Host: Jack closed his eyes, and for a fleeting moment, he didn’t feel Catholic, or skeptical, or divided. Just human — standing in the echo of something infinite.

Jeeny: “You know, I think God smiles at all this — at our arguing, our doubting, our endless building and breaking of walls. Because maybe the only real sin... is stopping the search.”

Host: The evening light slipped through the window, a soft golden thread tying the two of them together — faith and reason, ritual and freedom — two halves of the same soul.

Host: Outside, the church doors swayed gently in the wind. Somewhere beyond the trees, a choir began to sing — no denomination, no boundaries, just voices rising together into a quiet, endless sky.