I grew up in a very Catholic family. Up until puberty, I would go

Host: The church bells echoed through the evening air, slow and deliberate, each chime rolling like a wave through the quiet streets. The sky was bruised purple, that hour between devotion and doubt, when light and shadow look almost the same. The cathedral doors stood open, spilling warm golden light onto the stone steps.

Inside, the scent of wax, wood, and time lingered. Candles flickered in a long line of devotion — hundreds of small flames trembling like questions that refused to be answered.

In one of the pews sat Jack, hands clasped loosely, eyes distant. His jacket was draped over the seat beside him. Jeeny sat next to him, her gaze fixed on the stained-glass window ahead — an image of a saint with sorrowful eyes, holding a book and a blade. The sound of a choir’s faint rehearsal drifted from another room — soft voices singing a hymn that no longer sounded certain.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Park Chan-wook once said — ‘I grew up in a very Catholic family. Up until puberty, I would go to a Catholic church every week.’”

Jack: (half-smiling, without looking up) “Funny how people always say ‘up until puberty,’ like that’s when faith starts to wear thin.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not faith that wears thin. Maybe it’s innocence. Puberty’s the first time you start asking why.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Yeah. The first time God starts to sound less like a father and more like a mystery.”

Host: The light from the stained glass shifted across their faces — red and blue, turning the ordinary into confession. Outside, rain began to fall softly, tapping against the windows like hesitant prayer.

Jack: “I grew up Catholic too. Strict household, long Sundays, the smell of incense so thick it felt like it was chasing your sins out of your skin.”

Jeeny: “Did you believe?”

Jack: (pausing) “I wanted to. I wanted to believe that every ritual meant something. But sometimes it felt like we were worshiping out of habit, not love.”

Jeeny: “Habit’s a kind of love, though. The quiet kind. The one that shows up even when the heart doesn’t.”

Jack: “Or the kind that forgets why it showed up in the first place.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Still. Showing up matters.”

Host: A child’s laughter echoed faintly from the vestibule — bright, fleeting, human. It broke the stillness like sunlight through clouds.

Jack: “You know, Park Chan-wook’s films always felt like sermons from the other side of faith — beauty soaked in guilt, violence touched by grace.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what happens when you grow up in religion. It never leaves you; it just changes costumes.”

Jack: “Yeah. You stop talking to God, but you start writing to Him through everything else — art, film, love, even revenge.”

Jeeny: “Especially revenge.”

Host: The choir grew louder now, voices rising — imperfect, but sincere. The melody climbed, fragile but determined, like the sound of forgiveness trying to find its footing.

Jack: “You think people ever really lose faith?”

Jeeny: “No. I think they just stop recognizing it. Faith isn’t always holy. Sometimes it’s stubbornness. Sometimes it’s survival.”

Jack: “And sometimes it’s guilt dressed as purpose.”

Jeeny: “That too.”

Host: A drop of melted wax slid down a candle, pooling at the base like a tear that had found peace. The glow of the flames shimmered faintly in Jack’s eyes.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I thought church was where God lived. I didn’t realize He followed you everywhere — especially into the places you didn’t want Him to see.”

Jeeny: “That’s the problem with the Catholic kind of God — He’s omnipresent and deeply personal. You can’t hide from Him, but you also can’t ever be enough for Him.”

Jack: “Yeah. And then you hit puberty — and suddenly, guilt becomes the new gospel.”

Jeeny: (smiling wryly) “And every thought feels like sin. Every touch, every question.”

Jack: “Exactly. You spend years trying to scrub your own humanity clean.”

Jeeny: “And one day you realize — holiness isn’t purity. It’s awareness. It’s knowing you’re flawed and still showing up to the light.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what faith grows into — not obedience, but honesty.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The kind that doesn’t need miracles to feel seen.”

Host: The rain outside deepened, the sound soft and meditative. The candle flames danced higher, flickering against the old stone walls. The world felt small, intimate — like it was listening.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? No matter how far I walked from the church, I still pray sometimes. Not in the formal way — just... to something. Maybe habit. Maybe hope.”

Jeeny: “That’s not strange. That’s the soul remembering its first language.”

Jack: (softly) “And maybe God doesn’t care what name you use anymore.”

Jeeny: “I think He never did. We’re the ones obsessed with titles and formality. God just wants a conversation.”

Host: The choir’s final note lingered, trembling in the rafters before fading into stillness. Jeeny reached over, lighting another candle — her flame trembling briefly before settling.

Jack: “For what?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Not for anything. Just for being here. Sometimes gratitude is its own prayer.”

Jack: “That’s something my mother used to say. She never missed a Sunday, but she said faith wasn’t about the pew — it was about how you treated people at the table afterward.”

Jeeny: “Then she understood what the priests forgot — that the altar was never meant to stay in the church.”

Host: The rain slowed, tapering into silence. The candlelight flickered against their faces, softening their features into something vulnerable, almost redeemed.

Jack: “So maybe the church was never the point.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. Maybe faith isn’t about where you go — it’s about how you come back.”

Jack: “Even if you come back changed.”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: The camera would slowly pull back, showing them framed by the vast emptiness of the cathedral — two small figures in a sea of light and shadow, candles flickering around them like tiny stars.

And as the scene faded into the hum of rain and distant hymn, Park Chan-wook’s words would linger — a quiet echo of childhood and contradiction:

That faith begins not in belief,
but in belonging —
in the rhythm of ritual,
in the warmth of a mother’s hand on your shoulder,
in the sound of hymns echoing through early mornings.

That leaving faith does not erase it —
it simply transforms it into art,
into longing,
into the need to understand what love demands of us.

And that in the end,
whether you return to the church or not,
you still carry the candle —
its flame flickering inside you,
its light quietly whispering:

You are still seeking,
and that is enough.