I have this deep and abiding faith in God. But this does not mean

Host: The evening air hung thick with the scent of salt and diesel, the kind that only harbors near old harbors — where the sea breathes against the stones and ships murmur in their sleep. The sky was bruised purple with the last light of day, a long slow fade between heaven and the restless earth.

A single lantern flickered on the edge of the pier. Jack sat beneath it, legs crossed, a cigarette dangling from his lips, watching the reflections of the city lights scatter across the waves. Jeeny stood a few steps away, her arms crossed, her eyes set not on the water but on the horizon — where light still fought its losing battle against night.

The sea whispered old truths that both of them had stopped believing in, yet still couldn’t ignore.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Rodrigo Duterte once said, ‘I have this deep and abiding faith in God. But this does not mean that you have to have a religion or follow somebody.’”

Jack: (smirking) “Faith without franchise. That’s a bold statement from a man people love to worship or condemn.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it powerful. He’s separating God from the gatekeepers.”

Jack: “Or just giving up on the structure altogether.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he’s realizing that God doesn’t live in buildings, Jack. He lives in the spaces between people who listen for Him.”

Jack: “Or maybe He doesn’t live anywhere. Maybe He’s just the name we give to the ache for meaning.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Then the ache itself is sacred.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the sound of a bell buoy somewhere in the distance — steady, solemn, like time keeping watch. The waves lapped softly against the pier, mirroring the rhythm of their conversation.

Jack: “I grew up in a house where God was a rulebook. Memorize the prayers, follow the rituals, don’t ask too many questions.”

Jeeny: “And you broke the rules.”

Jack: “Of course. It wasn’t rebellion. Just honesty. I stopped pretending faith could be dictated.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Duterte meant. Faith doesn’t need middlemen. It’s not a sermon; it’s a pulse.”

Jack: “Then why do so many people keep building churches?”

Jeeny: “Because we’re human. We crave form — walls, symbols, ceremonies. They make the infinite less terrifying.”

Jack: “So religion’s therapy?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But sometimes therapy becomes prison. Faith’s supposed to set you free, not assign you a seat.”

Host: The lantern flame flickered, bowing briefly in the wind before rising again, steady and defiant. The light caught Jeeny’s face, illuminating the quiet conviction in her eyes.

Jack: “You really think faith can survive without religion?”

Jeeny: “Faith doesn’t need survival. It’s elemental — like fire or gravity. Religion just gives it furniture.”

Jack: “And sometimes bureaucracy.”

Jeeny: “True. And like any system, it starts pure and ends political.”

Jack: “So maybe we lost God in the paperwork.”

Jeeny: “Or buried Him under ceremony. Sometimes silence is the only true worship.”

Jack: “Silence feels like absence.”

Jeeny: “Only if you mistake noise for presence.”

Host: The sea wind blew stronger now, tossing the edges of Jeeny’s hair, sending a faint chill through the night. Jack’s cigarette burned down to its end — a small red star fading against the dark.

He crushed it beneath his heel.

Jack: “You talk like faith is personal — like it’s between the self and the sky.”

Jeeny: “It is. That’s what he meant — that belief doesn’t need witnesses to be real. It’s not performance; it’s connection.”

Jack: “But connection implies relationship. Who are we connecting to if God’s just a feeling?”

Jeeny: “To the part of ourselves that listens. To the conscience that still whispers ‘there’s more.’”

Jack: “You mean hope.”

Jeeny: “Hope, humility, mystery — all of it. Faith’s not the opposite of doubt, Jack. It’s the courage to keep doubting and still love what you don’t understand.”

Host: The waves hit harder, splashing against the stones below. The night deepened, turning the water black and reflective, so that even the lights above seemed to tremble in it.

Jack watched the ripples distort the stars.

Jack: “You ever think religion was humanity’s training wheels? That we needed it to learn balance before riding faith alone?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe. But some people never take the wheels off. Others throw away the whole bike.”

Jack: “And you?”

Jeeny: “I walk. I don’t need speed — just direction.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But walking’s slow.”

Jeeny: “So is grace.”

Host: Seagulls cried faintly somewhere above — ghosts of daylight lingering too long. The pier lights shimmered over the wet boards, painting gold streaks on the darkness. The world felt suspended — not asleep, but listening.

Jack: “It’s strange, though. Even the people who say they’ve rejected religion still talk about God. It’s like we can’t help but reach upward.”

Jeeny: “That’s because upward isn’t a direction. It’s a hunger.”

Jack: “And what are we hungry for?”

Jeeny: “For meaning. For forgiveness. For proof that we’re not just noise in the void.”

Jack: “And you think God answers that?”

Jeeny: “No. But faith makes the question worth asking.”

Jack: “So faith isn’t certainty — it’s participation.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The act of asking is a kind of prayer.”

Host: A faint lightning flash rippled far beyond the horizon — silent, distant, but real. Jeeny’s eyes followed it, her expression serene. Jack, for once, didn’t question it. He just watched, quiet, thoughtful.

Jack: (after a long silence) “You know, I envy people who can believe like that — without needing proof, without doctrine. I always wanted evidence.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are, watching the ocean breathe and calling it beautiful. That’s faith, Jack. You just don’t call it that.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Maybe I’ve been praying all along, just in the wrong language.”

Jeeny: “There’s no wrong language. Every honest act of wonder counts.”

Host: The camera would pull back slowly now — the lantern’s glow shrinking against the vast sea. Two figures, small and human, framed by the infinite — their silhouettes outlined against the rolling horizon.

The waves kept moving. The light kept flickering. Neither surrendered.

Jeeny’s voice carried softly as the scene faded, calm and certain, like scripture spoken from the shore of reason and mystery alike:

“Religion is the song we wrote to remember the tune of faith, Jack. But faith itself — that’s the silence beneath the music. You don’t need to follow anyone to hear it. You just need to stop talking long enough to listen.”

Host: The sea sighed, the lantern dimmed, and the darkness — vast, eternal, alive — seemed, for once, to feel like peace.