I imagine God to be like my father. My father was always the

Host: The sunset bled slowly into the ocean, streaking the sky with shades of molten amber and dying rose. The waves crashed in rhythmic breaths, and the wind carried the faint scent of salt and pine from the cliffs above. On an old wooden pier, the boards creaked softly beneath the weight of two figures — Jack and Jeeny — seated side by side, legs dangling over the darkening water.

Jack held a small stone in his hand, turning it over thoughtfully, the way a man does when words are harder than silence. Jeeny sat close, her hair whipped gently by the breeze, her eyes fixed on the distant horizon, where light still fought to survive against the coming night.

Between them lay an open journal, its pages filled with delicate, faded handwriting. A quote circled in blue ink, underlined twice:

“I imagine God to be like my father. My father was always the voice of certainty in my life. Certainty in the wisdom, certainty in the path, certainty always in God. For me God is certainty in everything. Certainty that everything is good and everything is God.” — Yehuda Berg

Jeeny: “When I read that line, I thought of my own father. He wasn’t religious, but… he was certain about everything. He made the world feel anchored, like it couldn’t just fall apart overnight.”

Jack: “Certainty, huh? That’s a luxury. I envy people who can still believe the world makes sense.”

Host: The wind lifted a stray page, brushing it against Jack’s knee. He caught it absently, his eyes still on the endless waves, the reflection of the dying sun flickering in the steel of his gaze.

Jack: “You know, I used to think certainty was a kind of blindness. People who claim to know what’s true — they stop looking. They stop questioning. They think they’ve got God figured out.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s not blindness. Maybe that’s trust. You see, when Berg said God is certainty, he didn’t mean knowing the future or controlling it. He meant having faith that, no matter what happens, it’s not chaos — it’s purpose.”

Jack: “Purpose sounds nice. But tell that to the man who just lost his child. Tell that to the mother who prays and still watches her world collapse. What kind of certainty is that?”

Jeeny: “It’s the kind that keeps them from breaking. That kind of faith isn’t about denying pain — it’s about believing pain isn’t the end.”

Host: The light dimmed further, casting the ocean in tones of bruised violet. Jack rubbed his thumb against the stone, his jaw tightening slightly.

Jack: “My old man — he was the opposite of Berg’s. No certainty, no God, just facts and formulas. He used to tell me, ‘Son, don’t waste your life on questions you can’t prove.’ I guess I took that to heart. I learned early that certainty is just another kind of illusion — a story we tell to calm ourselves.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even science lives on faith, Jack. Faith in laws, in order, in patterns we can’t always see but still trust to be there. Isn’t that its own form of God?”

Jack: “That’s not faith. That’s observation. Repeatability. You drop something — it falls. No mystery in that.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you still look at the stars, Jack? Why do you keep coming to places like this, staring at things too big to measure?”

Host: Jack smiled faintly — not with amusement, but resignation. He tossed the stone into the water. It splashed, disappeared, and the ripples spread outward like a quiet confession.

Jack: “Maybe habit. Maybe the need to pretend there’s something out there that gives all this… noise a meaning. But I can’t call that God.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you think God has to be a person. A voice. A father. But Berg was talking about something deeper — about the stillness that comes when you stop doubting the goodness of the world, even when it hurts.”

Jack: “Stillness? You think stillness is possible in this world? Every day, someone’s lying, dying, killing, stealing — and you’re telling me to just trust it’s all part of some divine equation?”

Jeeny: “No, I’m saying certainty isn’t the absence of chaos — it’s faith that beneath the chaos, there’s still love. Even if you don’t understand it.”

Host: The waves grew rougher, their rhythm quickening as if echoing the rising tension in their voices. The wind hissed softly through the wooden planks.

Jack: “You sound like one of those people who say ‘everything happens for a reason.’ You ever tell that to someone standing in ruins?”

Jeeny: “I wouldn’t. Because that’s not faith — that’s arrogance. Real faith doesn’t explain tragedy. It holds you through it.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice quivered — not from doubt, but from memory. Her eyes were wet, reflecting the faint moonlight now breaking through the scattered clouds.

Jeeny: “My father died when I was fifteen. One moment he was there — laughing, scolding, believing — and the next, he was gone. And I hated the word ‘certainty.’ I thought it died with him. But then, one night, I realized something. He hadn’t left me his answers — he’d left me his certainty. That quiet belief that life is still worth trusting, even when it makes no sense.”

Host: Jack turned toward her, his expression softening. The usual skepticism in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something gentler — the raw ache of understanding.

Jack: “You still talk to him, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Not like prayer. More like… remembering what he would say. It helps me believe that God isn’t a man in the sky — He’s the echo of the voice that tells you it’s going to be okay, even when it’s not.”

Jack: “That voice… I used to have it. Maybe I killed it myself. Somewhere between war and work and waking up to bills, it just stopped talking.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you weren’t listening.”

Host: Silence. Only the waves answered — rising, falling, endless. A single seagull cried in the distance, carried by the wind that had grown almost tender now.

Jack: “You really think everything is God? Even the pain, even the loss?”

Jeeny: “Especially the loss. Because that’s where you learn how to love what’s left.”

Jack: “And what if there’s nothing left?”

Jeeny: “Then you start again. That’s the kind of certainty Berg meant — not the comfort of knowing, but the courage to keep believing when knowing fails.”

Host: The moonlight spread across the water, a trembling path of silver leading out to the horizon. Jack’s shoulders eased, and for the first time, his eyes lifted — not to the dark, but through it.

Jack: “You know, I used to think certainty was dangerous. But maybe the real danger is thinking everything’s meaningless.”

Jeeny: “Meaning isn’t something we find, Jack. It’s something we create — with trust, with love, with whatever little light we can carry.”

Host: The sea breeze grew gentler, carrying the faint sound of laughter from a faraway beach — young voices, free, unburdened. The stars emerged one by one, scattered like the forgotten prayers of the world.

Jack: “If your father were here… what do you think he’d tell me?”

Jeeny: “He’d say what he always said: that everything — the confusion, the grief, even your doubt — belongs to God. That certainty isn’t in answers; it’s in acceptance.”

Host: Jack looked out at the ocean, the vastness swallowing his thoughts. Then, slowly, he smiled — small, sincere, like a man who had just remembered how to breathe.

Jack: “Maybe that’s as close as I’ll get to faith — not believing in something, but believing with something. With you. With the world. With the idea that maybe, just maybe, everything is part of the same pulse.”

Jeeny: “Then you understand him. And maybe you understand God too.”

Host: The night settled fully now, but it wasn’t dark — not anymore. The moon glowed over the sea, and its light shimmered across their faces, soft and forgiving.

For a moment, there was no argument left, no doctrine to prove, no doubt to defeat — just the quiet certainty that everything was good, and that, somehow, everything was God.

End Scene.