I just want the actors to put their faith in the language. Just

Host: The stage lights burned low, casting a golden haze over the empty theater. Dust floated in the shafts of light like tired stars. Rows of red velvet seats stretched into shadow — silent witnesses to countless confessions, laughter, heartbreaks, and lies performed here over the years.

The faint smell of paint and wood, of old curtains and memories, lingered in the air. From outside, a distant rain tapped against the theater roof — a rhythmic, almost reverent applause from the world beyond.

Jack sat on the edge of the stage, sleeves rolled up, a worn script in his hand. His face was tired, his grey eyes sharp, filled with thought but clouded by doubt.

Jeeny stood in the orchestra pit, leaning against the railing, watching him with quiet amusement — her posture graceful, her expression soft yet searching.

Jeeny: “Conor McPherson once said, ‘I just want the actors to put their faith in the language. Just let the words do the work.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Ah, the eternal plea of the playwright — trust the text. No improvising. No theatrics. Just the truth, naked and dangerous.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the hardest part? To trust that the words are enough?”

Jack: (looking at the script) “Hardest and rarest. Everyone wants to be seen. Nobody wants to disappear into language.”

Jeeny: “But that’s what makes it art — when the actor dissolves, and only meaning remains.”

Host: A single light bulb flickered above them, humming softly. The empty theater seemed to lean in closer, as if it too were listening.

Jack: “Words aren’t enough anymore, Jeeny. Not in this world. Audiences want spectacle — explosions, movement, instant emotions. They don’t want to listen.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Maybe that’s why Conor McPherson said it. Because words are the last refuge of truth.”

Jack: “Truth.” (he laughs quietly) “You make it sound so simple. But words are lies too — rehearsed, manipulated, edited to sound real.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Words are instruments. Lies or truth — it depends on who plays them.”

Host: The rain outside deepened, its rhythm joining the hum of the lights. The sound was soothing — like nature’s own applause for the debate unfolding under the cracked ceiling of an aging theater.

Jack: “So you think the words can carry everything? Pain, passion, betrayal, faith? Without the actor’s art to give them life?”

Jeeny: “The actor’s art is surrender. That’s what McPherson meant. Don’t perform the words — believe them.”

Jack: “Believe them enough to vanish inside them?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The great actors don’t decorate language. They disappear into it.”

Host: Jack stood, pacing slowly across the wooden stage. The boards creaked beneath his feet — tired bones remembering every performance they had ever held.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought acting was about emotion. About showing the audience what to feel. But maybe it’s not about showing. Maybe it’s about trusting the silence between the words.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Silence is the breath of language. Without it, words are just noise.”

Jack: “But silence terrifies people.”

Jeeny: “Because silence forces them to listen.”

Host: The spotlight above flickered brighter, illuminating Jack as he stopped center stage. His face, carved by the light, looked both defiant and fragile.

Jack: “So you’re saying faith — in words, in silence, in simplicity — that’s the actor’s greatest power?”

Jeeny: “Faith is always power, Jack. In art, in love, in life. The moment you stop trusting what’s inside the words, you start overacting reality.”

Jack: “Overacting reality — that’s a good line.” (he grins faintly) “Maybe the world’s full of bad actors, trying too hard to make their stories believable.”

Jeeny: “And language suffers for it. We use words to convince, not to reveal.”

Host: The rain slowed, the droplets now tapping gently like punctuation marks on a page. The air felt charged — not with argument, but revelation.

Jeeny: “Conor McPherson writes dialogue that breathes. He doesn’t want actors to perform — he wants them to listen to what the words are already doing. Because in language, everything human already exists.”

Jack: (sitting again, softer now) “It’s strange, isn’t it? The older I get, the less I want to act. The more I just want to speak — plainly, truthfully, like someone talking to a friend.”

Jeeny: “That’s because truth doesn’t need performance. It needs courage.”

Jack: “And faith.”

Jeeny: “Always faith.”

Host: The light dimmed, settling into a warm amber glow. Jeeny walked up onto the stage, her footsteps soft, measured. She picked up the script from Jack’s hands and flipped through the pages. Her voice was low, reverent.

Jeeny: “These words — they’re living things. Every syllable carries a heartbeat. When you rush them, they die. When you believe them, they rise.”

Jack: “You talk like words are sacred.”

Jeeny: “They are. They’re the only immortality we have. When we’re gone, it’s the words that stay.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, staring at her — his cynicism fading into awe.

Jack: “So McPherson wasn’t just talking about acting. He was talking about faith itself — the kind that doesn’t need proof, only presence.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because language, like faith, only works if you trust what you can’t see.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “You know, I think that’s why I fell in love with theater. Not because of the applause or the spotlight. But because when the words hit right — when they’re honest — you can feel the whole room breathe as one. That’s the closest thing to prayer I’ve ever known.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe every performance is a prayer. The words are the scripture, and the actors are the believers.”

Host: The theater sighed — the sound of old wood settling, of ghosts remembering their lines. Outside, the storm had passed; only the faint dripping of water remained.

Jeeny: “Faith in language, Jack. That’s what keeps stories alive. Not the costumes, not the sets — just words and the courage to mean them.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s all we really have. Words, and the hope that they’ll be understood.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beauty of it — they don’t need to be perfect. Just true.”

Host: The lights flickered once more, then steadied, bathing them in a soft, golden stillness. The stage no longer felt empty — it felt holy, alive with invisible voices whispering from the rafters.

Jack: (quietly) “You think the words remember us?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “They do. Every time someone speaks them with faith, they become new again.”

Host: The silence that followed was not absence — it was presence, vast and intimate. Jack looked at Jeeny, and then out into the empty rows of seats.

And for a moment, he imagined the audience there — not clapping, not judging, just listening.

Listening to the language.
Listening to the faith within it.

Host: Outside, the first ray of dawn slipped through the high windows, striking the stage. The light touched their faces — two believers in the quiet divinity of words.

And as they stood there in that glow, Conor McPherson’s truth hung in the air like a blessing:

That language needs no decoration,
that truth needs no performance,
and that when we finally trust the words —
we rediscover the sacred silence between them,
where meaning breathes,
and humanity speaks.

Host: The stage dimmed again. The world returned to its rhythm.
And somewhere, beneath it all — the words kept working.