I know Marco Rubio very well. He's a friend of mine. He's a man

Host: The night air hummed faintly with the sound of traffic and distant bells from a nearby cathedral. The square was almost empty — just a few late pedestrians walking beneath streetlamps whose light fell like soft gold on the cobblestones. Across from the cathedral, in a small courtyard café, Jack and Jeeny sat by a flickering candle, its flame trembling each time the wind brushed through.

The clocktower struck ten. The echo lingered over the square — solemn, almost like a benediction.

Jack: “Strange thing, faith. Everyone says they have it. Few can explain what it really means.”

Jeeny: “Ana Navarro once said something that comes to mind — about Marco Rubio. She said, ‘He’s a man of deep faith, a man who follows Catholic dogma, for whom religion is very important.’ You can almost hear her respect in it.”

Jack: “Respect or nostalgia? That kind of devotion feels… old-fashioned to me. Obeying dogma in the twenty-first century — it’s like living by the stars when you have satellites.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the stars still shine, Jack. Sometimes brighter than the machines that try to replace them.”

Host: The candlelight caught Jeeny’s face, illuminating the curve of her cheek and the quiet steadiness in her eyes. Jack leaned back, his hands clasped, his expression taut with thought.

Jack: “Dogma means rules. Doctrine. Control. The Catholic Church, for centuries, dictated how people lived, loved, even died. Galileo, Joan of Arc, entire generations silenced in the name of truth. Tell me — is that ‘deep faith’? Or blind obedience?”

Jeeny: “You always go to extremes. Faith isn’t blindness. It’s surrender. It’s knowing you can’t measure everything. You think Marco Rubio believes because he’s ignorant? No. He believes because it grounds him — because it gives him a compass in a world that keeps spinning faster.”

Jack: “A compass? Maybe. But one that points backward. People like Rubio cling to religion to feel safe. But safety doesn’t make truth.”

Jeeny: “Nor does cynicism. You think dismissing belief makes you wise? Maybe people of faith see something you’ve forgotten — that reason can build walls, but it can’t fill the soul.”

Host: The wind pressed against the windows, rattling them softly. The smell of burning wax mingled with the faint scent of incense drifting from the cathedral across the square. Somewhere inside, a late-night Mass was ending; the choir’s voices floated through the air like mist — ancient, haunting, beautiful.

Jack: “You hear that? Beautiful, yes. But it’s just ritual. Words repeated by habit. People convincing themselves they’re closer to God through choreography.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s rhythm. The same rhythm that kept people alive through wars, through famine, through loss. Those chants are history’s heartbeat. Dogma is the memory of faith — imperfect, maybe, but alive.”

Jack: “Alive? Or undead? The Church opposed evolution, censored scientists, protected corruption. Even today — hypocrisy wrapped in holiness. Don’t tell me that’s what keeps the world together.”

Jeeny: “I didn’t say the Church is perfect. I said faith is human. And because it’s human, it’s flawed — but still sacred. Even the people who fall short still reach upward.”

Host: The tension between them pulsed like an electric wire. Jack’s voice grew sharp, his grey eyes narrowing; Jeeny’s remained soft but unyielding.

Jack: “So we justify centuries of suffering because some people needed hope?”

Jeeny: “No. We understand it. There’s a difference. Without faith — of any kind — humanity would’ve burned itself out long ago. Do you really think reason alone built civilization?”

Jack: “Yes. Reason built the bridges, the medicine, the lightbulbs. Faith built the wars and inquisitions.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the people who invented the lightbulb prayed too. Newton wrote more about God than gravity. Martin Luther King preached theology and justice in the same breath. Faith doesn’t erase progress, Jack. It gives it purpose.”

Host: The candle between them flickered violently — its flame twisting like a living thing. The cathedral doors opened across the square; a small group emerged, their faces glowing with the last touch of candlelight from within.

Jack: “Purpose can be found without prayer. You can live ethically without heaven watching.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But you can’t find meaning in emptiness. At some point, even you must wonder what lies beyond your logic.”

Jack: “I wonder, yes. But I don’t pretend to know. Faith pretends to know — that’s the difference.”

Jeeny: “Faith doesn’t pretend. It accepts mystery. It kneels before it.”

Host: Jack looked away — out toward the cathedral. The cross at its top caught the moonlight, a small glint against the vast, dark sky. For a long time, neither of them spoke. The air felt thick, heavy with centuries of human longing.

Jack: “You know what I envy about believers? Their certainty. Their ability to say, ‘I know God loves me,’ without flinching. I wish I could believe that deeply in anything.”

Jeeny: “That’s not certainty, Jack. That’s courage — the courage to believe even when you doubt. Even when everything inside you wants proof.”

Jack: “Then maybe I’m a coward.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you’re just waiting for your own cathedral to rise.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. Jack’s shoulders eased; the hardness in his eyes softened, replaced by something quieter — curiosity, maybe even yearning.

Jack: “Do you ever wonder why people like Ana Navarro respect men like Rubio — even when they don’t share their beliefs?”

Jeeny: “Because conviction, when it’s sincere, is beautiful. Whether or not you agree with it. It’s the integrity that moves people — not the creed.”

Jack: “So it’s not about religion. It’s about consistency.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith isn’t just in God. It’s in keeping your heart aligned with what you believe — even when the world tells you not to.”

Host: The night deepened; the last of the churchgoers dispersed into the shadows. Only the sound of a single organ note lingered, low and trembling, before dissolving into silence. The candle between them had burned low, its wax pooled like melted gold.

Jack: “You know… maybe that’s what I’ve missed. Not belief in a deity — but belief in something constant. Something that doesn’t change with the headlines.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe your faith is logic itself. Or compassion. Or honesty. Whatever holds you steady — that’s sacred, too.”

Host: The moonlight slid through the clouds, landing across the table, cutting through the last tendrils of smoke. Jack reached for his cup again, this time without the hesitation of thought. Jeeny watched him, her eyes reflecting the same soft, flickering light that danced between them.

Jack: “You think faith and reason can ever coexist?”

Jeeny: “They already do. In the heart that questions and still hopes.”

Host: The clocktower struck eleven. The sound was deep, resonant — like the slow beating of the earth’s heart. Jack looked once more toward the cathedral — its doors closed now, its cross gleaming above the roofline.

Jack: “Maybe faith isn’t believing everything. Maybe it’s just refusing to stop believing altogether.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And maybe reason isn’t denying faith. Maybe it’s how we learn to understand it.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of candle smoke and night flowers. The square was empty now. Only Jack and Jeeny remained — two souls caught between the sacred and the skeptical, between the silence of the cathedral and the hum of the city. The candle finally went out, but the light it had cast lingered — not on the table, but in their eyes, bright with something deeper than either belief or doubt.

Host: And somewhere in the distance, a single church bell rang — not to summon, not to command — but simply to remind the living that faith, like light, survives in all who dare to look for it.