I once wanted to become an atheist, but I gave up - they have no

Host: The evening had settled into one of those lazy dusks that dripped with amber light and the smell of rain-soaked pavement. The little diner on the corner — the kind that hadn’t changed since 1957 — buzzed faintly with the hum of its ancient neon sign: OPEN ALL NIGHT. Inside, the air smelled of coffee, grease, and nostalgia. A jukebox in the corner played an old jazz tune, its melody soft as an afterthought.

Host: Jack sat in a booth by the window, the light from the street lamp carving silver lines across his face. He stirred his coffee absently, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Across from him, Jeeny was laughing — a low, warm laugh that carried like sunlight through cigarette smoke.

Jeeny: “Henny Youngman once said, ‘I once wanted to become an atheist, but I gave up — they have no holidays.’”

Jack: (chuckling) “Finally, someone honest about religion.”

Jeeny: “Honest? Or clever?”

Jack: “Both. You’ve got to admit, Jeeny — if nothing else, the faithful know how to throw a party. Bells, candles, songs, feasts. The atheists got stuck with Tuesdays.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And existential dread.”

Jack: “Exactly. At least the believers get wine with theirs.”

Host: A waitress passed by, setting down a plate of pie between them — apple, steaming, fragrant. Outside, a streetcar rattled by, its windows glowing like small moving shrines in the dark.

Jeeny: “You know, jokes like that always make me wonder what people are really laughing at — religion or the fear of living without it.”

Jack: “Fear? I’d call it relief. No more divine surveillance. No more cosmic guilt. Just clean, empty freedom.”

Jeeny: “Empty being the keyword.”

Jack: “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Maybe emptiness is the honest state of the world. No angels, no devils, just gravity and luck.”

Jeeny: “And loneliness.”

Jack: (pausing) “Yeah. That too.”

Host: The jukebox changed tracks — something slower now, melancholic, a saxophone sighing against the clatter of dishes. Jeeny leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, her eyes catching the diner light — warm brown turning gold.

Jeeny: “See, that’s what Youngman was really getting at. He wasn’t mocking belief — he was mocking the need for it. Even the atheist has rituals — the morning coffee, the Friday drink, the New Year’s resolution. We’re all trying to name the chaos.”

Jack: “You’re saying everyone’s religious, even if their god doesn’t answer prayers?”

Jeeny: “Especially then. Faith doesn’t always wear robes or cross necklaces. Sometimes it wears habits — the human kind.”

Jack: (smirking) “So what’s your ritual, Jeeny? What do you worship?”

Jeeny: “Moments like this. Pie. Rain. People trying to make sense of each other. You?”

Jack: “Sarcasm. It’s the only faith that never lets me down.”

Host: She laughed again, shaking her head, and for a moment the diner felt like a small church — two souls confessing to the comedy of existence.

Jeeny: “You hide behind it, you know.”

Jack: “Behind what?”

Jeeny: “The jokes. The cynicism. You treat the world like a punchline so you don’t have to take it seriously.”

Jack: “And you treat it like a hymn so you don’t have to admit it’s random.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Touché.”

Host: The rain began again, light but steady, ticking against the windowpane like a metronome for their conversation. The street outside shimmered, every puddle catching bits of neon and passing headlights — a stained-glass city made from puddles and impermanence.

Jack: “You ever think belief and humor are cousins? Both ways of handling the absurd. Believers laugh because they trust there’s meaning. Comedians laugh because they know there isn’t.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe both laugh because the alternative is crying.”

Jack: “Now that’s the real gospel truth.”

Host: Jack took a bite of pie, his fork scraping gently against the plate — a small, metallic hymn.

Jeeny: “Still, there’s something beautiful about the holidays, don’t you think? Even if you don’t believe in the story. The gathering. The candles. The idea that once a year we all pretend to hope together.”

Jack: “Sure. But that’s not faith — that’s choreography.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even choreography can feel like meaning when you’re dancing with the right people.”

Jack: “You think we need the illusion of God just to stay sane?”

Jeeny: “Not God — each other. God is just the name we gave to the ache of wanting not to be alone.”

Host: The rain intensified, thundering briefly before softening again. The waitress refilled their cups, her reflection caught in the glass — tired eyes, small smile, a face that had seen decades of quiet confessions from strangers.

Jack: “You know, maybe Youngman was onto something. Even if you stop believing in the heavens, you still want the holidays. The songs, the lights, the excuse to feel wonder without irony.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith or no faith — everyone needs a season to remember they’re human.”

Jack: “And maybe a good joke to go with it.”

Jeeny: “That too.”

Host: They sat for a while in comfortable silence, watching the world blur behind streaks of rain. The neon sign outside buzzed faintly, its red letters reflected in the puddles — OPEN ALL NIGHT — glowing like an accidental scripture.

Host: Jack glanced at Jeeny, his voice softer now.

Jack: “You ever think humor’s our last defense against meaninglessness?”

Jeeny: “I think humor is meaning. The divine laugh that keeps the void from swallowing us whole.”

Jack: “So what you’re saying is — maybe the universe doesn’t need to make sense. Maybe it just needs better timing.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “Exactly. And a holiday every now and then.”

Host: The camera would pull back slowly — through the diner window, out into the wet, glowing street — the rain falling like applause from unseen hands.

Host: Inside, their laughter drifted into the hum of the jukebox — small, sincere, defiant.

Host: And as the city lights flickered in rhythm with the rain, Henny Youngman’s old joke lingered — a smile across eternity’s poker face — reminding us that maybe the holiest thing we ever do
is laugh at the impossible,
and keep celebrating life
even when no one promised us a reason to.