I read the Scriptures at the American Cathedral on Christmas and

Host: The cathedral was nearly empty. A lingering echo of the organ trembled through the air, wrapping the stone pillars in a low, sacred hum. Outside, Paris lay under a soft veil of snow, the moonlight catching on the icy cobblestones like shards of forgotten dreams. Inside, the faint scent of wax, cedar, and cold air lingered — the kind of smell that belongs only to places where people have whispered to eternity.

Jack sat on the back pew, his hands clasped, not in prayer, but in thought. Jeeny stood near the altar, her fingers grazing the open Bible, her face lit by the golden flicker of candles.

It was late. Christmas Eve. The last bells had faded. Only the two of them remained — two souls, lost in the quiet that follows belief.

Jeeny: “Olivia de Havilland once said, ‘I read the Scriptures at the American Cathedral on Christmas and Easter; that’s it. It’s a task I love.’”
(she smiled faintly) “A task. Not a duty, not a performance — a task she loved. I wonder if she meant that faith can be found in moments, not habits.”

Jack: (his voice low, echoing in the stone) “Maybe she meant it’s not faith at all — just ritual. Like clockwork. Twice a year, light a candle, read the words, go home. It’s not belief; it’s tradition — nostalgia dressed as holiness.”

Host: His words cut through the air like cold wind through glass. The flames of the candles trembled, throwing long, dancing shadows across the marble floor. Jeeny turned toward him, her eyes warm but defiant.

Jeeny: “You think love can’t live in ritual? Some people pray every day and never feel a thing. Others read once a year and touch eternity. Maybe it’s not about quantity, Jack. Maybe it’s about the quality of the heart in that moment.”

Jack: “Quality of the heart? Or convenience of conscience? It’s easy to visit faith twice a year — like visiting an old relative. It feels noble, but it changes nothing. Belief should demand something of us.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you’re sitting here, aren’t you? Not for belief — for silence. For beauty. For… something. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t still want to believe in something larger than yourself.”

Host: A draft of cold air slipped through the heavy doors, making the candles flicker and the light dance over Jack’s face. He looked up toward the vaulted ceiling, the arches vanishing into darkness like unspoken prayers.

Jack: “I believe in effort, Jeeny — not devotion. In what’s done, not what’s declared. Faith, to me, is work. And that’s what I respect about what she said — she called it a task. Not a joy, not an ecstasy — a task. That’s honesty.”

Jeeny: “But she said she loved it, Jack. That’s the beauty. She didn’t love it because it saved her — she loved it because it connected her. Because the act itself was holy. Sometimes the work is the prayer.”

Jack: “And sometimes it’s theater. People love the illusion of faith — the songs, the lights, the cathedral — but they fear the silence that follows when no one’s watching. That’s when belief actually begins, and that’s when most people walk away.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s why the world’s so lonely — because we mistake reverence for performance. But not everyone does. Some people stand here once a year and find enough peace to last until the next.”

Host: Her voice echoed softly through the chapel, mingling with the faint hiss of the snow against the stained-glass windows. She closed the Bible, her fingers lingering on the edge of its worn pages.

Jack: “Do you really think two days a year is enough to fill the emptiness people feel the other three hundred sixty-three?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about filling the emptiness — maybe it’s about acknowledging it. Standing in it. Letting it echo. That’s what faith is: not certainty, but the courage to look into the dark and still light a candle.”

Host: Jack’s eyes followed her movements — slow, deliberate, reverent. She wasn’t performing, not for him, not for anyone. She was simply there, present, as though the ancient stones themselves were listening.

Jack: “You always make it sound simple. But faith isn’t soft — it’s hard. It asks you to trust what you can’t verify. It’s irrational.”

Jeeny: “And yet, so is love. So is beauty. So is the longing that brought you here tonight, Jack. You call it irrational — I call it human.”

Host: The bells in the distance struck once — a deep, hollow note that seemed to vibrate through the walls, through the chest, through the very air.

Jack: “You know, I envy her — de Havilland. She found balance. She didn’t drown in religion, but she didn’t abandon it either. She met it halfway. Maybe that’s the only way it survives now — in fragments, in rituals that make sense to us.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s like remembering to breathe. You don’t have to think about it every second — but if you forget it completely, you die inside.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “So faith’s just oxygen now?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the act of remembering you’re alive. That’s what she was doing — reading Scripture wasn’t about proving belief; it was about being alive enough to speak sacred words aloud.”

Host: Jack’s expression softened. The light from the candles shimmered in his eyes, pulling faint warmth into their cold grey. He rose slowly and walked toward her, his footsteps echoing through the vast silence.

Jack: “You think she meant it as devotion?”

Jeeny: “I think she meant it as gratitude. And maybe gratitude is the purest form of faith left to us.”

Host: A small pause. The snow outside fell heavier now, muffling the distant sounds of the city. Inside, the cathedral held its breath.

Jack: “Gratitude, huh? For what?”

Jeeny: “For the chance to stand in a place like this — where time slows, where words become more than sound, where you can read something written two thousand years ago and still feel seen.”

Jack: “Even if you don’t believe every word?”

Jeeny: “Especially then. Because faith isn’t about agreeing — it’s about listening.”

Host: The flames steadied, burning quietly, their light trembling across the vaulted ceiling like tiny constellations. The world outside faded, leaving only the soft sound of snow and the echo of their voices in the sacred air.

Jack: “You know… I think I get it now. Maybe belief isn’t something you carry every day. Maybe it’s something that visits you, like a season — and all you can do is welcome it when it comes.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly. And when it comes, you read the words, you light the candles, you breathe. You love the task.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the two of them standing at the altar, surrounded by the soft glow of candles, the gentle snowlight streaming through colored glass. No thunder, no miracles. Just stillness — the quiet holiness of two souls admitting the sacred in small, imperfect moments.

And as the final bell tolled over the city, their voices fell silent — not out of doubt, but reverence. The cathedral exhaled. The candles flickered once, and the scene faded into the silver hush of Christmas morning — where faith, love, and task were all the same word, softly spoken.