I think it's very healthy to use journalistic and legal

Host: The library was nearly empty — just the hum of the air vents, the soft rustle of pages, and the faint, electric buzz of lamps that had seen too many late-night confessions. Dust motes floated in the amber light like tiny galaxies suspended between doubt and revelation.

Jack sat at the far table, his notebook open, filled with tightly written lines of questions, cross-references, and underlined phrases. He looked like a man building a case — not for guilt, but for meaning. Across from him, Jeeny leaned back in her chair, her eyes half-lit by the golden glow of a reading lamp.

Between them lay a book — The Case for Christ. Its worn spine was cracked, its margins marked in both ink and emotion.

Across the first page, written neatly in block letters, was the quote they’d been circling for hours:

“I think it’s very healthy to use journalistic and legal techniques to investigate the evidence for and against Christianity and other faith systems.”
— Lee Strobel

Host: The words lay between them like an invitation — or perhaps a dare. The stillness in the room felt like the hush before a courtroom verdict, or a prayer waiting for a response.

Jack: “You know,” he said finally, tapping his pen against the table, “I actually agree with him. Strobel’s right. If faith is true, it should survive scrutiny. And if it can’t — maybe it isn’t faith at all.”

Jeeny: “You think faith is supposed to be cross-examined?”

Jack: “Why not? We examine everything else — science, politics, even love. Why should belief get immunity?”

Jeeny: “Because faith isn’t evidence, Jack. It’s trust.”

Jack: “Trust without evidence is naivety.”

Jeeny: “And evidence without trust is emptiness.”

Host: The lamplight flickered, catching the shadow of the cross on Jeeny’s necklace — a faint silhouette reflected on the wood of the table, trembling slightly as she breathed.

Jack: “You see, that’s exactly what bothers me,” he said. “Faith gets this... shield. A kind of diplomatic immunity from reason. Strobel was right to put it on trial. Christianity, Buddhism, Islam — if they’re true, they can stand the questioning.”

Jeeny: “And if they’re not, then what? You just walk away from mystery? From meaning? You reduce the universe to something you can file in a cabinet labeled ‘solved’?”

Jack: “No. I just want to separate what’s felt from what’s real.”

Jeeny: “And maybe they’re not different.”

Jack: “They are when one requires evidence.”

Jeeny: “Evidence doesn’t always show up in ink and fingerprints, Jack. Sometimes it shows up in mercy. In forgiveness. In the way a person changes without understanding why.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but it carried a kind of trembling authority — the sound of someone who had loved something invisible long enough to defend it.

Jack: “You talk like belief is immune to corruption. But I’ve seen what happens when faith goes unchecked — wars, fanaticism, control. The same passion that saves souls can also build prisons.”

Jeeny: “And I’ve seen what happens when reason goes unchecked — cynicism, isolation, arrogance. You can dissect everything until nothing has a pulse.”

Jack: “At least truth remains.”

Jeeny: “No. Only facts remain. And facts aren’t the same as truth.”

Host: A soft creak echoed from the far end of the room, where old theology texts sat in neat rows. The building itself seemed to listen, breathing with them — old, patient, and still waiting for its own redemption.

Jeeny: “Do you know why Strobel’s story matters?” she said, her eyes fixed on him. “Because he didn’t start by believing. He started by doubting. He wanted to prove it wrong. And somewhere in that investigation, something found him.”

Jack: “That’s just psychology. He was primed to believe. His wife converted first — he wanted to make sense of her transformation.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe love opened a door reason couldn’t.”

Jack: “Love makes you blind.”

Jeeny: “No. It makes you brave.”

Host: The tension in the air was a living thing — the clash between the forensic and the faithful, between a mind that sought proof and a heart that sought peace.

Jack: “You think faith can survive an interrogation?”

Jeeny: “I think real faith invites it. But the answers don’t come from logic. They come from living.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic.”

Jeeny: “Truth usually does.”

Jack: “You’re dodging the point.”

Jeeny: “And you’re mistaking certainty for clarity.”

Host: The clock on the far wall ticked, its rhythm marking the slow collapse of debate into reflection. The rain outside had begun, tapping softly against the windows — steady, contemplative.

Jack: “You know what I envy?” he said finally. “People who can believe in something bigger without needing to see it. I wish I could do that. But I can’t ignore what the evidence shows — or what it doesn’t.”

Jeeny: “Maybe faith isn’t about ignoring evidence. Maybe it’s about recognizing that evidence has limits. The law can prove a crime, journalism can expose corruption — but neither can tell you what happens after death, or why love forgives the unforgivable.”

Jack: “And you think faith can?”

Jeeny: “No. But it tries. And sometimes, trying is the proof.”

Host: The lamplight dimmed slightly, the bulb sighing as if tired from witnessing yet another human contradiction. Jack’s pen stopped moving. For once, he wasn’t writing — just thinking.

Jack: “You know, Strobel was a lawyer, right? He treated the Gospels like witnesses — examined them for consistency, bias, motive. I respect that. It’s methodical. But even after he converted, he didn’t prove God. He just reached a verdict that satisfied him.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because faith isn’t about proving something to everyone else. It’s about reaching a verdict that lets you live.”

Jack: “So it’s subjective.”

Jeeny: “So is love. So is grief. So is hope. Doesn’t make them less real.”

Jack: “But it makes them unreliable.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe reliability isn’t the point. Maybe surrender is.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, blurring the world beyond the glass. Inside, the glow of the lamp turned their faces golden, as if truth were not found in certainty, but in the way they refused to stop searching for it.

Jack: “You know, when you strip it down, both faith and law are the same — stories told to make sense of chaos.”

Jeeny: “And both fall apart when the storyteller forgets humility.”

Jack: “You think humility saves faith?”

Jeeny: “No. But it saves the believer.”

Host: Her words hung in the air — quiet, deliberate, like a prayer uttered more for the listener than for God. Jack looked at her, and in that glance was the smallest flicker of something not unlike belief — or at least, longing for it.

Jack: “So what’s the verdict, counselor? Can reason and faith share the same table?”

Jeeny: “They already do. They just don’t speak the same language.”

Jack: “Then what’s the translation?”

Jeeny: “Curiosity.”

Jack: “Curiosity?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The courage to ask — even when you’re afraid of the answer.”

Host: The rain began to slow. The clock chimed softly, marking midnight — the hour when doubt and devotion often look most alike.

Jack closed the book gently, his hand resting on the cover as though it were both evidence and scripture.

Host: The camera would linger now — on the quiet library, on the rain-slicked window, on the two figures framed by books that have tried, for centuries, to explain what cannot be measured.

And as the lights dimmed, Lee Strobel’s words would echo like a verdict reached not by a court, but by a conscience finally unafraid of contradiction:

“It’s healthy to use journalistic and legal techniques to investigate the evidence for and against faith.”

Host: But beneath that verdict, a softer truth would stir — the one that neither side could refute:

“Because belief, like truth, doesn’t fear investigation.
It only fears indifference.”