I was raised Presbyterian, but I'm not really going to church. I

Host: The studio was dimly lit, the air thick with incense and the faint hum of machines cooling down after a long day of work. Half-finished canvases leaned against the walls; splashes of color glowed in the half-light, like thoughts halfway between chaos and revelation. Outside, the city was quiet, a blanket of fog drifting through the alleyways, swallowing sound and leaving only stillness.

Jack sat cross-legged on the floor, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, though he hadn’t taken a drag in minutes. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow — not asleep, but somewhere close to that strange border between waking and surrender.

Jeeny entered quietly, setting down two mugs of green tea on the worktable. She watched him for a moment — his posture rigid yet serene, his presence heavy with something unspoken. The room seemed to hum with that silence artists make when they’re listening to something only they can hear.

After a while, she spoke — her voice soft, but clear.

Jeeny: reading from her notebook, the words slow and deliberate
“David Lynch once said, ‘I was raised Presbyterian, but I’m not really going to church. I think the experience in meditation is pretty much where it’s at for me.’”

Jack: opening one eye, half-smiling
“Figures. Lynch always did find God in the static between radio stations.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly, sitting down across from him
“Maybe that’s the point. Some people hear sermons in pews. Others hear them in silence.”

Host: The incense curled upward in thin silver spirals, catching the faint light and twisting in the air like something between smoke and spirit. The city outside felt distant, the world reduced to breath and heartbeat.

Jack: leaning back, exhaling
“You know, I used to think meditation was just an escape for people who didn’t want to deal with reality. Now I think it’s the only way to actually meet it — without filters, without noise.”

Jeeny: softly, nodding
“That’s the irony, isn’t it? You go inward to see outward more clearly.”

Jack: half-laughing
“Yeah. Meanwhile, the church taught me to look up — heaven’s somewhere ‘out there.’ Took me thirty-five years to realize maybe the divine was just waiting for me to sit still long enough to listen.”

Jeeny: gently, sipping her tea
“Religion gives us direction. Meditation gives us experience. Both are maps — just drawn in different languages.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the old windowpanes, the sound sharp but strangely comforting. Jack stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes thoughtful.

Jack: quietly
“When I was a kid, I used to watch my mom pray before bed. She’d close her eyes, fold her hands, whisper to something I couldn’t see. I think meditation’s the same thing — except instead of asking for answers, you just stop long enough to hear them.”

Jeeny: smiling softly
“Exactly. Prayer is reaching toward something. Meditation is realizing it’s already here.”

Jack: nodding slowly, eyes distant
“Lynch found that in his art. You can see it — the stillness underneath the madness. It’s not just weirdness for weirdness’s sake. It’s spiritual chaos — a search for meaning without pretending to have one.”

Jeeny: gazing around the room — the paintings, the scattered sketches, the half-built sculptures
“You do that too, you know. Every time you create something, you’re meditating with your hands.”

Jack: smirking
“Yeah, except my meditation comes with broken brushes and deadlines.”

Jeeny: gently, her tone like a smile
“Even frustration’s a kind of prayer, Jack. The difference is, in meditation, you’re allowed to listen to your own anger instead of drowning in it.”

Host: The incense burned lower, its scent richer now — wood, smoke, and something faintly sweet, like sandalwood soaked in rain. The studio’s silence felt holy, not because it was pure, but because it was honest.

Jack: after a pause, his voice softer now
“I stopped going to church years ago. Not because I stopped believing. I just… stopped connecting. Everything felt rehearsed — the hymns, the sermons, even the amens. Meditation doesn’t have a script. You don’t need permission to feel sacred.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly, eyes warm
“That’s what Lynch meant, I think. Meditation doesn’t demand belief. It invites awareness. It’s not a conversation with God — it’s an encounter with the part of you that remembers Him.”

Jack: smiling faintly
“So it’s not about leaving faith. It’s about returning to it differently.”

Jeeny: softly
“Yes. Through stillness instead of structure.”

Host: The city lights flickered faintly through the window, cutting soft streaks across the studio floor. The sound of distant thunder rolled, low and comforting, like a giant turning in his sleep.

Jack: after a long silence
“You think meditation replaces religion?”

Jeeny: after a pause, shaking her head
“No. It refines it. Religion teaches us who to look for. Meditation teaches us how to see.”

Jack: smiling faintly, voice almost a whisper
“And both, if done right, lead to the same silence.”

Jeeny: quietly, almost to herself
“Maybe that’s what faith really is — silence that doesn’t feel empty.”

Host: The thunder faded, and in its absence, the sound of their breathing filled the room — steady, grounded, alive. The last tendril of incense smoke drifted upward, disappearing into the air like a prayer that didn’t need words.

And in that serene, fragile stillness, David Lynch’s words seemed to settle around them — not as rejection, but as revelation:

That faith isn’t confined to walls or rituals — it’s found in stillness.
That God doesn’t vanish when we stop going to church — we just meet Him differently.
And that meditation isn’t the absence of belief — it’s the presence of awareness, the doorway to the divine within.

Jeeny: softly, as the last light flickered over her face
“Maybe the difference between prayer and meditation is direction. One reaches outward. The other opens inward. But both… both are ways home.”

Jack: smiling faintly, eyes closing again
“Then maybe home isn’t heaven — it’s this.”

Host: The rain began again, gentle, rhythmic — a cleansing lullaby for the restless. The studio glowed in dim, golden silence, two souls sitting in wordless communion.

And for that moment, the divine didn’t feel distant or mysterious — it felt personal, breathing, quietly present in the space between them.