I went to a fundamentalist Christian high school and went to a

Host: The evening sky over Portland hung heavy with low clouds, a pale amber haze from the streetlights glowing through the mist. Inside a quiet bookstore café, the smell of rain mixed with coffee and parchment, soft music playing under the hum of human thought.

At a small corner table, surrounded by rows of philosophy books, Jack sat, hands clasped, staring into the dark reflection of his untouched espresso. His grey eyes were steady but distant, like someone revisiting ghosts. Jeeny, across from him, turned the pages of an old leather-bound Bible, its edges frayed with memory. Her brown eyes shone with both curiosity and sadness.

Outside, the rain fell harder, tapping against the windows like a hesitant prayer.

Jeeny: “Scott Derrickson once said, ‘I went to a fundamentalist Christian high school and went to a fundamentalist church, and they were the greatest people; there was an amazing sense of community. The problem is when the messiness of real life enters, and the inflexibility of a moral code cannot cope with the realities of moral relativism.’”

Jack: nods slowly “Yeah. That one hits deep. It’s like watching the scaffolding of faith collapse under the weight of reality.”

Jeeny: “Or watching reality forget what it means to believe in something absolute.”

Jack: “You really think absolutes still exist? Morality isn’t math, Jeeny. It bends. It changes. What’s right for one century is wrong for another. That’s not corruption — that’s evolution.”

Jeeny: “But without absolutes, Jack, how do you know where to stand? If everything bends, everything breaks eventually.”

Host: A thunderclap rolled across the sky, the sound vibrating through the windows. The light flickered for a moment, and Jack’s face was caught in a stark flash, revealing both weariness and defiance.

Jack: “I grew up in a place like that, too — Sunday school, hymns, sermons about sin and redemption. Good people, sure. But the world they described didn’t fit the one I saw. When my mother got cancer, no prayer stopped it. When my father left, no scripture softened it. The code cracked when it met life.”

Jeeny: “That doesn’t mean the faith was wrong. Maybe it means we misunderstood it — turned it into a rulebook instead of a relationship.”

Jack: “Or maybe it means we were sold certainty because the truth — that the universe doesn’t owe us anything — is too terrifying to face.”

Jeeny: “Certainty comforts. It gives people something to hold when everything else falls apart. Isn’t that what community is for? To remind you that even if the world’s falling, you’re not falling alone?”

Jack: “Until you start asking questions that community doesn’t want answered. That’s when the same people who prayed with you start looking at you like a heretic.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a rhythmic whisper. A young couple in the next booth laughed quietly, the sound a reminder that life continued even in philosophical stalemates. Jeeny’s hands tightened around her cup, her knuckles pale, her voice gentler now.

Jeeny: “I think faith breaks when we stop allowing it to evolve. Fundamentalism tries to freeze what’s meant to flow. It’s like trying to hold light in your hands — the tighter you grip, the darker it becomes.”

Jack: “You sound like a preacher.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “I sound like someone who’s still trying to believe that love and reason can coexist.”

Jack: “They can’t. Not fully. Faith demands surrender. Reason demands proof. You can’t kneel and question at the same time.”

Jeeny: “But you can love and question. You can fall and still believe in gravity.”

Host: A pause. The clock ticked, slow and hollow. Jack’s fingers drummed against the table, the rhythm impatient, his mind wrestling between memory and logic.

Jack: “You know, I used to envy people who believed without doubt. There’s a strange peace in that — like living inside a story where every ending has meaning. But then life throws something at you that doesn’t fit the script, and suddenly, you’re rewriting the gospel just to stay sane.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what it’s supposed to do. Maybe faith isn’t the script — maybe it’s the pen. It changes as we do.”

Jack: “Tell that to the ones who still think questions are sins.”

Jeeny: “Then their faith is fear wearing holy clothes.”

Host: The words landed heavy, yet soft — like rain hitting earth that has long been waiting to be watered. Jack’s eyes lifted, and for a brief moment, his guard lowered, the steel in his voice replaced by something quieter: fatigue, maybe grief.

Jack: “You ever wonder if community is just a safer word for conformity?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. But only when love is missing. When it’s real, community means carrying each other’s doubts, not burying them.”

Jack: “Sounds nice in theory. But when I started doubting — really doubting — no one carried me. They told me I’d lost my way.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you didn’t lose it. Maybe you just left the map. The thing about faith is — it’s only real when it’s walked through darkness. That’s where it stops being inherited and starts being chosen.”

Jack: quietly “Chosen faith. That’s a dangerous freedom.”

Jeeny: “Freedom always is.”

Host: A long silence stretched between them. The light rain now glowed like silver threads outside, each drop a moment suspended. The streetlamps reflected across Jack’s face, carving lines of thought and regret.

He leaned forward, his voice lower, almost a whisper.

Jack: “Derrickson got it right — the greatest people can live inside the smallest boxes. But when life knocks, those boxes break. And then they’re forced to choose — between compassion and code.”

Jeeny: “And when they choose compassion, that’s when faith becomes real.”

Jack: “And when they choose the code, it becomes control.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Jesus broke the rules for love. But we keep rebuilding the rules to keep love contained.”

Jack: “Because love terrifies us. It’s unpredictable — messy. Rules give us the illusion of safety.”

Jeeny: “But maybe it’s in that messiness that God hides — not in the order, but the chaos.”

Host: The storm outside swelled again, wind pressing against the windows like an impatient truth. The lights flickered, and for a moment, the entire café seemed to breathe, the air alive with tension and revelation.

Jack: “So you think moral relativism isn’t the problem — it’s the solution?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s the mirror. It shows us where our absolutes end. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s honest. Life forces us to look into that mirror — to see how our rules fail real people.”

Jack: “And then what? Rewrite morality every time it hurts?”

Jeeny: “No. We expand it. We learn empathy without erasing principle. Like stretching a canvas so it can hold a larger painting.”

Host: Jack looked down, his hands trembling slightly, as though holding something fragile — the past, perhaps, or forgiveness. He exhaled slowly.

Jack: “You make it sound possible — this balance between truth and grace.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. It’s not clean. But it’s the only kind of faith worth having — the one that breathes with you.”

Jack: “And when it stops breathing?”

Jeeny: “Then it wasn’t faith. It was fear dressed up as certainty.”

Host: The rain stopped. A faint light broke through the clouds, soft and golden, spilling through the café window. Jeeny smiled, just barely, as Jack stared into that light — something shifting in his gaze, not belief, but recognition.

Jack: “You know… maybe the real miracle isn’t keeping the faith. Maybe it’s daring to let it change.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith that refuses to bend isn’t strong. It’s brittle. And life will break it.”

Jack: “And what comes after?”

Jeeny: “Something truer. Something human.”

Host: The camera pulls back — two figures in the warm afterglow of a storm, the city outside glistening, its streets wet and alive. A faint choir hums from a passing car — old gospel music remixed with lo-fi beats.

Inside the café, silence remains, but it’s no longer heavy. It’s sacred — the kind that exists right after confession.

The scene fades, leaving behind the soft echo of rain,
and Derrickson’s truth hanging in the air —

that the real test of faith
is not in believing without question,
but in loving without certainty.