I went to Sunday School and liked the stories about Christ and

Host: The winter evening had fallen thick and quiet over the abandoned church at the edge of town. The pews were dust-covered, the air faintly scented with wax, pine, and memory. Outside, the wind whispered through broken stained glass, scattering colored fragments of light across the cracked floor.

A single candle burned on the old altar, its flame unsteady but alive.

Jack stood near the front, collar up, his grey eyes reflecting that fragile flicker. Jeeny sat in one of the front pews, gloves in her lap, her breath visible in the cold air. The silence was sacred, but not holy — it was the kind of silence that carried questions rather than faith.

Then, softly, she spoke — the words hanging in the air like confession:

“I went to Sunday School and liked the stories about Christ and the Christmas star. They were beautiful. They made you warm and happy to think about. But I didn’t believe them.” — Frances Farmer

Jack: (quietly) “Beautiful lies. That’s what she meant, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not lies. Maybe just stories that lost their power to convince.”

Jack: “Same thing, isn’t it? Beauty that stops being believed turns into nostalgia.”

Jeeny: “Not always. Sometimes beauty lives even after belief dies.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But tell that to a child who stops believing in miracles — it’s like losing color in the world.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s seeing color for what it really is — light bent by perspective.”

Host: The candlelight danced, bending shadows across the pews, as if the ghosts of former worshippers still shifted in their seats. The church sighed with the weight of all the prayers ever spoken there — some answered, most not.

Jack: “You know, Frances Farmer was a rebel before the word had style. She wanted truth more than comfort. That’s why her words still burn.”

Jeeny: “Yes. She saw through the pageantry — the hymns, the smiles, the perfect Sunday clothes. She saw people worshiping hope, not holiness.”

Jack: “And that made her dangerous.”

Jeeny: “To a society that needed its illusions? Of course.”

Jack: “But isn’t that the tragedy? She loved the stories. She just couldn’t make herself believe them. Like admiring the stars but knowing they’re dead light.”

Jeeny: “Or loving the music even when you stop believing in the lyrics.”

Host: The wind whistled through the rafters, carrying a faint echo of a hymn — warped, almost lost, but still faintly beautiful.

Jack: “I think about faith sometimes. Not the kind in churches, but the kind that makes people survive — belief in something unseen. When that breaks, what’s left?”

Jeeny: “Reason. Art. Humanity. The courage to create meaning when it isn’t given.”

Jack: “But meaning built by men is fragile.”

Jeeny: “So is faith built on fear.”

Jack: “You sound like her.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I understand her. She didn’t hate God — she hated hypocrisy. She couldn’t stand people using belief as theater.”

Jack: “She wanted truth, even if it was cold.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because truth, even when it doesn’t comfort, still frees.”

Host: The candle wavered, its flame shrinking, then steadying again. The light caught on the old crucifix above the altar, the figure of Christ half-erased by time — the wood cracked, the paint worn, but the shape still unmistakably human.

Jack: “I used to sit in church like this as a kid. My mother sang hymns like she was trying to wake heaven. And I’d look at her face and wonder — did she really believe, or did she just need to?”

Jeeny: “Maybe belief doesn’t always start as truth. Maybe it starts as need, and we call it faith because we’re afraid of the word loneliness.”

Jack: “That’s what Farmer saw — the loneliness inside belief.”

Jeeny: “And the beauty inside doubt.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You think doubt can be beautiful?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Because doubt is what keeps belief from becoming tyranny.”

Host: A gust of wind blew out the candle, plunging the church into shadow. But the moonlight streamed through the broken glass, scattering fragments of blue and gold across the floor. It was dimmer, colder — but strangely more honest.

Jack: “She said she liked the stories. That’s what gets me. The stories still made her feel something — warmth, wonder, happiness. Even without faith.”

Jeeny: “Because stories are human, not divine. They belong to us before they belong to gods.”

Jack: “So maybe belief was never the point.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The point was the longing — the way those stories made her want to believe. That desire itself is holy.”

Jack: “You think longing is holier than faith?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Because faith can make you blind. Longing keeps your eyes open.”

Host: The moon shifted, casting its light directly on the altar — the space once meant for communion, now bare. Dust motes floated in the air like slow, falling prayers.

Jack: “You know, I envy people who believe easily. Who can pray without irony, who see Christmas lights and think they’re miracles.”

Jeeny: “And I envy people who doubt honestly. Who don’t lie to themselves for comfort.”

Jack: “So which is better?”

Jeeny: “Neither. They need each other. Faith needs doubt to stay real. Doubt needs faith to stay human.”

Jack: “A strange marriage.”

Jeeny: “The only one that lasts.”

Host: The old church creaked, a long, aching sound like the sigh of memory. Somewhere in the rafters, a pigeon fluttered its wings — a reminder that even in decay, life insists on being present.

Jack: “It’s sad though — she found beauty, but not belief. It’s like standing at the edge of heaven and choosing not to step in.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s like standing at the edge and realizing heaven was already in the way she looked. The way she felt beauty even without needing to own it.”

Jack: “So the miracle wasn’t in the story — it was in the feeling.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The warmth, the wonder — those were real. You don’t have to believe the story to experience its truth.”

Jack: “That’s faith without religion.”

Jeeny: “Or love without illusion.”

Host: The moonlight dimmed as a cloud passed. The darkness grew softer, quieter — like an exhale.

Jeeny stood, brushing the dust from her coat. Jack remained seated, staring at the altar one last time — not in reverence, but reflection.

Jeeny: “She didn’t need to believe in Christ to understand compassion. She didn’t need the star to love the night sky. That’s what I think she meant.”

Jack: “So maybe disbelief isn’t rejection. Maybe it’s another kind of worship — the kind that doesn’t need proof.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t have to kneel to be moved.”

Host: The wind calmed, and through the silence came a faint sound — the distant toll of a church bell from somewhere deeper in the city. It echoed through the hollow walls, through the bones of the forgotten place, carrying with it something quiet, eternal, unresolved.

And in that moment, Frances Farmer’s words no longer felt like loss — but like liberation.

That faith and beauty can live apart,
that stories can still warm the soul even when belief fades,
and that truth doesn’t always require devotion — only honesty.

Host: The moonlight returned.
The broken glass shimmered like stars reborn.
And the church — stripped of its certainty —
felt more alive than ever.