If they take their children to doctors, they believe they are

Host: The evening wind carried a strange stillness through the small rural town, that kind of quiet born not from peace but from distance — distance between belief and doubt, between the heart and the world’s explanations. The church steeple stood above the trees like a warning finger against the crimson sky, and somewhere down the gravel road, a light still burned in the community hall, where voices murmured and the faint smell of coffee and damp coats filled the air.

Jack sat near the back of the room, his shoulders broad but slumped, a man who carried the weight of something invisible. Beside him, Jeeny sat upright, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed on the small wooden cross nailed to the front wall. Neither of them spoke. The meeting was over, but its tension still hung thick — an echo of division wrapped in the language of faith.

Jeeny: (quietly) “You heard what Pastor Lang said?”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Jeeny: “He quoted Bob Bartlett. ‘If they take their children to doctors, they believe they are putting their faith in man instead of in God.’”

Jack: (after a pause) “Yeah. I heard that too.”

Jeeny: “And?”

Jack: “And I don’t know if I’m angry or just tired.”

Host: The rain began outside, tapping softly on the tin roof — that low, relentless percussion that makes truth sound louder.

Jeeny: “He believes it, Jack. They all do. To them, medicine is doubt. Science is betrayal.”

Jack: “You ever notice how people confuse faith with fear? They don’t trust God — they just don’t trust anyone else.”

Jeeny: “You think that’s what it is? Fear?”

Jack: “Yeah. The kind that dresses itself up as devotion.”

Host: The lightbulb above them flickered, its hum steady and fragile. Jack leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, eyes shadowed beneath the weight of frustration.

Jack: “My niece… she’s sick, Jeeny. You know that. It’s not small. It’s not something prayer can fix. And still, my sister won’t take her to a doctor. Says it’s ‘God’s will.’”

Jeeny: (softly) “I know.”

Jack: “And what am I supposed to do? Sit there and watch her pray the illness away?”

Jeeny: “You could talk to her.”

Jack: “I did. She said if I truly believed, I’d understand.”

Jeeny: “And you don’t?”

Jack: “I believe in God. I just don’t believe He hates intelligence.”

Host: The words hung in the air — sharp, honest, almost blasphemous in that room of quiet icons. Jeeny’s eyes softened, though her expression carried the same internal war — faith versus reason, heart versus hand.

Jeeny: “You think medicine and God can coexist?”

Jack: “They already do. We just keep pretending they can’t.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s easier to pick a side.”

Jack: “Exactly. People like simplicity. Faith pure, science pure. But the world isn’t that neat.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s human — and that’s the messy kind of sacred.”

Host: The rain deepened outside, falling in long streaks down the church windows. Inside, the air grew heavier, quieter — as though the walls themselves were listening.

Jeeny: “You know what scares me? How faith can become blindness when it forgets love.”

Jack: “Love without wisdom isn’t faith. It’s superstition.”

Jeeny: “You think they’d listen if you told them that?”

Jack: “They’d call it arrogance.”

Jeeny: “And yet you still come to these meetings.”

Jack: “Because someone has to say it. Someone has to remind them that God made doctors too.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “You sound like Galileo at a prayer group.”

Jack: (dryly) “At least he had the stars. I’ve got fluorescent lights and a committee of certainty.”

Host: Jeeny laughed softly — not mockery, but release. The sound was small, but it made the heaviness in the room crack just a little.

Jeeny: “You ever think maybe both sides are right — just in the wrong way?”

Jack: “Explain.”

Jeeny: “Faith says: ‘Don’t put all your trust in man.’ Medicine says: ‘Don’t put all your hope in mystery.’ Maybe the truth is somewhere between — in humility.”

Jack: “Humility. That’s the part both sides keep losing.”

Jeeny: “Because humility doesn’t win arguments. It just listens.”

Host: The light flickered again, a pulse in the stillness. Jack rubbed his temples, his frustration softening into fatigue.

Jack: “When Bartlett said that — when he warned people against trusting doctors — maybe he wasn’t trying to be cruel. Maybe he was trying to protect faith.”

Jeeny: “But in doing so, he endangered compassion. That’s the paradox, isn’t it?”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Jeeny: “We keep mistaking faith for control. Real faith doesn’t need to choose between God and man — it believes they can work together.”

Jack: “Like prayer and medicine, you mean.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Prayer heals the unseen. Medicine heals the seen. Together they honor both halves of being human.”

Jack: (quietly) “Tell that to my sister.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I will. Maybe she needs to hear it from someone who isn’t angry.”

Host: The door creaked open slightly as the wind pushed against it, and the faint hum of the storm slipped inside. The old cross on the wall shuddered just slightly, its shadow stretching across the floor — imperfect, but still upright.

Jeeny stood, wrapping her coat tighter around her shoulders.

Jeeny: “You know, I think God understands medicine better than we do.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “Oh yeah?”

Jeeny: “Sure. He invented the brain that discovered it.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You really think faith can survive reason?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s supposed to grow because of it.”

Jack: “And when it doesn’t?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s not faith. It’s fear dressed as piety.”

Host: The rain began to fade, leaving behind the soft hiss of water draining through the gutters. Jack stood, his shoulders straightening, his voice quieter now — like someone speaking a truth that had been waiting too long.

Jack: “I keep thinking about my niece. About how her mother prays for healing. Maybe she’s not wrong to pray — just wrong to stop there.”

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t a finish line, Jack. It’s a bridge. You’re supposed to walk across it, not build a wall with it.”

Jack: “So you’re saying belief and knowledge can share the same light?”

Jeeny: “Always. The divine doesn’t fear discovery. Only the insecure do.”

Host: The two of them walked to the door. Outside, the fields shimmered with rain, the smell of wet soil thick and alive — like something reborn.

Jack paused, looking back at the small cross on the wall.

Jack: “You think He hears all this? The arguing, the doubt, the confusion?”

Jeeny: “Of course. He gave us minds that ask. Maybe that’s the real kind of faith — believing He’s big enough to hold both science and prayer.”

Jack: “You ever think about what Bartlett would say to that?”

Jeeny: “Maybe he’d realize that trusting a doctor isn’t turning from God. It’s trusting the part of God that lives in human hands.”

Jack: “Hands that heal.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The wind died. The sky cleared. The moon broke through, pale and forgiving, washing the world in silver.

Because as Bob Bartlett said — and as Jack and Jeeny now redefined —

Faith isn’t a rejection of reason.
It’s the courage to see God’s fingerprints in reason itself.

To pray is holy. To heal is holy. To doubt, even, is holy —
because only what is real can withstand being questioned.

And maybe, just maybe,
true faith isn’t in choosing between God and man —
but in realizing they were never separate to begin with.