If we say we trust in Him, but in reality do not, then God

Host: The night was thick with rain, the kind that blurred the streetlights into golden halos and drowned the city’s usual noise beneath a steady, melancholic rhythm. The café sat at the corner of a quiet avenue, its windows fogged with warmth, its lamps casting a dim, amber glow on the wet pavement.

Inside, Jack sat by the window, coat still damp, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. His grey eyes were fixed on the reflection of the rain, as if searching for an answer in the distorted glass. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea with a small, silver spoon, her hair damp from the walk, her gaze both tired and tender.

Host: The world outside moved in slow, lonely motions, but inside, the air was dense with unspoken questions — the kind that linger long after the words have fallen silent.

Jeeny: “I came across a line from George Muller today,” she said softly, her voice barely above the whisper of the rain. “‘If we say we trust in Him, but in reality do not, then God, taking us at our word, lets us see that we do not really confide in Him; and hence failure arises.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “Sounds like the kind of thing you’d like, doesn’t it? Faith — the eternal currency of those who can’t handle the math of reality.”

Host: Jeeny’s lips curved — not in anger, but in a kind of sad, knowing smile. She’d heard that tone before, the armor of a man who’d been betrayed not by people, but by his own hope.

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s the only math that makes sense when logic runs out. Muller wasn’t speaking about blind faith, Jack. He meant that when we pretend to trust — when our hearts and words don’t match — life has a way of proving us false.”

Jack: (exhaling smoke) “You’re saying failure comes from hypocrisy, not chance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. From the illusion of trust. We say we believe, but when the storm comes, we start grabbing at the oars instead of trusting the tide.”

Host: The rain intensified, hammering the windowpane like a thousand tiny hands demanding entry. Jack’s reflection in the glass looked older, wearier — as if the truth in her words had found its way inside him.

Jack: “I used to believe, you know. Not in sermons, but in the idea that good things happen if you work hard enough, if you stay decent. But life doesn’t care. Faith or no faith, people still lose everything.”

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who asked for something once and didn’t get it.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Maybe I did. Maybe I asked for too much — a little fairness, a little mercy. Didn’t get either. So I learned to stop asking.”

Host: His voice carried that low, gravelly weight — the sound of a man who had buried his trust somewhere he could never dig it up again. The cigarette burned to its filter, a curl of smoke rising like a ghost.

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly what Muller meant. When we stop trusting — when we only say we do — we set ourselves up for failure. Not because God punishes us, but because we’re steering without believing there’s even a shore.”

Jack: “You make it sound like the universe listens.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not the universe. But maybe something within us does. When you act without faith, you plant failure before you even begin.”

Host: The rain softened, but the air between them tightened. A neon sign from across the street flickered, painting Jeeny’s face in red and blue, like a heartbeat in light.

Jack: “Faith is a luxury, Jeeny. People with empty hands don’t have room to hold it.”

Jeeny: “That’s where you’re wrong. Muller ran orphanages with no steady funding, no promises, no certainty — only prayer. And somehow, food showed up every morning. Bread, milk, clothes — every single day. You call that luck?”

Jack: “I call it coincidence dressed as providence.”

Jeeny: “And I call it trust rewarded.”

Host: The light flashed, the rain fell, and their words hung like two edges of the same blade. Jack leaned forward, eyes cold but alive.

Jack: “So, what — you think if I believe hard enough, the world will fix itself? That if I just say ‘I trust,’ things won’t fall apart?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe they’ll fall into place differently. Faith doesn’t change the storm, Jack — it changes how you stand in it.”

Host: For a moment, the noise of the rain vanished, and all that was left was the quiet between them — the kind that feels like truth has just been spoken.

Jack: (after a pause) “You really think trust can move mountains?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think doubt builds them.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered — just for a second — like a window opening to a forgotten view. He looked down at his hands, then at the ring he still wore on his finger — a ghost of another life, another promise.

Jack: “When she died, I prayed she’d live. Every night. I said I trusted God. And when she didn’t, I stopped believing. I guess Muller would say… God just showed me my own lie.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Not a lie, Jack. A wound. There’s a difference. Trust isn’t pretending pain doesn’t exist. It’s believing something exists beyond it.”

Host: A train passed in the distance, its whistle cutting through the night like a memory too loud to ignore. The café vibrated gently, and the rain shifted to a drizzle.

Jack: “You ever doubted, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But I’ve learned that faith isn’t about never doubting — it’s about walking forward while you do.”

Jack: “And if you fall?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the fall is the lesson. Maybe failure is just faith taking a different road.”

Host: The words settled between them, soft as ashes, heavy as truth. Jack looked out the window, and for the first time that night, the reflection staring back at him didn’t seem like a stranger.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to say you trust, Jack. You just have to start acting like you might.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You make it sound so easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But it’s honest. And honesty, I think, is the beginning of trust.”

Host: Outside, the rain finally stopped. The streetlights glistened, puddles mirroring the stars. A bus passed, its tires splashing the curb, its windows full of faces, each one moving toward a destination unseen.

Jack: “Maybe Muller was right then. Maybe failure isn’t God’s punishment — it’s His way of showing us where we stopped believing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not cruelty; it’s clarity.”

Host: Jack’s hand tapped the table, slow and steady, as though testing the rhythm of the world again. His voice was quieter now, almost humble.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll give faith another try. Not for God’s sake. For mine.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s the first real prayer you’ve said in years.”

Host: She smiled, and the light from the window caught in her eyes, turning them to liquid warmth. The city, newly washed, breathed around them — clean, fresh, as if even the rain had been listening.

Host: And as the camera might have pulled back, the two figures remained by the window — one rediscovering trust, the other guarding its flame. The world outside was still wet, still uncertain, but inside, something new had begun — a quiet, unseen faith taking root in the darkness.

Host: For in the end, as George Muller said, failure is not God’s absence — it is His way of reminding us that trust was never a word to say, but a path to walk.