If you believe in prayer at all, expect God to hear you. If you

Host: The night had sunk deep into the city, a velvet silence broken only by the soft hum of passing cars and the distant echo of a church bell. The café sat at the corner of a narrow street, its windows fogged, its lights low — a small island of warmth in a sea of midnight blue. Inside, the air smelled of coffee and rain-wet coats, of human weariness mixed with hope.

At a table near the back, Jack sat with his hands clasped, his jaw tense, staring at the untouched cup before him. Jeeny sat across, her elbows resting lightly on the table, her eyes reflecting the flicker of a nearby candle. She looked at him the way one looks at someone standing on the edge of something invisible.

Jeeny: “Charles Spurgeon once said,” she began softly, “‘If you believe in prayer at all, expect God to hear you. If you do not expect, you will not have. God will not hear you unless you believe He will hear you; but if you believe He will, He will be as good as your faith.’”

Jack: He gave a low, rough laugh, one that barely reached his eyes. “That’s rich. So God’s listening skills depend on our belief now?”

Host: The flame on the candle trembled with the draft, as though responding to the tension in his tone. Rain tapped against the glass, steady and rhythmic — like the sound of time itself counting down.

Jeeny: “It’s not about God changing, Jack. It’s about us. About what faith opens inside a person. Spurgeon meant that prayer without belief is just noise — words without pulse.”

Jack: “Then tell me,” he said, leaning back, eyes shadowed. “What about the mother who prays every night for her child to recover — and the child still dies? Did she not believe enough? Or was God simply ignoring her because her faith wasn’t ‘as good as it should be’?”

Host: His voice cut through the quiet like a blade. Jeeny flinched — not from offense, but from the pain behind his words. Her fingers tightened around her cup, as if to anchor herself against the weight of his disbelief.

Jeeny: “You always twist faith into cruelty. It’s not a bargain, Jack. It’s not about earning a miracle. It’s about connection — surrender. That mother’s prayer still matters, even if the outcome breaks her heart.”

Jack: “Matters to who? To her? Maybe. But not to the kid. Not to the silence that answered her.”

Host: The rain grew heavier now, smearing the light outside into streaks of blurred gold. The sound filled the space between their words — the world listening, even if Heaven didn’t.

Jeeny: “Do you really believe silence means absence? You think God owes you a thunderclap every time you whisper into the void?”

Jack: “No,” he said sharply. “I think people invent meaning when they can’t face the truth — that nobody’s on the other end of the line.”

Host: His eyes were cold steel, but behind them flickered something softer — exhaustion, maybe grief. Jeeny saw it. She always did.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s prayed and never heard back.”

Jack: “Maybe I did,” he said quietly, his voice lowering. “Maybe I prayed for something that didn’t come. And when it didn’t, I realized — prayer is just the echo of your own mind trying to soothe itself.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s the echo of God trying to reach you — but you stopped listening.”

Host: Her words landed like soft blows — not violent, but unyielding. Jack’s eyes flickered, his breathing shallow, the rainlight painting lines of tension across his face.

Jack: “You talk about faith like it’s a choice. But what if it’s not? What if belief can’t be forced? You can’t make yourself believe that the sky will open just because you want it to.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, her voice low, deliberate. “But you can choose to open the window — to let the light in, even if you don’t see it yet.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick, alive. The rain slowed, the clock on the wall ticked with exaggerated patience.

Jack: “You really think faith changes outcomes?”

Jeeny: “I think it changes people — and people change outcomes. The same prayer that heals one body can also strengthen another soul. That’s not nothing.”

Jack: “But that’s psychology, not theology. You’re just renaming placebo as divine.”

Jeeny: “Then let it be placebo,” she said firmly. “If hope saves someone, does it matter what we call it? You think it’s foolish to pray — but maybe the foolishness is what keeps the world from collapsing.”

Host: Her eyes shone with fierce conviction, a quiet fire in the dim café. Jack stared at her, trying to find the flaw in her logic, but finding only warmth — the kind that unsettled him.

Jack: “You really believe He hears you? Every time?”

Jeeny: “Every time,” she said without hesitation. “Even when I doubt. Even when the answer is no. Because prayer isn’t about getting what I want. It’s about staying in the conversation.”

Jack: “The conversation,” he repeated, half mocking, half curious. “So when nothing changes, what do you tell yourself? That God’s busy?”

Jeeny: “No,” she whispered. “That maybe I’m the one who’s supposed to change.”

Host: A sudden hush fell — the kind that stretches time. Jack’s gaze dropped to his hands. His knuckles were pale, his jaw trembling slightly. For a moment, the skeptic looked like a man stripped bare of his armor.

Jack: “You really think faith is that simple?”

Jeeny: “Simple?” She smiled sadly. “Faith is the hardest thing in the world. It asks you to leap before you see the ground.”

Jack: “And if there’s no ground?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you leaped. You trusted something beyond fear. Isn’t that better than never moving at all?”

Host: Her voice echoed softly through the quiet café, mingling with the fading rain. The flame between them had steadied, no longer trembling. Jack leaned back, his eyes distant, the hard lines of reason slowly softening into thought.

Jack: “You know,” he said after a long pause, “my mother used to pray like that. Every night, by the window. I never knew what she said — but she looked… at peace.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Spurgeon meant,” she said gently. “Prayer isn’t about asking. It’s about expecting peace — believing it’ll come, even before it does.”

Jack: “And you think that belief makes it come?”

Jeeny: “I think it opens the door for it to.”

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped entirely. The pavement gleamed, catching the glow of passing headlights. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimed midnight — slow, deep, and resonant.

Jack: “I envy that certainty,” he murmured. “That quiet conviction. I can’t seem to find it anymore.”

Jeeny: “Then stop looking for certainty,” she said. “Look for faith instead. It’s smaller, humbler. It doesn’t demand proof — it just waits.”

Host: The light from the candle caught her face just then — half shadow, half gold — and Jack felt something shift inside him, like a tide turning unseen beneath the surface.

Jack: “Maybe… maybe belief isn’t about convincing yourself something’s true,” he said slowly. “Maybe it’s about living as if it could be.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said softly. “And that’s what faith is. Not knowing — but walking anyway.”

Host: The world outside shimmered — the wet streets glowing under the streetlamps, the sky clearing to reveal faint stars. Inside, the two sat in the gentle afterglow of something fragile but real.

Jack reached out, his fingers brushing the candle’s base, the wax warm beneath his touch.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll try again,” he said. “Not for answers. Just… to see if anyone’s still listening.”

Jeeny: “Someone always is,” she whispered.

Host: The camera would linger on that final image — the candle’s small, unwavering flame, reflected in the window glass beside their faces. Beyond it, the city lights gleamed like distant prayers, some unanswered, all still burning. And somewhere between silence and belief, between question and grace, a quiet truth took form — that faith, in its simplest shape, is not certainty, but the courage to expect.