If you want to lose your faith, make friends with a priest.

Host: The rain had been falling for hours — a slow, contemplative drizzle that blurred the stained-glass windows of St. Mark’s Cathedral. The light within was dim, a soft mixture of candle flame and twilight, flickering across the rows of empty pews. Somewhere deep in the church, a pipe organ breathed out a weary note, like the sigh of a century.

Jack sat in the back pew, coat damp, hands clasped loosely, staring at the altar as if it were a mirror he didn’t quite trust. Across the aisle, Jeeny approached quietly — no umbrella, no noise, her footsteps soft against the marble floor. She carried no prayer book, no offering, only a small, knowing smile that had weathered its own share of storms.

On the hymnal shelf beside Jack, a scrap of paper had been left behind — a printed quote, smudged slightly from rain:
“If you want to lose your faith, make friends with a priest.” — George Gurdjieff.

Jeeny: (glancing at the paper, then at him) “It’s a strange place to find that, isn’t it? Inside a church?”

Jack: (without looking up) “Seems like exactly where it belongs.”

Jeeny: (sitting beside him) “You think Gurdjieff meant it as a joke?”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe he was just telling the truth. You spend too much time near holiness, and you start to see the cracks in the halo.”

Host: The candles in front of the altar flickered, their flames bending toward one another, like conspirators whispering. Outside, the rain grew heavier, the sound falling through the stone silence like the slow ticking of some divine clock.

Jeeny: “That’s a dangerous thing to say in a place like this.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “It’s a dangerous thing to believe in anything long enough to see it up close.”

Jeeny: “You mean faith dies in familiarity?”

Jack: “No. It dies in disillusionment. The closer you get to the people guarding the sacred, the more you realize they’re just... people. And people are messy.”

Jeeny: “You sound disappointed.”

Jack: “I used to think belief made people better. But it just makes them louder.”

Host: The organist struck a few notes — slow, minor, unresolved. The sound lingered, hovering between melancholy and reverence. Jack’s eyes drifted to the altar, where the carved figure of Christ stared downward, forever in pain, forever in mercy.

Jeeny: “You think faith is fake then? Just noise and ritual?”

Jack: (quietly) “No. I think faith is real. But religion — religion is the echo that keeps mistaking itself for the voice.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “That’s poetic, but cruel.”

Jack: “Truth usually is.”

Host: She folded her hands, not to pray, but to hold her thoughts still. The sound of her breathing mingled with the slow drip from the roof above.

Jeeny: “You know, I met a priest once who said doubt is the shadow that proves faith exists. Without doubt, belief is just a script.”

Jack: “And priests are the playwrights.”

Jeeny: (laughs softly) “You really don’t trust anyone in a collar, do you?”

Jack: “I don’t trust anyone who claims to speak for God. If He wanted a spokesman, He’d have chosen someone less political.”

Host: A long silence followed. The rain softened. The candles flickered against the faces of marble saints — each one expressionless, as if listening without judgment.

Jeeny: “You know what’s strange? The older I get, the less I believe in the institution, but the more I believe in the feeling.”

Jack: “Faith without a framework.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Maybe Gurdjieff wasn’t mocking priests. Maybe he was warning us. Don’t outsource your soul. Don’t let someone else translate your relationship with mystery.”

Jack: “That’s the real danger, isn’t it? Once someone claims to own God, He stops being infinite and starts being brandable.”

Jeeny: “And yet... people need structure. They need ritual. Otherwise, belief drifts.”

Jack: “Maybe belief should drift. Maybe it’s not meant to sit still in stone buildings. Maybe faith was born in the wind, not the pew.”

Host: His voice echoed through the empty nave, soft but resonant, the kind of sound that finds no reply and doesn’t need one.

Jeeny: “So you’ve lost your faith?”

Jack: (after a pause) “No. I lost my reverence for the middlemen.”

Jeeny: “And what replaced it?”

Jack: “Silence. And maybe a kind of peace.”

Jeeny: (nodding slowly) “That’s still faith, Jack. It’s just... grown up.”

Host: The church doors creaked as a gust of wind pushed them open slightly. The rainlight spilled in, shimmering on the marble floor. It was as if the outside world — imperfect, loud, alive — had found its way into the sanctuary.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s something almost holy about that.”

Jack: “About what?”

Jeeny: “Doubt walking in like weather. Uninvited, honest, cleansing.”

Host: The bells began to toll from the tower above — slow, deliberate, carrying through the mist. Jack looked toward the altar one last time. The candles were almost burned out, but their light was enough to reveal the faint carvings of fingerprints in the wax — the quiet evidence of hands that had believed, once.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Gurdjieff meant. Not that priests destroy faith. But that faith — real faith — can’t survive being institutionalized. It’s too alive for that.”

Jeeny: “So where does that leave us?”

Jack: (smiling softly) “Between belief and rebellion. The holiest place there is.”

Host: She looked at him — the rain still whispering beyond the door, the air thick with candle smoke and revelation. Then, slowly, she stood, reaching for his hand.

Jeeny: “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the lightning decides to weigh in.”

Jack: (standing, glancing at the crucifix) “You think He minds?”

Jeeny: “No. I think He understands.”

Host: They walked out together, the sound of their footsteps mingling with the echo of the bells. The doors closed behind them with a sigh, leaving the candles to flicker in solitude.

Outside, the rain had lightened — a steady, cleansing rhythm falling on stone and soul alike.

And Gurdjieff’s cynical, sacred truth hung in the air like incense:

That sometimes, to truly believe,
you have to walk away from those who tell you how.

That faith isn’t found in sermons,
but in the quiet ache between doubt and wonder.

And that maybe, just maybe,
you only meet God
once you stop trying
to find Him.