I'm not a big fan of religion for that reason. But I am a true

Host:
The night was quiet, stretched thin across the desert, where the stars were sharp enough to cut the dark. A small roadside diner blinked with tired neon, half its sign burned out — “EAT HERE” had become “EA HE”. A radio hummed softly in the corner, something old and hopeful from another decade.

Inside, the air smelled of coffee and dust, of time passing too slowly. At the counter, Jack sat with a mug in his hand, eyes fixed on the reflection of the open road in the window — that endless ribbon of asphalt that made men believe in something bigger, or at least something further.

Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee, her hand resting lightly on the chipped countertop. Her eyes weren’t on him but on the vast emptiness outside — the kind of silence that asks questions you can’t answer with words.

Jeeny: [quietly] “Shaun Cassidy once said — ‘I’m not a big fan of religion for that reason. But I am a true believer in God, and I have great faith, and I think that a spiritual connection with something is a really important part of our experience. That doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the church.’”
Jack: [nodding slowly] “Sounds like someone who’s been disappointed by people, not by God.”
Jeeny: [smiling faintly] “Maybe both. Religion’s built by people. Faith’s built by pain.”
Jack: [looking up at her] “So you think they’re different things?”
Jeeny: “They have to be. One’s an institution. The other’s a whisper.”
Jack: [softly] “A whisper we only hear when the noise dies down.”

Host:
The waitress refilled their cups, the sound of pouring coffee breaking the silence. Outside, the desert wind swept dust across the road, whispering through the cracks in the door like something old trying to get in.

Jack: “You know, I stopped going to church years ago. Too many sermons about judgment, not enough about mercy.”
Jeeny: “Churches are like people. Some preach love, some perform it.”
Jack: “Perform it?”
Jeeny: [nodding] “Faith turned into theater. Stage lights instead of sunlight.”
Jack: [smirking] “And you? You still believe?”
Jeeny: “In God, yes. In religion? Only when it remembers what it’s for.”
Jack: [leaning back] “And what’s that?”
Jeeny: [softly] “To connect the divine with the desperate.”

Host:
A truck rumbled past outside, headlights slicing across their faces for a brief second before vanishing down the road. The light faded, leaving them in the gentle glow of the diner’s dying bulbs.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I thought faith meant rules. Don’t do this, don’t think that. It was all fences, no sky.”
Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy of religion — it builds walls around something that was meant to be infinite.”
Jack: [quietly] “So you tore down your walls?”
Jeeny: “No. I just learned to look for the cracks.”
Jack: [smiling faintly] “And what did you find?”
Jeeny: “Light. Always light.”

Host:
The clock above the counter ticked loudly, marking the small eternity between their breaths. The radio changed songs, the faint voice of Johnny Cash rolling out — something about redemption and regret.

Jack: “You ever notice how people talk about God when they’re broken, but talk about religion when they’re in control?”
Jeeny: [thoughtfully] “Because control is the illusion religion sells. Faith’s what you find after the illusion fails.”
Jack: “So faith is... surrender?”
Jeeny: “No. It’s trust without evidence. The kind that doesn’t need permission.”
Jack: [nodding slowly] “That’s hard for someone like me.”
Jeeny: “It’s hard for everyone. Faith isn’t natural. It’s chosen — every day, against doubt, against logic, against ego.”
Jack: [half-smiling] “And against habit.”
Jeeny: [grinning] “Especially against habit.”

Host:
A desert train sounded in the distance, its horn echoing through the stillness like a prayer that refused to end. Jeeny reached for her mug again, the steam rising, soft and ghostly between them.

Jack: “You think people can find God without religion?”
Jeeny: “I think people always have. Religion’s the map. Faith’s the journey.”
Jack: [quietly] “And the destination?”
Jeeny: [smiling] “Love. If it’s anything else, we took the wrong road.”
Jack: “You sound sure of that.”
Jeeny: “I’m not sure of much. But I’ve seen love where there was no reason for it. That’s how I know something holy still moves through the world.”
Jack: [softly] “Even here?”
Jeeny: “Especially here.”

Host:
The neon sign outside flickered, buzzing louder, a pulse of electric light trying to stay alive. The waitress turned off the coffee pot, the smell of burnt grounds filling the air.

Jack leaned forward, elbows on the counter, eyes on the window where the desert stretched endlessly into blackness.

Jack: “You know, I envy people like you — people who can believe without needing proof.”
Jeeny: [softly] “I don’t need proof, Jack. I’ve seen mercy. That’s enough.”
Jack: [looking at her] “Where?”
Jeeny: [after a pause] “In people who have nothing left — and still share it.”
Jack: “That’s not faith. That’s madness.”
Jeeny: “No. That’s grace.”
Jack: [quietly] “And grace isn’t earned.”
Jeeny: “That’s the point.”

Host:
The wind howled again outside, louder now — rattling the windows, shaking the old diner’s bones. The lights flickered, and for a moment, they were sitting in half-darkness, the kind that feels sacred.

Jack: “You ever think God gets lonely?”
Jeeny: “I think that’s why He made us.”
Jack: [after a beat] “We haven’t been great company.”
Jeeny: [smiling softly] “No. But we keep talking to Him anyway. That’s faith.”
Jack: “Even when we don’t get answers?”
Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host:
The lights steadied again, the hum of the refrigerator returning. The radio faded into silence, leaving only the faint ticking of the clock and the sound of wind easing across the desert.

Jack: [quietly] “So you don’t pray to the church.”
Jeeny: “No. I pray to the space between things — to the moments that don’t make sense.”
Jack: [nodding] “And to what do you pray for?”
Jeeny: [after a pause] “Connection. To not feel so small. To remember I’m part of something infinite.”
Jack: [whispering] “Maybe that’s all God ever wanted.”
Jeeny: “For us to remember?”
Jack: [smiling faintly] “Yeah. That He’s not hiding — we are.”

Host:
A single car passed by on the empty highway, headlights sweeping across their faces before vanishing into the long stretch of night. Jeeny stood, sliding a few dollars under her cup. Jack remained seated, watching her with quiet admiration.

Jeeny: [softly] “Religion teaches you how to kneel. Faith teaches you how to stand back up.”
Jack: [nodding slowly] “And what teaches you to keep going?”
Jeeny: “Love. Always love.”

Host:
The doorbell jingled softly as she stepped outside, her silhouette caught in the red glow of the neon light. The wind carried her hair across her face, and for a moment, she looked like a piece of the night itself — gentle, wild, and free.

Jack sat there, listening to the hum of silence she left behind, the kind of silence that feels like prayer.

And as the neon flickered against the dark glass,
the truth of Shaun Cassidy’s words lingered in the diner air —

that God is not confined to temples of brick or doctrine,
but moves quietly through the unguarded heart.

That faith begins not in worship, but in wonder —
in the quiet acceptance that something unseen still listens.

And perhaps, in that small diner under the wide desert sky,
Jack understood what Jeeny already knew —

that religion builds the walls,
but faith finds the door.