In other words, a person who is fanatic in matters of religion

Host: The evening had the color of faded gold, the last rays of the sun filtering through the dusty windows of a nearly empty train station. The sound of metal wheels in the distance echoed faintly through the hall, mingling with the occasional flutter of a pigeon trapped near the ceiling beams. Jack sat on a long bench, his coat folded beside him, his grey eyes staring at the clock above the ticket counter. Across from him, Jeeny stood by a vending machine, a paper coffee cup in her hand, the rising steam blurring her reflection on the glass.

The station was still — that kind of stillness that comes before departure, when silence feels heavier than noise. Outside, the light was dimming, painting the world in half-truths and half-shadows.

Jeeny: Turning slightly. “Alan Watts once said, ‘A person who is fanatic in matters of religion, and clings to certain ideas about the nature of God and the universe, becomes a person who has no faith at all.’”

Jack: A faint, cynical smile crossed his lips. “So, according to Watts, certainty is the death of faith. Sounds poetic — and ironic. Most people cling to belief because they can’t stand uncertainty.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the problem. Faith isn’t about certainty — it’s about surrender. If you’re certain, you don’t believe. You just… defend.”

Jack: “That’s convenient. Makes religion a kind of elegant ignorance. ‘Don’t ask, just feel.’ I’ve heard that sermon before.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s not about not asking — it’s about not needing to win the answer.”

Host: A train horn moaned from far away, long and mournful. The light from the overhead bulbs flickered softly, and a cold draft swept through the station, carrying with it the faint scent of iron and rain. Jack’s face looked carved in the dim glow — sharp lines of skepticism and something older, sadder, beneath it. Jeeny’s eyes shimmered with that quiet compassion that never demanded belief, only honesty.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my mother used to drag me to church every Sunday. The preacher would stand there, shouting about salvation like he was selling insurance. And everyone nodded, terrified to question him. That’s not faith. That’s fear.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what Watts meant. The fanatic clings because he’s afraid of letting go. He worships the cage, not what’s outside it.”

Jack: “Then what is faith to you? If not a belief in something?”

Jeeny: She sipped her coffee, the steam curling around her words. “Faith isn’t belief — it’s trust. It’s standing on the edge of the unknown and saying, ‘Even if I fall, I’ll still be part of something.’”

Jack: “That sounds like philosophy made pretty. In real life, people need something solid. Rules, rituals — something that tells them they’re right.”

Jeeny: “And that’s where faith dies. The moment you decide you’re right about God, you stop listening for God.”

Host: The clock above them ticked — a quiet metronome marking the passage of an invisible argument. The light from the vending machine glowed faintly against Jeeny’s face, while Jack’s reflection shimmered in the train station glass — two souls caught between belief and reason.

Jack: “So you think fanaticism kills faith?”

Jeeny: “I think fanaticism replaces it. It’s the ego dressing up as devotion. True faith is humble; fanaticism is terrified of being wrong.”

Jack: Scoffing softly. “That’s easy to say until your world starts burning. Try telling a starving man not to cling to his bread.”

Jeeny: “That’s not clinging — that’s surviving. But belief isn’t survival, Jack. It’s awakening. Faith says, ‘This too will pass.’ Fanaticism says, ‘Only my truth will remain.’”

Jack: “And you trust something as vague as that? You trust a universe that doesn’t even promise fairness?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because I’ve learned the universe doesn’t owe us comfort. It offers wonder instead.”

Host: A train thundered past, not stopping, just passing through — its light slicing across their faces, momentarily illuminating the shadows that words couldn’t reach. When the rumble faded, the silence that followed seemed heavier — the kind that demanded meaning.

Jack: Quietly. “You know what scares me most about faith? It’s not that it might be wrong. It’s that it might be meaningless. People kill for their gods, die for their gods — and maybe it’s all just noise in the void.”

Jeeny: Her tone softened, trembling slightly. “Maybe it is. But even noise has beauty when it comes from longing. Faith isn’t about finding meaning in the universe — it’s about becoming the meaning yourself.”

Jack: “That’s a nice trick — turn faith into self-help.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s not about healing. It’s about honesty. Faith isn’t something you have. It’s something you live — every time you forgive, every time you love without proof, every time you trust the sunrise to come.”

Jack: “So you think doubt belongs to faith?”

Jeeny: “It’s the heartbeat of it. Without doubt, faith becomes fanaticism. Without mystery, God becomes an idol.”

Host: The rain began again, soft and unhurried, tracing silver lines down the glass. Jack’s reflection blurred; the world outside looked like it was dissolving into watercolor. Jeeny set her coffee down, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. The station clock ticked on, indifferent.

Jack: “You know… my father used to mock people who prayed. He said faith was a crutch for the weak. But now I think — maybe strength isn’t about never needing help. Maybe it’s about knowing when you do.”

Jeeny: Nodding slowly. “That’s faith too. Admitting we’re fragile and still reaching for the infinite.”

Jack: “And what about all the people who think they own the infinite?”

Jeeny: “They’ve mistaken a mirror for a window. They’re worshipping their reflection.”

Host: A small smile crossed Jeeny’s face, half light, half sorrow. Jack looked down at his hands — the same hands that once built, argued, destroyed. For the first time, they seemed uncertain.

The station announcer called a train’s arrival, the metallic echo stretching through the space. The light changed — colder now, but clearer.

Jack: “So maybe faith isn’t about knowing who God is. Maybe it’s about admitting we never will.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Faith is not a wall of answers — it’s a doorway of wonder.”

Jack: Smiling faintly. “That sounds like something Watts himself would’ve said.”

Jeeny: “He did. In every way that mattered.”

Host: The train arrived with a sigh of brakes and a burst of warm air. The doors slid open, releasing the soft murmur of travelers and the scent of rain-soaked earth. Jack stood, lifting his coat, his expression gentler — not convinced, but softened, as if something within him had unclenched.

Jeeny stayed seated, watching him with quiet knowing.

Jack: “You think the world will ever stop fighting over who’s right about God?”

Jeeny: “Maybe the world will, when it finally learns to stop needing to be right at all.”

Jack: Pausing, before stepping toward the train. “Maybe that’s what faith really is — walking into the unknown and not needing to conquer it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith doesn’t conquer. It listens.”

Host: The doors closed. The train began to move, slow at first, then faster — its light vanishing into the dark tunnel like a star swallowed by fog. Jeeny sat in the now-empty station, her reflection flickering in the window beside her — two figures overlapping, one seen, one unseen.

The clock ticked on. The rain whispered against the glass. And somewhere in that quiet space between noise and stillness, her voice seemed to linger:

“The moment you think you’ve found God is the moment you’ve lost faith — for real faith begins only when certainty ends.”