In the Church, and in the journey of faith, women have had and

Host:
The old church stood on the hill like a memory that refused to fade. Its stone walls glowed dimly in the late afternoon light, the scent of incense and candle wax lingering like breath held in prayer. The world outside was loud — traffic, deadlines, screens — but in here, everything slowed, softened.

The stained-glass windows caught the fading sun, painting the floor with fragments of color: ruby, gold, and deep ocean blue. Each hue shimmered faintly, as if trying to remember what divinity once felt like.

Jack sat in the second pew from the back, hands clasped loosely, eyes lifted toward the flicker of the altar flame. Across from him, Jeeny knelt, her head bowed, hair catching the last light like a halo made of shadow and grace. Neither spoke at first — silence was the truest language here.

Jeeny: softly, without looking up “Pope Francis once said, ‘In the Church, and in the journey of faith, women have had and still have a special role in opening doors to the Lord.’”

Jack: quietly “Opening doors. That’s poetic. And ironic, too — since most of those doors were built by men who didn’t want them opened.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Maybe that’s the miracle — that women opened them anyway.”

Jack: nodding slowly “You mean faith survived despite authority.”

Jeeny: softly “Exactly. Because women’s faith was never about power. It was about presence.”

Host: The flame on the altar flickered, a small heartbeat against the still air. Dust motes drifted in the golden light — quiet pilgrims suspended between heaven and earth.

Jack: leaning back in the pew “When he says that, I don’t think he just means nuns or saints. He means mothers, daughters, friends — the women who kept belief alive when men turned it into an empire.”

Jeeny: gently “Yes. The ones who held the faith in kitchens and hospitals, not just in cathedrals. The ones who prayed not for glory, but for grace.”

Jack: softly “The ones who didn’t preach — they lived it.”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly. They didn’t quote scripture. They embodied it.”

Host: The church bell tolled outside, deep and steady, its echo rolling down the hill like a reminder that time itself bows to tradition. A child’s laughter floated faintly through an open door — a sound so alive it almost didn’t belong in the stillness.

Jeeny: softly “You know, I think faith would’ve died a long time ago if not for women. Every time history burned it down, women rebuilt it — quietly, patiently, in small acts of love.”

Jack: after a pause “Like Mary at the foot of the cross.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Exactly. When the men ran, she stayed.”

Jack: quietly “Because she wasn’t trying to prove anything. She was just being who she was — steadfast.”

Jeeny: softly “That’s the special role he’s talking about. The courage to believe when belief looks foolish.”

Jack: after a pause “And the strength to hold light when everyone else is staring into the dark.”

Host: A beam of sunlight slipped through the stained glass, landing gently on the pew between them — a thin golden thread connecting two believers and all the contradictions between them.

Jeeny: after a silence “The Church talks a lot about leadership. But maybe faith doesn’t need more leaders — it needs more openers.”

Jack: quietly “You mean the kind who open doors instead of guarding them.”

Jeeny: softly “Yes. The ones who make space — for doubt, for mercy, for difference.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Then women have been the Church’s unacknowledged architects.”

Jeeny: smiling back “Builders of unseen sanctuaries.”

Host: The candles near the altar flickered, their light swaying as if in quiet agreement. Each flame seemed to carry a name — Anne, Teresa, Ruth, Mary — all the women who had kept the divine alive in the ordinary.

Jack: quietly “When I think about it, the first door ever opened to faith was a woman’s ‘yes.’ Mary saying, ‘Let it be unto me.’ That’s not submission. That’s bravery.”

Jeeny: softly “And she wasn’t the last. Every woman who chooses compassion over cynicism — she’s saying yes, too.”

Jack: after a pause “So the Church, in a way, keeps being born through them.”

Jeeny: nodding “Every time a woman forgives, or believes, or carries someone else’s pain — she opens another door.”

Jack: quietly “Even when no one notices.”

Jeeny: softly “Especially then.”

Host: The organ began to hum faintly in the distance, an old hymn finding its way into the air — solemn, beautiful, timeless. It wrapped around them like a shawl made of sound and memory.

Jeeny: after a silence “You know, when I was little, my grandmother used to pray before dawn. No one told her to. She just did it. Said it made the day softer.”

Jack: smiling gently “My mother was the same. Every morning, coffee in one hand, rosary in the other. Never asked for anything — just thanked. I didn’t understand it back then.”

Jeeny: quietly “And now?”

Jack: softly “Now I think she was keeping the world together in ways I couldn’t see.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “That’s what women of faith do — they hold the invisible fabric of hope. Men write the theology; women keep it alive.”

Jack: after a pause “And that’s why Pope Francis said it’s a special role. Because it’s sacred, not loud.”

Host: The light shifted again, the sun nearly gone, leaving the church bathed in blue and candle gold. Outside, the first stars began to bloom across the sky, small but defiant against the coming dark.

Jeeny: softly “You think faith will survive this century? The disillusionment, the doubt, the noise?”

Jack: quietly “It will. Because somewhere, a woman will still whisper a prayer no one hears — and the silence will answer.”

Jeeny: smiling “That’s beautiful.”

Jack: softly “That’s faith.”

Host: The altar flame trembled, then steadied — a quiet symbol of endurance. The air was heavy with reverence, but lighter somehow, as if belief had exhaled.

And as the last echo of the hymn faded into silence, Pope Francis’s words lingered in the sacred air — humble, radiant, true:

That in the long story of faith,
it is often women who keep the doors open —
not through sermon,
but through steadfastness.

That their strength is not in power,
but in presence,
their influence not in titles,
but in the quiet labor of compassion.

That every act of mercy,
every whispered prayer,
every unseen sacrifice
is another door unlatched,
another invitation for the divine to enter.

And that the Church —
and the world —
still stands today
because somewhere,
in silence,
a woman’s heart
refused to close.

Fade out.