It is a masterpiece of the devil to make us believe that children

Host: The chapel stood silent at the edge of the forest, its small windows glowing faintly beneath the last blush of sunset. The air was thick with the scent of pine and wax, and a slow trail of smoke curled upward from a row of flickering candles along the altar. The world outside was loud — but here, it was as though time itself paused to listen.

Jack sat on one of the wooden pews, his elbows on his knees, the collar of his coat pulled up against the cold. His eyes, grey and thoughtful, were fixed on the marble cross at the front — not with devotion, but with quiet defiance. Jeeny stood beside the altar, a soft light falling over her face, illuminating her like a small act of faith come to life.

The quote lay open between them on a folded slip of paper resting on the pew:
“It is a masterpiece of the devil to make us believe that children cannot understand religion. Would Christ have made a child the standard of faith if He had known that it was not capable of understanding His words?” — Dwight L. Moody

Jeeny: “I love this. It’s such a radical simplicity, isn’t it? The idea that faith isn’t meant to be complex. That children understand something we unlearn — trust.”

Jack: “Or maybe children just don’t know enough to question what they’re told.”

Jeeny: “You mean they’re innocent, not ignorant. There’s a difference.”

Host: The candles flickered as a breeze slipped through the half-open door, bending their flames into trembling halos. Jack leaned back, eyes never leaving the cross.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I prayed every night. I’d ask for things — small things, naive things — and I’d believe they’d come true. They didn’t. So I stopped.”

Jeeny: “You didn’t stop believing, Jack. You stopped expecting.”

Jack: “Is there a difference?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Faith isn’t about getting what you want. It’s about knowing you’re heard, even in silence.”

Jack: “That’s what adults say to comfort children. And it works — until you grow up and realize silence often means there’s no one listening.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it means the answer’s deeper than words. Children don’t overthink silence — they fill it with imagination. That’s what faith is: imagination with purpose.”

Host: Her voice echoed lightly against the stone walls. Outside, the first snowflakes began to fall — slow, soft, and reverent, each one a tiny white sermon.

Jack: “You’re saying children understand God better than philosophers?”

Jeeny: “Maybe they do. They haven’t learned how to doubt yet. They love without proof, they forgive without logic, they trust without needing to see. Isn’t that the kind of faith Christ spoke of?”

Jack: “Blind faith, you mean.”

Jeeny: “No. Pure faith. There’s a difference. Blind faith ignores truth. Pure faith lives inside it.”

Jack: “You make it sound beautiful. But beauty doesn’t make it real.”

Jeeny: “And cynicism doesn’t make it false.”

Host: The firelight from the candles shimmered along the walls, making the shadows look like they were breathing. Jack looked down at his hands — scarred, strong, too used to logic to hold onto mystery.

Jeeny: “Moody was right, you know. The devil’s masterpiece isn’t doubt — it’s arrogance. Convincing us that wisdom is better than wonder.”

Jack: “So we should stay children forever?”

Jeeny: “No. We should grow up without outgrowing awe.”

Host: She knelt beside a small prayer rail, her fingers brushing over the smooth wood worn by generations of silent faith. Jack watched her — her stillness unsettling him more than any sermon could.

Jack: “You really believe a child can grasp the divine?”

Jeeny: “A child doesn’t need to grasp it. It already lives it. When a child prays, it’s not bargaining. It’s communion. When a child forgives, it’s not moral — it’s instinct.”

Jack: “And you think that’s enough to call it understanding?”

Jeeny: “Understanding doesn’t always come from the mind. Sometimes it comes from being untouched by disbelief.”

Host: Her words settled into the air like incense — slow, fragrant, and inescapable. Jack rubbed his temples, half frustrated, half thoughtful.

Jack: “So, you’re saying the more we learn, the further we drift from God?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying the more we calculate, the less we feel. Faith isn’t an equation — it’s a pulse. Children live from their pulse; adults live from their fear.”

Jack: “Fear’s what keeps you alive.”

Jeeny: “Faith’s what makes it worth being alive.”

Host: The wind outside grew stronger, and the chapel’s old bell swayed once, its chime faint but sure. It was the kind of sound that reminded you of time — of how fleeting it was, and how eternal it felt in sacred places like this.

Jack: “When I was seven, I asked God to bring my dog back to life. I waited three days. When nothing happened, I decided God was a lie. My mother told me I just didn’t understand. Maybe she was wrong.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you gave up too soon. Maybe God didn’t answer the way you expected. Maybe the miracle was in the love that made you ask in the first place.”

Jack: “That’s a comforting interpretation.”

Jeeny: “Faith often begins in comfort. But it grows in pain.”

Host: Jeeny stood and walked slowly toward him, her footsteps barely audible against the stone floor. She sat beside him in the pew, the faint warmth of her presence cutting through the chill.

Jeeny: “Look at the children in the world today — they pray, they question, they see things adults are too tired to see. We call them naive. Maybe they’re closer to the truth than we are.”

Jack: “You think Christ knew that when He said we had to become like children?”

Jeeny: “He didn’t mean innocent. He meant open. Children live with their hearts unlocked. Adults build bolts on everything — even love.”

Host: The firelight flared, as if in quiet applause for her words. Jack leaned back, staring up at the vaulted ceiling, where old murals of angels faded into shadow.

Jack: “It’s hard to believe in something you can’t prove.”

Jeeny: “And it’s harder to live without believing in something you can’t explain.”

Jack: “You’re saying faith is necessary, even if it’s irrational?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because the soul doesn’t live by logic. It breathes in mystery.”

Host: He turned his head toward her. The look in his eyes had softened — still skeptical, but now curious, searching.

Jack: “Maybe Moody was right. Maybe it really is the devil’s work — convincing us that only grown minds can hold holy things.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because when you tell a soul it’s too small for wonder, you make it forget it was once infinite.”

Jack: “Then maybe faith isn’t learned. Maybe it’s remembered.”

Jeeny: “That’s the first true thing you’ve said tonight.”

Host: She smiled then, quiet and knowing, as though she’d been waiting for that moment of surrender. Outside, the snow fell heavier now, muffling the world in white stillness. Inside, the flame of one candle flickered higher, steady and sure.

Jack: “Do you ever wish you could go back? To that simple faith?”

Jeeny: “I never left it. I just stopped calling it simple.”

Host: The bell tolled again, deeper this time, as though the world itself agreed. Jeeny closed her eyes, whispering something that wasn’t quite a prayer, but wasn’t not one either. Jack sat beside her, silent but listening — and maybe, for the first time in years, believing.

Outside, the forest shimmered beneath the snow, the world reborn in stillness and light.

And as the final candle burned steady against the dark, Dwight L. Moody’s words echoed softly through the chapel’s quiet air —
a reminder that faith isn’t a skill to be learned,
but a memory to be restored,
and that perhaps the purest understanding of the divine
is still found
in the open, unguarded heart of a child.