I've been speaking at churches for years, as well as juvenile

Host: The evening air in the old community church was thick with dust and gospel, the smell of wood polish and burnt candle wax clinging to every pew like the memory of devotion. The sunset poured through the stained-glass windows, painting the walls in fragments of red, blue, and gold — a mosaic of light that felt less like color and more like breath.

At the front, beneath a simple wooden cross, a microphone waited on a stand. The room was empty except for Jack, who sat in the second row, head bowed, hands clasped loosely — not praying, but searching. Jeeny stood near the back, her voice soft but steady, humming the tail end of a hymn as she arranged the hymnals back in place.

Jeeny: “Smokey Robinson once said — ‘I’ve been speaking at churches for years, as well as juvenile jails, rehabs and hospitals, and I always talk about my faith. That is a declaration of my relationship with God.’”
Jack: “Faith. That word gets tossed around more than confession at a Sunday service.”
Jeeny: “Because people confuse faith with certainty. But it’s not about being sure — it’s about being connected.”
Jack: “Connected to what?”
Jeeny: “To something bigger than your pain. To someone who listens even when you don’t speak.”
Jack: “That sounds comforting… but naïve.”
Jeeny: “No. It’s hope disguised as surrender.”

Host: The church clock ticked faintly in the silence — the kind of sound that doesn’t measure time so much as remind you you’re still in it. Jack exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the chill of the old room, the scent of rain drifting through a cracked window.

Jack: “I stopped believing a long time ago.”
Jeeny: “Believing or listening?”
Jack: “Both, I think. When my brother died, I prayed. Nothing happened. The world didn’t move.”
Jeeny: “Sometimes silence is the answer.”
Jack: “That’s what everyone says when they run out of reasons.”
Jeeny: “Or when they’ve learned that faith isn’t about reasons.”
Jack: “Then what is it about?”
Jeeny: “Relationship. The kind Smokey’s talking about — not theology, but intimacy. Not reciting to God, but talking to Him.”

Host: The rain began, a soft tapping on the roof, gentle and rhythmic — like a pulse. Jack looked up, eyes catching the light through the stained glass. The colors fell across his face — crimson and sapphire, warm and cold at once.

Jack: “You really think God listens? To all of this?” [He gestured around — the empty pews, the silence, the smallness.]
Jeeny: “He listens most when no one else does.”
Jack: “Even to the ones who stopped talking to Him?”
Jeeny: “Especially to them.”
Jack: “Then maybe He’s got a lot of voicemail waiting.”
Jeeny: [Smiling] “Maybe He never turns the line off.”

Host: A thunderclap rolled, distant but deep, a sound that vibrated the air like a reminder of something both frightening and holy. Jeeny walked forward, sitting beside him now, her hands clasped around her knees, her voice lower — no longer preaching, just being.

Jeeny: “You know, what I love about what Smokey said is how ordinary it sounds. He doesn’t call it ministry. He just calls it talking about his faith.”
Jack: “Because for him, it’s personal.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. Not performance — relationship. It’s not about convincing others to believe. It’s about being so sure of what healed you that you can’t help but share it.”
Jack: “But what if you’ve never been healed?”
Jeeny: “Then you talk about your wounds. That’s faith too — believing they can still mean something.”

Host: The light shifted, the sun dipping lower, casting long shadows through the church — the kind of shadows that don’t hide things but deepen them. Jack rubbed his temples, his voice breaking slightly between words.

Jack: “You talk about God like He’s sitting right here.”
Jeeny: “He is.”
Jack: “You actually believe that?”
Jeeny: “I don’t just believe it. I feel it. In the moments when I speak to someone who’s hurting, or when I see kindness where there should be anger — that’s Him.”
Jack: “So, He’s not in the miracles. He’s in the small stuff.”
Jeeny: “No, Jack. The small stuff is the miracle.”
Jack: “And faith is just... noticing?”
Jeeny: “Noticing — and responding.”

Host: The rain quickened, drumming against the roof, a choir of water and memory. The candles flickered, their flames trembling as though the air itself had leaned in to listen.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I thought faith meant rules. Go to church, say the right things, sit straight, don’t question.”
Jeeny: “Faith without questions is just habit.”
Jack: “So it’s okay to doubt?”
Jeeny: “It’s essential. Doubt sharpens faith the way wind shapes stone.”
Jack: “Then I must be carved hollow.”
Jeeny: “Maybe hollow is the beginning of being filled again.”

Host: The clock chimed softly, and for a brief second, it sounded like the church was exhaling — a sigh of old wood, rain, and something ancient beneath it all. Jeeny stood, walking toward the pulpit, running her fingers across the old wood.

Jeeny: “You know, Smokey talks about visiting prisons, hospitals, places where pain lives. He doesn’t go there to preach. He goes there to remind people they’re still loved.”
Jack: “That’s brave.”
Jeeny: “It’s human. Faith isn’t about shining in the light — it’s about walking into darkness with someone else’s hand in yours.”
Jack: “But what if you’re the darkness?”
Jeeny: “Then you’re exactly who He came for.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a delicate rhythm against the glass. The light in the church grew dim, but it wasn’t sadness — it was peace, the quiet aftermath of honesty. Jack leaned back, eyes closed for a moment, not in prayer, but in something close.

Jack: “You know, maybe faith isn’t about finding God at all.”
Jeeny: “What do you mean?”
Jack: “Maybe it’s about realizing He never left.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe that’s why people like Smokey keep talking — not to convert anyone, but to testify that presence exists even when proof doesn’t.”
Jack: “A declaration of relationship.”
Jeeny: “Yes. The kind built not on answers, but on endurance.”

Host: The church doors creaked as a gust of wind passed through, flickering the candles one last time before they steadied — a reminder that even light, to exist, must learn to tremble.

Jack: “You think He forgives disbelief?”
Jeeny: “He doesn’t just forgive it. He understands it.”
Jack: “And what does He want from us, then?”
Jeeny: “Just the courage to keep showing up — in churches, in prisons, in each other’s lives.”
Jack: “Like Smokey.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. The faithful aren’t the ones who never doubt, Jack. They’re the ones who keep talking through the silence.”

Host: The rain stopped, and for the first time all evening, the silence was clean, not heavy. The last rays of sunlight caught the cross above them, turning it into a simple, radiant shape — not golden, not glowing, just human-sized and real.

Jack stood, looking at it, then at Jeeny, his voice lower now — the kind of voice used when people finally mean what they say.

Jack: “You know, maybe faith isn’t about believing He’s real.”
Jeeny: “Then what is it?”
Jack: “Believing He still wants me — even when I don’t.”
Jeeny: “Then you already have faith.”

Host: The light faded, the church settling into silence, but it was not an ending — it was rest. Outside, the streets shimmered, wet and clean, the world washed in renewal.

And in that stillness, the truth of Smokey Robinson’s words lived —

that faith is not a sermon,
but a conversation.

Not a performance,
but a relationship.

It is the act of speaking to God
from the broken places —
and discovering
that He was already there,
listening,
quietly,
faithfully,
waiting to be answered.