My mother was a not-too-devoted atheist. She went to Episcopal

Host: The evening air hung heavy with the scent of pine, wax, and nostalgia — the kind of quiet that only comes on Christmas Eve, when the world holds its breath between faith and fatigue. Inside a small wooden church, the light of a thousand candles flickered against old stained glass, painting the pews in trembling hues of gold and red.

The organ hummed low, the choir rehearsing softly somewhere beyond the altar. Outside, the snow fell in slow spirals, each flake dissolving into the hush of a waiting night.

At the back pew, Jack sat slouched, his coat still dusted with flakes, his eyes distant. Jeeny sat beside him, hands clasped loosely, her gaze fixed not on the altar, but on the flame of the candle nearest the aisle — as though searching for something between the light and the wax.

Jeeny: (softly) “Anne Lamott once said — ‘My mother was a not-too-devoted atheist. She went to Episcopal church on Christmas Eve every year, and that was mostly it.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “A holiday atheist. I’ve met a few. I might be one myself.”

Jeeny: “You? You’re too skeptical for even one night of ritual.”

Jack: “Skeptical, yeah. But I like the music. The candles. The illusion of belonging.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s all church ever was — a beautiful illusion to remind people of what they keep forgetting.”

Host: The organ stopped, replaced by the soft shuffle of footsteps and the murmur of voices. The congregation was gathering — coats rustling, throats clearing, candles passing from hand to hand like small embers of connection.

Jack watched the scene unfold — a hundred faces, some serene, some exhausted, all waiting for meaning to find them again.

Jack: “You know what I like about Lamott’s quote? The honesty. No grand theology, no guilt. Just… a person trying to keep one tradition alive in a world that stopped believing in much.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe believing differently. Faith isn’t always about devotion. Sometimes it’s just showing up, even when you don’t know why.”

Jack: “You think going through the motions counts?”

Jeeny: “I think it matters more than doing nothing. Doubt and faith aren’t opposites, Jack. They’re dance partners.”

Host: The candles passed, one by one, flame kissing wick, until the entire room glowed like a breathing constellation. The choir began to sing softly, the notes rising through the air like snow that refused to fall.

Jack: “I remember my mother used to drag me here every year. Said it was ‘good manners before midnight.’ She didn’t pray. She just sat — still, quiet. I think she liked the pretending.”

Jeeny: “Maybe she wasn’t pretending. Maybe she was listening.”

Jack: “To what?”

Jeeny: “To possibility.”

Jack: (scoffing gently) “You make it sound mystical.”

Jeeny: “It is. You don’t have to believe in God to feel mystery. It’s enough to feel small and loved at the same time.”

Host: The light flickered across their faces — Jeeny’s calm, contemplative; Jack’s skeptical, but softened by the weight of memory. The air smelled of old wood and hope too fragile to name.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always envied people who can believe — really believe. I’ve seen them cry during hymns, eyes closed, faces lit up like something inside them recognized home.”

Jeeny: “Maybe belief isn’t what you think it is. It’s not certainty. It’s permission — to be moved by something you can’t explain.”

Jack: “Then maybe I believe more than I thought.”

Jeeny: “Of course you do. You keep coming back to places like this, don’t you?”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Only on Christmas Eve.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The song swelled — O Holy Night — voices trembling in the candlelight, imperfect but beautiful. Jeeny leaned forward slightly, her eyes shining as she whispered more to herself than to him:

Jeeny: “That’s what I love about Lamott. She sees holiness in contradiction — in messy families, half-hearted rituals, faith that’s barely standing but still there. She finds God in the people who doubt Him most.”

Jack: “Or maybe she finds humanity and just calls it God.”

Jeeny: “What’s the difference?”

Host: He didn’t answer. The question lingered, warm and unsettling, like the flicker of a flame too stubborn to die. The priest began the reading — the old, worn story about a birth in a manger, about hope born among dust and exhaustion.

Jack stared at the candles, at the way their tiny flames danced without fear of the dark.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s why people still come here. Not for God — but for the reminder that something small and fragile can still light up a whole room.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s faith, Jack. You just described it.”

Jack: “But faith fades.”

Jeeny: “So do candles. That doesn’t make them useless.”

Host: Outside, the snow deepened, layering the world in quiet forgiveness. Inside, the hymn rose again, hundreds of voices joined — not all in tune, but together.

Jeeny turned toward Jack, her face soft, luminous in the candlelight.

Jeeny: “You see, Lamott’s mother wasn’t an atheist because she didn’t believe in God. She just didn’t believe in certainty. Maybe she came here once a year to visit the part of herself that still wanted to.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You think that’s enough? One night a year?”

Jeeny: “If the moment’s honest — yes.”

Host: The choir reached the final verse. People stood, candles raised, the light trembling like something alive. Jack stood too, almost without realizing. For a second, he looked at Jeeny — and something shifted, quiet but undeniable.

He wasn’t praying. But he was present.

Jack: “You know… maybe doubt isn’t the opposite of faith after all. Maybe it’s just the doorway.”

Jeeny: “And maybe walking through it — even once a year — is the most faithful thing we ever do.”

Host: The camera lingered on them — two souls bathed in gold light, the flicker of their candles reflecting in the stained glass above. Outside, the snow continued to fall, soft and endless, as though blessing both the believers and the doubters alike.

And as the hymn faded into silence, Anne Lamott’s words found their echo — tender, imperfect, eternal:

That faith is not devotion without doubt,
but devotion that survives it.

That belief need not be daily
to be real.

And that sometimes, the most honest prayer
is just showing up,
year after year,
to sit in the quiet,
and let the light remind you
of what you still hope might be true.