My understanding of my faith is that - through a Christian

Host: The church stood at the edge of the city, half-hidden beneath the drifting fog of late evening. Its windows were dim, but a single candle burned within, trembling against the dark like a soul refusing to vanish. Rain whispered against the stone walls, tracing the faces of forgotten angels carved into the arch.

Inside, the air smelled of wax and cedar, old wood and something faintly human — the scent of confession, of questions too heavy to name.

Jack sat alone in the third pew, his coat still damp from the rain. His hands were clasped, not in prayer, but in thought — a posture of disbelief masquerading as reverence. Jeeny entered quietly from the side door, her footsteps soft on the worn floorboards. She carried no Bible, only the stillness of someone who understood what silence could hold.

She sat beside him without a word. For a moment, they simply listened to the distant hum of traffic, the world still turning outside these walls.

Jack: “Pete Buttigieg once said,” he began slowly, his voice low and rough, “‘My understanding of my faith is that — through a Christian framework — part of what we are called to do is to lay down our own self-interests, after the model of divinity that comes into this world in the form of Christ and lays down his life. And in order to do that, you have to care about something or someone more than yourself.’”

He paused, his eyes fixed on the flickering flame at the altar. “I’ve been thinking about that. About how people still talk about selflessness like it’s some divine virtue. But isn’t self-sacrifice just another way of losing yourself for something that doesn’t last?”

Host: The light from the candle danced across their faces — two profiles carved by opposing philosophies, two hearts caught between belief and doubt.

Jeeny: “No,” she said gently. “It’s the only way to find yourself. The paradox of faith — you lose to gain. You surrender to become free.”

Jack: “Sounds poetic. But in practice? It’s dangerous. The world isn’t built for martyrs anymore, Jeeny. You give too much, people take. You care too deeply, they break you.”

Jeeny: “And yet people still care,” she whispered. “Still give. Still lay down their lives in small, invisible ways. You think that’s weakness? I think that’s courage.”

Host: The rain beat harder against the stained glass, a muted rhythm of persistence. Jack shifted, his jaw tightening.

Jack: “Courage?” he scoffed. “Tell that to the nurses who burned out during the pandemic. Or the volunteers who gave everything and were forgotten. Selflessness doesn’t always lead to redemption — sometimes it just leads to exhaustion.”

Jeeny: “But they did it anyway,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “Because love demanded it. That’s what faith is, Jack — not logic, not reward. It’s giving when the world tells you to keep. It’s the refusal to live only for yourself.”

Host: Her words lingered, sharp and soft at once, like light through colored glass. Jack looked at her, and for a moment, something in his eyes faltered — a flicker of memory, of something once believed.

Jack: “So you really think that’s what we’re called to do? To lay down our self-interests, like Buttigieg says? Even when it hurts? Even when it costs everything?”

Jeeny: “Especially then,” she replied. “Because that’s when it means something. Anyone can be kind when it’s convenient. But real compassion is inconvenient — it demands sacrifice.”

Host: A single drop of wax slipped down the candle, hardening mid-fall. The church seemed to breathe with them — the faint groan of old timbers, the distant murmur of wind pressing against stone.

Jack: “You talk about faith like it’s fire,” he murmured. “But fire burns.”

Jeeny: “It also gives light.”

Jack: “And consumes.”

Jeeny: “Only what isn’t meant to last.”

Host: The tension between them tightened — not in anger, but in recognition. Two souls orbiting the same truth, afraid to touch it.

Jeeny stood and walked slowly toward the altar. The flicker of the candle caught the silver chain around her neck, and for a moment, the light seemed to rest on her like grace itself.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?” she said quietly. “I think self-interest is a beautiful prison. It feels safe, logical, efficient — but it keeps you small. Faith breaks the walls. It forces you to see beyond your reflection.”

Jack: “And what happens when the world outside those walls doesn’t want you?”

Jeeny: “Then you love it anyway. Because Christ did.”

Host: The silence that followed was deep enough to hold an ache. Jack lowered his head, his fingers curling tighter together, as if holding something unseen.

Jack: “You always make it sound so simple. But tell me this — what if the person you’re called to love doesn’t love you back? What if laying down your self-interest means losing everything you are?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve touched something divine,” she said softly. “Because that’s exactly what God did — loving a world that barely noticed.”

Host: Her words landed like quiet thunder — not loud, but final. The candle flickered violently for a second, then steadied, as if agreeing.

Jack: “So you think that’s what faith is? Loving what doesn’t love you?”

Jeeny: “No. Faith is believing that love itself is still worth it — even when it isn’t returned.”

Host: Jack rose slowly, his shadow stretching across the pews. His eyes moved toward the stained glass — a depiction of Christ on the cross, head bowed, the world below indifferent.

Jack: “I used to think faith was about certainty,” he said, his voice quieter now. “About knowing God exists. But maybe it’s more about persistence — staying open when everything in you wants to close.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she whispered. “Faith isn’t knowing — it’s choosing. Choosing love when logic says no. Choosing compassion when pride says enough. Choosing to lay down the self and trust that something greater will rise in its place.”

Host: The rain softened, becoming a mist that wrapped the church in a fragile calm. A faint light seeped through the windows — dawn beginning to break.

Jack turned toward Jeeny, a rare gentleness in his face.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the hardest thing isn’t dying for what you love — it’s living for it.”

Jeeny: “And yet that’s exactly what faith demands.”

Host: The bell in the tower struck once, echoing through the quiet church. The sound rolled through the space like the pulse of time itself.

For a moment, neither spoke. The candle’s flame bent slightly in the draft, then straightened again, defiant and alive.

Jack stepped closer to the altar, his voice almost a whisper now.

Jack: “You know, I think I finally understand what Buttigieg meant. Faith isn’t about religion. It’s about relation — the willingness to lose yourself for the sake of another. And love… love is what makes that loss bearable.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, her eyes shining. “Love is what turns that loss into life.”

Host: The light broke fully through the stained glass then, scattering color across the pews — crimson, gold, and blue — like a silent chorus of resurrection. The world outside was waking, the rain now just memory.

Jack and Jeeny stood side by side, bathed in light that made no distinction between believer and doubter, saint and sinner — only human beings learning, in their own way, to lay themselves down for something greater.

And in that moment, the flame of faith and the tenderness of love burned as one.

FADE OUT.