Not every religion has to have St. Augustine's attitude to sex.

Host: The evening air hung heavy with rain, the city humming beneath a veil of wet neon light. A street café on the corner of a narrow alley, half-lit and half-forgotten, glowed like a sanctuary for the restless and the disenchanted. Inside, steam rose from cups of coffee, curling like ghosts above the tables. Jack sat near the window, his grey eyes reflecting the streetlamps, a smoldering cigarette between his fingers. Across from him, Jeeny’s hands rested on the table, her brown eyes alive with a soft, curious flame.

Host: They had been silent for a while, the kind of silence that isn’t empty, but pregnant — waiting to be broken by something that matters.

Jeeny: “You know, Wittgenstein once said — ‘Not every religion has to have St. Augustine’s attitude to sex.’” She smiled faintly. “‘Why, even in our culture marriages are celebrated in a church, and everyone present knows what will happen that night — but that doesn’t prevent it being a religious ceremony.’ Isn’t that... beautiful?”

Jack: “Beautiful?” He exhaled smoke, watching it fade into the dim light. “Or just naïve? Religion has always been about control, Jeeny — not freedom. Especially when it comes to sex. Augustine just made it honest.”

Host: The rain outside deepened, the drops tapping like soft drums on the windowpane, a rhythm that seemed to echo their tension.

Jeeny: “But why should sex be a thing to control? It’s part of love, part of life. Augustine treated it like a disease, a fall from grace, something to be repented for instead of cherished. Wittgenstein saw what we’ve forgotten — that the body can be as sacred as the soul.”

Jack: “You think the body is sacred? Then tell that to the churches that preach abstinence, or to the priests who wear celibacy like a badge of virtue. Tell it to the millions who’ve been taught that desire is a sin.”

Jeeny: “And yet,” she leaned forward, her voice gentle but unyielding, “people still marry in those same churches, Jack. They exchange vows before God, and they still touch, still love that night — and they don’t think it’s sinful. They believe that love can be both holy and earthly.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. His eyes flicked to the street, where a couple passed under a shared umbrella, their laughter lost in the rain.

Jack: “Belief is a convenient thing. You can make anything holy if you wrap it in enough ritual. It’s not about what’s sacred, Jeeny — it’s about what’s tolerated. Religion just rebrands human instinct to make it look pure.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point of religion? To transform instinct into meaning? To bless what is already human, instead of condemning it?”

Jack: “You make it sound like religion’s some benevolent artist painting grace over our flesh. It’s not. It’s a system, built to keep people obedient, guilty, and manageable.”

Host: A pause fell — not of surrender, but of thought. The sound of the espresso machine filled the room, a low, earthly hum against the storm outside.

Jeeny: “You always talk about systems and control, but have you ever thought that maybe religion was trying to make sense of longing? That Augustine wasn’t trying to kill desire, but to understand why it burns so deeply?”

Jack: “Or maybe he just couldn’t handle it.” His voice was sharp now, a scar reopening. “Maybe he was just another man who turned his own guilt into theology. History is full of them.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even then, it shows how powerful desire is — that it can make saints tremble and philosophers write confessions. Isn’t that something to be revered?”

Host: The candlelight between them flickered, caught in a draft. Their faces were half in shadow, half in glow — like two sides of the same truth, refusing to merge.

Jack: “You want to revere sex, fine. But don’t pretend it’s spiritual. It’s chemical, biological, evolutionary. That’s why it feels sacred — because survival always dresses itself in mystery.”

Jeeny: “Then why do we write poems about it? Why do we cry when we make love, or feel like we’ve touched something infinite for a moment? Don’t tell me that’s just chemistry.”

Jack: “Because chemistry is poetry, Jeeny. You just refuse to see it that way.”

Host: His tone was cool, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something — a tenderness he didn’t know how to speak. The rain had softened outside, and the reflection of the streetlights shimmered like liquid glass.

Jeeny: “You sound like those who said the moon was just rock and dust, until someone looked and found it beautiful anyway. The body can be like that too — something physical, yes, but not only.”

Jack: “And yet,” he said, lowering his voice, “we’ve seen what happens when people make bodies holy — they start killing for them, shaming others for them. Look at the Crusades, or the witch trials. Every time someone says God blesses what’s natural, someone else says God curses it.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly why Wittgenstein’s right,” she whispered. “Not every religion has to think like Augustine. Not every faith has to see desire as corruption. There can be holiness in pleasure, light in flesh.”

Host: The words hung between them like smoke — thick, fragile, true. Jack looked at her for a long moment, his grey eyes searching hers as if through fog.

Jack: “You talk like love can save everything.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not everything. But maybe it can save us from ourselves — from the shame we keep wearing like armor.”

Host: The café door opened, and a gust of cold air swept in, carrying the scent of rain and earth. A young couple entered, their hands intertwined, their faces lit with the simple, radiant joy of being alive.

Jeeny: “Look at them,” she murmured. “Tell me that isn’t holy.”

Jack: “It’s human,” he said, though softer now. “And maybe that’s the same thing.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t empty this time. It was full — of acceptance, of understanding, of something neither of them could name. The rain outside had stopped, and the city had taken on that rare, silver stillness after a storm — when every street seems to breathe, cleansed, forgiven.

Jeeny: “Maybe Augustine feared what he couldn’t revere,” she said quietly. “But Wittgenstein saw that fear isn’t faith. It’s just the shadow of it.”

Jack: “And maybe,” he said, his voice almost tender, “faith isn’t the opposite of reason — maybe it’s just what’s left when reason finally runs out of excuses.”

Host: They sat there in the dim light, two souls suspended between doubt and grace, between the body and the infinite. Outside, the sky began to clear, a pale moon emerging like a blessing from behind the clouds.

Host: And for a moment, everything — the rain, the city, the silence, the desire — felt perfectly, beautifully, sacred.