Now, God be praised, that to believing souls gives light in

Host: The cathedral was vast and dim, its ceiling lost to shadows. Tall candles flickered along the stone aisles, their flames trembling like small acts of faith against the endless dark. Outside, the wind sighed through the old stained glass, making the colors shift faintly — reds and blues like fading memories of fire and sky.

The hour was late. The world beyond the walls had gone quiet — only the echo of footsteps and the faint scent of incense lingered, mingling with dust and time.

Near the altar, Jack sat on a pew, his coat pulled tightly around him, eyes fixed on the single candle burning before the crucifix. Its light painted his face in slow, uneven gold. Across the aisle, Jeeny knelt with her hands clasped loosely — not in prayer, but in thought.

Her voice came softly, almost like the candle speaking.

Jeeny: “William Shakespeare once wrote, ‘Now, God be praised, that to believing souls gives light in darkness, comfort in despair.’”

Jack: [quietly] “That’s from Henry VI, isn’t it? Funny — war, betrayal, chaos everywhere, and he still manages to slip in hope.”

Jeeny: “Because that’s what faith is — hope wearing armor.”

Host: The flames danced in the silence between them. The church felt alive in its stillness, breathing through wood, glass, and stone.

Jack: “I don’t know, Jeeny. Sometimes I think hope’s the cruelest illusion. A way of delaying despair, not curing it.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are — sitting in the dark, waiting for something brighter. That’s faith, whether you call it that or not.”

Jack: [smiles faintly] “You think just sitting here counts?”

Jeeny: “Everything counts when you’re standing in the dark and still choosing to look for light.”

Host: A bell tolled somewhere deep within the cathedral, its sound heavy but warm — a vibration that seemed to settle into the bones, into the silence of doubt.

Jack: “You talk about faith as if it’s simple. As if belief is something you can just decide.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t simple. It’s defiance. It’s saying, ‘Even if I can’t see the light, I’ll still act like it’s there.’”

Jack: “So faith is pretending?”

Jeeny: “No. Faith is remembering. Remembering that the darkness isn’t eternal — even when you can’t yet see the dawn.”

Host: The wind pressed against the windows, rattling faintly, then softened again. A single shaft of moonlight broke through one of the stained-glass panels, spilling pale blue across the altar steps.

Jack: “You really believe that — that something’s out there? That there’s purpose in all this noise?”

Jeeny: “I believe in balance. In seasons. In the truth that nothing lasts — not joy, not grief, not even doubt. Faith isn’t about answers, Jack. It’s about endurance.”

Jack: “Endurance.” [he repeats the word like tasting it] “That’s not exactly divine.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s more divine than anything else. Endurance is creation in motion — the will to keep breathing even when the world’s stopped singing.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The candlelight caught the lines in his face, the fatigue in his eyes, but also the faint glimmer of recognition — the kind that comes when truth finds you, quietly.

Jack: “You ever lost it? Faith, I mean.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Many times. But every time I’ve lost it, something small — a sunrise, a song, a stranger’s kindness — brings it back. Not all at once, but in fragments.”

Jack: “So faith isn’t constant. It flickers.”

Jeeny: “Like this candle. But it’s the flicker that proves it’s alive.”

Host: The air was colder now, but the flame seemed steadier, as though their words had anchored it.

Jack: “I envy you. I always thought faith was for people who never doubted.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Faith belongs to doubters. The ones who walk through shadow and still keep asking. The ones who light a match in the cave, not because they’re sure it’ll last — but because they can’t bear the dark.”

Jack: “Then maybe I’ve been faithful all along, without realizing it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point.”

Host: She stood, walking slowly toward the altar. The candlelight caught her hair, her hands, the small movements that made her seem at once fragile and infinite.

Jeeny: “You know, Shakespeare wasn’t thanking God for miracles. He was thanking Him for courage. For that invisible strength that whispers, ‘Go on,’ when everything else says, ‘Stop.’”

Jack: “So faith isn’t waiting for light. It’s being the one who keeps walking until it returns.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The organ pipes groaned softly in the distance as a draft moved through them — a breath from the sleeping instrument. It sounded like the world remembering its own music.

Jack stood, walking to her side. The two of them stood in front of the candle — one small, trembling flame in a universe of dark.

Jack: “You think the light ever really leaves?”

Jeeny: “Never. Sometimes it hides in us. Sometimes it hides in silence. But it’s always somewhere — waiting for us to turn toward it again.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s what faith really is — not certainty, but direction.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The compass that keeps pointing to hope, even when the map’s gone.”

Host: The camera would pull back slowly — the two of them small figures in a cathedral vast enough to swallow sound and time, yet lit by one stubborn flame that refused to die.

Outside, dawn began to break — faint, silver, real. The darkness didn’t vanish. It just softened its grip.

And as the first light spilled across the stone floor, Shakespeare’s words lingered — not as scripture, but as a truth too human to belong to any one faith:

Blessed are the souls that keep walking,
who light candles instead of curses,
who find, even in despair,
that quiet, impossible grace —
the light that needs no proof
to be believed.