Our faith comes in moments; our vice is habitual.

Host: The night pressed softly against the windows, wrapping the old library café in a cocoon of shadows and whispers. Shelves of forgotten books stretched toward the ceiling, their spines glowing faintly under the dim lamplight. Outside, the wind hummed through the trees, and the smell of rain drifted in from the cracked door.

A small fireplace flickered at the far end, its flames restless but kind. Two figures sat by it — Jack, leaning back in his chair, his hands steepled beneath his chin, eyes unreadable; Jeeny, sitting cross-legged on the couch opposite, holding a book of Emerson essays, its edges worn with age.

Between them, on the table, lay two mugs of cooling tea and a half-eaten slice of apple pie — untouched since the conversation had begun.

Jeeny: (reading softly) “‘Our faith comes in moments; our vice is habitual.’”
She closed the book gently, her eyes still tracing the thought. “I’ve always loved how Emerson manages to condense entire lifetimes into single lines.”

Jack: (smirking) “Yeah. And how he makes you feel guilty about it afterward.”

Host: His voice carried a familiar dry edge, but beneath it, something like recognition stirred — a memory, perhaps, of those rare flashes of clarity that never seemed to last.

Jeeny: “You think he’s wrong?”

Jack: “No. I think he’s cruelly right. Faith — in anything — comes like lightning. Brief, blinding, gone. But our habits… they dig in. They’re the roots under the floorboards.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes faith so precious — it’s rare. It asks you to climb out of yourself, and most of us like the comfort of the hole.”

Jack: “Yeah, but what good is faith if it only visits? Habits own us, faith flirts with us. It’s a bad trade.”

Host: The firelight threw long, wavering shadows across the floor, painting the room in hues of amber and doubt. Outside, the rain began to fall, tapping gently on the glass — an almost meditative rhythm.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re thinking of faith as something that’s supposed to last forever. Emerson didn’t mean that. He meant it comes like breath — moments of grace in the middle of routine. You don’t live on one inhale, Jack. You keep breathing.”

Jack: “And what if you forget how to? What if all the habits — the vices, the cynicism, the noise — choke you before faith even gets a chance?”

Jeeny: “Then faith doesn’t die. It just waits. That’s what makes it faith.”

Jack: (quietly) “You talk about it like it’s a person.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe faith is that part of you that refuses to let go, even after the rest of you already has.”

Host: A spark snapped from the fireplace, catching briefly in the air before dying on the hearth. Jack’s gaze followed it, as though something in that brief flare mirrored what they were talking about — the spark of belief, the gravity of relapse.

Jack: “You know, I think Emerson had it easy. He wrote about faith in solitude — in the woods, in books, in peace. Try finding faith in traffic, in debt, in the news cycle. The modern world’s designed to make sure you never get a quiet moment long enough to believe in anything.”

Jeeny: “That’s why moments matter. Even one second of real stillness, of connection, is enough to remind you there’s something untouched underneath the chaos. That’s what faith is — remembering what hasn’t been corrupted.”

Jack: “And vice?”

Jeeny: “Forgetting.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, streaking the window in glistening lines. The world outside blurred — like reality itself was melting into abstraction.

Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes reflecting the flicker of the fire.

Jeeny: “Think about it, Jack. We spend years perfecting our vices. Not just drinking or greed — I mean doubt, self-loathing, cynicism. Those are habits too. We polish them, feed them, call them realism.”

Jack: “Realism is the polite name for fear.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And every once in a while, faith cuts through it — even if just for a moment. Like the first light after a long tunnel. But most of us look away before we reach it, because the dark has become familiar.”

Jack: “Familiar feels safe. You can predict it.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why it’s poison.”

Host: The fire popped again, sending a soft glow over Jack’s face. He looked older in that light — not by years, but by memory. He took a slow breath, then exhaled.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? I remember one of those moments. That kind of faith. It wasn’t religious. Just... pure. I was in the hospital with my sister, when she was still alive. She looked at me and said, ‘Don’t worry, Jack. We’re not here to suffer, we’re here to learn how to love.’ For a moment, everything made sense. The noise, the pain, all of it. I felt... peace. But then it was gone. Like she took it with her.”

Jeeny: (softly) “That was a moment of faith. The kind Emerson meant.”

Jack: “Yeah, but moments don’t build houses. They just haunt them.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. They light them. Even for a second. And that second is everything.”

Host: The rain eased into a whisper, like it had been listening too. The clock on the wall ticked, slow and deliberate. Jeeny reached across the table, her hand brushing against Jack’s.

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t about permanence. It’s about recognition. Every time you catch yourself doing something out of love instead of habit — that’s faith breaking through.”

Jack: “And every time I fail?”

Jeeny: “That’s human. Faith doesn’t erase failure; it forgives it.”

Jack: “That sounds nice. But forgiveness doesn’t feel as natural as vice.”

Jeeny: “That’s because vice doesn’t ask for courage. Faith does.”

Host: The fire was dying down now, the light soft and golden, like memory made visible. The air between them hummed with something raw and quiet.

Jack stared into the embers. “You think faith ever becomes habit?”

Jeeny: “Maybe for saints. For the rest of us, it’s a practice. A constant reawakening. You lose it, you find it, you lose it again. That’s the point — not to hold on, but to keep reaching.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “You make it sound like faith’s not divine at all. Just... human.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s both. Maybe God gave it to us so we could meet Him halfway.”

Host: The silence that followed was gentle, not empty — the kind of silence that comes when words have done enough and the soul takes over.

Jeeny stood, walked to the window, and looked out. The rain had stopped completely. The streetlights shimmered in the puddles below, each reflection trembling like a captured prayer.

Jeeny: “You see that, Jack? That reflection — it’s not permanent. But while it lasts, it’s beautiful. Faith is like that. A fleeting reflection of something infinite.”

Jack: (softly) “And vice?”

Jeeny: “The puddle that forgets the sky it came from.”

Host: The camera would pan out slowly — the fire dimming, the clock ticking, two figures suspended in the golden afterglow of understanding.

Outside, the city slept, unaware of the small spark of truth that had flickered to life inside that quiet room.

And as the scene faded, Emerson’s words lingered in the still air like a soft benediction:

Faith will always come in moments — bright, fragile, transcendent.

Vice will always wait in habit — patient, comfortable, persistent.

But the miracle, perhaps, is not in the rarity of faith,
but in our ability to recognize it when it comes —
and to keep the embers alive,
even in the dark.