The closest thing to religion our family had was worshipping The

Host: The apartment was a collage of decades — a half-forgotten record player spinning softly in the corner, stacks of vinyl sleeves spread across a weathered coffee table, and posters of The Beatles tacked unevenly to the walls. The air smelled faintly of dust, old paper, and the ghost of smoke — like time itself had been living here, unbothered.

It was late. The city hum floated through the cracked window — car horns, sirens, the low thrum of life still awake. In that amber-lit room, Jack sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a record sleeve with reverent slowness. Jeeny lay on the couch, one hand dangling, tracing invisible patterns in the air to the rhythm of “Across the Universe.”

The needle scratched, the music breathed, and the world felt suspended — like a prayer disguised as a melody.

Jeeny: (smiling) “Alex Wolff once said, ‘The closest thing to religion our family had was worshipping The Beatles.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “Can’t blame them. Lennon was their prophet, McCartney their psalmist, and Abbey Road their temple.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’re only half-joking.”

Jack: “I’m not. They gave people something to believe in. Harmony instead of hierarchy. Melody instead of morality.”

Jeeny: “And you think that’s enough?”

Jack: “For some people, it’s better. Religion divides by doctrine; music unites by feeling. You don’t need to explain a chord progression — you just need to feel it.”

Jeeny: “So you’d trade faith for rhythm?”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Rhythm is faith. You trust the beat to keep time when everything else falls apart.”

Host: The light flickered, a lamp bulb buzzing faintly as if caught in the tempo. The room swayed with the sound — not movement, but mood. It was the kind of sacred stillness that comes when sound and silence breathe together.

Jeeny: “You talk about The Beatles like they’re more than musicians.”

Jack: “They were. They were philosophers who used guitars instead of books.”

Jeeny: “Philosophers?”

Jack: “Sure. They asked the same questions priests did — about love, peace, meaning — just without pretending they had the answers.”

Jeeny: “That’s what made them holy, huh? Doubt instead of doctrine.”

Jack: “Exactly. Every religion starts with awe and ends with certainty. The Beatles never closed the question. They just kept singing it.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened, reflecting the warm lamp light and the spinning record’s orbit. She reached for a nearby album — Revolver — and held it like scripture, tracing the cover’s surreal lines.

Jeeny: “It’s funny — for all their talk of peace and love, they still fought, split, broke each other’s hearts.”

Jack: “Of course. Even gods get tired of worship.”

Jeeny: “So you think they were gods?”

Jack: (shrugging) “No. Just proof that mortals can touch the divine — even if only for three minutes and forty-two seconds.”

Jeeny: “You sound nostalgic for belief.”

Jack: “Maybe I am. Faith gives people a language to explain wonder. The Beatles gave me that language.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Maybe music is the last safe kind of belief. The kind that doesn’t require you to be right — just present.”

Host: The record crackled, Lennon’s voice sliding through the static like a ghost whispering forgiveness. The room glowed gold and amber, shadows stretching and collapsing in rhythm with the song.

Jack: “You ever notice how people listen to The Beatles like they’re praying? Eyes closed, lips moving, hearts open.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s ritual. Drop the needle, wait for grace.”

Jack: “And grace always arrives on time — track one, side A.”

Jeeny: “That’s the thing about music — it teaches devotion without punishment.”

Jack: “You think that’s what religion got wrong?”

Jeeny: “Not wrong — but heavy. Music asks for surrender, not obedience. It doesn’t want followers, just witnesses.”

Jack: “And every song’s a sermon in disguise.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. ‘Let it be’ — the simplest prayer ever written.”

Host: The needle clicked softly as the record ended. For a moment, the silence that followed felt enormous — not empty, but sacred, as if the air itself was waiting to see if they understood.

Jeeny reached over, flipped the record, and set the needle down again. The opening notes of “Something” filled the room — tender, trembling, infinite.

Jack: “You know what I think? Every generation needs its gospel — something to believe in without fear. Maybe music is ours.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s everyone’s. Sound is the first language we ever knew — heartbeat, breath, crying. It’s primal worship.”

Jack: “So when we sing, we’re just remembering who we are.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Remembering the unity before words, before borders, before belief turned into walls.”

Jack: “So maybe The Beatles didn’t replace religion — they repaired it.”

Jeeny: “Rewired it for the modern soul. Faith in sound instead of silence.”

Host: The rain began outside, tapping softly against the glass — syncopated, rhythmic, like the Earth adding percussion to their philosophy. Jeeny tilted her head back, eyes closed, swaying slightly to the rhythm. Jack watched her — skeptical, but softened, as if her movement reminded him of something he’d once forgotten how to feel.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about that quote? Wolff didn’t say ‘we believed in The Beatles.’ He said they were the closest thing to religion. It’s a confession of love, not worship.”

Jack: “So love’s the real faith.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it always?”

Jack: “And the songs are just the rituals that remind us of it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith without fear, devotion without doctrine — melody as prayer.”

Host: The room glowed softer, as though the music itself dimmed the light to match its tenderness. The needle moved closer to the record’s center, the song fading into a fragile final chord that seemed to hang in the air longer than physics allowed.

Jack exhaled — slow, almost reverent.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s why people still play these records. They’re not listening to nostalgia — they’re listening to their own innocence.”

Jeeny: “And for a few minutes, they believe again.”

Jack: (nodding) “In something pure.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “In something possible.”

Host: The camera would slowly pull back — the two of them bathed in warm light, surrounded by relics of a faith that never required a name. The music swelled again — faint, imperfect, alive.

Outside, the city shimmered — lights blinking like votive candles in the night.

And as the scene faded, Jeeny’s voice lingered — calm, luminous, filled with the ache and joy of recognition:

“Maybe worship isn’t about gods or creeds, Jack. Maybe it’s about awe — the kind that turns sound into spirit and memory into prayer. And if music can make us feel that… maybe that’s all the divinity we ever needed.”

Host: The record spun on, the needle steady, and somewhere in the dark — between chords, between breaths — the world was still singing “Let it be.”