The experience of God, or in any case the possibility of

Host: The rain had stopped just an hour ago, leaving the city streets slick and glittering under the dim streetlights. A faint mist hung in the air, softening the edges of everything, as if the world itself was hesitant to wake. Inside a small bookstore café, the smell of old paper and freshly brewed coffee lingered like a gentle memory.

Jack sat near the window, his grey eyes following the rhythm of passing headlights, his hands resting around a cooling cup. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair slightly damp, her fingers absently tracing a line of condensation down her glass.

Outside, a church bell tolled — slow, echoing, as if speaking from another time.

Host: The moment felt suspended between worlds — the material and the mystical, the seen and the felt. That’s when Jeeny broke the silence.

Jeeny: “Alice Walker once said — ‘The experience of God, or in any case the possibility of experiencing God, is innate.’”
Her voice was soft, yet it carried the weight of conviction. “I think she meant that we’re born with the capacity to feel something larger than ourselves — something divine.”

Jack: (leans back, a faint smirk tugging his lips) “Innate, huh? I don’t buy that. We’re born with hunger, fear, and curiosity. Not divinity. ‘God’ is just another word humans use to make sense of what they can’t explain.”

Host: His voice was low, almost a growl, yet strangely tender, like a wound reopened.

Jeeny: “But don’t you ever feel it, Jack? That quiet presence in certain moments — like standing at the edge of the ocean, or watching a child laugh? That sense that something beyond all reason is touching you?”

Jack: “You’re describing emotion, not God. The brain releases chemicals — dopamine, oxytocin — they make us feel awe, connection. Science explains that.”

Jeeny: (leans forward, eyes glowing) “But science only names the surface of things. It doesn’t define the soul beneath them.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window, scattering a few pages from an open book on the table. The light flickered, painting their faces in gold and shadow.

Jack: “You sound like every mystic who refuses to see the machinery behind the magic. You think the universe whispers secrets. I think it just runs on physics.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you still look up at the stars, Jack?”

Host: He froze. For a moment, the question hung like a fragile glass ornament, ready to shatter.

Jack: (quietly) “Habit, maybe. Wonder is just the brain’s leftover programming from when we feared the dark.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s memory. Maybe that wonder is the echo of something divine we’ve forgotten — something buried deep inside us. Innate, like Walker said.”

Host: Her words landed softly, but they pierced through the armor of his skepticism.

Jack: “You think everyone’s born with this ‘God-sense’? Even those who commit atrocities? Even a man like Hitler?”

Jeeny: (pauses) “Yes. Even him. The potential was there — but buried under hate, pain, and ignorance. The divine spark can be ignored or corrupted, but it’s still there. Like a sun behind clouds.”

Jack: “That’s a dangerous thought. Excusing monsters because they ‘forgot their divinity.’”

Jeeny: “Not excusing — understanding. The world doesn’t heal through blame, Jack. It heals through remembering.”

Host: The rain began again — soft, rhythmic, like the beating of an ancient drum. The café’s lights dimmed to a warmer hue, bathing them in a soft amber glow.

Jack: “You talk like faith is a birthright. But look around — most of what people call ‘faith’ is just fear wearing a robe. Wars, corruption, priests selling forgiveness — all in the name of this ‘innate God.’”

Jeeny: “You’re confusing what people build around God with what’s inside them. The institution isn’t the essence. A temple isn’t holiness. A heart can be.”

Jack: “A heart is muscle, Jeeny. Nothing more.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “And yet, when it breaks, it teaches more truth than a thousand books.”

Host: Silence stretched between them. Outside, a lone figure crossed the street, holding an old umbrella that leaned awkwardly in the wind. The café’s clock ticked — steady, insistent.

Jeeny: “You know, in some indigenous traditions, they don’t speak about God. They speak to the world — to the trees, to rivers — as if everything already holds that presence. That’s what Walker meant by innate. God isn’t separate. God is the thread.”

Jack: “And what about suffering, Jeeny? Children dying of hunger — is that God’s thread too?”

Jeeny: (voice trembling slightly) “Maybe God isn’t the cause, but the possibility — the ability to respond with love, with compassion. That’s what’s innate. Not a deity sitting in the sky, but a pulse that moves us to care.”

Host: The intensity in her eyes met the iron calm in his. It was the collision of fire and stone — neither yielding easily.

Jack: “Then why do so few listen to that pulse? Why does the world drown it out?”

Jeeny: “Because it’s quiet. Because it asks us to feel instead of win.”

Host: A long pause. The steam from their cups rose and mingled, like two souls searching for one another in the air.

Jack: (sighs) “You make it sound poetic, but I’ve seen too much to believe in innate goodness. In Syria, I watched kids pick through rubble for their brothers. No God there, Jeeny. Just dust.”

Jeeny: (voice soft but fierce) “And yet, those same kids shared what little food they had with others. I’ve seen that too — in the same rubble. If that isn’t divine, what is?”

Host: Her words trembled with both grief and grace, echoing like the faint hum of a prayer rising from broken ground.

Jack: (looking down) “Maybe that’s just survival instinct.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe survival is God’s oldest language.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, the rhythm intensifying like a distant heartbeat.

Jack: “You really believe everyone can feel God?”

Jeeny: “Not can. Does. Even you, Jack — you just don’t name it. When you hold silence after losing someone you love, when you stand at your mother’s grave and feel both emptiness and peace — that’s it. That’s the innate presence.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. His eyes darkened, as if a storm had passed through them.

Jack: (low) “I used to pray once. When my sister died. I waited for a sign, anything. All I got was silence.”

Jeeny: “Maybe silence was the answer. Maybe it was telling you — you’re still here. The divine isn’t a rescuer, Jack. It’s the quiet force that lets you keep breathing through the pain.”

Host: The air thickened with emotion — unsaid things clinging between them. The café had grown nearly empty. The last customer left, leaving behind the faint chime of the doorbell.

Jack: (softly) “So, you’re saying God isn’t out there... it’s in here?” (touches his chest)

Jeeny: “Exactly. And when we look for it outside — in temples, in leaders, in miracles — we forget what was born with us.”

Host: Her words fell like rain onto parched earth. Slowly, Jack’s shoulders relaxed. He looked at her — not as an opponent, but as someone who had carried her own storms and still chose to see light.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe… maybe I’ve been looking in the wrong direction.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you were looking too hard.”

Host: Outside, the rain finally stopped. A faint ray of light from a hidden moon slipped through the clouds, landing on their table. The half-empty cups gleamed softly.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “You see? Even the moon finds its way through the clouds.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Or maybe the clouds just got tired of blocking it.”

Host: They both laughed — softly, tiredly, yet with a strange peace in their laughter.

The camera might have pulled back then — past the café’s window, past the wet streets, past the city breathing under the night — to show two small souls sharing a flicker of understanding in a world that rarely stops to listen.

And for that moment, everything felt still.

Host: The experience of God, perhaps, is not a miracle — but the quiet recognition of being alive.