The supernatural birth of Christ, his miracles, his resurrection

Host: The cathedral stood silent under a gray sky, its stone towers veiled in thin mist. The late afternoon light filtered through stained glass, scattering fragments of crimson and gold across the empty pews. The faint smell of incense lingered, mingling with the cold air that crept through the open doors.

Jack sat near the altar, his hands clasped, not in prayer, but in restless thought. His coat was damp from the rain; his eyes, weary and searching, reflected the flicker of candlelight like fragments of storm. Jeeny stood beside a row of candles, lighting one carefully. The flame danced as she spoke, her voice soft but steady.

Jeeny: “David Friedrich Strauss once wrote, ‘The supernatural birth of Christ, his miracles, his resurrection and ascension, remain eternal truths, whatever doubts may be cast on their reality as historical facts.’”

Jack: “Eternal truths without historical facts? Sounds like the fancy way of saying: ‘It didn’t happen, but let’s pretend it did.’”

Host: The wind murmured through the open doorway, rustling the pages of a forgotten Bible on the lectern. A shaft of light from the high window fell across Jeeny’s face, painting it with the colors of faith and sorrow.

Jeeny: “He wasn’t saying we should pretend, Jack. He was saying that truth isn’t limited to what can be proven. Faith carries a different kind of reality—one that doesn’t crumble under a microscope.”

Jack: “But if it can’t be proven, it’s belief, not truth. There’s a difference.”

Jeeny: “Is there? When a mother loves her child, can she prove that love? Yet you wouldn’t call it false.”

Jack: “That’s emotion, not theology. Strauss was talking about miracles—claims that break natural law. You can’t put the resurrection in the same category as affection.”

Jeeny: “But maybe the meaning of the resurrection matters more than its physics.”

Host: The candles flickered, as if the very air around them was listening. Jack’s shadow stretched long across the marble floor, like an echo of doubt reaching toward something unseen.

Jack: “You sound like one of those theologians who tries to save religion by turning facts into metaphors. ‘Christ didn’t rise from the dead, but the idea of rebirth still lives in us.’ It’s poetic, sure—but it’s a retreat.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s an evolution. Maybe faith has to outgrow literalism to survive. Strauss wasn’t trying to destroy belief—he was trying to free it from superstition.”

Jack: “Or from accountability. You can justify anything with metaphor.”

Jeeny: “Then why does the metaphor still move you?”

Host: Jack looked away, his eyes tracing the worn edges of the wooden pews, the names carved there by unseen hands. His voice dropped low, almost a whisper.

Jack: “Because it reminds me of something I lost.”

Jeeny: “Faith?”

Jack: “No. Wonder.”

Host: A long silence settled between them, filled only by the faint echo of dripping water from the roof. Jeeny walked closer, her steps echoing softly against the stone.

Jeeny: “You haven’t lost it, Jack. You’ve just buried it under questions. And maybe that’s fine. Questions are sacred too.”

Jack: “Then answer this—how can something be eternally true if it never happened?”

Jeeny: “Because truth doesn’t always live in events. It lives in meaning. When we say Christ was born of a virgin, maybe the miracle isn’t biology—it’s purity. When we say he rose from the dead, maybe the miracle isn’t anatomy—it’s endurance. It’s hope refusing to die.”

Jack: “Hope doesn’t need scripture. It needs reality.”

Jeeny: “Reality isn’t always what you can touch. If that were true, music wouldn’t exist once the sound faded.”

Host: The organ pipes above them creaked faintly, as if stirred by her words. Jack shifted, his hands clasped tighter, his knuckles white.

Jack: “You know what scares me about faith? It asks us to love something we can’t prove and follow something we can’t see. It’s like walking blindfolded off a cliff and calling it devotion.”

Jeeny: “And what scares me about skepticism is that it builds walls so thick no light ever enters.”

Jack: “Light without foundation is illusion.”

Jeeny: “And a foundation without light is a tomb.”

Host: Her voice reverberated through the cathedral like a soft bell, ringing against the stillness. For a moment, Jack’s eyes met hers—his full of reason, hers of fire.

Jeeny: “Strauss was asking us to look deeper than history. To find meaning that can’t be erased by doubt. You see, even if the miracles weren’t facts, they were truths—because they changed how humanity understood itself.”

Jack: “Changed? Sure. But wars, crusades, inquisitions—they all came from these ‘truths.’”

Jeeny: “And yet so did compassion, forgiveness, and art. You can’t separate the poison from the medicine without killing both.”

Host: The rain outside had softened, now a delicate murmur against stained glass. A beam of sunlight pierced through a red pane, falling directly on the altar cross.

Jack: “Maybe the truth isn’t eternal, Jeeny. Maybe it’s just recycled—passed down, rewritten, believed by those who need it.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s what makes it eternal—that it survives the fire of every generation’s doubt.”

Jack: “You mean like a story that refuses to die?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The supernatural stories endure not because they happened once—but because they keep happening inside us. Every time someone forgives, or sacrifices, or believes in something unseen.”

Host: The candles now burned low, their flames trembling but unyielding. The cathedral had grown warmer, the shadows gentler, as though faith itself had drawn a breath.

Jack: “You make faith sound human. Fragile. Imperfect. But still… necessary.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that what it’s always been? A bridge between our ignorance and our longing?”

Jack: “Then maybe Strauss was right after all. The miracles don’t have to be real to be true.”

Jeeny: “No—they just have to remind us what’s possible.”

Host: Jeeny extinguished one of the candles with a gentle breath, the faint smoke curling upward like a prayer unsure of its direction. Jack stood, his eyes following the rising wisp, something fragile and reverent returning to his expression.

Jack: “You know, I used to think faith and reason were enemies.”

Jeeny: “They’re not. They’re just two wings of the same bird—neither can fly alone.”

Host: The last rays of the sun broke through the clouds, pouring through the colored glass until the entire cathedral seemed to glow. For a brief, breathtaking moment, every color of doubt and belief merged into a single, luminous truth.

Jack looked toward the cross, then at Jeeny, his voice quiet but sure.

Jack: “Maybe the miracle was never in the breaking of laws, but in the mending of hearts.”

Jeeny: “Then that, Jack, is the only resurrection that never ends.”

Host: Outside, the bells began to chime, their sound rolling through the valley like the voice of something timeless. And as the two of them stood beneath the wash of colored light, it was impossible to tell where faith ended and understanding began. Only that both had found, at last, a way to kneel side by side.