The truth of our faith becomes a matter of ridicule among the

Host: The laboratory was half-lit, the fluorescent bulbs above humming like distant bees, washing the white walls in a sterile glow. It was long past midnight, and the city outside the high windows lay drowned in a blue silence, broken only by the faraway hum of traffic and the soft click of an instrument calibrating itself.

Jack stood over a workbench, his hands stained with graphite, eyes sharp, tired, but alive — the kind of fatigue that comes only from thought. Across the room, Jeeny leaned against a bookshelf, arms folded, a faint warmth in her eyes contrasting the cold steel of the space. Between them, the screen of a computer glowed faintly, displaying the quote that had started their argument hours ago:

“The truth of our faith becomes a matter of ridicule among the infidels if any Catholic, not gifted with the necessary scientific learning, presents as dogma what scientific scrutiny shows to be false.” — Thomas Aquinas.

The room was heavy with it — with the echo of that line, like a blade balancing on the edge of belief and reason.

Jack: “You have to admire the old man. Aquinas understood something most people today still can’t — that faith without reason is just blindness pretending to be vision.”

Jeeny: “And yet, he was still a man of faith, Jack. He didn’t dismiss it. He integrated it. That’s what made him extraordinary.”

Host: The air conditioner sighed, exhaling a faint cold mist. The light flickered once, the kind of flicker that seems to underline a thought before it’s said aloud.

Jack: “Sure, but look at what he’s saying. He’s warning the faithful not to embarrass themselves. Not to confuse belief with knowledge. When a priest tells you the Earth is 6,000 years old while satellites orbit overhead, it’s not faith, it’s folly.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that exactly Aquinas’ point? That faith isn’t supposed to deny truth — it’s supposed to seek it. The error isn’t in believing, it’s in refusing to learn.”

Jack: “Maybe. But I’ve seen too many people cling to belief when evidence burns it down right in front of them. They call it devotion, but it’s fear. Fear of being wrong.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s hope, Jack. Hope that truth is more than just what we can measure.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the windowpanes, scattering papers across the floor like restless spirits. Jack bent to pick one up — an old diagram of the solar system, annotated in fine, neat ink. He smirked, his voice low.

Jack: “Galileo would’ve agreed with me. Remember how he was forced to recant because his telescope saw what the Church refused to? The truth didn’t care about their dogma.”

Jeeny: “Yes, but even Galileo wrote, ‘The intention of the Holy Spirit is to teach us how one goes to heaven, not how the heavens go.’ He wasn’t trying to destroy faith. He was trying to free it from ignorance.”

Jack: “That’s a nice line, but look what it cost him — his freedom, his dignity. The Church didn’t want to be freed, Jeeny. It wanted to be right.”

Jeeny: “And yet, centuries later, it apologized. Faith can evolve, Jack — slowly, painfully, but it does. Maybe Aquinas planted that seed.”

Host: The lab clock ticked quietly. Jeeny’s voice, though soft, carried through the sterile air like a song in a cathedral — reverent, trembling, alive. Jack’s fingers drummed against the table, each tap echoing like a pulse of skepticism.

Jack: “I’ll give him that — he was ahead of his time. But his followers? Most of them use Aquinas as a shield, not a torch. They quote him to defend ignorance, not to illuminate it.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s our failure, not his. He said it himself — the truth of faith becomes ridiculous when it contradicts what the mind can plainly see. But that means truth and faith aren’t enemies, Jack. They just need each other to stay honest.”

Jack: “So you think they can coexist? Faith and science?”

Jeeny: “They already do. Every scientist who wonders, every believer who questions — they’re both searching for the same thing: meaning.”

Jack: “But one of them looks for proof, the other for purpose.”

Jeeny: “And what good is proof without purpose?”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly as the night deepened. The hum of the machines grew softer, more rhythmic, almost like breathing. Jack’s face was half-lit, the other half swallowed by shadow, a perfect mirror of his own internal division.

Jack: “I’ve seen what faith can do when it’s misused — wars, intolerance, people refusing medicine because they think prayer will cure them. Tell me, Jeeny, where’s the holiness in that?”

Jeeny: “There’s none. But that’s not faith, Jack — that’s arrogance wearing faith’s clothes. True faith is humble. It listens when truth speaks.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because truth isn’t afraid of questions, and faith that’s afraid of questions isn’t faith at all — it’s control.”

Host: The lab fell silent for a while. The clock’s ticking grew louder, each second carving the air with quiet certainty. Outside, the moonlight painted the floor in pale, clean lines. The conversation had shifted — from argument to confession.

Jack: “When my mother got sick, the doctors said there was no hope. She prayed anyway. Every night. I hated it. Thought she was just fooling herself. But somehow… it kept her alive longer than they predicted.”

Jeeny: “That wasn’t a miracle, Jack. That was the strength faith can give when logic has no answers left.”

Jack: “You think faith kept her alive?”

Jeeny: “No. I think love did. But faith gave that love a language.”

Host: Jack looked down, his hands tightening around the edge of the table. The machines around them blinked softly, like a constellation of silent witnesses.

For the first time that night, his voice was not sharp, but bare.

Jack: “You know… maybe Aquinas was right in another way too. When faith stops being curious, it stops being true. Maybe doubt is part of worship.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The moment we think we know everything about God, we’ve stopped looking for Him. The same way a scientist who thinks they’ve found every answer stops being a scientist.”

Jack: “So the saint and the scientist aren’t opposites — they’re the same kind of seeker.”

Jeeny: “Two different instruments, one melody.”

Host: A faint smile crossed Jack’s face — the kind that hides both sadness and understanding. Jeeny stepped closer, her reflection merging with his in the glass window. Outside, the moon hung low and clear, indifferent but somehow tender.

Jack: “You ever think about how much damage could’ve been avoided if people just admitted when they didn’t know?”

Jeeny: “That’s the heart of what Aquinas meant. The truth of our faith becomes ridiculous not because faith is wrong, but because pride makes it loud when it should be listening.”

Jack: “So humility — that’s the bridge between faith and reason.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And humility is what makes both of them human.”

Host: The clock struck one, its chime soft and heavy. The machines hummed back to life, their lights blinking like slow stars. Jack shut the monitor, the quote vanishing into the black screen. For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then, quietly, as though speaking not to each other but to the room, Jeeny whispered:

Jeeny: “Maybe the holiest act of faith is to admit we could be wrong.”

Jack: “And the purest act of science is to wonder if we could be right.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — past the lab, the city, the glowing veins of light that ran through the dark like threads of a thinking universe. Two souls, both searching, stood side by side beneath a cold, bright moon, where faith and reason no longer argued — they simply listened.

And in that fragile moment, as the machines hummed and the night breathed, truth didn’t belong to one side or the other.
It simply was — quiet, luminous, and shared.