To believe in God is impossible not to believe in Him is absurd.

Host: The cathedral was empty, its arches rising into shadow like hands frozen in prayer. Candles flickered along the aisles, their flames trembling in the vastness, their light gilding the worn stone walls in slow, golden waves. The air was heavy with incense and memory — the smell of devotion and dust mingling into something older than either faith or doubt.

Rain pattered softly outside against stained glass, turning the colors on the floor into living watercolor. Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed midnight.

Jack sat in the front pew, his coat damp, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. Jeeny stood near the altar, tracing the edge of a candleholder, her face half in light, half in shadow.

Jeeny: quietly “Voltaire once said, ‘To believe in God is impossible, not to believe in Him is absurd.’”

Jack: without looking up “That sounds like the kind of quote only a genius — or a coward — could write.”

Jeeny: turning toward him “Why coward?”

Jack: “Because it’s a way of never committing. You stand between heaven and hell and call it philosophy.”

Jeeny: gently “Or maybe it’s honesty. Maybe he wasn’t undecided — maybe he was admitting that both belief and disbelief are unbearable.”

Host: The flames flickered as if reacting to her words. Jack’s eyes followed one, the reflection dancing in the shine of his pupils.

Jack: softly “You think belief’s unbearable?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Real belief isn’t comfort — it’s surrender. You give up control, logic, your questions. It’s terrifying.”

Jack: “And disbelief?”

Jeeny: “Lonely. It’s standing under a vast sky and pretending it doesn’t look back.”

Host: The silence between them was a living thing — vast and heavy. Jack leaned back, the wood of the pew creaking softly.

Jack: “When I was younger, I prayed without believing. It was like talking into a void. But I kept doing it anyway. I think I just liked the sound of hope in my own voice.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “That’s still a kind of faith.”

Jack: “No. That’s habit. Faith is what happens when the void answers back.”

Jeeny: after a pause “And has it?”

Jack: quietly “Once. Maybe twice. Then silence again.”

Host: The rain grew louder for a moment, as though heaven itself had leaned closer to listen. The flicker of candles threw wild shadows across the statues — Christ, Mary, the saints — all caught in the eternal stillness of stone.

Jeeny: “You know, Voltaire wasn’t mocking faith. He was describing the human condition. The mind that wants proof and the heart that refuses to live without meaning.”

Jack: “So he’s saying belief’s irrational — but necessary.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Like love.”

Jack: grinning faintly “And just as cruel.”

Jeeny: softly “And just as beautiful.”

Host: She walked down the aisle, her footsteps echoing softly against the cold marble. Jack watched her, his face unreadable, his thoughts flickering like the candles.

Jack: “I envy people who believe easily. They look so certain, so anchored. I’ve spent my whole life balancing between reason and yearning.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s where God lives — between them.”

Jack: “Between logic and longing?”

Jeeny: “Between knowing and needing to know.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes lifted toward the vaulted ceiling — where painted angels had watched over centuries of doubt just like his.

Jack: quietly “Maybe Voltaire wasn’t confused at all. Maybe he just saw what we all see — that there’s no proof, no certainty. Just an ache too human to ignore.”

Jeeny: “An ache that points upward.”

Jack: “Or inward.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re the same direction.”

Host: The wind moaned through the cracks of the old doors, and one of the candles flickered out, sending a thin ribbon of smoke twisting toward the ceiling. Jeeny watched it rise, her expression soft — reverent, but questioning.

Jeeny: “You ever think faith’s not about finding God but learning to live with the search?”

Jack: “So the search itself becomes the sacred act.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. Believers call it prayer. Skeptics call it philosophy. But they’re both kneeling to the same mystery.”

Host: Jack laughed — a small, sad sound.

Jack: “That’s almost comforting. The idea that doubt isn’t failure, just… participation.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Doubt’s a form of devotion. It means you care enough to keep asking.”

Jack: “Then I guess I’ve been praying my whole life without knowing it.”

Jeeny: softly “Most of us have.”

Host: The bells outside began to toll again — once, twice — the sound rich and deep, vibrating through the bones of the church. Jack closed his eyes, listening.

Jack: “So Voltaire’s paradox — it’s not about belief at all. It’s about being human. About holding two impossible truths at once: that the universe feels empty, and yet somehow full of meaning.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To believe is impossible. Not to believe — absurd.”

Jack: “So we live in the middle. Suspended between sense and surrender.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s where the sacred hides — in the tension itself.”

Host: The camera drifted slowly upward — the light of the candles shimmering, the rain outside glowing silver in the lamplight. Jack and Jeeny sat together now, not speaking, both staring at the single candle still burning between them — fragile, trembling, undefeated.

The cathedral seemed to breathe.

And as the scene faded into the soft sound of rain and bells, Voltaire’s contradiction lingered like incense in the air:

Faith is the space between reason and wonder.
It is the ache that never resolves — the silence that still feels like presence.
To believe is impossible; to not believe, unbearable.
So we live — forever reaching, forever unsure — but still, somehow, facing the light.