To feel the presence of the Lord is an amazing thing.

Host: The church was nearly empty, save for the faint echo of footsteps and the soft hum of a distant choir practicing somewhere beyond the walls. The air was thick with incense, candle smoke, and the golden dust that danced in the shafts of light breaking through the stained-glass windows.

It was a Sunday evening, the kind that hung between the sacred and the ordinary — the world outside beginning to dim, while inside, the light refused to fade.

Jack sat near the back pew, his hands folded but not praying, his eyes fixed on the flicker of a single candle near the altar. Jeeny walked slowly down the aisle, her heels soft against the stone, her eyes lifted, absorbing the silence as if it were a song.

The bell outside tolled once — a deep, resonant sound that filled the space with invisible weight.

Jeeny: “Lisa Leslie once said, ‘To feel the presence of the Lord is an amazing thing.’”

Jack: “Amazing? Or imagined?”

Host: The words fell into the silence like a stone into still water — quiet, but heavy enough to ripple through the air. Jeeny turned, her brow furrowing just slightly, not in anger but in sorrow.

Jeeny: “You really think faith is just imagination?”

Jack: “I think it’s a story people tell themselves to make the dark less frightening. The ‘presence of the Lord’ — that’s just what happens when your mind wants meaning where there’s only silence.”

Host: His voice was low, almost reverent despite his cynicism. The candles flickered, as though they were listening, trembling in the breath of his doubt.

Jeeny: “You’ve felt it before, haven’t you?”

Jack: “What, God? No.”

Jeeny: “Not God — presence. That warmth that rises when you think everything’s gone wrong, but something invisible keeps you standing. You don’t have to call it the Lord, Jack. But you’ve felt it.”

Jack: “You mean instinct. Adrenaline. Survival. Biology has plenty of explanations for miracles.”

Jeeny: “And yet, it never explains why we cry when we hear a hymn, or why some people kneel in gratitude when no one’s watching.”

Host: The light through the stained glass shifted, painting Jack’s face in blue and crimson. For a moment, he looked almost holy — a skeptic framed in sacred colors.

Jack: “You think God is in here?” — he gestured toward the altar — “in the gold, the candles, the marble?”

Jeeny: “No. I think He’s in here.” — she placed a hand over her heart, eyes shining — “In the space that hurts and still hopes.”

Jack: “Hope’s a dangerous thing, Jeeny. It keeps people waiting when they should be acting. Faith makes slaves out of thinkers.”

Jeeny: “And logic makes prisoners out of souls.”

Host: The air crackled with tension, not anger, but something deeper — the kind of energy that forms when two truths stand face to face, neither willing to bow.

Jack: “So you really believe the Lord is here, now? In this church, listening?”

Jeeny: “I do. And not just here — in the hospital rooms, in the alleys, in the faces of people the world forgets. The presence of the Lord isn’t trapped in walls, Jack. It’s in the way the world still breathes despite us.”

Jack: “If He’s everywhere, then He’s also in the wars, the hunger, the betrayal. Why would a God’s presence feel amazing when His absence is what defines the world?”

Jeeny: “Because His presence is the reason we still fight to make the world better. Without it, we’d stop trying altogether.”

Host: A choir’s distant voice rose from beyond the walls — a slow, mournful hymn that curled through the empty aisles like smoke. Jeeny’s eyes closed, her lips moving silently, as if echoing a prayer too personal to speak aloud.

Jack watched her, something unreadable flickering in his gaze.

Jack: “You really think what you’re feeling is divine? Not just nostalgia or music fooling your senses?”

Jeeny: “No. Because it happens even in silence. Especially in silence. When the noise stops, and all that’s left is the stillness — that’s when I feel it most.”

Jack: “And what does it feel like?”

Jeeny: “Like being seen — completely — and still loved. Like breathing after drowning. Like remembering you’re not alone.”

Host: Her voice trembled, not with fear, but with awe. The candles flared as if the air itself had leaned closer to listen.

Jack: “I envy that. I do. But I can’t feel what you feel. When I sit in a church, I don’t feel presence — I feel emptiness. A void that no song or sermon can fill.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you keep expecting Him to show up like a person. Maybe He’s been speaking in subtler ways — a hand that steadied you once, a stranger’s kindness, the sunrise after your worst night.”

Host: Jack’s fingers tightened around the back of the pew. For a long moment, he said nothing. The sound of the rain outside began to mix with the choir’s hymn, creating a rhythm that was neither storm nor prayer — but something between.

Jack: “When my father died, I sat in a church like this one. I waited all night for something — a sign, a whisper, anything. Nothing came. Just cold air and silence.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the silence was the sign.”

Jack: “Silence? That’s cruelty.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s presence without proof. God’s never been loud, Jack. He’s the pause between the storms — the breath before we break.”

Host: A single tear fell down Jeeny’s cheek, glinting in the candlelight. Jack looked away, his jaw tight, his eyes heavy with old, unspoken grief.

Jeeny: “Do you really think all this — the beauty, the music, the chance we have to love — is just accident?”

Jack: “I think it’s human. And maybe that’s enough.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s both. Maybe the divine hides in the human — not above us, but within us.”

Host: The choir’s song swelled, filling the space like wind through an open field. The colors from the stained glass danced across their faces — red, blue, gold — a mosaic of belief and doubt, light and shadow.

Jack: “You make it sound like faith is a choice.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every day we choose whether to see emptiness or presence. That’s the real miracle — not proof, but perception.”

Jack: “So you’re saying the Lord’s presence depends on how we look?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying it depends on whether we’re willing to feel.”

Host: The rain had stopped. A thin beam of evening light broke through the highest window, landing perfectly on the altar — a narrow path of gold across the floor.

Jack stood, his eyes tracing the light. For the first time, his face softened — not in belief, but in surrender.

Jack: “If He’s here… maybe He’s been patient with me.”

Jeeny: “He always is.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, her hand gently touching his arm. The light shifted, illuminating both of them, and for a fleeting second, the entire church seemed to breathe.

The candles burned steadier, the silence turned softer — no longer absence, but presence.

Jack looked at the altar once more and whispered, almost to himself:

Jack: “To feel it — even for a moment — is enough.”

Jeeny: “That’s the amazing thing.”

Host: Outside, the bells rang again, not in mourning, but in quiet celebration. The evening light spread, touching every corner of the church, and then the world beyond — as if grace itself had stepped out to walk among the living.

In that fragile, sacred stillness, two souls stood — one in faith, one in wonder — both feeling, if only for a heartbeat, the presence of something greater than words.