To one who has faith, no explanation is necessary. To one without

Host: The cathedral bell tolled six times, each note echoing through the fog-thick evening. The city lay below, blurred and silent, as though the world itself were holding its breath. Inside a small chapel on the edge of the hill, candles burned unevenly, their flames trembling with every draft that slipped through the cracked stained glass.

Jack sat in the last pew, his coat damp, his hands clasped, but not in prayer — in thought, hard and skeptical. Across from him, Jeeny knelt before the altar, her face bathed in soft gold, the light painting her cheeks with the glow of something almost divine.

The quote hung between them, whispered not by a priest, but by the silence itself:
“To one who has faith, no explanation is necessary. To one without faith, no explanation is possible.”

Jeeny: (turning slightly) “You look uncomfortable, Jack. You always do in places like this.”

Jack: “Because it smells of incense and certainty.” (he half-smiles) “Two things I’ve never trusted.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are — sitting in the back row of a chapel at dusk. That’s not logic, Jack. That’s longing.”

Host: A beam of amber light cut through the dust, falling across Jack’s face, catching the silver in his eyes. He looked not angry, but tired — like a man who had once believed, and found the world heavier after he stopped.

Jack: “I came because you asked. You said you wanted to talk — not to convert me.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “I don’t want to convert you. I just want you to see.”

Jack: “See what?”

Jeeny: “That faith isn’t blindness. It’s a kind of sight.”

Jack: “Sight without evidence is still blindness.”

Jeeny: “Evidence changes nothing. You could show someone every miracle in history, and if they don’t believe, it’s just coincidence to them. That’s what Aquinas meant — no explanation can reach a closed heart.”

Host: The candles flickered, their shadows dancing like the ghosts of old believers — people who had whispered prayers into centuries of stone and silence. Outside, the rain began, slow and deliberate, tapping against the roof like a memory resurfacing.

Jack rose, his boots echoing against the floor as he walked toward the altar.

Jack: “So tell me, Jeeny. What’s faith to you? Some invisible rope that keeps you from falling apart?”

Jeeny: “It’s not a rope. It’s the air itself. You don’t see it, but you breathe it. Without it, everything collapses — meaning, morality, even love.”

Jack: “Love’s a chemical reaction, Jeeny. Dopamine, oxytocin — not divine architecture.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Then why does it still hurt when it’s gone?”

Jack: (hesitates) “Because pain’s part of survival. Biology learned to make us feel it.”

Jeeny: “You always explain life like it’s a formula. But the moment you say I love you to someone, Jack, you’re already defying reason. You’re betting your soul on something that can destroy you. That’s faith.”

Host: The rain quickened, drumming on the roof, filling the chapel with the rhythm of something old and infinite. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes distant, as if he were standing at the edge of a long-forgotten memory.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I prayed once. My mother was sick. I told God I’d give anything — anything — if He’d make her better. She died three weeks later. I buried my faith in that coffin with her.”

Jeeny: (softly) “You didn’t bury faith, Jack. You buried your expectation of God. They’re not the same.”

Jack: “A convenient distinction.”

Jeeny: “No. A painful truth. Faith isn’t a deal you strike. It’s not a cure or a bargain. It’s the act of trusting even when the answer is silence.”

Jack: “Silence is just the absence of sound.”

Jeeny: “Or the presence of something too vast to speak.”

Host: The light shifted as the storm clouds parted for a moment. A streak of pale blue cut across the ceiling, touching the statue of the Virgin near the altar. Water dripped from her stone hands, as though she, too, were weeping.

Jeeny stood, walking slowly toward the statue, her steps soft, measured, reverent. Jack watched her, something caught between skepticism and awe flickering in his eyes.

Jeeny: “You think faith is naïve. But tell me — what’s more irrational? To believe in something unseen, or to believe that everything ends in nothing? That all the beauty, the love, the sacrifice — just vanish into blackness?”

Jack: “That’s not irrational. It’s honest. The universe doesn’t owe us meaning.”

Jeeny: “But we owe it to ourselves to create meaning. And that creation — that defiance — is an act of faith, even if you won’t call it that.”

Jack: (quietly) “You twist words well.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe you just hate being reminded that even your skepticism is a form of belief.”

Host: The rain softened, the sound fading into a distant hum. The candles burned lower, their flames steady now, calm as if the storm outside had surrendered. Jeeny’s voice dropped to a whisper.

Jeeny: “Aquinas wasn’t condemning reason, Jack. He was mourning its limits. You can’t argue someone into faith — just like you can’t argue someone into love. You feel it. You live it. You surrender to it.”

Jack: “And if I can’t?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe faith is waiting for you in the cracks of what you already doubt.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic, but empty.”

Jeeny: “No. Just unfinished.”

Host: Jack looked up at the ceiling, where the last light of day lingered like a question. His face softened, the lines of cynicism blurring into something more human — exhaustion, perhaps, or quiet yearning.

Jack: “So what would you say to someone like me? Someone who can’t believe — not because he doesn’t want to, but because something in him broke too early?”

Jeeny: “I’d say stop trying to believe. Just start not disbelieving for a while.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “That’s your theology?”

Jeeny: “No. That’s mercy.”

Host: A faint sunbeam broke through the stained glass, scattering a spectrum of color across the chapel. The light touched Jack’s face, and for a fleeting second, it caught in his eyes, refracting like an answer he didn’t expect to find.

Jeeny watched, her expression not triumphant, but still — the quiet stillness of someone who knows the sacred isn’t proven, only felt.

Jack: “You think everyone can be reached by faith?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think everyone is called by it. Some just don’t recognize the voice.”

Jack: “And what if the voice never calls back?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep listening anyway. Because silence, too, is a kind of conversation.”

Host: The bell rang again — once, long and resonant. Outside, the rain stopped, and the sky cleared, revealing a single star, faint but unwavering.

Jack turned toward the door, his steps slow, his shadow long against the aisle. At the threshold, he paused.

Jack: (without turning back) “Maybe faith isn’t about explanations. Maybe it’s just... endurance.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Exactly. And endurance — that’s belief in disguise.”

Host: The doors opened, letting in the cool night air. Jack stepped out into the dark, his breath visible, the streetlights flickering ahead. Behind him, the candles burned lower, but none went out.

In the faint glow, Jeeny remained kneeling — not in triumph, but in peace.

The world outside was vast, unknowable, and silent. Yet in that silence, something stirred — not explanation, not proof, but the fragile beginning of faith.

And somewhere in the stillness of the city below, a single light flickered — not bright, not certain, but enough.