To those who believe but wish their belief to be strengthened, I

Host: The church was nearly empty.
The last of the candles flickered weakly in their glass holders, casting long, trembling shadows across the worn wooden pews. Through the high windows, the pale light of evening spilled like faded gold — the kind that feels less like illumination and more like memory.

Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. Inside, only the sound of quiet breathing and the occasional creak of old wood filled the air.

Jack sat in the third pew from the front, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly as if trying to hold onto something invisible. His grey eyes — sharp in the city, skeptical in the world — now seemed dulled by the weight of silence.

Jeeny knelt a few feet away, her head bowed, her hair falling forward in soft black waves that glowed faintly in the candlelight. Her lips moved without sound. When she lifted her gaze, her eyes were calm, steady, filled with that quiet fire that Jack never knew how to face without mockery or ache.

Host: The air between them was heavy — not with words, but with everything unsaid.

Jeeny: “James E. Faust said, ‘To those who believe but wish their belief to be strengthened, I urge you to walk in faith and trust in God. Spiritual knowledge always requires an exercise of faith.’”

Jack: “Spiritual knowledge.”
He let the phrase roll bitterly off his tongue. “It sounds like one of those puzzles that only work if you already believe in the answer.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a puzzle, Jack. It’s a journey.”

Jack: “A journey with no map. You’re told to walk in faith — which means what, exactly? Trust blindly? Pretend the dark isn’t there?”

Jeeny: “No. It means walking even when it is dark.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but it struck with the precision of truth. Jack lifted his head, his eyes narrowing.

Jack: “And if there’s nothing at the end of that walk? If you just keep walking and never find the light?”

Jeeny: “Then the walking itself becomes the light.”

Host: The flame of the nearest candle fluttered, as though stirred by her words. The air seemed to listen.

Jack: “You really believe that faith makes knowledge?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because knowledge without faith is just data. Facts without meaning. It’s like knowing the anatomy of a flower but never smelling its fragrance.”

Jack: “So, what — science tells us how, and faith tells us why?”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “Then why does the world still burn with people who claim to know the ‘why’? Wars, hatred, crusades — all in the name of faith.”

Jeeny: “Because that’s not faith, Jack. That’s ego wearing faith’s skin.”

Host: A faint roll of thunder murmured outside, distant but deliberate. Jack stood and began to pace slowly between the pews, his boots echoing softly on the stone floor.

Jack: “You sound so certain. Like you’ve seen something I haven’t.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I just listened to something you keep ignoring.”

Jack: “I’ve listened. I’ve prayed. And all I heard was silence.”

Jeeny: “Silence isn’t absence.”

Jack: “Then what is it?”

Jeeny: “An invitation.”

Host: Her eyes lifted toward the altar — simple, wooden, unadorned except for a single white cross. The faint hum of rain returned, gentle as breath against the stained glass.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the story of Abraham?”

Jack: “The one about nearly sacrificing his son?”

Jeeny: “Yes. That wasn’t about obedience. It was about trust — the kind that defies reason. Faith doesn’t erase fear. It just keeps walking despite it.”

Jack: “That’s madness.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s courage.”

Host: Jack stopped pacing. His hands trembled — barely noticeable, but real. He turned toward her, his voice low.

Jack: “You talk about trust in God like it’s easy. Like it’s just a decision you make and then everything falls into place.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. It’s the hardest thing in the world. But it’s the only thing that makes the world bearable.”

Jack: “You think faith can feed the hungry? Heal the sick? Stop bullets?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can make us care enough to try.”

Host: A long pause followed. The only sound was the steady drip from a leak in the roof, a slow rhythm echoing through the hollow space.

Jack: “You really think faith is stronger than knowledge?”

Jeeny: “I think they complete each other. Faith tells knowledge where to look — and knowledge gives faith something to stand on.”

Jack: “And when knowledge disproves faith?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe what we called faith wasn’t faith at all — just certainty.”

Host: The candles burned lower. The faint smoke curled upward like the souls of forgotten prayers. Jack sat again, his face buried in his hands.

Jack: “You know, my mother used to pray every night. She said God never left her side. Then she got sick. I prayed too — for the first time in years. And she still died.”

Jeeny: “I’m sorry.”

Jack: “Don’t be. That was the day I stopped believing.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe that was the day your faith began.”

Host: He looked up, startled — his eyes raw, his voice edged with disbelief.

Jack: “How can losing everything be the start of anything?”

Jeeny: “Because faith isn’t born in answers, Jack. It’s born in the void — when everything breaks, and you still whisper ‘I’ll try again tomorrow.’”

Host: Her words hung in the air, fragile but unyielding. Jack’s eyes softened, the wall behind them beginning to crack.

Jack: “You make it sound like pain is sacred.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. It humbles us. It teaches us how small we are, and how big grace can be.”

Jack: “Grace. That word always sounds too soft for the world.”

Jeeny: “It’s not soft. It’s strong enough to hold all our breaking.”

Host: The rain outside began to fall harder now, each drop striking the roof like a heartbeat. The candles trembled, the shadows deepened. Jeeny stood and walked slowly toward the altar.

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t about seeing God in the light, Jack. It’s about feeling Him in the dark.”

Jack: “And what if the dark never ends?”

Jeeny: “Then you become the light.”

Host: She lit another candle, the flame flaring briefly before steadying. The small glow spread across her face, warm and radiant, as if the act itself was a kind of prayer.

Jack watched her for a long moment. His shoulders slumped, his eyes weary but alive again.

Jack: “You make it sound… possible. To believe again.”

Jeeny: “It’s always possible. Even doubt is a kind of faith — faith in your own honesty.”

Jack: “You really think God listens?”

Jeeny: “Always. But sometimes He waits — because the silence teaches us to listen back.”

Host: The rain softened again, now steady, soothing, almost melodic. The church no longer felt empty. It felt vast — alive.

Jack rose and walked toward the altar, standing beside Jeeny. He looked at the flame she had lit, its reflection flickering in his eyes.

Jack: “To believe but wish belief to be strengthened…”
He spoke the quote slowly, as if tasting each word.
“That’s me, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “It’s all of us.”

Host: The two of them stood in silence, watching the candle burn. The light danced on their faces — hers serene, his uncertain, but both drawn toward the same warmth.

Outside, the storm had passed. The clouds parted just enough for a single beam of moonlight to break through, painting the floor in silver.

Jack: “So faith isn’t about finding God.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s about trusting that He’s already found you.”

Host: The bell in the church tower rang once — low, deep, eternal.

And in that sound, something small yet vast stirred inside Jack — not certainty, not proof, but the beginning of surrender.

The beginning of faith.

Host: As the final candle burned steady in the stillness, their shadows stretched long and unbroken across the floor — two souls standing at the fragile, luminous edge between knowledge and trust, silence and prayer, doubt and love.

And from that edge, quietly, something unseen — yet utterly real — was born.