Ultimately, blind faith is the only kind.

Host: The cathedral was almost empty — its high stone arches swallowed sound like an ocean swallows light. Candles flickered along the side aisles, their small golden flames trembling against the vastness.
Outside, the city roared in the distance — a modern storm of sirens, phones, and headlines — but in here, there was only the soft echo of breath, the faint scrape of wood on stone.

Jack sat near the back, his coat folded neatly beside him, his eyes half-lowered. The air around him smelled faintly of wax, dust, and silence.
Jeeny entered quietly, her footsteps soft, her shadow stretching long across the pews. She didn’t sit right away — she stood before the altar, hands clasped loosely, as if in question, not prayer.

The stained glass above them caught what little moonlight slipped through the clouds, and the color of that light — red, blue, fractured gold — fell upon their faces like the memory of faith.

Jeeny: “Mason Cooley once said, ‘Ultimately, blind faith is the only kind.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “Blind faith. Sounds like an insult, doesn’t it?”

Jeeny: “Maybe to reason. But maybe not to the soul.”

Jack: “Faith without evidence — that’s just surrender.”

Jeeny: “Or courage. Depends on how you define blindness.”

Host: A soft creak echoed through the rafters. Somewhere, a candle guttered out. The darkness that filled its absence was small, but noticeable — like a breath withheld.

Jack: “People talk about faith like it’s a virtue. But faith without sight — it’s like crossing a bridge with no planks, hoping gravity changes its mind halfway through.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point. Faith isn’t meant to be safe. It’s meant to be surrender to the invisible — the act of trusting what can’t be proven.”

Jack: “Then it’s not knowledge. It’s gamble.”

Jeeny: “No. Knowledge tells you what is. Faith believes in what could be. They’re different muscles of the same heart.”

Host: The wind pressed against the stained glass, making it tremble in its frame. The colored light shimmered on the marble floor — alive, uncertain, moving.

Jack: “You know, I think Cooley meant something darker. That all faith — even reasoned faith — is blind at its core. We tell ourselves it’s based on something solid, but deep down, every belief is a guess we’ve chosen to love.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s beautiful, though. The idea that faith is love disguised as certainty.”

Jack: “Or madness disguised as meaning.”

Jeeny: “You sound like Nietzsche’s tired cousin.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “And you sound like someone who’s still praying to the silence.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. But tell me this — haven’t you ever believed in something before you could explain it? Before you had proof?”

Jack: “Sure. People. Music. Moments. But I learned eventually — everything you believe in too blindly can hurt you.”

Jeeny: “That’s not faith’s fault. That’s expectation’s.”

Host: A silence fell between them, deep and almost holy. The candlelight flickered across Jeeny’s eyes, making them gleam like small, deliberate stars.

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t meant to be logical, Jack. It’s meant to be felt. It’s the one thing we practice without rehearsal.”

Jack: “But if it’s blind, doesn’t that make it dangerous?”

Jeeny: “So is love.”

Jack: “Touché.”

Host: She moved closer, sitting beside him now. The cold stone beneath the pew seeped through their coats. The organ pipes above loomed like ribs of some vast, sleeping creature.

Jeeny: “You think scientists have faith?”

Jack: “They’d never admit it.”

Jeeny: “But they do. Faith in discovery, in order, in the next equation. Every hypothesis is a small leap into the unseen. Faith just wears a lab coat instead of a robe.”

Jack: “Then maybe blind faith isn’t religion. Maybe it’s human instinct — the bridge between knowledge and desire.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Blindness isn’t ignorance. It’s bravery in the dark.”

Host: The last of the candles flickered. The darkness deepened — not menacing, but intimate. The air felt almost alive, as if listening.

Jack: “But there’s a cost to believing without seeing. What if we’re wrong?”

Jeeny: “Then we fall. And maybe that’s still holy. Because faith doesn’t promise success — only motion.”

Jack: “So faith is the courage to move even when the map is blank.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And to still believe the path is worth walking.”

Host: A bell struck somewhere deep in the cathedral — low, resonant, each note echoing like a pulse through stone.

Jack: “You know, when Cooley said that line, I think he was stripping faith down to its bones. He wasn’t mocking it. He was saying that all faith — whether in God, in people, in purpose — starts with blindness. You step forward before you see.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Like evolution. Every leap of progress began in the dark — someone dared to act before knowing the outcome.”

Jack: “Faith as the origin of every discovery.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Blindness as the birthplace of vision.”

Host: The moonlight broke through the clouds outside, flooding the stained glass with sudden clarity. For a heartbeat, the entire cathedral shimmered — the colors alive, the air thick with something ancient, ineffable, real.

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe that’s what faith is — walking through darkness until light becomes a habit.”

Jack: “And trusting that, even if it doesn’t, you’ll still keep walking.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it sacred.”

Host: The light dimmed again, but something had shifted. The air no longer felt hollow — it hummed with quiet understanding.

Jeeny: “Blind faith isn’t blindness to truth. It’s blindness to fear.”

Jack: “And to control.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s saying, ‘I don’t know, but I still trust.’ That’s not stupidity. That’s strength.”

Jack: “Then maybe Mason Cooley was right — blind faith is the only kind. Because the moment you see, it stops being faith.”

Jeeny: “And becomes fact. Cold, small, unbreathing.”

Jack: “But faith, even blind, still breathes.”

Jeeny: “It’s what keeps the dark from feeling empty.”

Host: The two sat there for a long time, not speaking, not needing to. The silence around them was no longer just absence — it was presence.
Somewhere in that stillness, between reason and hope, between doubt and devotion, the essence of Cooley’s words came alive:

That faith, to be real, must risk everything.
That to believe is to step forward without sight,
to trust the invisible until it becomes visible.

That all human progress, all love, all courage
begins not with certainty,
but with the decision to walk anyway.

Host: Jeeny stood, pulling her scarf around her neck.

Jeeny: “You coming?”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Eventually. Just want to listen a little longer.”

Host: She nodded and walked toward the great wooden doors. He stayed, watching her shadow stretch, then vanish into the night beyond.

And as the doors closed softly behind her, the cathedral exhaled —
the candles flickered once more —
and in the quiet heart of that vast, indifferent world,
a man sat still,
trusting the dark
to lead him home.