We Catholics must admit that there is a constant temptation among

Host: The church was nearly empty — a cavern of stone and echoes, its vastness lit by the soft glow of flickering candles. Dust floated like incense in the golden light slanting through the stained-glass windows, where saints gazed down in eternal stillness. The air smelled of wax, wood polish, and the faint, lingering scent of prayer.

Host: Jack sat in the back pew, his hands folded, elbows on his knees, staring at the altar as though it were an unanswered question. Jeeny knelt beside him, her rosary twined between her fingers, lips unmoving, eyes open — as though she wasn’t praying, but listening.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Richard Rohr once said, ‘We Catholics must admit that there is a constant temptation among us to avoid the lectionary and the Word of God for private and pious devotions that usually have little power to actually change us or call our ego assumptions into question.’”

Jack: (without lifting his head) “That sounds like something a priest would say right before reminding you you’re doing faith wrong.”

Jeeny: (half-smiling) “No, Jack. It sounds like something a man says after realizing faith’s supposed to hurt a little.”

Host: The organist practiced faintly in the distance — a hymn’s melody stumbling through its rehearsal, imperfect but sincere.

Jack: “So Rohr’s saying prayer isn’t enough?”

Jeeny: “He’s saying prayer’s not meant to be comfort food. It’s meant to be transformation.”

Jack: “Transformation’s overrated. I just come here to sit still for a while.”

Jeeny: “That’s the problem. Most of us mistake stillness for surrender.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but her words carried weight. The candles beside the altar trembled slightly in the draft.

Jack: “I grew up Catholic, you know. Mass every Sunday, confession twice a month, fish on Fridays. We did all the rituals. But nobody ever looked happy about it. It was like a slow endurance test for guilt.”

Jeeny: “That’s not faith, Jack. That’s conditioning.”

Jack: “Well, it worked. I’m perfectly guilty — and still here.”

Jeeny: “Because some part of you believes there’s something real buried underneath all that repetition.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just nostalgia for meaning.”

Host: A single beam of light fell across his face, catching the fatigue in his eyes — the kind of tired that’s deeper than sleep.

Jeeny: “You know what Rohr’s getting at? We like religion that lets us stay in control. Devotions that make us feel good, not ones that dismantle us.”

Jack: “So what? We’re supposed to let the Bible dismantle us?”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s supposed to rearrange you. Not comfort your ego, but confront it.”

Jack: (grimly) “Well, that explains why church attendance is down.”

Jeeny: “Truth’s never been a popular sermon.”

Host: The organ music stopped. Silence expanded, deep and sacred. Somewhere near the front, a lone candle hissed, guttering against its wick.

Jack: “You really believe God wants to question our assumptions?”

Jeeny: “If He doesn’t, then He’s just a mirror for our own reflection.”

Jack: “And what’s wrong with that?”

Jeeny: “Because that kind of God never surprises you — never challenges you. And if your God always agrees with you, He’s not God. He’s an idol with better manners.”

Host: Jack turned, looking at her — not mockingly, not skeptically, just studying her like a mystery he wanted to resist but couldn’t ignore.

Jack: “You sound like you’re angry with religion.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m angry at what we’ve turned it into — a comfort system instead of a confrontation.”

Jack: “You really think most people are ready to be confronted?”

Jeeny: “Ready? Never. But we need it anyway. That’s what Rohr means. We cling to pious habits — rosaries, novenas, holy cards — but the Word itself… it cuts deeper. It tells us who we really are.”

Jack: “You talk like faith’s supposed to be surgery.”

Jeeny: “It is. The divine scalpel on the ego.”

Host: The church bells tolled in the distance — slow, heavy notes that seemed to fall through the rafters. The sound carried the weight of centuries.

Jack: “You know, I used to envy people who prayed like it fixed things. My mother would kneel for hours, whispering through her beads, like she was trading pain for salvation. But the day she died, she still looked scared.”

Jeeny: “Because prayer doesn’t erase fear. It makes space for it. Maybe she didn’t realize that.”

Jack: (quietly) “Or maybe she just wanted to believe it could be easy.”

Jeeny: “So do we all.”

Host: She stood then, walking toward the altar, her footsteps echoing softly. She stopped before the crucifix, her silhouette framed by the faint glow of colored light.

Jeeny: “Look at Him. Rohr calls it the mirror of suffering — the moment when God stopped pretending He was above pain. That’s not religion. That’s truth.”

Jack: (from the pew) “So what? We’re supposed to stare at a dead man and find comfort?”

Jeeny: “No. We’re supposed to stare and realize how afraid we are of dying before we’ve lived truthfully.”

Host: Her voice trembled — not with weakness, but with reverence.

Jack: (softly) “You really believe the Word of God can change us?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s the only thing that ever really does. But only if we let it question us — not the other way around.”

Host: Jack stood, walking slowly toward her. The light through the stained glass touched his face — red, then blue, then gold — as if every doubt in him was being painted into color.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I used to sit here and ask for miracles. I’d bargain with God — ‘Just fix this, just help me, just give me one sign.’ Now I don’t ask. I just sit. Sometimes, that feels worse.”

Jeeny: “That’s because silence isn’t absence. It’s invitation.”

Jack: “Invitation to what?”

Jeeny: “To grow up. To stop worshiping the idea of God and start knowing the reality of Him.”

Host: The rain began again, soft and patient against the high windows. Somewhere, a priest’s quiet footsteps echoed, then faded.

Jack: “You really think faith without comfort is worth having?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only faith worth having. Anything else is sentiment.”

Jack: “You’re not afraid of doubt?”

Jeeny: “No. Doubt is holy. It means you’re still wrestling with something real.”

Host: Jack looked up at the crucifix — the figure suspended, head bowed, caught between agony and transcendence.

Jack: (softly) “He doesn’t look peaceful.”

Jeeny: “No. He looks human. That’s why it matters.”

Host: The candles flickered once more. The shadows danced across the stone.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack, Rohr’s not condemning devotion. He’s warning us — don’t hide behind it. Don’t let it keep you from hearing the Word that dismantles you, because that’s where the transformation starts.”

Jack: (whispering) “And maybe that’s what faith really is — letting something bigger than you rewrite your story.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Even when it erases the parts you liked.”

Host: The silence that followed was sacred. Neither moved, neither prayed aloud. The air shimmered with that peculiar holiness that comes not from certainty, but from surrender.

Host: Outside, the rain fell steady. Inside, two souls stood beneath a God they didn’t fully understand, but could finally feel.

Host: And in that quiet sanctuary of imperfection and grace, Richard Rohr’s words came alive — not as a rebuke, but as revelation:
that true faith isn’t found in pious routines or ritual comfort, but in the raw, unsettling encounter with the Word that asks everything of us — especially the courage to change.

Host: The candles burned low. The light through the glass turned soft. And for the first time, neither of them felt small before the altar — only real.