We like security: we like the pope to be infallible in matters of

Host: The cathedral square was almost empty, wrapped in the deep blue of twilight. The faint echo of church bells drifted through the mist, each note trembling against the stone walls. The air smelled of incense and wet marble, and the cobblestones still glistened with the memory of rain.

Jack and Jeeny sat beneath the arches, a single candle between them, its flame bending in the soft wind. Behind them, the great doors of the cathedral loomed — shut, solemn, timeless. It was the kind of place where even silence had a voice.

Jack’s coat was damp, his hair unkempt from the drizzle. Jeeny’s scarf clung gently to her neck, her eyes calm but searching.

Jack: “Pascal was right, you know. We like security. We like someone to tell us what’s right, what’s true — to keep us safe from the storm of uncertainty. The pope, the doctor, the expert — they’re not just people, they’re anchors. Without them, the world spins too fast.”

Jeeny: “And yet anchors can drown ships too, Jack. We cling to certainty so tightly we forget how to swim. Sometimes I think we don’t seek truth — we just seek permission to stop thinking.”

Host: A faint wind rustled through the archway, flickering the candle. Jack’s eyes caught the light — grey, reflective, like wet steel.

Jack: “That’s easy to say when you’re not responsible for others. But when you lead, when people depend on you, doubt becomes dangerous. It infects. Certainty — even false certainty — keeps order.”

Jeeny: “Order built on illusion is still chaos, Jack, just quieter. You talk as if truth is dangerous, but maybe the real danger is comfort. Look at the history of faith — every time someone claimed infallibility, darkness followed.”

Host: A bell tolled again — slower this time, like a heartbeat echoing through the stone. Jack looked toward the cathedral doors, his voice dropping low.

Jack: “So you’d rather live in confusion? You think people can handle a world where no one’s sure? Most can’t. That’s why they want popes, prophets, politicians — someone to tell them what’s right so they can stop being afraid.”

Jeeny: “But fear isn’t cured by obedience, Jack. It’s cured by understanding. People don’t need infallibility — they need honesty. Even Christ, when he doubted on the cross, showed us that divinity doesn’t mean certainty.”

Host: The rain began again — soft, like the breath of confession. The candle flame danced, throwing shadows of their faces on the stone wall behind them, two silhouettes that wavered and blended like questions without answers.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic, but let’s be real. People crave certainty because it’s survival. From the beginning — cavemen, kings, citizens — everyone wanted someone to say, ‘This is the way.’ It’s human nature. Faith is just another form of insurance.”

Jeeny: “Insurance against what? The truth? The unknown? Maybe uncertainty is the only honest prayer we have left. When we surrender to mystery, we stop pretending to control it.”

Jack: “Mystery doesn’t feed the hungry, Jeeny. It doesn’t heal the sick or guide nations. Faith without leadership is anarchy.”

Jeeny: “And leadership without humility is tyranny. Look at history — the Inquisition burned heretics to defend certainty. The doctors of morality once declared slavery ‘natural law.’ Every age’s infallibility becomes the next generation’s sin.”

Host: The words hung in the damp air like smoke, rising and dissolving into the night. Jack shifted, his hands tightening around his knees, his jawline tense.

Jack: “So what do you suggest? A world of endless questioning? No final answers, no truths to stand on?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because truth isn’t a stone, Jack — it’s a river. You can stand in it, but you can’t hold it.”

Host: The candle sputtered, then steadied. The rain eased to a drizzle, each drop echoing softly on the stones around them.

Jack: “You always speak in riddles. You think people find comfort in rivers? They want land beneath their feet.”

Jeeny: “And they drown trying to own it. You see, our craving for certainty is just fear wearing faith’s clothing. We ask the world to be infallible because we’re terrified of being wrong.”

Jack: “Maybe. But fear keeps us alive. Doubt, left unchecked, can tear societies apart. When everyone’s a philosopher, no one acts. Someone has to draw the line.”

Jeeny: “Then let the line be drawn in sand, not stone. That way, it can move when the tide changes.”

Host: A distant choir began to sing — faintly, as if from within the cathedral walls, voices rising through layers of stone and centuries of belief. The sound was both beautiful and haunting, like a memory of faith itself.

Jack: “You sound like one of those reformers who got themselves exiled or executed. You think humanity can live without absolutes?”

Jeeny: “It already does. Every time science revises itself, every time love changes form, every time someone forgives what they swore they never would — that’s life without absolutes. That’s grace.”

Host: The choir’s hymn grew clearer — Latin words melting into air, their meaning lost but their emotion unmistakable. Jack’s eyes softened, the fight in his tone dissolving into something quieter, almost reverent.

Jack: “You ever wonder, Jeeny… maybe we don’t want infallibility because we trust authority. Maybe we want it because we don’t trust ourselves.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why Pascal was right — we like the pope to be infallible so we can feel reassured. We outsource our doubt. We sell our conscience for peace.”

Host: The candlelight caught in Jeeny’s eyes, turning them into mirrors of flame. For a long moment, neither spoke. The rain had stopped. Only the choir remained — voices climbing toward something beyond comprehension.

Jack: “You know… maybe faith isn’t about being sure. Maybe it’s about standing in uncertainty and choosing to believe anyway.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s the only faith that matters — the kind that trembles, but still holds on.”

Host: The camera would pull back slowly — from the candle, from the arch, from their quiet figures beneath the cathedral’s vast shadow. The hymn would fade, leaving only the heartbeat of rain returning on the rooftops.

And in the dim glow, the narrator’s final voice would whisper like prayer:

“We crave infallibility because we fear the mirror of our own fallibility. Yet it is in the trembling, not the certainty, that our faith becomes real. To believe without reassurance — that is the highest courage of all.”

The candle flame finally flickered out, and the screen fell to darkness — not with fear, but with peace.