Well, I affirm orthodox Christian faith. I affirm the Nicene

Host: The cathedral stood like a sleeping giant under the pale moonlight, its stone arches rising into the mist like frozen prayers. Inside, the air smelled of wax, wood, and memory. Candles flickered along the pews, their flames bowing and swaying in invisible currents.

In the far corner, beneath a stained-glass window depicting saints and stars, Jack and Jeeny sat in silence. The world outside had gone dark and quiet — but within, something ancient stirred.

A single candle between them cast a trembling halo over their faces.

Jeeny: “Rob Bell once said, ‘I affirm orthodox Christian faith. I affirm the Nicene Creed. I don’t think I’m doing anything terribly new.’”

Jack: leans back, his voice low and measured “Funny, isn’t it? People always say they’re not doing anything new right before they change everything.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because truth isn’t about invention, Jack. It’s about rediscovery. Sometimes reaffirming what’s old is the most radical thing you can do.”

Jack: “Or the safest. Depends on your motive.”

Host: The candles trembled as a faint breeze slipped through the cathedral doors. The light danced across the walls, illuminating dust like tiny, drifting souls.

Jack’s eyes, cold and grey, watched the flame with analytical focus, as though studying the nature of belief itself. Jeeny’s gaze was softer — reverent, almost tender, as if she saw divinity in the flicker.

Jack: “I’ve always wondered what people mean when they say they ‘affirm faith.’ It’s not like checking a box on a form. Faith’s not a static thing. It’s... fluid. Messy. Sometimes, it feels like a storm pretending to be peace.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the beauty of it. Faith isn’t the absence of doubt — it’s choosing love, choosing trust, even when reason trembles. The Nicene Creed isn’t just a doctrine. It’s a heartbeat — centuries old, still alive.”

Jack: smirks faintly “Alive, sure. But relevant? I don’t know. That creed was written in 325 AD. A world of emperors and heresies. Today we’ve got algorithms, wars of identity, virtual gods. You think the same words can anchor this generation?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not anchor. But remind. The human ache hasn’t changed, Jack — just its language. The Creed isn’t a relic; it’s a mirror. It reminds us what we used to believe we could be.”

Jack: “And you think reciting words from the fourth century is going to heal twenty-first-century wounds?”

Jeeny: “It’s not the words. It’s what they represent — unity, humility, the acknowledgment of something greater than ourselves.”

Host: The organ in the distance gave a low, hollow sigh — a ghostly note that trembled through the stone. A single pigeon cooed from the rafters, the sound small and strangely human.

Jeeny traced a finger along the wooden pew, her touch light, reverent. Jack looked up toward the vast, shadowed ceiling, as if daring heaven to speak.

Jack: “I think people cling to creeds because they fear chaos. Order feels like safety. But faith — real faith — it’s chaos. It’s jumping off the ledge not knowing if there’s ground.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s despair. Faith is knowing there’s ground, even if you can’t see it yet.”

Jack: chuckles dryly “That’s optimism disguised as theology.”

Jeeny: “Call it what you want. It’s still courage.”

Jack: “Courage or delusion — thin line.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But the same thin line gave birth to every act of compassion in human history. Every martyr, every reformer, every mother who forgave what the world said was unforgivable — they all walked that line.”

Host: The light from the stained-glass window broke into shards of color on the floor — crimson, gold, and azure, bleeding together like fractured hope. The air shimmered with quiet tension, both intellectual and sacred.

Jack: “So, Rob Bell says he affirms the Nicene Creed. But his whole career’s been about reinterpreting it, challenging orthodoxy, bending the edges. You think that’s affirmation? Or rebellion with a polite face?”

Jeeny: “Rebellion can be affirmation, Jack. Sometimes the most faithful thing you can do is question the faith you inherited. Christ himself questioned the temple.”

Jack: “Yeah — and they crucified him for it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Which means truth doesn’t belong to the comfortable.”

Jack: “But then what’s the point of orthodoxy? If everyone’s free to reinterpret it, it loses structure — it becomes soup.”

Jeeny: “Not if the reinterpretation keeps the heart. Orthodoxy without love is stone. But love without grounding is smoke. The Creed gives shape to fire — not to contain it, but to keep it from burning the world down.”

Jack: pauses, intrigued despite himself “That’s poetic. Dangerous, too. Fire wants freedom.”

Jeeny: “So does the soul. But even freedom needs form — otherwise it dissolves into meaninglessness.”

Host: The clock tower above them chimed once — a deep, resonant toll that filled the cathedral like a slow heartbeat. The flame between them wavered, then steadied.

For a moment, both were silent, lost in the weight of centuries pressing down around them.

Jack: quietly “You really believe the old creeds still speak? That the Nicene words — ‘We believe in one God, the Father Almighty’ — still mean something beyond ritual?”

Jeeny: “They mean as much as we let them. Every generation has to translate its faith into its own language. The Creed isn’t dead — it’s waiting for us to speak it with new tongues.”

Jack: “But isn’t that dangerous? You start translating too much, you lose the original meaning.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what faith is — the art of losing and finding meaning again.”

Jack: “Sounds exhausting.”

Jeeny: smiles softly “So is love. But it’s the only thing that lasts.”

Host: A gust of wind blew through the open doorway, scattering a few loose pages from a hymnal across the aisle. One fluttered toward Jack, landing face-up near his hand. The page read: Credo in unum Deum.

He stared at it for a long moment.

Jack: quietly “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the Creed isn’t about control. Maybe it’s a reminder — that there’s something bigger than our endless need to redefine everything.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not to cage mystery, but to remind us it exists.”

Jack: “And maybe affirming it isn’t an act of tradition — but of humility.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To say, ‘I believe,’ isn’t to claim you understand. It’s to admit you don’t — but you trust anyway.”

Jack: looks up at the stained glass again, eyes softer now “Then maybe Rob Bell wasn’t doing anything new after all.”

Jeeny: “No. Maybe he was just remembering something the rest of us forgot — that faith doesn’t need to be invented. It just needs to be lived.”

Host: The last candle flickered out, leaving only the moonlight streaming through the glass — fractured, imperfect, but still illuminating the dust in the air.

Jack stood slowly, his shadow tall and thin against the wall. Jeeny rose beside him, her eyes reflecting the pale blue glow of belief made visible.

They walked toward the door, the echo of their footsteps blending with the soft rustle of the night.

And as they stepped into the cool air, the cathedral seemed to breathe again — its silence no longer empty, but full.

Because faith, they realized, isn’t about finding something new.
It’s about daring to see the ancient light still burning,
and choosing, despite everything, to call it true.