What is faith? If you believe something because you have evidence

Host: The night had a cold, thinking stillness — the kind that makes every streetlamp feel like a philosopher. The café was nearly empty, chairs half-turned, windows fogged from breath and rain. The city outside was nothing but reflection — wet asphalt, streaks of neon, the faint glow of passing cars that looked more like memories than motion.

Jack sat at a small corner table, the light from a single overhead bulb catching the rim of his coffee cup. He stirred it absently, eyes fixed on the dark swirl inside, as though the universe itself might appear there if he stared long enough. Jeeny sat across from him, her fingers tracing the condensation on her glass of water, her posture calm but her gaze sharp — the stillness before a storm of thought.

Jack: “Peter Singer said, ‘What is faith? If you believe something because you have evidence for it, or rational argument, that is not faith. So faith seems to be believing something despite the absence of evidence or rational argument for it.’”

He leaned back, his grey eyes distant. “That’s what’s always bothered me about faith, Jeeny. It asks you to stop thinking. It demands obedience from the mind.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly. “It demands courage from the soul.”

Host: The rain outside intensified — a sudden, heavy rhythm, as though the night had started clapping for their debate.

Jack: “Courage? Believing without proof? That’s not courage, that’s blindness. Faith is just hope wearing a blindfold.”

Jeeny: “And logic is fear pretending it’s wisdom.”

Host: Her words landed gently, but they left a mark. She leaned forward, her eyes alive with the conviction of someone who had wrestled with both reason and grace.

Jeeny: “You think faith and reason are enemies because you’ve only ever trusted what you can measure. But tell me — have you ever loved anyone rationally?”

Jack: “Love’s not faith. It’s biology. It’s hormones, attachment, chemical conditioning.”

Jeeny: “Then explain why people still love those who’ve died. The body’s gone. The chemistry’s over. Yet the feeling remains.”

Jack: “That’s memory, not divinity.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s faith — the belief that something invisible still exists even when logic has left the room.”

Host: The light above them flickered, like an eyelid hesitating to close. The sound of the rain softened again, but the tension between them did not.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing ignorance. If faith means believing without evidence, then it’s just permission to believe anything — even lies. That’s how people get manipulated.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the world’s greatest acts — kindness, rebellion, forgiveness — all begin with belief in something unseen. Faith isn’t about avoiding truth; it’s about reaching for it when logic runs out of road.”

Host: He tapped his fingers on the table, restless, like a man trying to outthink his own heartbeat.

Jack: “You sound like every preacher I’ve avoided.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because preachers talk about God, and I’m talking about you.”

Jack: “Me?”

Jeeny: “Yes. You have faith every time you get out of bed thinking the day will be worth living. You have faith when you love someone enough to trust they won’t leave. You have faith in your own survival, even after everything you’ve doubted.”

Host: Her voice softened, but her gaze did not waver. “You see, faith isn’t about gods or churches. It’s about endurance — the unseen agreement between despair and tomorrow.”

Jack: “So it’s existential optimism.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s existential defiance.”

Host: The café’s clock ticked audibly now — the rhythm of thought made sound.

Jack: “You think believing without proof makes us strong. I think it makes us dangerous. Every war, every cult, every injustice has been fueled by faith that refused to question itself.”

Jeeny: “And every movement that healed the world began with faith that refused to give up.”

Jack: “Faith is what makes men burn witches.”

Jeeny: “And faith is what made people hide them from the flames.”

Host: Silence fell — a silence not of surrender, but of reflection. The rain slowed, the world outside seeming to listen.

Jack: “You really believe in it, don’t you? Faith — in something you can’t prove.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because I’ve seen proof fail too many times.”

Jack: “What do you mean?”

Jeeny: “Logic can explain how a heart beats. But it can’t explain why it breaks — or why it heals. Faith begins where understanding ends.”

Jack: “That sounds comforting. But comfort doesn’t make it true.”

Jeeny: “And evidence doesn’t make it meaningful.”

Host: He laughed softly — not mockingly, but like someone realizing the trap of his own intelligence.

Jack: “So faith is the poetry to reason’s prose?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And you can’t live on logic alone. It tells you what is — but faith tells you why.”

Host: He looked at her, really looked, his eyes tracing the quiet certainty on her face.

Jack: “You ever doubt your faith?”

Jeeny: “Every day.”

Jack: “Then what keeps it alive?”

Jeeny: “The same thing that keeps you doubting — honesty. Faith without doubt isn’t faith. It’s programming.”

Host: The bulb above them buzzed faintly, casting long shadows across the table — one light, two skeptics, both caught in the paradox of belief.

Jack: “You know, I envy that. I envy being able to believe in something without proof.”

Jeeny: “Don’t envy it, Jack. It’s not easy. Faith is fragile. It shakes. It screams. It breaks sometimes. But it always rebuilds itself — smaller maybe, but sharper.”

Jack: “So it’s not certainty.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s courage in uncertainty.”

Host: The rain stopped completely now. The café felt suspended — time holding its breath, waiting for them to reach the quiet truth beneath the argument.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Singer meant to expose — that faith isn’t logic’s rival, it’s its aftermath. The human need to keep believing when logic can’t comfort you anymore.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith isn’t the absence of evidence; it’s the presence of longing. We believe not because we’re blind — but because we see too far for proof to reach.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked over to midnight. The neon sign outside flickered — OPEN becoming PEN, as if inviting them to write their own ending.

Jack looked at her, his expression softened by fatigue and a faint, reluctant awe.

Jack: “You think that’s what makes us human? The refusal to stop believing, even when the evidence says we should?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because reason builds the world. But faith keeps us in it.”

Host: They sat in silence then, the kind that isn’t empty but earned. The last flicker of the bulb dimmed to a warm glow — like truth, partial but enough to see by.

And in that dim café, with the world washed clean by rain and thought, Peter Singer’s words floated between them — no longer an accusation, but a question reborn:

“What is faith?”

Perhaps, in that moment, it wasn’t blindness or defiance at all.
Perhaps it was the trembling bridge between knowing and needing —
the fragile, human act of believing
just enough to keep walking into the dark.