You just have to have a simple faith.

Host: The sunlight filtered through the church windows, golden dust drifting in the air like slow snow. The pews were empty, except for Jack and Jeeny, sitting near the back, their voices echoing softly against the wooden walls.

Outside, the winter afternoon was quiet, muted, the world wrapped in cold air and stillness. The stained glass threw fragments of color on the floor—red, blue, green, fading as the sun moved.

In that silence, Jeeny’s voice broke the calm, gentle yet certain.

Jeeny: “Jimmy Carter once said, ‘You just have to have a simple faith.’”

Jack: “Simple faith,” he repeated, his grey eyes fixed on the crucifix at the front. “There’s an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one.”

Host: A clock ticked somewhere in the distance. The sound was steady, measured, like a heartbeat that refused to fade.

Jeeny: “You think faith has to be complicated?”

Jack: “No. I think life is. Which makes faith—simple or not—a kind of blindfold.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not a blindfold, Jack. Maybe it’s the only light that’s left when you’ve stopped seeing.”

Jack: “Or the only lie we teach ourselves so we can sleep at night.”

Host: A ray of light fell across Jack’s face, cutting through the shadows. His hands were tight, his jaw set — the look of a man who believed in control, but was tired of trying to hold it.

Jeeny: “You’ve lost something, haven’t you?”

Jack: “I’ve lost the luxury of belief, Jeeny. That’s what time does to you. It strips the magic out of things. You see too much. You learn too much. And the more you understand, the less you can believe.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’ve mistaken understanding for wisdom.”

Jack: “You think they’re not the same?”

Jeeny: “No. Understanding is seeing the mechanism; wisdom is feeling the meaning. They look similar, but they move differently.”

Host: The light shifted, illuminating the altar — a simple wooden table, a Bible, a single candle still burning, its flame flickering in the draft. The air smelled faintly of wax and old prayer books.

Jack: “I envy people who can just believe. Who can sit in a place like this and feel something divine. But I can’t. I see politics, history, power. Not God.”

Jeeny: “And yet Jimmy Carter did. A man who lived in the dirtiest world — politics — and still kept his faith. That’s what makes it simple, Jack. Not naïve, not blind — simple. It’s the kind of faith that survives the mud.”

Jack: “Faith that survives the mud still ends up dirty.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the point — it’s human. Faith isn’t about purity; it’s about persistence.”

Host: The wind rattled the old windowpanes, breaking the silence. Dust swirled in the light, moving like spirits unseen.

Jeeny: “You know, my mother used to light a candle every night, even when the power was on. I once asked her why. She said, ‘So I remember there’s more light than I can see.’ That’s what simple faith is, Jack — choosing to see what’s not visible.”

Jack: “That sounds like denial dressed as poetry.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s hope dressed as humility.”

Host: The tone between them shifted — from debate to confession, from sharp edges to raw honesty.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I used to pray before sleep. I’d ask for things — safety, luck, answers. And for a while, it worked. Then one night, my father got sick, and I prayed harder than I ever had. But he died anyway. That’s when I stopped.”

Jeeny: “You didn’t stop, Jack. You just changed the address of your questions. You started asking the world instead of God.”

Jack: “And the world doesn’t answer.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it does, just not in words.”

Host: The church creaked, an old building breathing. A beam of light landed on Jeeny’s face, highlighting the soft curve of her cheek, the resolve in her eyes.

Jeeny: “Jimmy Carter built houses with his own hands for people he’d never meet again. That was his faith. Doing, not declaring. Serving, not preaching. Maybe that’s the simple faith he meant — not a belief in miracles, but in kindness.”

Jack: “Kindness as religion. That’s… dangerously practical.”

Jeeny: “Why not? Kindness is the only miracle that’s replicable. The only one we can control.”

Host: The candle flickered, its flame thinning, bending, then steadying again. The air felt warmer, closer, as if the walls themselves were listening.

Jack: “So you’re saying, faith isn’t about God?”

Jeeny: “It’s about trust. Trust in goodness, trust in people, trust that light is worth protecting even when you’re surrounded by dark.”

Jack: “And what if the light goes out?”

Jeeny: “Then you light another one.”

Host: A silence fell again, but this time it was softer, filled not with emptiness, but with breath, memory, and understanding.

Outside, a church bell rang, its sound deep, mournful, beautiful. The light from the windows spilled across the snow, painting it in colors that moved as the shadows shifted.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, I used to think people like Carter were just idealists. Dreamers with good press. But maybe he just understood something I didn’t.”

Jeeny: “He understood that faith doesn’t have to be loud or flawless — just alive.”

Jack: “Alive…” He looked at the flame, small, persistent, fighting the draft. “Maybe I can start with that.”

Jeeny: “That’s how all faith starts — with a maybe.”

Host: The sunlight faded, the shadows grew longer, and the church filled with a tender stillness. Jack and Jeeny sat, quiet, side by side, as the last light touched the cross and then died into golden dusk.

Outside, the wind carried the sound of bells across the snow-covered town, a hymn of simple faith, not of doctrine, but of endurance — a belief that even in fragile light, there is something worth keeping.

And as the camera pulled back, the church became just one small flame in a world of shadows, steady, humble, and alive — a testament to what Jimmy Carter knew:

That you don’t need proof to believe.
You just have to have a simple faith.