I wasn’t expecting anything from the podcast.
I rarely do. It was background noise — something to fill the drive, maybe I could learn a thing or two.
And then Brian Quint said something that made me reach for the volume knob.
He runs a theater company in Canada called Nightswimming. Cool name. I’m thinking it may be named after one of my favorite REM songs. Quint never said.
But he did say he runs a theater of faith, not hope. He didn’t elaborate much, at least not right away. He didn’t need to. The distinction landed before the explanation did.
I’ve been turning it over ever since. I’m not sure why. These kinds of things have been happening to me lately. In a world of noise, I get signal. For just a moment.
I think the word hope was what landed for me.
Hope, I think, is what most of us run on. It’s the fuel of the aspiring playwright, the unfunded foundation initiative, the relationship that needs one more good year to find its footing. Hope is useful. It gets you out of bed. But there’s a fragility to it — hope depends on something coming through. Someone returning that email. Someone saying yes.
Hope is, at its core, a negotiation with the future.
Faith is something else. Faith doesn’t wait for the outcome to justify the act. Faith doesn’t need someone else to say yes.
It says: this is worth doing because I am doing it. Not because of what it might become. Not because someone decides to take a risk on your idea. The doing is the arrival. The doing is the point.
I think I’ve spent most of my life working from hope when I thought I was working from faith. The difference turns out to matter.
I write. A lot. Plays, essays, a stray poem. I have screenplays in a drawer, book ideas in folders. I love writing. Even though it’s hard. Even though, at times, it has broken my heart.
These days I’m writing plays.
I have for three years now, with a seriousness that crept up on me slowly and then all at once. Most of them have not been produced. Some have had readings. A few have found small stages. One just got produced Off Broadway, which still surprises me when I say it out loud.
But here’s what I know: I wrote them anyway. All of them. Not because I had a production lined up or an agent waiting or a theater that believed in me. I wrote them because not writing them felt like a kind of dishonesty. Like I was withholding something I owed — to the work, to myself, maybe to the people the plays were secretly about or the ones I long to touch with a story that may have meaning.
That’s not hope. Hope would have quit by now. Hope would have done the math. Hope would have figured out that it is hard to make it. I started kind of late, I’m learning on the job. I have
a lot of ground to make up and a finite amount of fuel in the tank.
Yes, hope would have thrown in the towel. But I haven’t. And I won’t.
That’s faith.
I co-lead a foundation. We try to put resources into communities and institutions and ideas that we believe can matter. A lot of that investment lands in uncertain soil. You make the gift, you trust the people, you let go. In many cases, you don’t get to know how it turns out, not really, not on any timeline that satisfies the part of you that wants proof. Philanthropy, done honestly, is an act of faith dressed up in spreadsheets.
When we started our philanthropic journey we made a pilgrimage to see David Odahowski. He runs the Edythe Bush Foundation in Winter Park.
Dave has been called the “Dean of Florida philanthropy “ a title he has earned.
We were the rookies coming to see the veteran. The first thing Mr. Odahowski said to us was that we would never solve any of the issues we were seeking to impact.
That diagnosis, struck me. I had hope we might solve a problem or two.
But I understand what he was saying. The message was delivered with care through the lens of experience.
But the more I sit with it (and it has been a year) the more faith I have that we will make an impact. We will change lives. We will help people and communities.
We make a daily choice to keep showing up for the things and people we’ve decided are worth showing up for don’t we?
Brian Quint probably wasn’t talking about any of that on that podcast. He was talking about theater. But faith, once you start pulling on it, doesn’t stay put. It led me down so many paths. Paths I happily walk.
I don’t know much about Nightswimming. Is it named after my favorite REM song?
I looked them up after the podcast ended. A small company. Developmental work. The kind of theater that exists in the margins of the industry, which is often where the most honest work gets done. What struck me wasn’t their catalog. It was that they had named their posture. They had decided, out loud, what kind of company they were going to be — not in terms of genre or aesthetic, but in terms of orientation. Faith, not hope.
That takes courage. Hope is easier to defend. Hope sounds reasonable. Hope has a plan.
Faith sounds reckless until you realize it’s the only thing that was ever actually holding you up.
I’m not ready to abandon hope entirely. I don’t think that’s what Quint was suggesting either. But I want to be more honest about which one I’m operating from on any given day. Hope can masquerade as faith for a long time before you notice the difference. Hope says I’ll keep going as long as there’s a chance. Faith says I’ll keep going.
Full stop.
I write. At the foundation we give.
I’m someone who has chosen, over and over, to bet on people and places and ideas that don’t come with guarantees. I think I’ve been a person of faith longer than I’ve had the word for it.
Thank you, Brian Quint. I wasn’t expecting anything from that podcast.
Turns out I should have had more faith.
Jeff, this really resonated with me. Your distinction between hope and faith is powerful, especially through the lens of the arts. Every time a student picks up an instrument, steps on a stage, or creates something new, they are acting on faith. The same is true when we invest in them, often without knowing where that opportunity may lead.
Beautifully written. This one will stay with me.
Thanks Chris. Much appreciated!