A Case for the Existence of God is an earth-bound prayer for a better world

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Title: A Case for the Existence of God

Written by: Samuel D. Hunter

Director: Ted Dykstra

Actors: Mazin Elsadig and Noah Reid

Production & Venue: Coal Mine Theatre

City: Toronto

Year: Runs to Dec. 1

Critic’s Pick

Faith and modern life have a complicated relationship. Their coupling has assumed strange forms in American society, where Christianity is now metonymic with an assortment of conservative beliefs. You’d be forgiven for assuming this is the orbit of A Case for the Existence of God, a 2022 play set in the ultra-Republican Idaho, which opened at Toronto’s Coal Mine Theatre on Thursday night. But Samuel D. Hunter’s exquisitely tender two-hander is a different sort of investigation. The faith that interests this playwright is secular and deeply personal; you might call it an earthbound prayer for a better world.

While there’s nothing explicitly political in this award-winning play, you’d be hard-pressed to find a stronger dose of political hope right now. If you are struggling to see through the black cloud of Donald Trump’s re-election, if you are balking at the grimness of the next four years, if you are starting to believe we are a petty, divided species, unable to come together in crisis – I urge you to see this production. Hunter’s spare masterpiece is two things at once: a heartbreaking story of human connection and a lesson in getting ourselves out of this polarized mess.

What would happen if the two poles of American society sat down for an hour and a half and talked? Ryan (Noah Reid) is white, straight and employed at the local yogurt plant. He comes from a background of poverty and drug addiction; he didn’t go to college, doesn’t have a passport and doesn’t know the meaning of the word “harrowing.” Meanwhile, Keith (Mazin Elsadig) is Black, gay, well-read and worldly. He has settled for a career as a mortgage broker, but boasts a dual degree in English and early modern music. Beyond being exactly the same age and from the same town, these men face each other across the divides of class, race, sexuality and education. They are polar opposites in a truly American sense.

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If that set-up sounds heavy-handed, it never plays that way. The naturalism of Hunter’s dialogue, paired with Ted Dykstra’s gentle directorial touch, mean that we’re pulled into the singularity of this particular story and these particular guys. Turns out, what they have in common is much more real and immediate than the abstract constructs that push them apart. They are both single dads with toddler daughters enrolled at the same daycare. Ryan might not have spent his teenage summers in Europe, but he sure knows a thing or two about baby monitors, sound machines, diaper rashes and how your heart races when the daycare calls.

This common ground lets the men empathize with hardships that might have otherwise alienated them from one another. Ryan is struggling to qualify for a mortgage. Keith is struggling to officially adopt his daughter, whom he’s been fostering since she was born. These problems are a kind of shorthand for their social and economic differences; Ryan’s bad credit and financial instability are rooted in wealth inequality, while Keith’s difficulty becoming a dad stems from systemic bias against gay, single parents. But what each man understands is the other’s unshakable devotion to his daughter – a love that is new and revelatory to both of them – and their respective determination to give that kid a safe and happy life.

The dad-talk here is achingly beautiful. Hunter gives his characters moving, unsentimental dialogue about the trials and tribulations of solo fatherhood. Reid is phenomenal as Ryan – tender, tough and honest to a fault. He makes Ryan an irresistibly likable bruiser who wears his heart on his sleeve. This is a character who grew up with all the odds stacked against him only to emerge with sharp moral clarity, a sense of humour and unsinkable hope. When Ryan tells Keith that he’s convinced there’s still good left in the world, we don’t doubt him. The proof is right before our eyes.

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Elsadig is less convincing as Keith. Hunter has written a character that is thoughtful, grounded and solicitous, whereas Elsadig often comes off as a bit impetuous and flat. Moments in which Keith should be bemused or charmed by Ryan’s reflections, which are often fascinating if unrefined, Elsadig portrays Keith as frustrated or indignant. It means we lose the rich juxtaposition of their knowledge and life experience, a juxtaposition that makes their friendship that much more unlikely and moving. But even with these flaws, there’s no sabotaging the play’s emotional crescendo, which culminates in a devastating ending.

Or false ending, I should say. There’s an epilogue that took my breath away – a moment that defies time, space and logic to suggest that our lives are longer than we think they are, our acts of grace more vital.

But instead of signing off there, I want to go back to the middle of the play. The two friends are hanging out and drinking whisky late into the night. A tipsy Keith tells Ryan about the concept of musical polyphony, which was introduced in the 10th century. This blows Ryan’s mind. He can’t believe there was a time when polyphony didn’t exist, when music could only have a single melody. “I’m trying to picture living in a world that only has music with no harmony – I can’t even,” he says.

Try to picture that, indeed.

In the interest of consistency across all critics’ reviews, The Globe has eliminated its star-rating system in film and theatre to align with coverage of music, books, visual arts and dance. Instead, works of excellence will be noted with a critic’s pick designation across all coverage. (Television reviews, typically based on an incomplete season, are exempt.)