Although believers by nature, are far from God, and children of

Host: The church was ancient — built of stone and silence, its walls softened by centuries of prayer. Candles flickered along the altar, their flames trembling gently as if in rhythm with unseen breath. Through the stained-glass windows, moonlight spilled in fractured colors, washing the pews with the quiet hues of faith — blue for sorrow, gold for grace, crimson for redemption.

The air was cool, dense with incense and memory. Outside, a slow wind moved through the trees, making them whisper like a congregation too weary to speak aloud.

Jack sat in the last pew, his hands clasped, his eyes shadowed — a skeptic’s body in a believer’s space. Jeeny knelt two rows ahead, her head bowed, her hair catching candlelight like threads of night turned to silk.

Jeeny: “George Whitefield once said, ‘Although believers by nature are far from God, and children of wrath, even as others, yet it is amazing to think how nigh they are brought to him again by the blood of Jesus Christ.’”

Host: Jack exhaled slowly, his voice low, almost reverent.
Jack: “That’s an old kind of amazement — the kind that trembles rather than celebrates.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s not the amazement of discovery. It’s the amazement of mercy.”

Jack: “Mercy — a word people use like perfume. Sweet until it fades.”

Jeeny: “And yet, mercy is what holds the world together, Jack. That’s what Whitefield believed — that grace closes the distance we keep building between ourselves and the divine.”

Jack: “If that’s true, then it’s grace doing all the work, not us.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why he calls it amazing. Because we don’t earn it. We can’t. It’s given freely — to the undeserving.”

Host: The wind outside swelled, rattling the heavy wooden doors. The sound echoed through the vaulted ceiling like a low, divine sigh. Jack’s gaze lifted toward the crucifix — the carved figure of Christ, arms outstretched, face bowed.

Jack: “You ever think about what it means to be called ‘children of wrath’? It’s such a violent phrase. We spend our lives thinking we’re decent, good enough. And then faith comes along and says — ‘No. You’re broken. Hopeless. Fallen.’”

Jeeny: “It’s not condemnation, Jack. It’s recognition. You can’t be redeemed until you admit you’re lost.”

Jack: “But why should anyone need redemption for being human?”

Jeeny: “Because being human isn’t neutral. It’s a tension — between pride and surrender, between self and soul.”

Jack: “And Whitefield thought surrender was the cure.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The blood of Christ as reconciliation — the bridge between distance and nearness. Between wrath and love.”

Host: The candles flickered again, casting moving shadows that danced across the old hymnals. The scent of wax and incense thickened, mingling with the distant sound of rain beginning outside.

Jack: “You know what amazes me? How people in his time — in the 1700s — could speak about faith with such absolute certainty. They didn’t question grace. They trembled before it.”

Jeeny: “Because grace was a miracle, not a metaphor. To Whitefield, faith wasn’t philosophy. It was rescue.”

Jack: “Rescue from what?”

Jeeny: “From themselves. From separation. From the arrogance of thinking we could ever be enough without love that forgives.”

Jack: “That’s beautiful. But also terrifying. To be told you can’t save yourself.”

Jeeny: “That’s the paradox of Christianity, isn’t it? You lose control to find peace. You die to live.”

Jack: “So the closer you get to God, the more aware you become of how far you are.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But that awareness is the beginning of grace. The very act of seeing your distance is what draws you near again.”

Host: A thunderclap rolled over the hills outside, shaking the stained-glass panes. The colors on the wall trembled — blue sorrow, red sacrifice, white light.

Jack: “When Whitefield says ‘brought nigh by the blood,’ he’s not being poetic. He’s being literal. He’s saying salvation cost something — that nearness to God isn’t cheap.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s the ultimate exchange — divinity bleeding for distance. The unworthy brought home by the unimaginable.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I believe in what it represents — that love, real love, is always willing to suffer for reconciliation.”

Jack: “So when he says it’s amazing, he’s not marveling at faith. He’s marveling at compassion.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Compassion so vast it defies reason. That’s what amazes him — that something infinite would stoop to embrace the finite.”

Host: Jeeny rose slowly, turning toward Jack. Her eyes glimmered — not with certainty, but with quiet conviction. The candlelight made her face seem sculpted from both faith and doubt.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to believe it literally to feel its weight. The idea that even at our most distant, we are still loved — that’s the heart of it.”

Jack: “So grace isn’t earned, it’s discovered?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s accepted. That’s harder.”

Jack: “Why?”

Jeeny: “Because accepting forgiveness means admitting you need it.”

Host: The rain intensified now, beating softly against the windows. The rhythm felt like breathing — steady, alive.

Jack: “You think people today still feel that same amazement? Or have we traded awe for analysis?”

Jeeny: “I think amazement is quieter now. Less thunder, more whisper. It hides in small acts — kindness, mercy, the moments when you forgive someone who doesn’t deserve it.”

Jack: “So maybe grace didn’t disappear. It just changed clothes.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Exactly.”

Host: The church lights dimmed as the storm outside calmed, leaving behind a hush that felt like completion. Jack stood, walking slowly toward the altar, his reflection shimmering faintly on the marble floor.

He stared at the crucifix again — not as a skeptic now, but as someone seeing a symbol differently.
Jack: “It’s strange. I’ve never believed in the blood of Christ, but I’ve believed in its metaphor — that something or someone would bleed just to bring us closer to love. That part, I understand.”

Jeeny: “Then you understand the whole thing.”

Jack: “Maybe. Maybe that’s what Whitefield meant — that redemption isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being reached.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Being found, even when you’ve stopped looking.”

Host: The final candle flickered, its light shrinking to a trembling glow. Outside, the clouds began to break, and the faint silver of moonlight spilled back into the sanctuary.

Jack’s voice came soft, almost like a confession.
Jack: “It’s amazing, isn’t it? That something so divine could care enough to touch what’s so flawed.”

Jeeny: “It’s the most amazing thing there is.”

Host: The moonlight fell across the altar, brightening the carved face of Christ, his expression serene — neither triumphant nor mournful, but infinite.

And as Jack and Jeeny stood in the quiet sanctuary, their silhouettes framed by the fractured light of the stained glass, the truth of George Whitefield’s words shimmered like the last note of a hymn:

that the amazing grace of love is not in its perfection,
but in its persistence;

that though humanity wanders,
mercy keeps searching;

and that no matter how far we fall,
there is always a hand reaching from the divine,
ready to draw us near again —

not through fear,
but through blood, compassion, and wonder.