As Christians, we sin with anger because we lack faith in God's

Host: The church was empty. Its long pews stretched into silence, their wood worn smooth by generations of folded hands and quiet doubts. A few dying candles flickered near the altar, their flames small but insistent, like fragile acts of belief refusing to go out.

Outside, the rain fell slow and steady, its sound slipping through the cracks in the stained-glass windows — soft, steady, confessional.

Jack sat in the third row from the front, his coat damp, his hands clasped loosely, eyes unfocused. Jeeny stood near the side aisle, looking up at the cross, her face pale in the candlelight, her breath barely visible in the cold.

Between them lay a single printed sheet, creased and smudged, the quote underlined in pen:

“As Christians, we sin with anger because we lack faith in God's ability to provide for or protect us.” — Eric Metaxas.

Host: The words rested there like a verdict neither could escape, glowing faintly in the flickering light.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? That anger — the one emotion that feels the most alive — is seen here as a kind of unbelief.”

Jack: “Because it is.”

Host: His voice echoed against the cold stone, steady but edged with something heavier — resignation, maybe, or guilt.

Jack: “When you get angry, you’re saying you don’t trust God to handle it. You’re saying you need to step in. It’s pride disguised as pain.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s pain disguised as pride. Maybe anger isn’t rebellion — maybe it’s grief that doesn’t know where to go.”

Jack: “That’s a nice way to romanticize sin.”

Jeeny: “It’s not romantic. It’s human. Even Christ got angry. Remember the temple? He overturned tables. He didn’t lack faith — He burned with it.”

Host: The candlelight caught the edge of her face, sharp and luminous, while Jack’s remained in shadow.

Jack: “That wasn’t rage. That was righteousness. There’s a difference.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But tell me, Jack — when does righteous anger end and human anger begin? When does defense of truth become defense of ego?”

Host: The rain deepened, a low drumbeat outside the windows. A single drop fell from the roof, hitting the stone floor with a sound too small for its weight.

Jack: “We like to think our anger is holy. That’s the trick. We use justice as camouflage for our lack of trust. God becomes our excuse for vengeance.”

Jeeny: “And faith becomes our excuse for silence. You think not acting is trust? Sometimes it’s cowardice wearing a halo.”

Jack: “You call it courage to challenge God’s timing? To force His hand? That’s not faith, Jeeny. That’s panic.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s heartbreak. You think people rage because they hate God? They rage because they can’t find Him. Because He’s quiet when they need Him to roar.”

Host: Her voice trembled — not with weakness, but with fire. She took a few steps closer, the echo of her heels bouncing softly off the walls.

Jeeny: “When a child dies, when injustice thrives, when good men rot in silence — don’t tell me anger is faithlessness. Tell me it’s proof that we still expect heaven to care.”

Jack: “And yet heaven doesn’t owe us explanations.”

Jeeny: “But it owes us presence.”

Host: The silence that followed was raw. The flames flickered higher, as if reacting to the weight of what was said.

Jack: “You’re asking for control in the language of devotion. That’s what Metaxas meant — anger comes from our need to be God, not to trust Him.”

Jeeny: “Then why did God give us the capacity for anger at all?”

Jack: “To remind us how dangerous we are without Him.”

Host: The air between them thickened — a tension not of argument, but of grief.

Jeeny sat in the pew across from him, her hands trembling slightly as she clasped them together.

Jeeny: “When my mother died, the pastor told me it was God’s will. I wanted to believe that. But I couldn’t. I was angry — not just at Him, but at the sky, the ground, the walls. I couldn’t pray without shouting. I thought that made me faithless.”

Jack: “Maybe it made you honest.”

Jeeny: “Then honesty hurts like sin.”

Jack: “Most truth does.”

Host: The wind outside howled suddenly, rattling the windows like an unseen protest.

Jack: “You see, faith isn’t supposed to make sense. It’s surrender, not satisfaction. That’s what makes it sacred.”

Jeeny: “But surrender without understanding isn’t faith — it’s resignation. God didn’t ask us to stop feeling. He asked us to feel through Him.”

Jack: “And what if that means silence?”

Jeeny: “Then He should have made us stone, not flesh.”

Host: Her eyes glistened now, reflecting both defiance and despair. The flames of the candles danced in her tears.

Jeeny: “You think anger proves we lack faith. I think it proves we’re reaching for it. That’s the paradox, Jack. Maybe sin is just the shadow side of longing.”

Jack: “Then every storm would be holy. Every wound divine.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they are — if they drive us back to the altar instead of away from it.”

Host: The rain softened again, the sound of it now a whisper through the ancient walls. Jack leaned forward, elbows on knees, his voice dropping low, like confession.

Jack: “I get angry at God all the time. For what He takes, for what He allows, for what He stays silent about. And yet... I still talk to Him. Maybe that’s the only proof of faith left — that I can still shout into the void and expect an answer.”

Jeeny: “That’s not sin, Jack. That’s prayer wearing a different tone.”

Host: She smiled faintly — weary, understanding. The kind of smile born from surviving one too many unanswered nights.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Metaxas missed? It’s not that anger shows a lack of faith — it shows how fragile faith really is. Like glass — the harder you try to hold it, the more likely it is to crack.”

Jack: “Then what’s the point of holding it?”

Jeeny: “Because even broken glass still reflects light.”

Host: He looked at her then — a long, slow gaze that softened the argument into something deeper, truer.

Jack: “So we sin, we rage, we accuse heaven — and somehow, grace finds us anyway.”

Jeeny: “Because grace doesn’t wait for us to be calm.”

Host: The last of the candles burned low, their flames thinning to blue, flickering like breaths.

Jack stood, walked to the altar, and lit one final candle. The match hissed, the light small but defiant against the shadows.

Jeeny joined him, standing beside the quiet fire, her eyes on the cross.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s faith — not the absence of anger, but the choice to keep lighting candles even while you’re furious at the dark.”

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe that’s all we ever do — fight darkness with disbelief and still hope it counts as prayer.”

Host: Outside, the storm began to pass. The rain turned to drizzle, the wind to whisper. Inside the church, the final candle burned steady — a soft, trembling heart of light in the sea of shadow.

The camera would rise slowly — showing the two figures standing there, small beneath the vaulted ceiling, surrounded by silence and flame.

Host: For a moment, there was no anger, no sin, no separation — only the quiet truth of what it means to be human before God: trembling, doubting, and still choosing to believe.

And in that flickering moment, the candlelight seemed to murmur the forgotten gospel —

That even the anger that shakes heaven can still lead us home.