As I approached my 95th birthday, I was burdened to write a book

Host: The church was almost empty, its pews bathed in the dim gold of evening light filtering through stained glass. Dust drifted lazily in the beams — each particle glowing like a suspended prayer. Outside, the sky burned the color of embers, the world folding softly into twilight.

At the front of the sanctuary, near the pulpit, Jack stood with his hands in his pockets, looking up at the tall crucifix that hung above. His face was unreadable, somewhere between reverence and resistance.

Jeeny sat halfway down the aisle, the echo of her steps still haunting the space. She held a worn Bible, the edges soft from years of being touched, opened to the Gospel of Matthew.

The silence was sacred, heavy — the kind of silence that asks questions louder than words.

Jeeny: (gently) “Billy Graham once said, ‘As I approached my 95th birthday, I was burdened to write a book that addressed the epidemic of easy believism. There is a mindset today that if people believe in God and do good works, they are going to Heaven.’”
She looked up toward the cross, her voice trembling slightly. “He called it an epidemic. Imagine that — faith, treated like a disease because it’s been made too comfortable.”

Jack: (quietly) “Comfort’s the only religion most people still practice.”

Host: His words echoed against the stone walls, sharp yet sorrowful. The light shifted across his face — half shadow, half illumination, as though even he couldn’t decide which side of belief he stood on.

Jeeny: “You think he was right?”

Jack: “About the epidemic? Absolutely. We’ve turned salvation into sentiment. Faith’s a brand now — polished, marketable, effortless.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t belief supposed to be simple?”

Jack: “Simple, yes. Easy, no.”

Host: The wind outside pressed against the stained-glass windows, making them tremble softly. A faint sound of a choir rehearsal drifted in from another room — voices half-heard, half-lost, singing Amazing Grace in minor key.

Jeeny: “You sound like him, you know. Graham. That same mix of disappointment and devotion.”

Jack: (smirking) “Difference is, he believed in redemption. I believe in contradiction.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re the same thing. Maybe contradiction is just faith in disguise — believing even when belief feels impossible.”

Jack: “No, Jeeny. Faith’s what you do when reason fails. Contradiction’s what happens when you keep reasoning anyway.”

Jeeny: “Then what do you think he meant by ‘easy believism’?”

Jack: “The faith that costs nothing. The kind that demands no change, no sacrifice. People think Heaven’s a destination, not a transformation.”

Jeeny: “And you?”

Jack: “I think Heaven’s a verb. You either live it or you don’t.”

Host: The camera would drift upward, tracing the vaulted ceiling, where light and shadow merged into a quiet infinity. A single candle flickered near the altar, its flame small but defiant — a heartbeat of light in a cathedral of questions.

Jeeny: “He said he was burdened to write that book. Imagine still feeling burdened at ninety-five — after a lifetime of preaching, of saving, of trying to pull people toward eternity.”

Jack: “That’s what real conviction does. It doesn’t rest. It haunts you.”

Jeeny: “You say that like it’s a curse.”

Jack: “It is. Every truth is. Once you know it, it never leaves you alone.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s the point — faith isn’t supposed to comfort. It’s supposed to convict.”

Jack: (turning to her) “Convict whom?”

Jeeny: “The believer. The lazy heart. The one who wants grace without surrender.”

Jack: “And what about those who’ve already surrendered and still feel nothing?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then maybe God’s silence is His answer.”

Host: The organ in the corner let out a faint, accidental note — the sound of air still trapped in old pipes. It was both eerie and holy, like a sigh from the past.

Jack walked closer to the altar, his footsteps echoing down the aisle. He stood beneath the cross, staring up at the figure of Christ — a face carved in pain, not peace.

Jack: “You ever think faith’s just a mirror? We look into it and see the God we want to believe in.”

Jeeny: “And the danger, you think, is when that God looks too much like us?”

Jack: “Exactly. A God that never offends, never demands, never contradicts — that’s not worship. That’s self-admiration.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Graham feared. That belief had become a comfort instead of a calling.”

Jack: “Faith used to mean following. Now it just means agreeing.”

Jeeny: “And yet, even he said belief is the beginning.”

Jack: “Yes. But beginnings mean nothing if you never move.”

Host: The light through the stained glass began to fade, the colors deepening into crimson and violet. The shadows grew longer, stretching like unanswered prayers across the floor.

Jeeny: “You think Graham ever doubted?”

Jack: (after a pause) “He was human. Which means yes. Every preacher has a midnight hour.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the book wasn’t written for the world. Maybe it was his confession.”

Jack: “You mean he was preaching to himself?”

Jeeny: “Aren’t we all?”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe that’s what faith really is — talking to your own doubt until it starts sounding like hope.”

Host: The rain began to fall softly against the roof. The sound filled the sanctuary like the gentlest applause. The candle near the altar trembled, its flame bowing low, but never dying.

Jeeny stood and walked up to stand beside him. Together they looked at the cross — not as believers or skeptics, but as two people simply trying to understand.

Jeeny: “He wasn’t condemning the world, you know. He was pleading with it — asking people to go deeper. To believe in something costly, something inconvenient.”

Jack: “Because only what costs something has meaning.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Even faith.”

Jack: “Especially faith.”

Host: The camera would pull back, the two of them standing in the golden dusk of the church — silent, small, but unafraid. The candle flickered once more, steadying, its flame mirrored in the glass of the stained window — two lights burning, fragile but unextinguished.

And in that silence, Billy Graham’s words would rise again — not as judgment, but as invitation:

Faith is not a comfort;
it is a cross.

To believe is not to agree,
but to surrender.

Grace is not cheap —
it costs the self,
the pride,
the illusion of sufficiency.

Heaven is not a prize for the polite,
but a home for the humbled.

True belief
is not easy,
for it asks you to die
before you ever live.

And the miracle —
the mercy —
is that in dying to the false,
you rise again,
alive not in comfort,
but in conviction.