Brethren, let us mind our own business - that is, the calling the

Host:
The chapel sat at the edge of a sprawling valley, its small steeple reaching humbly toward the fading sky. The sunset poured through the stained glass like liquid fire — gold, amber, and rose spilling across wooden pews worn smooth by years of worship. The air was filled with the faint scent of wax, pine, and old hymnals.

In the front pew, Jack sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, his calloused hands folded loosely as if in conversation with the silence itself. Across from him, Jeeny arranged candles near the altar, her movements deliberate, reverent — as though she were preparing not a space, but a heart.

Outside, the wind whispered through the grass, and the world seemed to hold its breath.

Jeeny: softly “Brigham Young once said — ‘Brethren, let us mind our own business — that is, the calling the Lord has called us to — to do everything we can to promote the good of the Cause of Truth, and never ask how big we are, or inquire who we are; but let it be, “What can I do to build up the Kingdom of God upon the Earth?”’”

Jack: smiling faintly, eyes still lowered “That’s a mouthful — but a good one. Sounds like a call to humility wrapped in a call to action.”

Jeeny: nodding, quietly lighting another candle “Exactly. He’s saying — stop worrying about how important you look doing God’s work, and just do it.”

Jack: leaning back, sighing softly “Easier said than done. The world’s full of people trying to serve the Kingdom while still making sure the spotlight’s angled their way.”

Jeeny: gently “And that’s why his words still matter. Because service without ego has become a lost art.”

Host:
The candlelight shimmered, throwing long shadows along the chapel walls. The pews creaked softly as the night wind pressed against the door. There was a sacred stillness between their voices — a kind of listening older than sound.

Jack: after a pause “You ever wonder, Jeeny, if anyone really knows what their calling is anymore? Everyone’s chasing success, not purpose.”

Jeeny: quietly “That’s because we confuse calling with career. We think it’s about what we do, but it’s about who we become while doing it.”

Jack: nodding slowly “So, you’re saying our calling isn’t found — it’s lived.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Yes. Every day we show up with integrity, we answer it.”

Host:
The church bell outside rang once — a soft, singular tone that trembled through the still air. The sound seemed to hang between them, echoing long after it had faded.

Jeeny sat on the edge of the front pew beside Jack, her eyes following the flicker of a nearby candle.

Jeeny: softly “Brigham Young wasn’t talking about building monuments or movements. He was talking about tending to the soil of the spirit — one seed of truth at a time.”

Jack: quietly “Funny. We spend so much time asking God for assignments when He’s already handed us a field.”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly. And instead of plowing it, we measure it. Compare it. Argue over who got the bigger one.”

Jack: grinning “You mean the modern gospel of self-importance.”

Jeeny: gently “Yes — where the sermon’s about me, not meaning.”

Host:
The flame of one candle flickered out, sending up a thin wisp of smoke. Jeeny leaned forward and relit it, the small gesture glowing like a metaphor.

Jack watched her for a moment, then spoke softly.

Jack: quietly “You know, I think what Young was saying — in his own 19th-century way — is that the Kingdom of God doesn’t need heroes. It needs servants.”

Jeeny: nodding “Servants who build quietly, without needing to sign the bricks.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Because the real work’s invisible. The harvest shows up years later, in hearts we’ll never meet.”

Jeeny: softly “Exactly. It’s not about being remembered. It’s about remembering why we were sent.”

Host:
The wind outside grew stronger, rattling the chapel door. The candles danced in their glass holders. The sound of the valley filled the silence — crickets, the rustle of dry leaves, the faraway cry of a hawk settling in for the night.

Jack stood, walking slowly toward the altar. He touched the edge of the wooden cross, his rough hand brushing the smooth surface as if feeling the pulse of a truth larger than himself.

Jack: quietly “We measure everything these days — followers, likes, influence. Even faith. But maybe the only real metric that matters is how much love survives your work.”

Jeeny: softly “And love can’t be measured, only multiplied.”

Jack: turning toward her “So that’s the work — not asking ‘how big am I?’ but ‘how faithful can I be?’”

Jeeny: smiling gently “Exactly. The Kingdom of God doesn’t grow by ego — it grows by effort.”

Host:
The camera would move slowly now — gliding through the small chapel, past the rows of candles, the quiet pews, the open Bible resting on the altar. Light pooled around the pages, the words glowing softly like truth alive.

Jeeny joined Jack at the altar. For a moment, neither spoke. They simply stood — two figures in candlelight, their shadows merging against the wall like prayer made visible.

Jack: after a long silence “You think anyone ever really knows if what they’re doing matters?”

Jeeny: quietly “Maybe not. But I think God does. And maybe that’s enough.”

Jack: softly “Faith is doing the work without seeing the blueprint.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And still trusting the foundation will hold.”

Host:
Outside, the wind quieted. The valley settled into peace. The candles flickered softer now, their flames steady.

And as the two of them stood beneath the old wooden cross, Brigham Young’s words would return — humble, resolute, echoing across centuries of service:

“Brethren, let us mind our own business — that is, the calling the Lord has called us to — to do everything we can to promote the good of the Cause of Truth, and never ask how big we are, or inquire who we are; but let it be, ‘What can I do to build up the Kingdom of God upon the Earth?’”

Because true purpose
is not applause,
but obedience.

The holy work
is not in what we build,
but in why we build it.

Every humble act —
a kindness unseen,
a prayer spoken in the dark,
a hand lifted when no one claps —
these are the stones
of a Kingdom that cannot fall.

The measure of faith
is not size,
but sincerity.

And those who serve
without needing to be known
become, quietly,
the builders of eternity.