But Jesus changes your attitude towards yourself and towards

Host: The church bell echoed through the twilight, each toll dissolving into the cool air of evening. The last of the day’s light spilled through the stained-glass windows, painting the stone floor in patches of red, blue, and gold. Outside, the city hummed, restless and unrepentant. Inside, time seemed slower — reverent, forgiving.

At the far end of a long wooden pew sat Jeeny, her hands folded loosely, her eyes on the flicker of a candle near the altar. Jack leaned against a pillar nearby, a man of thought more than faith, his grey eyes wandering over the colored reflections on the walls. The smell of incense still lingered faintly, mixing with the scent of rain that had just ended.

Neither spoke at first. The silence between them wasn’t awkward — it was the kind that allows both presence and prayer to coexist.

Jeeny: (softly) “Cliff Richard once said, ‘But Jesus changes your attitude towards yourself and towards other people.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “That sounds like the kind of line people quote without living it.”

Jeeny: (turns to him) “Maybe. But he didn’t say religion changes you — he said Jesus changes you. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Is there? Because I’ve seen more judgment in churches than compassion.”

Jeeny: “That’s because people remember the rulebook and forget the redemption.”

Jack: “Redemption’s easy to preach when you’ve never fallen too far.”

Jeeny: “No one’s ever fallen beyond reach, Jack. That’s the point.”

Host: The candles flickered, and their shadows danced across the wooden pews. A soft wind slipped through the slightly open door, carrying the faint hum of traffic from the street. In that quiet space, their voices seemed suspended — as if the church itself were listening.

Jack: “You really believe someone can change like that? From the inside out?”

Jeeny: “I’ve seen it. When you stop looking at yourself through guilt or pride and start seeing yourself as forgiven — it changes how you look at everyone else too.”

Jack: “So forgiveness is the filter?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Forgiveness is freedom. It’s the death of superiority.”

Jack: (pauses, thinking) “You’re saying love makes people humble.”

Jeeny: “Real love, yes. The kind that’s not earned — that’s given anyway.”

Jack: “But that’s hard. You forgive someone who hurt you, and they just walk away unchanged.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But you walk away lighter.”

Host: The organist practiced somewhere in the distance — faint notes floating down the aisle, soft and uncertain, like the sound of doubt turning slowly into devotion. The last of the sunset filtered through the stained glass, drenching Jeeny’s face in gold. Jack looked at her and, for a moment, something in his gaze softened — not belief, but respect.

Jack: “So you think faith makes you a better person?”

Jeeny: “No. I think grace reminds you that you can be.”

Jack: “And without it?”

Jeeny: “You start living like your wounds define you — and everyone else’s define them.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But pain changes people too, you know.”

Jeeny: “Of course. But Jesus teaches you to let pain shape you, not harden you.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You sound like a walking sermon.”

Jeeny: (smiles back) “No. Just someone who’s seen what peace looks like in a person who’s forgiven themselves.”

Host: The light dimmed as the candles burned lower. Outside, a church choir began faintly rehearsing for Sunday — the sound of young voices rising through the dark. It was imperfect, off-key in places, but sincere — the kind of beauty only honesty can make.

Jack listened. He didn’t join, but something in his silence felt like a kind of participation.

Jack: “You know, I grew up going to church. My father prayed loud but lived small. Always made me feel like belief was a costume — something you wore for others.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he wore it because he didn’t know he could live it.”

Jack: “And you? You think you live it?”

Jeeny: “I try to. But I fail. Constantly.”

Jack: “Then what’s the point?”

Jeeny: “That even in failure, you’re still loved. That’s the point.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “With everything I’ve got.”

Host: The wind outside grew stronger, rattling the old wooden door. The candles swayed, their flames bending but never going out. In that small flicker of resilience, there was metaphor — persistence in fragility.

Jack’s eyes followed the flame. Something in him — old, tired, skeptical — began to thaw.

Jeeny: “See, when Richard said Jesus changes your attitude toward yourself, he meant that you stop living like you’re a mistake waiting to happen. You start seeing yourself as something redeemable — and when you see yourself that way, you start seeing others that way too.”

Jack: “So it’s perspective, not perfection.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s about learning that grace doesn’t excuse the wrong; it heals the wound beneath it.”

Jack: “And that healing makes you… kinder?”

Jeeny: “Kinder. Braver. More human.”

Jack: “But doesn’t faith make people feel superior? Like they’ve got truth others don’t?”

Jeeny: “If it does, it’s not faith — it’s ego dressed in scripture.”

Host: The choir grew louder, voices now swelling together, filling the space with echoes of something ancient and living. The melody wove itself around their words, like a soft background to revelation.

Jack looked around the church again — the carvings, the candles, the faint smell of wax and age — and something unspoken passed through him. A kind of remembering.

Jack: (quietly) “I think I used to envy believers. Not for their rules, but for their peace.”

Jeeny: “Peace isn’t absence of struggle, Jack. It’s the presence of purpose.”

Jack: “Purpose. That’s a word I don’t trust easily.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’re searching for it in the wrong places.”

Jack: (softly) “And you think I’ll find it here?”

Jeeny: “Not here. In you.”

Host: The light outside faded completely, the church now lit only by the soft golden pulse of candles. Their glow painted both faces — one of faith, one of doubt — and yet, the space between them didn’t feel like division. It felt like dialogue.

The choir’s song ended on a long, trembling note that hung in the air, vibrating in the hollow of the church before dissolving into stillness.

Jeeny: (after a moment) “You know, Jack, the biggest miracle isn’t water into wine or healing the blind. It’s the way love can rewrite a person’s heart — without permission, without force. That’s the kind of change Richard was talking about.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Changing the way you see yourself first. That’s the hard part.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only part. Once that shifts, the rest follows.”

Jack: (quietly) “Then maybe I’ve been fighting the wrong battle.”

Jeeny: “We all have. Until grace finds us.”

Host: The last candle flickered, its light stretching long across the pews like a path toward the door. Jack stood, his movements unhurried. Jeeny followed, and together they walked toward the entrance, their footsteps soft on the old wooden floor.

As they opened the door, the night air greeted them — cool, clean, alive. The sound of the city rose again, the secular and sacred meeting at the threshold.

And as the scene faded, Cliff Richard’s words remained —

that true transformation isn’t found in sermons or rituals,
but in the quiet turning of the heart;

that faith isn’t an escape from being human,
but an invitation to become more so;

that when grace alters how you see yourself,
it inevitably alters how you see the world;

and that the greatest miracle of all
is not in heaven’s distance,
but in a love so close
it changes everything it touches —

your attitude, your eyes,
your heart.

And perhaps, that is how redemption truly begins:
not in thunder,
but in a whisper that forgives.