Christians are supposed not merely to endure change, nor even to

Host: The church stood at the edge of a hill, its windows glowing faintly under a bruised sky. The bell tower cut a clean silhouette against the twilight — solemn, unmoving, ancient. Yet beneath its stillness, the city beyond pulsed with the rhythm of modern life: sirens, screens, voices, all colliding in a single, restless heartbeat.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old wood and wax. A half-melted candle flickered at the altar, casting trembling shadows on the stained-glass depiction of the crucifixion — beauty stitched from suffering.

Jack sat in one of the back pews, his hands clasped loosely, his eyes tired. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against a column, her small frame illuminated by the shifting colors from the stained glass — a mosaic of red, blue, and gold dancing over her face.

Between them, on the worn Bible beside Jack, a small card bore the quote:
“Christians are supposed not merely to endure change, nor even to profit by it, but to cause it.” — Harry Emerson Fosdick.

Jeeny: “You ever think about that, Jack? How different it sounds from what most people live by?”

Jack: “You mean from surviving change instead of starting it?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Everyone wants comfort — stability. But Fosdick… he’s saying faith isn’t supposed to make us comfortable. It’s supposed to make us dangerous.”

Host: Her voice carried softly through the empty church, echoing off the stone like a hymn spoken rather than sung.

Jack: “Dangerous faith. That’s poetic, Jeeny, but also a little naive. Every revolution starts with conviction — and ends with control. The same faith that causes change also causes war.”

Jeeny: “That’s not what he meant, Jack. He wasn’t talking about violence. He was talking about responsibility. That faith isn’t passive endurance — it’s movement. It’s supposed to change the world, not just survive it.”

Jack: “And yet, most believers spend their lives waiting for heaven instead of fixing hell.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly, not out of amusement, but recognition — that familiar mixture of grief and faith that always appeared when Jack spoke truth cloaked in cynicism.

Jeeny: “That’s why he said ‘supposed to.’ Because most of us forget. We mistake religion for refuge. We go to church to feel safe, not to feel called.”

Jack: “Can you blame them? The world’s brutal. People want meaning, not a mission.”

Jeeny: “But meaning is a mission. You can’t separate them. You can’t call yourself faithful and still fear the storm. You have to be the lightning.”

Host: The candle flame sputtered, flaring briefly before steadying. Its light flickered across Jack’s face, catching the sharpness of his cheekbones, the conflict in his eyes.

Jack: “You make it sound like being Christian means being rebellious.”

Jeeny: “It should. If Christ overturned tables in a temple, why do we act like faith means keeping quiet?”

Jack: “Because overturning tables gets you crucified.”

Host: Silence. The kind that falls heavy — not absence, but presence. Jack’s words lingered, weighted with truth too human to dismiss. Jeeny walked toward the altar, her footsteps soft on the worn stone, her fingers brushing the edges of the pews like she was tracing centuries of prayer.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point, Jack. Maybe the cross was never supposed to be comfortable. It wasn’t built for endurance — it was built for transformation.”

Jack: “You talk like faith is an act of rebellion.”

Jeeny: “It is. Against apathy, against injustice, against despair.”

Jack: “And what about doubt?”

Jeeny: “Doubt isn’t rebellion. It’s the shadow of belief. Without it, faith is just arrogance.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the flickering candle. His voice dropped low, almost confessional.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I used to pray for things to stay the same. My father would tell me God listens best when you ask for change, not comfort. But when he got sick — when everything started falling apart — I realized I didn’t want a changing God. I wanted a merciful one.”

Jeeny: “And did you get one?”

Jack: “No. I got silence.”

Jeeny: “Maybe silence was mercy.”

Host: The wind outside pushed through a crack in the old wood, and the flame bent, trembling. Jeeny turned to him, her expression softer now.

Jeeny: “Change hurts, Jack. Even holy change. But maybe that’s why it’s sacred — because it asks for something of us. Because it breaks what’s brittle and calls what’s buried.”

Jack: “You think people can still cause change through faith? In a world like this?”

Jeeny: “Not just through faith — through conscience. Through courage. Fosdick wasn’t talking about religion as institution; he meant belief as action. Compassion as protest.”

Host: Jack stood, walking toward one of the stained-glass windows. The figure of Christ looked down, both suffering and serene. The light from the glass painted Jack’s face in blood-red hues.

Jack: “So what you’re saying is — real faith is revolution.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Quiet or loud. It’s saying ‘no’ to the darkness when everyone else calls it peace.”

Jack: “And what if peace means pretending?”

Jeeny: “Then peace is the prettiest kind of cowardice.”

Host: Jeeny’s words landed like a spark — gentle, but burning. The air between them shifted, electric.

Jack: “You know, I used to envy people who could believe. They seemed so certain. Like they had coordinates in a world I was still lost in.”

Jeeny: “Belief isn’t certainty, Jack. It’s motion. Certainty is standing still.”

Jack: “And motion is messy.”

Jeeny: “Always. Change always is.”

Host: The rain began outside — soft, rhythmic, cleansing. The sound filtered through the high windows, mingling with the last echo of her voice.

Jack: “You really think we’re meant to cause change?”

Jeeny: “I think we’re meant to embody it. To become the disruption that kindness demands.”

Jack: “Even if it costs us?”

Jeeny: “Especially if it costs us.”

Host: Jack exhaled, a long, unguarded sigh — like a man letting go of something he hadn’t realized he was holding. The rain outside turned steady, blurring the city lights into halos.

He looked back toward the altar, at the candle still burning.

Jack: “You know, I always thought the hardest part of faith was believing. Maybe it’s actually acting.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Belief is thought. Change is courage.”

Host: Jeeny moved beside him. Together, they watched the candle flicker, its flame small yet defiant.

Jeeny: “We’re not supposed to wait for miracles, Jack. We’re supposed to become them.”

Jack: “That’s a lot to ask of imperfect people.”

Jeeny: “And yet, it’s the only way the world has ever changed.”

Host: Outside, thunder murmured in the distance — not anger, but awakening. Inside the church, the candle’s flame danced against the darkness, casting one last flare of gold against the walls.

Jack and Jeeny stood side by side, two souls in the vast architecture of faith and doubt.

And in the trembling light, it became clear —
that to endure change is human,
to profit from it is ambition,
but to cause it — to ignite it —
is divine.