Conversion is a change of masters. Will we not do as much for our

Host: The churchyard was silent, the kind of silence that feels alive — a living presence pressing against the skin. Snow drifted down in slow spirals, each flake catching the faint glow of a lamp hanging near the gate. Inside, the old stone chapel breathed with the scent of wax, wood smoke, and time.

Jack sat in the last pew, his hands buried in his coat pockets, his eyes cold, reflective. The faint flame of a candle flickered on the altar, throwing shadows that seemed to move with their own quiet will.

Jeeny knelt a few rows ahead, her posture still, her head bowed — not in ritual, but in thought. The light from the candle traced the curve of her face, softening the lines of weariness that life had drawn there.

Host: The clock above the archway struck eleven, and the sound echoed like the slow beating of an old heart.

Jeeny: (softly) “Charles Spurgeon once said, ‘Conversion is a change of masters. Will we not do as much for our new master, the Lord Jesus, as we did once for our old tyrant lusts?’”

Jack: (quiet, almost scoffing) “So that’s what faith is now — a transfer of ownership?”

Host: His voice carried across the empty hall, sharp and skeptical, breaking the stillness like a stone into water.

Jeeny: (turns slightly, calm) “It’s a surrender. A choosing. When Spurgeon said ‘change of masters,’ he meant freedom — from the chains we thought were pleasure.”

Jack: “Freedom? Sounds like just another kind of slavery, Jeeny. Just with better branding.”

Host: The candlelight trembled. The air between them filled with invisible tension, as though the walls themselves were listening.

Jeeny: “You think obedience kills freedom?”

Jack: “I think obedience’s the death of self. People just swap one control for another — one addiction for one religion. Call it ‘the Lord,’ call it ‘duty,’ call it ‘love’ — it’s all the same chain with a different name.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t everyone ruled by something? You’re ruled by logic, by reason, by your need to be untouched by faith. That’s your master.”

Jack: (leans forward, eyes narrowing) “At least my master doesn’t lie to me with promises of heaven.”

Jeeny: “He lies in other ways — by convincing you that you don’t need saving.”

Host: The wind outside howled, pressing against the windows like a voice without a body. The flames on the candles bent and danced, as if caught in the rhythm of their words.

Jack: “Saving from what? From being human? From desire? From pain? Those things make us real.”

Jeeny: “And yet they destroy us, too. You’ve seen what lust — not just of the flesh, but of power, greed, pride — does to people. We call them freedoms, but they eat us alive. Spurgeon called them tyrants because they rule without mercy.”

Host: The snow thickened outside. Each flake pressed softly against the glass, then melted, like small forgotten prayers.

Jack: (bitterly) “And you think bowing to God is mercy?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s truth. The kind that humbles you, burns you, and remakes you. It’s not comfort. It’s cleansing.”

Jack: “So we give up passion to serve purity?”

Jeeny: “No. We give up bondage to rediscover passion — the kind that heals instead of consumes.”

Host: The candle closest to Jack flickered out, its smoke curling upward like a dying sigh. He stared at the dark wick, his jaw tightening.

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s forgotten how intoxicating sin can be.”

Jeeny: (whispering) “No. I remember too well. That’s why I left it.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but the weight in it struck him harder than anger. Jack looked up. For the first time, her eyes met his — dark, steady, full of something between grief and grace.

Jack: “And what about love? Isn’t that just another master? You can’t control that either.”

Jeeny: “Love isn’t a master. It’s a mirror. It shows who you serve.”

Host: A faint crack echoed as the old wood beam settled. The room smelled faintly of incense and rain seeping through the stone.

Jack: “So tell me, Jeeny. You think the man who kneels is freer than the man who stands?”

Jeeny: “If the man who kneels does it by choice, yes. Because he’s no longer fighting what he can’t win. He’s resting in what’s true.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You ever think maybe truth’s just what we fear the least?”

Jeeny: “No. Truth’s what we fear most. That’s why surrender feels like dying.”

Host: The silence after her words was heavy — not absence, but depth. Jack leaned back, his face lit by the remaining candles, eyes distant, the way men look when the mind has begun to shift but the heart still resists.

Jack: “You talk about conversion like it’s a rebirth. But what if it’s just another illusion — another story to make pain meaningful?”

Jeeny: “Even if it is, isn’t that better than a story that makes pain pointless?”

Host: The snow had stopped. Stillness filled the space, a quiet that felt almost holy.

Jack: “So you’d rather serve something invisible than live by your own will?”

Jeeny: “I’d rather serve truth than be mastered by lies that wear the mask of freedom.”

Jack: “You think that’s what Spurgeon meant — trading lust for love, rebellion for obedience?”

Jeeny: “No. He meant trading the illusion of freedom for the reality of grace.”

Host: The word hung between them — grace — soft as snow, sharp as fire.

Jack: (murmurs) “And grace demands everything.”

Jeeny: “It gives more than it takes.”

Host: A long pause. Jack’s breath slowed. His hands, once tight, opened slightly — a quiet gesture of surrender without words.

Jeeny watched him, not speaking, not pressing — the kind of stillness only faith can hold.

Jack: “You know… I don’t think I’ve ever served anyone but myself. And I’m not sure it’s made me free.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to change masters.”

Host: The flame on the altar wavered, then steadied. Outside, the moonlight broke through the clouds, spilling through the window in a thin beam that fell directly across Jack’s hands — open now, unguarded.

Jack: “You think He’d want someone like me?”

Jeeny: “He already does. That’s what love is — not the earning, but the finding.”

Host: The bells began to chime midnight. The sound filled the chapel, resonating through wood, stone, and soul.

Jack’s eyes lifted toward the altar, toward the flickering flame that refused to die.

Jeeny whispered something — not a sermon, not a command, but a prayer.

And for the first time, Jack didn’t interrupt.

Host: The camera of the moment pulled back — two figures in an ancient chapel, one kneeling, one watching, both transformed by a silence deeper than reason.

The snow outside began again — softly this time, as if blessing the earth.

And beneath the cold light of grace, one truth lingered: every soul serves something — but freedom begins when we choose whom to serve.