During the holidays, everyone needs a break from studying for

Host: The evening air shimmered with the echo of laughter and distant guitar riffs. The church auditorium was dimly lit except for a string of soft fairy lights wound across the rafters, blinking like quiet prayers in rhythm with the muffled bass thump coming from behind the stage curtain.

Outside, the snow was falling — slow, steady, holy in its silence. Inside, the air buzzed with warmth and movement: sound checks, laughter, cables, and Christmas lights tangled together.

Jack sat on a folding chair near the stage edge, his hands wrapped around a paper cup of cocoa, steam rising like ghosted breath. Jeeny stood nearby, adjusting a microphone, her hair catching the colored light that spilled from the stage — red, gold, green — like a reflection of the season’s contradictions: joy and exhaustion, celebration and longing.

A poster hung behind them — “THE LIGHT TOUR – Faith, Music, and Unity.”
And beneath it, a quote in bold white letters:
“During the holidays, everyone needs a break from studying for exams and Christmas shopping. I wanted to put together a diverse tour that rocks in many musical directions but always points to Christ.” — TobyMac.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You know, I like that. ‘Rocks in many directions but always points to Christ.’ That’s... poetic.”

Jack: (leans back, sipping cocoa) “Poetic? It’s marketing. Sounds like something you’d see printed on a tour hoodie.”

Jeeny: (laughs) “Maybe. But I think he means it. He’s trying to say — music doesn’t have to be one thing to lead people to the same truth.”

Jack: “Yeah, but that’s the trick, isn’t it? Everyone says they’re ‘pointing to something higher.’ Meanwhile, they’re just selling another track.”

Jeeny: “Not everyone. Some are still trying to worship instead of perform.”

Jack: “There’s a thin line between the two.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But that line’s where art becomes faith — or where faith becomes art.”

Host: A guitar chord rang out across the stage as someone tuned up — clean, bright, echoing through the empty seats. The smell of pine garland and coffee lingered, wrapping the moment in a strange, cozy sanctity.

Jeeny’s fingers traced the microphone stand absently — not fidgeting, just feeling. Jack watched her, his cynicism beginning to bend in the warmth of the space.

Jack: “You think it’s possible? To rock in ‘many directions’ and still point to one thing?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Every star has its own angle, but they all shine toward the same sky.”

Jack: “That sounds like something you’d find in a Hallmark card.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Maybe. But that doesn’t make it untrue.”

Jack: “You know what I think? The world’s tired of Christmas noise. Every year, same carols, same glitter, same forced joy. People need something raw, real — not polished faith.”

Jeeny: “That’s what TobyMac was trying to do. Make the message feel alive. Not distant, not rehearsed — human.”

Jack: “But does that work? Turning devotion into performance?”

Jeeny: “No — turning performance into devotion. There’s a difference.”

Host: The stage lights flicked on, flooding them in a soft blue glow. The space seemed suddenly transformed — not a hall anymore, but a sanctuary where art and prayer met halfway, unsure of who arrived first.

Jack: “You talk about faith like it’s rhythm — something that only exists when you move with it.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? Faith’s not a statue, Jack. It’s a song. It’s motion. You live it, or it dies in silence.”

Jack: “You sound like a preacher with good taste in music.”

Jeeny: “I sound like someone who believes that God doesn’t care about genre.”

Jack: “You mean it doesn’t matter if it’s hymns or hip-hop?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. What matters is the direction of the sound. Whether it’s ego or offering.”

Jack: (nods slowly) “So, what? The louder the devotion, the clearer the faith?”

Jeeny: “No. The truer the heart, the purer the echo.”

Host: Her voice was low, steady — the kind that didn’t preach, but lived the words. The lights dimmed again, replaced by the soft shimmer of the fairy bulbs overhead. The sound tech in the back ran a few final tests, and the faint hum of a choir rehearsing drifted in from the hallway beyond.

The world, for a moment, felt tuned to something sacred.

Jack: “You ever miss the simplicity of belief? When you were a kid, and Christmas meant magic instead of marketing?”

Jeeny: “All the time. But maybe belief doesn’t die — it just changes its costume. We trade angels for artists, miracles for melodies.”

Jack: “And songs become prayers.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The kind you can dance to.”

Jack: “But the world’s gotten cynical, Jeeny. Everything feels commercial. Even goodness has a price tag.”

Jeeny: “That’s why we need light — not perfection. Music like this — messy, joyful, imperfect — reminds people that the divine can still speak through static.”

Jack: “So the holy hides in distortion.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. God doesn’t need clarity. He needs honesty.”

Host: A young band member walked by carrying a drum case, nodding at them, leaving a faint trail of cologne and nervous excitement. Outside, the snow thickened, the sound muffled, the world reduced to rhythm and light.

Jeeny’s gaze followed the boy, her expression tender — a teacher watching faith take shape in motion.

Jack: “You really believe music can point people to Christ?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because music bypasses argument. It speaks directly to the ache. The divine doesn’t need explanation — just expression.”

Jack: “You think God’s listening to our noise right now?”

Jeeny: “He’s always listening. Especially when we don’t sound perfect.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe that’s why I still come to these things.”

Jeeny: (smiles) “Because you still hope?”

Jack: “Because I still hear something, even when I don’t understand it.”

Jeeny: “Then the lamp’s still lit.”

Host: The soundcheck began — drums, bass, and a soaring guitar line that filled the room with an almost physical warmth. The chords rippled through the air like color, like memory. Jack looked up, eyes half-closed, listening — not just to the sound, but to the pulse beneath it.

Jack: (after a long moment) “You’re right. It’s not about the show. It’s about the spark. Maybe that’s what Jobs meant about teamwork, and what TobyMac means about faith — it’s not one person’s sound. It’s a chorus of believers, doubters, dreamers — all playing toward the same center.”

Jeeny: “That’s what worship really is — direction, not perfection.”

Jack: “And Christ is the compass.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The only note that never goes flat.”

Host: The lights flared bright now, washing the stage in gold. The band began to play — a rock anthem reimagined as a hymn. The melody carried joy, raw and restless, but underneath it — reverence.

Jack and Jeeny watched, their faces glowing in the reflection of faith made sound.

And as the camera pulled back, the music swelled — guitars, drums, voices — human noise rising like incense into the rafters. The audience filed in, laughter mingling with anticipation. Outside, the snow continued to fall, blanketing the streets in quiet grace.

Through it all, TobyMac’s words lingered like a guiding chorus —

that faith can have rhythm,
that worship can dance in every direction,
and that even in the noise of the world —
between exams and exhaustion, between shopping lists and empty prayers —
there’s still one true note,
one unchanging light,
and one eternal direction.

It all still points to Christ,
even when the road there
sounds like rock and roll.