For the millions of Americans, like my family, who believe that

Host: The church sat quietly at the edge of the town, its stained-glass windows glowing like slow fire against the evening snow. Outside, the streets were hushed — the kind of hush that belongs only to winter nights and belief. The air was crisp, laced with the faint scent of pine and distant bells.

Inside, a few candles flickered near the altar, their small flames trembling but steady. Jack sat in the back pew, his coat still dusted with snow, his hands clasped loosely — not in prayer, but in thought. Beside him sat Jeeny, her scarf still wrapped around her neck, her breath forming soft clouds in the cold air that filled the old sanctuary.

Neither spoke for a while. The silence was too sacred, too heavy with memory and meaning. Then Jeeny broke it — gently, as if afraid her voice might disturb something holy.

Jeeny: “James Lankford once said, ‘For the millions of Americans, like my family, who believe that there is a creator God who can be known personally, Christmas is a celebration of Jesus’ offer of love and forgiveness for all people.’”

Host: Her voice hung in the dim air, woven between the echoes of the church’s old timbers and the faint whisper of falling snow. Jack looked up at the stained glass above — a figure of Christ, arms open, bathed in the reflected gold of candlelight.

Jack: “Forgiveness,” he murmured. “That word gets used more than it’s understood.”

Jeeny: “And love too.”

Jack: “You believe that? That forgiveness and love are the whole point?”

Jeeny: “If they aren’t, then what’s left of Christmas?”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes following the dust floating in the candlelight. His voice, when it came, was low — almost confessional.

Jack: “I used to come here as a kid. Not this church — one like it. My mother would drag me every Christmas Eve. Said it wasn’t really Christmas until I listened to the choir sing ‘Silent Night.’ I never understood why she cried during it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe she was remembering something pure. Maybe that’s what faith is — remembering purity even after the world makes you forget.”

Jack: “Or pretending it’s still there.”

Jeeny: (turns to him) “Do you really think faith is pretending?”

Jack: “I think faith is… reaching for something you can’t see and calling it hope.”

Jeeny: “That sounds more like courage than pretense.”

Host: A gust of wind pushed against the church door, the sound low and distant, like a sigh from another world. The candles flickered, their shadows stretching long across the wooden floor.

Jack: “You know, what Lankford said — about God being personal — I don’t think I’ve ever felt that. Personal. When people talk about God, it always sounds… official. Like bureaucracy. Forms of devotion. Rituals for belonging.”

Jeeny: “That’s religion. Faith’s quieter. It’s what’s left when the rituals stop working.”

Jack: “You really believe there’s a God who forgives everyone? Even the worst of us?”

Jeeny: “Especially the worst of us.”

Jack: (bitterly) “That’s too easy.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s too hard. Forgiveness isn’t cheap. It costs the forgiver everything — pride, pain, sometimes identity. Love is free to give, but forgiveness? That’s paid for in blood.”

Host: Her words filled the empty space like a hymn without music. Jack’s eyes softened, the sarcasm in them giving way to something else — fatigue, maybe, or longing.

Jack: “You sound like you still believe in miracles.”

Jeeny: “I do. Just not the loud ones. Not the seas parting or angels appearing. I believe in quiet miracles — a heart softening, a wound closing, someone choosing to stay when they could’ve walked away.”

Jack: “You think that’s enough to hold the world together?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that ever has.”

Host: The faint sound of a choir drifted in from somewhere nearby — distant voices rising and falling through the winter night. The melody was familiar, haunting, fragile. Jack looked toward the open door, where the cold air mixed with the warm candlelight like two opposing truths learning to coexist.

Jack: “You know, I envy people who can believe that easily. Who can look at everything — the wars, the hunger, the cruelty — and still talk about love like it’s oxygen.”

Jeeny: “You don’t have to believe easily. You just have to believe anyway.”

Host: She reached forward, resting her hand gently on his. It wasn’t a gesture of faith — just humanity. But somehow, it felt like both.

Jeeny: “Christmas isn’t about pretending the world is good. It’s about remembering that goodness still wants to find it.”

Jack: “And you think that’s what forgiveness is? God still trying?”

Jeeny: “I think forgiveness is what happens when God refuses to give up on us.”

Host: A long silence followed — the kind that feels like prayer. The candles sputtered softly. The stained glass glowed with the fading light of evening, painting the pews in shifting color — crimson, sapphire, gold.

Jack: “You ever wonder what He forgives us for?”

Jeeny: “For being human. For forgetting what we already know.”

Jack: “And what’s that?”

Jeeny: “That love isn’t earned.”

Host: Jack’s eyes glistened in the candlelight. For the first time, his face lost its guarded stillness. There was a kind of surrender in his silence — a weary heart admitting it wanted to believe again.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what my mother was crying about. Not the song. The remembering.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you should let yourself remember too.”

Host: The choir grew louder now — “O Holy Night” carried through the air like a distant heartbeat. Outside, snow continued to fall, each flake catching the streetlight before vanishing into the dark.

Jack stood slowly, slipping his hands into his pockets, his voice quieter than the music.

Jack: “You think there’s room in that forgiveness for people who stopped believing?”

Jeeny: “There’s especially room for them.”

Host: They stood together, side by side, watching the light from the stained glass flicker over the snow outside. The church bells began to toll — slow, deliberate, beautiful.

Jeeny turned toward him, smiling softly.

Jeeny: “Merry Christmas, Jack.”

Jack: “Merry Christmas, Jeeny.”

Host: The final bell echoed into the night, rolling over the quiet streets, merging with the snow and the song.

And as they stepped out into the cold, it felt — for the briefest, most honest moment — that forgiveness wasn’t just divine. It was human.

And it was enough.