Forgiveness is God's command.

Host: The church bells echoed across the frozen town, their sound drifting through the misty dawn like a prayer half-forgotten. The sky was a pale shade of ash, and the snow fell in slow, deliberate silence. Inside a small chapel on the hill, the candles flickered with faint gold light, bending against the draft that whispered through the stone walls.

Jack sat in the front pew, his hands clasped loosely, eyes fixed on the altar, though it was clear his thoughts were elsewhere. His face was tired, the lines beneath his eyes etched deep—like maps of unspoken history. Jeeny entered quietly, her footsteps barely disturbing the stillness. Her hair caught the candlelight, and in that soft glow, she looked like a shadow of faith come to life.

Jeeny: “Martin Luther said, ‘Forgiveness is God’s command.’ It’s a powerful thing, isn’t it?”

Jack: “Powerful? Maybe. Unrealistic? Definitely. If forgiveness is a command, then God must not understand how humans work.”

Host: A gust of wind shook the door, scattering a few drops of melted wax across the wooden floor. The sound echoed like a heartbeat in the empty space.

Jeeny: “He understands perfectly, Jack. That’s why He commands it—because left to ourselves, we wouldn’t forgive anyone. Not even ourselves.”

Jack: “Exactly. That’s my point. It’s against our nature. You can’t command a heart to let go of what tore it apart.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the essence of faith? Doing what your heart resists because you believe in something greater than your pain?”

Jack: “Faith doesn’t erase betrayal. Try telling a mother to forgive the man who murdered her child. Tell her it’s a command. See what that does to her faith.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, almost a growl, and his fist tightened against the wood. The flame of a nearby candle shivered, as if the air itself was holding its breath. Jeeny looked at him—really looked—and something in her gaze softened.

Jeeny: “I wouldn’t tell her to forgive quickly. Forgiveness isn’t an instant command—it’s a journey. But even she deserves freedom from that hatred. Because if she doesn’t forgive, she’ll live her whole life bound to the one who hurt her.”

Jack: “Freedom? You think forgiveness is freedom? It’s surrender. It’s saying what they did was okay.”

Jeeny: “No. Forgiveness isn’t saying it was okay. It’s saying I will not let your cruelty define me anymore.”

Host: Her voice rose—not in anger, but in conviction. The air in the chapel shifted, the dust motes dancing in the light like tiny ghosts listening to a sermon.

Jack: “You sound like every preacher who’s never had to forgive something unforgivable.”

Jeeny: “You don’t know what I’ve had to forgive.”

Host: The words hung like a stone between them. Jack’s eyes flicked toward her, a question forming but dying before it found voice. The silence that followed was heavier than any thunder.

Jeeny: “My father left when I was twelve. Just disappeared. No note, no reason. For years, I hated him. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw his eyes and wanted to destroy my own reflection. And then one night, I realized that hatred had built a house inside me—and I was the one living in it. So, I forgave him. Not because he deserved it. Because I deserved peace.”

Jack: “And did it bring you peace?”

Jeeny: “Eventually. It’s not a light switch. It’s more like a slow sunrise. You don’t notice it happening until suddenly the darkness isn’t total anymore.”

Host: Jack turned his face, watching the light slide across the altar, the flicker of candles painting the cross in soft gold. The anger in him began to crack, like ice beneath the first warmth of spring.

Jack: “But what about justice, Jeeny? Forgiveness sounds noble, but it doesn’t erase what happened. If we forgive everything, what happens to accountability?”

Jeeny: “Justice and forgiveness aren’t enemies. Forgiveness heals the soul; justice repairs the world. One doesn’t cancel the other. Look at South Africa after apartheid—truth and reconciliation, not revenge, helped rebuild the nation. Nelson Mandela forgave his captors, not because they were innocent, but because he refused to let hatred own his heart.”

Jack: “Mandela was extraordinary. Most people aren’t saints.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why God commands it—to remind us to reach higher than our nature. Forgiveness isn’t about holiness—it’s about survival of the spirit.”

Host: Her words drifted through the chapel, echoing off the walls like the soft echo of an organ chord. Jack leaned forward, his fingers interlaced, his eyes distant—haunted by memories he’d buried too deep.

Jack: “You know, there was someone I couldn’t forgive. A man who destroyed something I loved. I spent years thinking if I held onto my hatred, I’d stay strong. But it just... ate me. Hollowed me out.”

Jeeny: “And did it make you feel powerful?”

Jack: “No. It made me feel... cold. Like I’d turned into the thing I hated.”

Jeeny: “That’s why forgiveness is divine, Jack. Not because it’s easy—but because it restores what hate steals: your humanity.”

Host: The wind calmed, and a soft beam of sunlight pierced through the stained glass, scattering colors across the floor—red, blue, gold—like the palette of a reborn day. Jack watched the light crawl toward his hands, and for a moment, he didn’t pull away.

Jack: “You make it sound like forgiveness is salvation.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Not for the sinner—but for the soul that was wounded. Luther wasn’t just preaching obedience; he was offering deliverance.”

Jack: “Deliverance from what?”

Jeeny: “From ourselves—from the prisons we build out of pain.”

Host: The air grew still, the world outside muted by snowfall, the moment suspended between confession and grace. Jack’s shoulders softened, the lines of his face no longer sharp, but tired, human, bare.

Jack: “Then maybe forgiveness isn’t God’s command because He needs it... maybe it’s because we do.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not divine law—it’s divine mercy disguised as a command. A way to heal the brokenness we can’t understand.”

Host: The bells tolled again, deep and slow, their sound like a heartbeat of the heavens. Jeeny rose, her hands folded, her eyes lifted toward the light filtering through the window.

Jack stood beside her. No prayer was spoken, no words exchanged. Yet something silent passed between them—something lighter than the air, something that felt like the beginning of forgiveness itself.

The snow continued to fall, but now it looked like grace descending upon the earth—each flake a reminder that even in the coldest moment, forgiveness is the warmth that saves us from ourselves.

The scene faded with the sound of bells, and in that echo, one truth remained:
Forgiveness is not God’s demand for obedience—it is His invitation to peace.