God is not upset that Gandhi was not a Christian, because God is

Host: The evening sky was painted in violet, the kind of dusk that made the world feel hushed — as if the air itself had paused to listen. The old chapel on the hill stood half-lit, its candles flickering against stone walls that had heard centuries of confession, doubt, and prayer.

Inside, Jack sat at the back pew, his head lowered, his hands clasped, not in devotion but in restless contemplation. He was a man who believed in meaning, not necessarily in miracles.

Jeeny entered quietly, the sound of her footsteps echoing softly, the air perfumed with wax and age. She paused by a row of votive candles, lit one, and watched the flame rise, steady and alive.

Jeeny: “You look like someone who’s either about to pray or about to argue with God.”

Jack: half-smiling “Maybe both. You ever feel like faith’s just… another kind of guessing game?”

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t guessing. It’s remembering.”

Jack: “Remembering what?”

Jeeny: “That the mystery was never meant to fit inside a single name.”

Host: Jack lifted his gaze, his eyes meeting hers across the dim glow of the candles.

Jack: “Desmond Tutu once said, ‘God is not upset that Gandhi was not a Christian, because God is not a Christian! All of God's children and their different faiths help us to realize the immensity of God.’”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s one of my favorite truths.”

Jack: “You actually believe that?”

Jeeny: “With everything I am.”

Jack: “So you think all religions are equal?”

Jeeny: “No. I think they’re all incomplete.”

Host: The candlelight shimmered, casting halos around their faces, making shadows dance across the walls like whispers of saints and skeptics.

Jack: “You sound like a mystic.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. Or maybe I’m just tired of people using God like a passport — to decide who belongs and who doesn’t.”

Jack: “But if everyone’s right, doesn’t that make nothing true?”

Jeeny: “No. It means truth is too vast to belong to one door.”

Jack: “Then what’s the point of belief at all?”

Jeeny: “To find your way to humility.”

Host: Her voice softened, but her eyes gleamed with conviction — the kind that doesn’t demand agreement, only listening.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack, when Tutu said that, he wasn’t dismissing faith. He was expanding it. He was saying God isn’t smaller than our differences — He’s the space that holds them all.”

Jack: “That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: “It’s also necessary.”

Host: A beam of evening light broke through the stained glass, painting the floor in colors of gold and crimson — a mosaic of divinity and dust.

Jack: “You know what bothers me? Every religion claims to have the answer, and they all contradict each other. Someone has to be wrong.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they’re all describing the same mountain from different sides. Different languages for the same silence.”

Jack: “Silence?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every sacred text, every prayer, is just humanity trying to speak to what can’t be spoken.”

Jack: “And you think God listens to them all?”

Jeeny: “I think God is them all. Every voice — trembling, confused, sincere — adds another note to the same eternal song.”

Host: The bells outside tolled softly, marking the hour, the sound heavy, ancient, gentle. A flock of birds took flight into the dying light, spiraling upward like prayers learning to breathe.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve met God.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “I meet Him in fragments. In children laughing. In people forgiving. In strangers helping each other without reason. That’s enough for me.”

Jack: “So you think God lives in good deeds?”

Jeeny: “No. I think God lives in the spaces where we forget to divide goodness by tribe.”

Jack: “But doesn’t that make belief redundant?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It makes belief universal.”

Host: He leaned forward, his hands gripping the pew, his eyes sharp, but not hostile — only hungry for understanding.

Jack: “If God’s not a Christian, or a Muslim, or a Hindu — then what is He?”

Jeeny: “He’s what remains when love outlives our definitions.”

Host: The room seemed to breathe — the flames swaying, the air shifting, as if the chapel itself were moved by her words.

Jack: “You always talk about love like it’s sacred.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. Love is the only theology that survives examination.”

Jack: “Even for those who don’t believe?”

Jeeny: “Especially for them.”

Jack: “So, you’re saying Gandhi was just as close to God as a priest?”

Jeeny: “Maybe closer. Because he lived what others only preached — compassion, courage, humility. Those are universal prayers, Jack. You don’t need a label to speak them.”

Jack: “But then what’s the point of religion at all?”

Jeeny: “Religion is language. God is meaning. Confuse one for the other, and you start arguing over grammar instead of grace.”

Host: The stained glass light shifted, falling now on Jack’s hands, illuminating the creases, the scars, the small proofs of life.

Jack: “I used to go to church as a kid. Every Sunday. Kneel, stand, sing, repeat. But I never felt anything. Just noise and duty.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you were worshipping the pattern, not the pulse.”

Jack: “And what’s the pulse?”

Jeeny: “The part of God that lives quietly inside you — waiting for you to stop performing and start listening.”

Jack: “Listening to what?”

Jeeny: “To the silence between words. To the ache that loves anyway.”

Host: The light faded, the candles burned lower, the air thick with wax and truth. Jack stood, walked toward the altar, and lit a candle himself — the flame trembling like a confession finally spoken.

Jeeny: “What are you thinking?”

Jack: “That maybe I’ve spent too long trying to fit God into categories He never agreed to.”

Jeeny: “That’s a good start.”

Jack: “You know, maybe Tutu was right. Maybe faith isn’t a competition. Maybe it’s a mirror.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And everyone holds a different piece.”

Jack: “So what do we do with that?”

Jeeny: “We stop judging the shape of someone else’s reflection.”

Jack: “And love them anyway.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s how we realize the immensity of God.”

Host: The final light from the candles flickered, casting long shadows that merged across the floor, until there were no divisions — only warmth, glow, and quiet belonging.

Jeeny and Jack stood side by side, watching the flame, their faces peaceful, different, but united in awe.

Outside, the sky cleared, revealing stars — not many, but enough — each one a tiny echo of infinity.

Host:
And in that stillness, Desmond Tutu’s words whispered through the quiet —

“God is not upset that Gandhi was not a Christian, because God is not a Christian. All of God's children and their different faiths help us to realize the immensity of God.”

Host:
For in that sacred silence, they understood —
that faith is not a competition for truth,
but a conversation with love,
and love, finally,
belongs to everyone.