Have we been going up and down in business, and are those round

Host: The church stood at the edge of the city, old and half-forgotten, its stone walls cracked but still holding onto a quiet dignity. The rain outside had just stopped, leaving puddles on the cobblestone path that reflected the trembling light of the lampposts. Inside, the sanctuary was dim, filled with the scent of wax, wood, and memory. A few candles flickered near the altar, their glow soft and unsteady.

Jack sat in the second pew, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, eyes staring at the worn Bible that lay open in front of him. Across the aisle, Jeeny lit another candle, her face solemn, her movements slow—reverent but not devout, like someone tending a flame she’s unsure still deserves to burn.

Host: From the pages of that open book, the words of Charles Spurgeon seemed to rise, ancient yet immediate, their weight pressing gently against the silence:
“Have we been going up and down in business, and are those round about us as yet unaware of our Christian character? Have we never spoken to them the Word of Life? Lord, arouse us to a deep concern for all with whom we come in contact from day to day.”

Jeeny: “That’s a hard question, isn’t it? He’s not talking about business. He’s talking about witness.”

Jack: “He’s talking about guilt. About how silence makes cowards of the faithful.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he’s talking about love. About the kind of concern that doesn’t stop at sympathy but crosses into sacrifice.”

Jack: “Love doesn’t need sermons, Jeeny. It needs honesty. I’ve met plenty who preach righteousness but treat people like projects.”

Jeeny: “And I’ve met plenty who stay silent out of fear and call it humility.”

Jack: “Maybe silence is mercy. The world doesn’t need another voice shouting about what’s holy.”

Jeeny: “No, but it needs lives that show it. That’s what Spurgeon meant. Not preaching—living.”

Host: The candles trembled as a draft slipped through the broken window above the altar. The sound of distant thunder rolled softly, as if heaven itself was still deciding whether to speak.

Jeeny sat beside Jack, folding her hands in her lap. Her eyes, though weary, glowed with that rare kind of conviction that looks like peace.

Jeeny: “You’ve been quiet lately, Jack. Even with people who need you to say something. Why?”

Jack: “Because words don’t heal, Jeeny. They just remind you of wounds you can’t close. You think quoting Scripture or praying in public makes a difference?”

Jeeny: “It’s not the words—it’s the heart behind them. When Spurgeon said ‘Word of Life,’ he wasn’t talking about speeches. He meant living truth. Truth that breathes.”

Jack: “And what if I don’t have that kind of truth anymore?”

Jeeny: “Then start with honesty. That’s where truth begins.”

Host: The rain began again, this time softer, like a confession whispered against the stained glass. The faint sound of water dripping through the roof punctuated the silence between them.

Jack: “You talk about faith like it’s light waiting to be shared. But what if your flame’s burned out? What do you share then?”

Jeeny: “You share the darkness—and your courage to face it. That’s still faith, Jack. Maybe the truest kind.”

Jack: “So you think just existing, just enduring, is testimony?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Other times, it’s about reaching for someone else in the same storm. That’s what Spurgeon meant by ‘concern.’ Not pity. Solidarity.”

Jack: “I used to think I could save people. I really believed it. But now I can barely save myself.”

Jeeny: “Then stop trying to save. Just love. Faith isn’t about fixing people—it’s about seeing them.”

Host: The flames on the candles steadied as she spoke. Jack’s face, lined with shadow, softened. His eyes lifted toward the altar—a simple cross of iron, cold but still upright.

Jack: “You know what haunts me most about that quote? It’s the question: have they noticed? What if the answer’s no?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to stop asking if people notice, and start asking if they feel seen.”

Jack: “But Spurgeon was right. We walk past souls every day. Colleagues. Strangers. People who carry hell behind polite smiles. And we pretend not to see it because it’s inconvenient.”

Jeeny: “We pretend not to see it because it’s overwhelming. You can’t carry the world, Jack.”

Jack: “Maybe not. But we can carry one person at a time.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s what faith looks like now—small acts. Quiet prayers. Kindness without credit.”

Jack: “You make it sound so… ordinary.”

Jeeny: “It is. But ordinary love changes everything.”

Host: The church bell outside tolled once—slow, resonant, like the heartbeat of eternity itself.

Jack: “You think God still listens?”

Jeeny: “Always. The better question is—do we?”

Jack: “You sound like a believer.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like someone who wants to be.”

Jack: “I used to believe in certainty. Now I just believe in showing up.”

Jeeny: “That’s enough. Even Spurgeon would say so. Faith doesn’t need perfection—it needs presence.”

Host: The rain began to fade, leaving the world washed clean, tender again. Through the stained glass, faint rays of moonlight seeped in, touching their faces with silver calm.

Jack: “Maybe faith isn’t about shouting the Word of Life. Maybe it’s about becoming it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Words fade. Lives echo.”

Jack: “So the question isn’t whether they’ve noticed our Christianity—it’s whether they’ve felt our compassion.”

Jeeny: “And if they have, we’ve already spoken the Word.”

Host: The church doors creaked as they opened, letting in the scent of wet earth and the sound of the city’s late-night murmurs. Jack and Jeeny stood, side by side, watching the world outside—a world still restless, still aching, still waiting for someone to care enough to see it.

Jack’s hand brushed against the wooden pew, the rough grain warm beneath his fingers.

Jack: “Funny, isn’t it? How the simplest message is the hardest to live.”

Jeeny: “Because it demands everything—and promises nothing.”

Jack: “And yet, we keep trying.”

Jeeny: “Because the trying is the prayer.”

Host: The candles behind them flickered once more, then steadied—tiny defiant flames in the long dark.

Host: And as they stepped into the misted night, Spurgeon’s words followed like a benediction, no longer an accusation, but an invitation:

To live the truth you wish others could hear.
To speak it, not in sermons, but in kindness.
To carry the Word of Life—not in your mouth, but in your hands.

And in that quiet revelation, beneath the wet gleam of the streetlights, both understood—
that faith’s truest language is love lived out loud.