I believe the Scriptures teach that there's a literal heaven and

Host:
The churchyard was empty beneath a violet dusk, its stone walls damp from the recent rain. A cross rose against the fading light, and the faint sound of a choir rehearsing somewhere inside drifted across the cool air — soft voices blending with the echo of eternity. The smell of wet grass, old wood, and candle smoke lingered like memory.

At the steps near the entrance sat Jack, coat collar turned up, hands clasped together, his eyes fixed on the sky as if searching for something that refused to show itself. The bells in the tower had stopped ringing, leaving behind only silence — deep, reverent, questioning.

From the shadows of the path, Jeeny approached, her pace slow, her expression thoughtful. She carried a small candle, its flame trembling in the wind. When she reached him, she set it down between them, the light casting their faces in amber glow.

Jeeny: quietly “Kirk Cameron once said — ‘I believe the Scriptures teach that there’s a literal heaven and a literal hell, just like Jesus said. And without forgiveness of sins that, yeah, the place of punishment is called hell.’”

Jack: softly, half-smiling “Heaven and hell. The eternal traffic system of morality.”

Jeeny: gently “You sound like you don’t believe in either.”

Jack: leaning back, looking toward the sky “I believe in consequences, Jeeny. Maybe that’s all heaven and hell ever were — poetic ways to remind people that choices echo.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “But the question is — echo where?”

Host:
A crow fluttered across the gravestones, its cry sharp and sudden. The candle flickered, bending toward the wind, then steadied again. The light played on Jack’s face, revealing not cynicism but something softer — fatigue, maybe even fear.

Jack: quietly “You know what I’ve always found strange? The idea that an infinite punishment could come from finite mistakes. A God who loves endlessly but forgives conditionally — that’s a contradiction even theologians can’t smooth out.”

Jeeny: softly “Maybe you’re looking at it like a lawyer, not a lover.”

Jack: raising an eyebrow “Explain.”

Jeeny: gently “Love doesn’t punish — it lets you choose. Maybe hell isn’t fire. Maybe it’s distance. Maybe it’s the pain of being so far from love that you forget what it feels like.”

Jack: after a pause, quietly “That’s poetic. But the world isn’t poetic. It’s cruel.”

Jeeny: firmly “No. People are. Heaven and hell are human inventions because we can’t stand the idea that justice might be invisible.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Or that mercy might be free.”

Host:
The choir inside the church began to sing again — a low hymn that rolled out through the open door. The sound mingled with the distant hum of passing cars, modern life brushing against the sacred.

Jeeny watched Jack’s face, the candlelight trembling across his grey eyes.

Jeeny: quietly “You’ve been angry with God for a long time, haven’t you?”

Jack: bitter smile “Not angry. Just… disappointed. If heaven exists, it feels a long way from here.”

Jeeny: softly “Maybe that’s because we keep imagining it as somewhere else — above clouds, beyond stars. But what if heaven and hell are both right here, in us? In how we love, how we forgive.”

Jack: quietly, almost whispering “So every act of cruelty is a step into hell?”

Jeeny: gently “And every act of compassion, a glimpse of heaven.”

Host:
A gust of wind swept through the yard, bending the candle’s flame low but never extinguishing it. Jack watched it dance, then spoke, his voice lower now, more introspective.

Jack: quietly “Maybe Kirk Cameron meant well. Maybe he saw hell as a warning. But warnings lose power when they’re driven by fear.”

Jeeny: softly “True. Fear doesn’t build faith. It builds obedience. But forgiveness — that builds transformation.”

Jack: nodding slowly “So maybe forgiveness is heaven’s language.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And resentment is hell’s echo.”

Host:
The moonlight slipped through the clouds, painting the stones silver. Somewhere nearby, a door closed — the faint sound of a priest locking up for the night. The world was dim now, the candle their only fire.

Jack: quietly “If heaven’s real, I don’t think it’s a reward. I think it’s the realization that love was always trying to reach you — and you finally stopped running.”

Jeeny: softly “And hell?”

Jack: after a long pause “Hell’s the same love, seen too late.”

Host:
Jeeny’s eyes softened. She looked down at the flame, her voice gentle, like a prayer meant only for the night.

Jeeny: quietly “Then maybe God doesn’t send anyone anywhere. Maybe we walk ourselves there — one choice at a time.”

Jack: smiling faintly “And forgiveness is the hand that turns us around.”

Host:
The candle flame wavered once more, then steadied — small, fragile, but unbroken. The choir’s hymn reached its final note, dissolving into silence that felt almost holy.

Jeeny: softly “Heaven and hell might not be places, Jack. They might be conditions of the heart. Forgiveness opens one door. Pride closes the other.”

Jack: after a moment “Then maybe salvation isn’t divine rescue. Maybe it’s human surrender.”

Jeeny: nodding gently “To love. To humility. To grace.”

Host:
The camera would pull back slowly now — two figures sitting beside the flickering candle, surrounded by the endless stillness of stone and sky. The church bell tolled once, deep and resonant, marking the hour — a sound both earthly and eternal.

And as the night deepened, Kirk Cameron’s words lingered — not as doctrine, but as invitation:

“I believe the Scriptures teach that there’s a literal heaven and a literal hell, just like Jesus said. And without forgiveness of sins that, yeah, the place of punishment is called hell.”

Because every faith
begins with fear —
but matures into love.

Heaven is not the prize of perfection,
but the peace of forgiveness.

And hell is not a pit of fire,
but the endless echo
of a heart that could not forgive —
not even itself.

In the end,
both realms live within us,
and every act of mercy
tilts the soul toward light.

Perhaps eternity
is not waiting for us beyond the stars,
but is unfolding here —
in every choice,
in every breath,
in the fragile flame
that refuses to go out.