I have sinned against You, my Lord, and I would ask that your

Host: The church was empty now. Only the last candles burned, their flames bowing and lifting in quiet rhythm — small, trembling witnesses to what had been said and what still hung in the air. The pulpit stood lonely under the vaulted ceiling, where echoes of old hymns still clung like dust to light.

Through the tall windows, the faint moonlight bled into the sanctuary, spilling across rows of empty pews. The air was heavy — the kind of heaviness that comes not from presence, but from repentance.

Jack sat halfway down the aisle, elbows on his knees, staring at the altar. His face was caught somewhere between exhaustion and reflection — that quiet look of a man who has wrestled with both sin and forgiveness. Jeeny sat beside him, hands folded in her lap, her eyes tracing the flicker of the candlelight.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Only the wind outside whispered through the stained glass.

Jeeny: “Jimmy Swaggart once said, ‘I have sinned against You, my Lord, and I would ask that Your precious blood would wash and cleanse every stain until it is in the seas of God’s forgiveness.’”
Her voice was soft, reverent — as if she were afraid to disturb the air. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How something so broken can sound so beautiful.”

Jack: (quietly) “Beautiful or desperate?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both.”
She looked at him, her eyes reflecting the candlelight. “It’s confession — and confession always stands between beauty and desperation.”

Jack: “Confession.” (He let the word hang in the air.) “You know, I’ve never understood that impulse — to stand in front of the world and beg for forgiveness. If guilt is between you and God, why invite an audience?”

Jeeny: “Because sometimes guilt becomes too heavy to carry alone.”

Jack: “Or too public to hide.”

Host: The candle flame flickered violently for a moment, throwing their shadows long against the wall — two silhouettes blurred into something shared, something human.

Jeeny: “Do you remember that day? The broadcast, the tears, the voice trembling? He wasn’t just speaking to God. He was speaking to us — to every person who’s ever fallen and wondered if redemption was still possible.”

Jack: “And do you think it was?”

Jeeny: “Yes.” (She paused, her voice steady.) “Not because he deserved it, but because forgiveness isn’t about deserving.”

Jack: (bitterly) “Convenient theology.”

Jeeny: “No. Necessary.”
She turned to face him fully. “If grace only belonged to the deserving, it wouldn’t be grace.”

Host: The rain began tapping against the windows, each drop a soft percussion in the quiet cathedral. The rhythm seemed to underscore her words — fragile, insistent, alive.

Jack: “You sound like you believe in second chances.”

Jeeny: “I believe in countless ones.”

Jack: “Then where’s accountability?”

Jeeny: “Inside the confession itself. You can’t ask to be cleansed if you don’t first see the stain.”

Jack: (leaning back) “You think words are enough to wash a man clean?”

Jeeny: “No.”
Her eyes darkened. “But they’re where the washing starts.”

Host: The light from the last candle trembled as the wind sighed through the rafters. The organ in the corner stood silent, but one could almost imagine a faint chord rising, fragile as prayer.

Jack: “You know, I’ve seen men cry on their knees and walk out unchanged. I’ve seen them say ‘I’m sorry’ just to reset their reputation. Repentance is cheap when there’s a microphone.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But sometimes, a man weeps not for the crowd — but despite it.”
She reached forward, tracing the edge of the pew in front of her. “Maybe Swaggart wasn’t performing. Maybe he was pleading. Not for applause. For release.”

Jack: “You think God listens to that?”

Jeeny: “Always.”
She smiled faintly. “Even when we don’t.”

Host: The moonlight shifted through the glass, painting pale rivers of color across the floor — blue, red, gold, and white. It looked like spilled grace.

Jack: “You know what I envy about faith?”

Jeeny: “What’s that?”

Jack: “Its audacity. To believe that something infinite could care about the mess of a single soul.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes it divine — that it cares anyway.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, its rhythm more urgent. Outside, the world seemed to pulse with cleansing. Inside, the silence deepened — rich, full, like the moment after a truth has been spoken aloud.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to believe in God to understand what he meant. Everyone’s prayed that same prayer in their own way — to be forgiven, to start again, to bury the past so deep it can’t rise again.”

Jack: (softly) “To cast it into the seas of forgiveness.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Exactly.”
She looked up toward the cross above the altar. “Maybe that’s what redemption really is — not being spotless, but being willing to face the stain.”

Jack: “And what if the stain never fades?”

Jeeny: “Then you live with it — not as shame, but as reminder.”
Her voice quivered slightly, as though she were speaking from somewhere deeper than faith — from experience. “Every scar is proof that grace found you once.”

Host: The candle sputtered, its flame shrinking to a single trembling point. The church was drenched in shadow now, only the cross illuminated faintly in the moonlight.

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s prayed that prayer before.”

Jeeny: “We all have. Just in different languages.”

Jack: “And what did the universe say back to you?”

Jeeny: “It said, keep trying.”

Host: He stared at her for a long moment, and for once, Jack — the skeptic, the cynic, the man of logic — didn’t argue. He only nodded, slowly, as if finally hearing the music inside the silence.

Jeeny stood, walking toward the altar, her footsteps echoing softly in the stillness. She lit a fresh candle, setting it beside the dying one. Its flame caught quickly, new and bright.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack — even the smallest light can begin again.”

Host: He smiled faintly, watching her — her figure framed in gold and shadow, the new candle’s glow dancing across her face. Outside, the rain began to fade, leaving behind the hush of renewal.

And then, the Host’s voice filled the room, low, resonant, almost prayerful:

Host: “Jimmy Swaggart’s words were born from failure, but they remind us of something eternal — that repentance isn’t weakness, but courage. To kneel before grace is to admit that we are human, and that being human means falling and rising, again and again. In the vast sea of divine forgiveness, our stains don’t vanish — they dissolve into lessons. And perhaps that’s what holiness really is: the courage to begin again, even while trembling.”

The camera would linger on the two flames — one dying, one reborn — before fading to black, the last sound a single drop of rain, falling like a whispered amen.