I hope, by God's grace, that I am truly a Christian, not

Host: The castle chapel stood half-buried in fog — its stone walls blackened by centuries, its windows cracked by time. The candles burned low, their light flickering against the dark like trembling souls clinging to faith.

Outside, the wind howled through the ruins of the old city — Prague, the heart of an age of reform and heresy, faith and fire. Inside, the air smelled of smoke, incense, and history.

Two figures lingered in the dim light: Jack, dressed in modern clothes but carrying the weight of questions older than scripture, and Jeeny, her eyes deep with conviction, her hands folded as if cradling invisible prayer.

A single candle dripped wax onto the stone floor between them, slow as the passing of forgiveness.

Jack: “You brought me here to talk about death?”

Jeeny: “Not death. Faith. Jan Hus died for it.”

Jack: “Same difference. You quote martyrs like poets, but all I hear is stubbornness.”

Jeeny: “He said, ‘I hope, by God’s grace, that I am truly a Christian, not deviating from the faith, and that I would rather suffer the penalty of a terrible death than wish to affirm anything outside of the faith or transgress the commandments of our Lord Jesus Christ.’”

Jack: “And then they burned him alive. That’s what loyalty to belief gets you — ash and legend.”

Jeeny: “And immortality.”

Jack: “You think dying for an idea makes it true?”

Jeeny: “No. But it proves you believed in something beyond comfort — beyond self-preservation.”

Jack: “Or beyond reason.”

Jeeny: “Reason’s a poor lantern when the soul’s on fire.”

Host: The wind pressed against the chapel doors, groaning like the voice of centuries. Dust drifted through the thin light — tiny galaxies of forgotten prayers.

Jack: “You really think faith justifies dying?”

Jeeny: “Not dying. Witnessing. Hus didn’t want death; he wanted truth. The fire was the world’s reaction to what it feared — conviction without permission.”

Jack: “Conviction without compromise is dangerous.”

Jeeny: “So is cowardice disguised as reason.”

Jack: “You think I’m a coward?”

Jeeny: “No. I think you’re a man afraid to believe in anything he can’t control.”

Jack: “Belief built cathedrals, sure — but it also burned people in them.”

Jeeny: “Because people confuse power with holiness. Hus wasn’t executed by God, Jack. He was executed by men.”

Jack: “And yet he still died thanking the God who didn’t save him.”

Jeeny: “That’s not blindness. That’s faith — the kind that doesn’t bargain.”

Host: The candles flickered harder now, their flames bent by a draft from the broken window. The sound of distant bells echoed through the fog, soft and mournful.

Jack: “You admire him. A man who chose death over diplomacy.”

Jeeny: “Because he refused to let fear rewrite truth.”

Jack: “Truth’s not a stone, Jeeny. It shifts, it bends. The world changes.”

Jeeny: “Truth doesn’t change. People do.”

Jack: “That’s what every zealot says before the world moves on without them.”

Jeeny: “And yet it’s their fire that lights the next world.”

Jack: “You sound like a fanatic.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like someone who’s never loved anything enough to die for it.”

Host: The rain began to fall, tapping the chapel roof — a slow rhythm, like a dying man’s heartbeat. Jack walked toward the altar, running his fingers over the cold marble. He stopped before an old engraving — JAN HUS, 1415.

Jack: “You think he was right? To die for doctrine?”

Jeeny: “It wasn’t doctrine. It was conscience. He believed that truth, once seen, must be spoken — even if it burns you.”

Jack: “But what if your truth hurts others? What if conviction blinds you to compassion?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s not truth. Truth frees, even when it hurts. Lies soothe while they enslave.”

Jack: “And you’re sure you’d know the difference?”

Jeeny: “I’d rather die searching for it than live ignoring it.”

Host: The candlelight danced across their faces, making them look like reflections of two different centuries. Outside, the bells stopped ringing, replaced by silence — deep, complete, almost sacred.

Jack: “You talk about God like He’s still watching.”

Jeeny: “He is.”

Jack: “Then He’s been quiet a long time.”

Jeeny: “Silence isn’t absence. It’s invitation.”

Jack: “Invitation to what?”

Jeeny: “To act. To stand. To carry the flame when others hide from it.”

Jack: “You’d die for that flame?”

Jeeny: “No. I’d live so that it doesn’t die.”

Jack: “That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: “That’s faith.”

Host: The lightning flashed briefly through the stained glass, illuminating the chapel with color — blue, red, gold — for a single heartbeat. The world outside was storming, but inside, the air felt still, charged, almost holy.

Jack: “You ever think Hus regretted it? The pain, the fear, the fire?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s the refusal to let fear define you.”

Jack: “You think you’d be that brave?”

Jeeny: “I think we all hope we would be — until the moment tests us.”

Jack: “You sound certain.”

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t certainty. It’s trust — even when the fire’s already lit.”

Jack: “Then maybe faith’s just the art of holding on to hope when reason’s gone.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And reason alone never saved a soul.”

Host: The storm broke, thunder rolling across the hills like the echo of distant judgment. Jack and Jeeny stood together now, both watching the flickering light of the last candle.

Host: Because Jan Hus was right — faith without courage is just ritual.
He believed that truth was worth more than life,
that conscience must speak even when the cost is unbearable,
that devotion isn’t proven by comfort but by conviction.

The world burned him, but it could not erase him.

Host: As the wind blew out the final candle,
the darkness didn’t feel like defeat.
It felt like continuation —
the silence that follows a man who spoke too honestly for his own time,
and whose words still whisper in the hearts of those who refuse to bow.

“By God’s grace,” Jeeny whispered,
“he did not deviate.”

Host: And in that ancient chapel —
beneath stone, storm, and history —
the flame of faith, small but unbroken,
still burned.