I preach salvation by grace through faith alone. I preach for the

Host: The night air trembled with the sound of a far-off storm. Beyond the chapel’s stained-glass windows, lightning flared, cutting through the dark like divine punctuation. Inside, the small country church glowed faintly in the warm flicker of candlelight — the kind of light that humbles shadows but never quite erases them.

The pews were mostly empty, the air heavy with wax, wood, and old prayers. Jack sat in the second row, his hands clasped, not in piety but tension. His grey eyes were fixed on the pulpit where Jeeny stood — not as a preacher, but as someone trying to understand belief through words that weren’t hers.

The storm rumbled, and her voice rose — soft, deliberate, but carrying the power of someone speaking into the echo of something sacred.

Jeeny: reading slowly “Paula White once said, ‘I preach salvation by grace through faith alone. I preach for the repentance of sin.’”

Jack: low, steady voice “You believe that?”

Jeeny: looks up, meeting his gaze “I believe she believes it.”

Jack: leans back, faint smirk tugging at his mouth “That’s not an answer.”

Jeeny: sets the Bible down gently “Because the truth isn’t an answer — it’s a direction. Faith’s not about proof, Jack. It’s about surrender.”

Jack: dryly “And surrender’s just a prettier word for blindness.”

Jeeny: quietly “No. It’s a word for trust.”

Host: The thunder cracked, rattling the old stained glass. The candle nearest to Jack flickered wildly, and the wax dripped down its side in a slow, molten descent — like time measured in devotion.

Jack: after a pause “You know what bothers me about preachers like her? They talk about grace like it’s a currency — something you get for believing the right thing hard enough.”

Jeeny: sits on the edge of the pulpit, eyes soft but steady “Maybe grace is a currency. But it’s the kind you can’t earn, only receive.”

Jack: scoffs “Then it’s just luck. Divine lottery.”

Jeeny: shakes her head “No. It’s love. And love doesn’t trade — it gives.”

Jack: bitterly “And what about repentance? You think love demands guilt as its admission price?”

Jeeny: leans forward “Repentance isn’t guilt. It’s awareness. It’s the moment you finally see the distance between who you are and who you were meant to be — and you start walking home.”

Host: Her voice hung in the air like smoke from extinguished candles — fragrant, soft, impossible to contain. The rain outside began to fall, gentle at first, then heavier, like the earth itself was listening.

Jack: quietly “I’ve tried that walk before. It doesn’t end anywhere.”

Jeeny: softly “That’s because it’s not supposed to. Faith isn’t a destination. It’s a return.”

Jack: turns toward her, eyes sharp “You make it sound poetic. But tell me, Jeeny — where’s the grace for people who can’t believe? For the ones who’ve prayed into silence?”

Jeeny: pauses, her voice trembling slightly “Grace doesn’t wait for belief, Jack. It waits for honesty. It finds you in the doubt. That’s where it always starts.”

Jack: leans forward, voice low “You really think God forgives everyone?”

Jeeny: quietly, with conviction “Everyone who turns. Not perfectly. Just honestly.”

Host: The storm swelled, lightning illuminating the stained-glass Jesus above the altar — his arms open, the face serene, distant. Jack’s eyes followed the image, but something in him looked far away — not defiance this time, but longing disguised as argument.

Jack: after a pause “You sound like you’ve been forgiven.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “Maybe I have.”

Jack: studying her “For what?”

Jeeny: softly “For trying to save myself.”

Jack: quietly, with a hint of disbelief “And now you want someone else to do it for you?”

Jeeny: “No. I just finally stopped pretending I could do it alone.”

Host: The rain beat harder, drumming against the roof. The sound was both chaotic and comforting — like divine percussion keeping time for their doubts. The candles flickered again, their flames bowing to the storm’s breath but never dying.

Jack: after a long silence “So grace through faith. Repentance through awareness. You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: gently “It’s simple. Not easy.”

Jack: sighs, running a hand through his hair “You really think that’s salvation — faith without proof?”

Jeeny: nods slowly “Yes. Because proof ends questions. And faith lives inside them.”

Jack: half-smiles, voice low “Then I guess I’m damned.”

Jeeny: steps closer, voice barely above the storm “No, Jack. You’re just still searching.”

Host: The lightning flared, flooding the chapel with white brilliance for a moment, and in that instant, Jeeny’s face looked illuminated — not by the storm, but by something quieter, more interior.

Jack’s eyes met hers. For a heartbeat, the space between them felt alive — charged not by fear, but by truth.

Jeeny: softly “Repentance isn’t punishment, Jack. It’s permission. The moment you stop running from yourself long enough for grace to find you.”

Jack: quietly “And if grace never comes?”

Jeeny: reaches out, gently touches his hand “It already has. You just haven’t recognized it yet.”

Host: The storm began to fade, its fury dissolving into distant thunder. The rain softened to a whisper, tracing gentle lines down the stained glass.

The two of them stood there in the dim, flickering light — two souls caught in the tension between reason and redemption, defiance and faith.

Jack: after a long silence “You know what I envy about believers? Not the salvation. The certainty.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “Certainty isn’t faith, Jack. It’s just comfort. Faith is what you cling to when comfort’s gone.”

Jack: quietly, almost to himself “Then maybe I’ve been closer to faith than I thought.”

Jeeny: gently “Maybe you have.”

Host: The camera drifted upward, the light from the candles glowing against the stone walls like the breath of something eternal. The cross above the altar shimmered faintly, and outside, the storm finally broke into silence.

And as they stood there — still, humble, unresolved — Paula White’s words seemed to echo through the soft rain and the quiet air:

That grace is not earned, but offered,
that repentance is not shame, but awakening,
and that faith, in its purest form,
is the courage to stand before the infinite
and say, “I do not understand — but I will still believe.”

The scene faded with the candles slowly dimming,
the chapel breathing in peace,
and the faint, holy whisper of rain
falling like forgiveness upon the roof.