I really do believe that God is love, one of deep affection and

Host: The church was empty, save for the faint scent of incense and the echo of its own silence. Candles flickered along the altar, their flames small and trembling — tiny messengers of light holding the dark at bay. Outside, the evening rain fell, slow and steady, tapping against the stained-glass windows as if heaven itself were trying to listen.

Jack sat in the back pew, his hands folded but not in prayer. His gray eyes stared at the crucifix as though it were a question, not an answer. Across the aisle, Jeeny lit a candle — the flame catching instantly, flaring, then settling into calm. Her movements were slow, deliberate, almost reverent.

The light glowed on her face — warm and soft, reflecting a faith that was neither blind nor naïve, but chosen.

Jeeny: “William P. Young once said, ‘I really do believe that God is love — one of deep affection and grace and forgiveness and inspiration.’”

Jack: (quietly) “And yet… look around. If God is love, He’s doing a pretty bad job of showing it lately.”

Jeeny: (turning toward him) “Maybe He’s not the one who’s failing, Jack. Maybe it’s us — the ones who keep trying to define Him.”

Host: The candles flickered, their flames bending as if reacting to the tension in the air. The rain outside deepened, the wind howling faintly through the old stone cracks of the chapel.

Jack: “You sound like every sermon I stopped believing. Love, grace, forgiveness — beautiful words, but empty in a world that keeps breaking.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe they’re not empty. Maybe they’re the only things holding the world together.”

Jack: “You really think love can hold this much pain?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that ever has.”

Host: The organ pipes above them creaked as if remembering songs they once carried. Dust motes drifted through the candlelight like tiny souls searching for peace.

Jack: “You know, I used to pray — back when I thought someone was listening. But silence answers faster than God ever did.”

Jeeny: (walking closer) “Maybe silence is His answer. Maybe love doesn’t shout. Maybe it stays — even when it’s quiet.”

Jack: (bitterly) “That’s poetic. But tell that to the child who starves, to the mother who buries her son, to the man who loses everything and still has to thank God for breath.”

Jeeny: (softly) “You think love means preventing pain. I think it means surviving it without turning cruel.”

Jack: (pausing) “So love is endurance?”

Jeeny: “No. Love is resurrection — the moment you choose grace over vengeance, forgiveness over bitterness. That’s God’s handwriting.”

Host: Jack looked away, the candlelight catching the sharp lines of his face — a man half sculpted from skepticism, half from sorrow. The rain outside softened, the rhythm like a heartbeat now — steady, human.

Jack: “I can’t believe in a God who lets the world burn and then asks us to call it mercy.”

Jeeny: “Then don’t believe in that God. Believe in the one who burns with us, not above us.”

Jack: (looking up slowly) “You mean the God of suffering?”

Jeeny: “No — the God of presence. The one who walks through the fire, not around it. Love that doesn’t save you from the storm but sits beside you in it.”

Host: The words hung between them — fragile, luminous, like breath in cold air. The light from the candles wavered, and for a moment, their faces were bathed in something sacred — not divine light, but human understanding.

Jack: (quietly) “You talk about God like you’ve met Him.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “I meet Him every time I choose to forgive.”

Jack: “And you think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s everything. Because love that forgives doesn’t erase pain — it transforms it. That’s what grace is.”

Host: The rain slowed, turning to a faint drizzle, soft as breath. Somewhere outside, the city murmured, the world moving on as if nothing divine had ever happened. But inside the church, the stillness was thick — like time itself had paused to listen.

Jack: “You think God is… not a being, but a force? An emotion?”

Jeeny: “No. I think He’s the space between souls when they choose compassion instead of cruelty. He’s not watching us — He’s within us, waiting for us to remember Him.”

Jack: (after a long silence) “If that’s true, then He’s been waiting a long time.”

Jeeny: “And He’ll keep waiting. That’s what love does.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His voice, when it came, was stripped of sarcasm — bare, searching.

Jack: “You know what scares me most? Not that God doesn’t exist — but that He does, and He’s everything we keep failing to be.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then that’s why He forgives.”

Jack: (looking at her) “Even that?”

Jeeny: “Especially that.”

Host: The organ above them groaned faintly as if sighing in agreement. The candles flickered again — but this time not from the draft, as though the room itself were breathing with them.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe God isn’t love because He’s perfect. Maybe He’s love because He’s patient.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because patience is the hardest kind of affection. It’s grace that waits without resentment.”

Jack: “And forgiveness?”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness is love remembering it’s stronger than memory.”

Host: The rain stopped. Outside, the sky had cleared to a deep, dark blue — the kind that holds stars like confessions. Inside, the air felt lighter, warmer, though neither of them had moved much.

Jack rose slowly, walking to the candle Jeeny had lit earlier. He watched it burn, the flame steady now, unwavering.

Jack: “Maybe I can’t pray yet. But I can watch this light. Maybe that’s enough.”

Jeeny: “That’s prayer, Jack. The quiet kind — the kind made of presence, not words.”

Host: The camera of time pulled back, showing the vastness of the empty church, the sea of candles like small, silent hearts. Jack and Jeeny — two figures sitting in that ocean of stillness — looked almost luminous themselves, caught between doubt and devotion.

And as the final candle flickered, William P. Young’s words echoed through that sacred air — not as doctrine, but as a living truth:

That God is not thunder,
nor throne,
nor distant judgment.

He is affection whispered in the dark,
grace given when it isn’t deserved,
forgiveness that refuses to keep count,
and inspiration that turns pain into creation.

That to find Him
is not to rise,
but to love —
deeply, imperfectly, endlessly —
until the human heart
finally learns
to become its own church.