I want to look my best for God. So many people have the attitude

Host: The morning sun spilled through the café windows, catching the gold flakes in the air from steamed milk and dust. Outside, the street was alive — heels clicking, cars humming, shop windows gleaming with the shimmer of fashion and self-presentation. Inside, though, the world slowed — quiet conversations, half-finished croissants, the lazy swirl of coffee spoons in porcelain.

Jack and Jeeny sat by the window. Between them — two untouched cappuccinos, the foam now beginning to fade. A Bible, half-hidden under Jeeny’s silk scarf, lay on the table beside a glossy Vogue magazine. The pairing looked like a contradiction — and yet, strangely, like balance.

Jeeny: (reading from her phone) “Joyce Meyer once said, ‘I want to look my best for God. So many people have the attitude that if you’re a Christian you’ve got to dress bad, wear an old color, not do anything to your hair, have nothing. It’s no wonder Christianity is not very attractive. I mean, how many people do you know in a Western culture that’s going to go, “Yeah, give me some of that?”’”

Jack: (chuckles, leaning back) “Well, she’s not wrong. The Church could use a little more color.”

Jeeny: “Color’s not vanity, Jack. It’s celebration.”

Jack: “Tell that to the puritans. They thought black was holiness.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the problem. We started confusing holiness with homeliness.”

Jack: “You think faith needs fashion?”

Jeeny: “No. But faith deserves dignity. And beauty — real beauty — isn’t sin.”

Host: The light shifted, falling on Jeeny’s face. The gold in her earrings caught the glow, flickering like sunlight through glass. Around them, the café’s chatter rose and fell — a symphony of ordinary lives, half-distracted and half-aspiring.

Jack: “You’re defending materialism.”

Jeeny: “I’m defending presentation. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Not much of one.”

Jeeny: “There’s a world between indulgence and intention. Joyce wasn’t saying ‘worship your image.’ She was saying — carry it with reverence.”

Jack: “For God?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because how you carry yourself is a reflection of how you honor what’s within you.”

Jack: “So divine branding?”

Jeeny: (smiles) “If you want to be cynical, sure. But think about it — if your spirit is a temple, why let the temple decay?”

Jack: “Because maybe holiness isn’t about the paint, but the foundation.”

Jeeny: “And maybe the paint shows the world what’s inside before they ever step through the door.”

Host: The espresso machine hissed, filling the pause with a burst of sound and steam. The smell of roasted beans filled the air — rich, earthy, human. Jeeny took a slow sip, her gaze distant but alive.

Jack: “You sound like you’re turning Christianity into couture.”

Jeeny: “I’m turning faith back into joy. Somewhere along the line, we made piety dull. But in the scriptures, beauty was never condemned — it was created.”

Jack: “You mean like the temple walls lined with gold?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Or the robes of Joseph, or the lilies of the field. Jesus said even Solomon in all his splendor wasn’t dressed like them — and He didn’t say that as an insult.”

Jack: “So, you think God cares how you dress?”

Jeeny: “I think God cares that you’re awake to beauty — inside and out.”

Jack: “But what about humility?”

Jeeny: “Humility isn’t ugliness. It’s grace without arrogance. It’s knowing your light and using it to warm others, not blind them.”

Host: The sunlight shifted again, illuminating Jeeny’s scarf — deep red silk, alive with movement. For a moment, even Jack’s skeptical eyes softened. The scene felt cinematic — the mundane infused with a faint hum of reverence.

Jack: “You ever worry we’re just decorating emptiness? Making faith fashionable instead of faithful?”

Jeeny: “Faith doesn’t fear beauty, Jack. Only insecurity does.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But the Church has always feared temptation through image.”

Jeeny: “Then the Church forgot that the Creator invented color. The first thing He ever did was paint light across the void.”

Jack: (smiling) “So, lipstick as a theological statement?”

Jeeny: “If it reminds you that you’re made in divine design — why not?”

Jack: “You’d scandalize half of Sunday morning.”

Jeeny: “And awaken the other half.”

Host: The rain began, tapping softly against the café glass — droplets tracing lines down the pane, reflecting neon and sky. Jack looked out, thoughtful, his reflection blurring with the city’s glow.

Jack: “You know, I met a nun once in Kolkata. She wore the same faded habit every day. But she had more radiance than any model I’ve ever seen.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what I’m saying — radiance doesn’t come from what you wear, but it should reach what you wear. Her light made the fabric holy.”

Jack: “So, the beauty comes from within — but it’s meant to spill outward.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The mistake is pretending that the outer world doesn’t matter. God didn’t create the body as a disguise — He made it as expression.”

Jack: “That’s… strangely comforting.”

Jeeny: “It’s human. We were never meant to apologize for beauty — just to honor it.”

Host: The café door opened, a cold gust sweeping through as a woman entered — young, in a bright yellow coat, her laughter soft but contagious. The room seemed instantly lighter, as if her joy had a color. Jeeny smiled, nodding toward her.

Jeeny: “See her? That’s what I mean. People are drawn to brightness. To life. That’s how faith should feel — magnetic, not muted.”

Jack: “You think that’s what Joyce meant? That Christianity should look inviting?”

Jeeny: “Not look — be. But the look helps. Faith that hides itself in ashes forgets resurrection.”

Jack: (softly) “So, beauty as evangelism.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The divine reflected through dignity, laughter, light. We’ve made God look so grim when He’s the author of joy.”

Jack: “You’re saying holiness shouldn’t make people shrink — it should make them curious.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. God never asked us to dim ourselves to prove devotion. He asked us to shine.”

Host: The rain slowed, sunlight piercing through the clouds again. The city glowed gold through the wet glass — imperfect, glistening, alive.

Jack looked at Jeeny, and in her eyes, there was that soft radiance she spoke of — beauty that wasn’t about fashion, but presence.

Jack: “So maybe the real sin isn’t vanity.”

Jeeny: “No.”

Jack: “Maybe it’s neglect — of what’s sacred, what’s vibrant, what’s possible.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly. God made us luminous. But we spend so much time apologizing for our own light.”

Jack: “You think He notices?”

Jeeny: “He designed it.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the window framing their silhouettes against the morning city. The Bible and the Vogue still sat side by side on the table, as if whispering their secret: that holiness and beauty were never meant to compete, only to complete each other.

The sound of cups clinking, rain easing, and the soft hum of the world returning — all wove together like quiet worship.

And as the scene faded, Joyce Meyer’s words shimmered in the air like perfume —

that faith was never meant to be drab,
that beauty was not vanity but testimony,
and that to honor God
is to radiate the fullness of His creation —
to wear joy as vividly as grace,
to reflect divine artistry in every color and gesture,
and to remember
that holiness,
at its most human,
is not in retreat —
but in presence,
alive, confident,
and beautifully seen.