I'd say I'm not sure about Christianity, but I sure do like their

Host: The chapel stood on the edge of the city, quiet beneath the sighing trees. Its windows, cracked with age, glowed faintly in the evening light, their stained colors spilling across the floor like forgotten prayers. The faint smell of wax and rain filled the air. Dust floated lazily through the shafts of gold, as if faith itself had taken visible form — tired, fragile, but still floating.

Two figures sat near the front pew, the silence between them as sacred as the space around them.

Jack leaned back, his grey eyes reflecting the flicker of candlelight. His jacket was unbuttoned, his posture neither reverent nor disrespectful — just that of a man who’d been searching too long to still pretend he wasn’t.

Jeeny sat beside him, hands folded loosely, her face half-lit by the window’s glow. The colors — red, blue, and amber — slid across her skin like a moving prayer.

Between them lay a worn page torn from an interview, and on it, Dustin Lance Black’s words:

“I’d say I’m not sure about Christianity, but I sure do like their Christ and the lessons about turning the other cheek, about forgiveness, of yourself and others.”

Jeeny: (quietly, like she’s afraid to disturb the air) “You know, I think that’s the truest kind of faith — when you can doubt the religion but still believe in the mercy.”

Jack: (low, almost to himself) “Or maybe it’s just cherry-picking comfort. Take the good bits of a creed and leave the rest to rot.”

Host: A distant organ note shuddered through the air — someone, somewhere, practicing the memory of a hymn. The sound was broken, but beautiful. Like truth when it stumbles.

Jeeny: (turning toward him) “You always sound like doubt is an infection.”

Jack: “No, it’s just honesty. You think Christ’s lessons can stand without the structure that built them? Forgiveness, turning the other cheek — they sound noble, but out there, in the world? They’ll get you crushed.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe. But what’s the point of faith if it doesn’t risk something?”

Jack: “Risk is one thing. Blindness is another. People forgive monsters every day because they’re told it’s holy. That’s not virtue, Jeeny. That’s surrender.”

Host: The light shifted again, the stained glass painting the wooden floor with trembling colors. Outside, a storm gathered, thunder rolling faintly — the kind that feels personal.

Jeeny: “You’re mistaking forgiveness for weakness. They’re not the same thing. Forgiveness is rebellion. It’s saying, ‘You can’t own my hatred.’”

Jack: (snorts) “Rebellion? It’s obedience dressed in a halo. The world doesn’t change because people forgive; it changes because people refuse to forget.”

Jeeny: (her voice trembling, but steady) “No, Jack. Refusing to forgive doesn’t make you strong. It just keeps the wound open. Turning the other cheek doesn’t mean letting someone hit you twice. It means choosing not to become them.”

Host: Lightning flashed — for a moment, the cross on the altar gleamed like a blade. The shadows leapt across the walls, stretching their arms like ghosts caught mid-prayer.

Jack: (after a pause) “You ever notice how people like to quote Christ when it’s convenient? Forgive your enemies — until you need an excuse not to fight back. Love your neighbor — until your neighbor’s not like you. Religion’s full of beautiful words used like weapons.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “And yet, the words themselves remain clean. It’s not the scriptures that rot — it’s the mouths that twist them.”

Jack: “You talk like you still believe in him.”

Jeeny: “I believe in what he stood for. Forgiveness. Grace. That we’re more than what we’ve done wrong.”

Jack: (scoffs, half-smiling) “That’s nice on a postcard, Jeeny. But forgiveness doesn’t stop bullets. It doesn’t heal betrayal.”

Jeeny: “No, but hate doesn’t either.”

Host: The rain began. Heavy drops struck the old roof like steady percussion, a slow heartbeat against the quiet. The candles flickered, their flames shivering as if listening.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when you said once — ‘People don’t change, they just hide better’? Maybe you were wrong. Maybe people change precisely because someone forgave them.”

Jack: (his voice softer now) “You really think that’s enough? Mercy instead of justice?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes mercy is justice. When you forgive, you return to yourself. You stop being the prison of someone else’s wrong.”

Jack: (whispering) “And if I can’t?”

Jeeny: “Then forgive yourself for that, too.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated her face — not with divinity, but with tenderness. The kind that looks nothing like holiness, yet feels like it.

Jack looked at her — really looked — for the first time that night. There was something in her eyes that disarmed him more than any argument could: peace without pride.

Jack: “You know, that’s the problem. Christ’s kind of love — it’s unreasonable. He forgave the people who murdered him. How do you live up to that?”

Jeeny: (softly) “You don’t. You just try. That’s the point. Not to be perfect — but to be willing.”

Jack: (leaning forward, his voice low) “And if God’s not there to see it?”

Jeeny: “Then you do it anyway. Because you’re still here to feel it.”

Host: The rain slowed, turning to a soft patter. The storm seemed to have passed, leaving behind that post-rain stillness — fragile, sacred, like the breath right after confession.

Jeeny: (after a long silence) “You know what I like about what Black said? It’s humble. He admits his doubt but still honors what’s beautiful. It’s not about belonging to a faith — it’s about carrying what’s worth keeping.”

Jack: (nods slowly) “Maybe that’s the only religion that survives — the kind built from the parts that still make sense.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Strip away the dogma, the rituals, the fear — and what’s left? Forgiveness. That’s all.”

Jack: “Forgiveness… or forgetfulness?”

Jeeny: “No. Forgiveness remembers — and chooses differently.”

Host: The candles burned lower. The wax pooled around their bases like soft tears, cooling, solidifying — the quiet proof of fire that had already done its work.

Jack stood, walking slowly to the altar. He looked up at the cross. Its shadow stretched across the wall like a human figure reaching, not upward, but outward.

Jack: (murmuring) “Maybe that’s what turning the other cheek means. Not submission… but defiance.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Yes. The strength to stay gentle when the world tells you to harden.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You think I could ever learn that?”

Jeeny: “You already have. You just haven’t forgiven yourself for it yet.”

Host: The chapel seemed to exhale then, as if releasing some long-held breath. The rain outside stopped entirely. The night felt washed clean.

A single candle sputtered and went out — smoke curling upward, a final psalm in grey.

Jack turned back toward Jeeny, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting his lips.

Jack: “You know, I still don’t buy into religion.”

Jeeny: “Neither did he. Not the way people think. Christ didn’t preach religion — he preached compassion.”

Jack: (quietly) “And forgiveness.”

Jeeny: “Of yourself, too.”

Jack: “That’s the hardest one.”

Jeeny: “That’s why it’s the holiest.”

Host: The camera would linger there — the two of them, framed in the soft afterglow of faith rediscovered, not through doctrine, but through mercy. The light of dawn began to edge through the windows, and the world outside started to stir again.

The cross above them stood unchanged, but the silence beneath it had shifted — lighter now, alive.

And as they walked out into the pale morning,
their footsteps echoed in harmony,
carrying with them no certainty,
only the kind of faith that doubts beautifully —

the faith that finds God
not in power,
but in the fragile, unstoppable act
of forgiveness.