If our love of God does not directly influence, and even change

Host: The churchyard was quiet under a slow, amber dusk. The bells had stopped ringing, their echoes fading into the evening air like a sigh that didn’t quite finish. Across the cracked stone path, the last light of day fell through stained glass, scattering fragments of color across the worn wooden pews inside.

Jack sat near the open door of the chapel, a coffee cup cooling beside him. His coat hung over the bench, his hands clasped loosely, his eyes distant — looking at the horizon but thinking of something deeper. Jeeny was inside, lighting a candle near the altar, the soft flame trembling as if listening.

She turned, the candlelight catching in her eyes, and spoke quietly — the way one does when the walls themselves feel sacred.

Jeeny: (softly) “Richard Rohr once said, ‘If our love of God does not directly influence, and even change, how we engage in the issues of our time on this earth, I wonder what good religion is.’”

Host: Her words floated through the doorway, carrying both reverence and challenge. Jack looked up, the faintest trace of a wry smile crossing his face.

Jack: “That’s not religion. That’s rebellion dressed in robes.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Or maybe that’s what real religion always was — rebellion against indifference.”

Host: The candlelight flickered across the old stone walls, catching bits of gold leaf and faded murals. Jeeny walked slowly toward him, the small flame in her hand bending slightly with each step.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, they told us God cared mostly about how we behaved in church. Sit still. Don’t question. Don’t talk too loud. But I don’t remember anyone saying much about what God cared about outside those walls.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy, isn’t it? We made faith a performance instead of a practice.”

Host: The wind moved through the doorway, making the candle tremble. Jeeny cupped her hand around it instinctively — as if protecting not just the flame, but the truth it carried.

Jeeny: “Rohr’s right. What’s the point of claiming to love God if that love doesn’t show up where it’s hardest? In justice. In compassion. In the way we treat people who can’t give us anything back.”

Jack: (leaning back, thoughtful) “But that’s the thing — religion’s supposed to comfort the afflicted, not afflict the comfortable. Somewhere along the way, we reversed it.”

Jeeny: (nodding slowly) “Because comfort’s easier to worship than change.”

Host: The silence that followed was gentle but heavy, filled with the hum of distant life — a car door slamming, the faint rustle of leaves, a dog barking two streets away.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? People talk about faith like it’s a feeling. But Rohr makes it sound like an action.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. Real faith should move your hands, not just your heart.”

Jack: “And yet, most people use it like armor — to protect what they already believe.”

Jeeny: “When it should be a mirror — to see what they still need to change.”

Host: The candle flame steadied as she spoke, its light catching Jack’s face — the lines around his mouth softening, the weight in his gaze shifting toward something almost like peace.

Jack: “So maybe the question isn’t whether people love God — but whether they let that love make them inconvenient.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Exactly. Love that doesn’t disrupt anything probably isn’t love at all.”

Host: The sky deepened into violet, the first star blinking uncertainly in the distance. The last of the sun caught the stained glass one final time, splashing color across the pews — red like courage, blue like mercy, gold like awakening.

Jack: “You know what’s wild? Every prophet, every saint — they weren’t respected for being holy. They were despised for being dangerous.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Because they refused to separate heaven from earth.”

Jack: “And they paid for it.”

Jeeny: “Always. But that’s the cost of authentic love. It’s never comfortable.”

Host: She sat beside him on the old bench, setting the candle between them. The flame glowed against the wood, small but steady — a flicker of warmth between two weary souls trying to understand belief beyond ritual.

Jack: “You think God really cares how often we pray?”

Jeeny: “I think He cares what we do after we say ‘Amen.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “That’s more terrifying than comforting.”

Jeeny: “It should be. Truth always is.”

Host: The church bells began to chime again — slow, deliberate, the sound spilling across the dusk like a heartbeat.

Jeeny: “You know, Rohr once said something else — that the opposite of faith isn’t doubt. It’s control. Maybe that’s why so many people cling to dogma instead of love.”

Jack: “Because control’s predictable. Love isn’t.”

Jeeny: “And because love forces you to risk changing sides.”

Host: The bells faded, leaving the world wrapped in that sacred stillness that follows revelation.

Jack: “So maybe the real question is — if loving God doesn’t make you love people harder, serve better, forgive faster, then what’s it really worth?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe nothing.”

Host: A pause. The wind moved again, brushing through the doorway, tugging at the candle flame — it bent, wavered, but did not go out.

Jeeny: “Faith that stays inside the church isn’t faith. It’s nostalgia.”

Jack: (quietly) “And nostalgia never changed the world.”

Host: She smiled then — not the kind of smile that ends a conversation, but the kind that begins one. The flame reflected in her eyes, small and infinite all at once.

Because Richard Rohr wasn’t questioning God —
he was questioning the way we use Him.

He was asking whether devotion without action is just decoration.
Whether belief that doesn’t bend toward justice is still belief.

True faith doesn’t hide in temples.
It walks the streets, gets its hands dirty,
stands beside the broken and says, “You matter.”

Jack: (softly, to the candle) “You think He minds that we’ve turned worship into theater?”

Jeeny: (gently) “Only if the actors forget the play’s about love.”

Host: The camera panned back — the two of them sitting together in the warm glow of one small flame,
the chapel behind them half-light, half-shadow.

Because faith, as Rohr reminds us,
is not meant to make us safer —
it’s meant to make us truer.

And maybe God’s favorite prayer
isn’t whispered in silence,
but lived aloud —
in how we change the world that He’s still watching.