If you really want to experience God, go and make disciples.

Host: The sun was melting into the horizon, a river of fire spilling through the dusty streets of a small village in Uganda. Children were laughing in the distance, chasing an old tire down the road; the smell of smoke, earth, and rain braided together in the thick evening air.

The church was no more than four walls of brick and a tin roof, dented and shining like armor under the dying light. Inside, there was no grandeur — only wooden benches, a cracked cross, and the faint echo of a hundred whispered prayers that seemed to live in the walls themselves.

Jack stood at the front, sleeves rolled up, his hands still stained with dirt from the day’s work. His eyes were weary, but they burned — not with fatigue, but with conviction. Across the room, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a small group of children, teaching them a song in halting Luganda. Her voice was soft but alive, every syllable carrying the rhythm of joy that defied exhaustion.

The air trembled — not with noise, but with presence.

Jack: quietly, looking around “You ever think we’d end up here?”

Jeeny: smiling without looking up “You mean under a leaking roof, with no Wi-Fi, no air conditioning, and no paycheck?”

Jack: laughs “Yeah. That’s the one.”

Jeeny: standing, walking toward him “No. I never thought it. But I think maybe I stopped needing to think. I just started listening.”

Jack: turning to her “Listening to what?”

Jeeny: pausing “To the call. To the whisper that said, ‘If you really want to experience God, go and make disciples.’”

Host: The room fell into silence. The children had gone, their laughter now just a memory drifting on the night wind. The two of them stood there, caught in the golden haze of sunset, the world outside painted in light and dust.

Jack: quietly “Francis Chan.”

Jeeny: “Yeah. I read it years ago, but I didn’t understand it then.”

Jack: “And now?”

Jeeny: “Now I know it doesn’t mean standing behind a pulpit. It means going. It means being uncomfortable. It means giving your life away, piece by piece, until what’s left looks like love.”

Host: The wind slipped through the cracks of the walls, carrying in the sound of a distant hymn from another church somewhere across the fields. It wasn’t perfect — off-key, uneven — but it was beautiful in its sincerity.

Jack’s jaw tightened as he stared at the cross on the wall, his voice low, uncertain.

Jack: “Sometimes I wonder if I came here for them — or for me.”

Jeeny: “You came here to find God.”

Jack: “And have I?”

Jeeny: “You tell me.”

Jack: after a long silence “I feel... stripped. Everything I built — my career, my comfort, my safety — gone. And yet... I’ve never felt closer to something real.”

Jeeny: smiling gently “Then you’ve found Him.”

Jack: “Funny. I thought finding God would mean peace.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Finding God means purpose. Peace comes later — when obedience stops feeling like sacrifice.”

Host: The light dimmed slowly, until only the glow from a single candle remained. The shadows moved across their faces, the air thick with the intimacy of confession.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when you used to say you wanted to experience God?”

Jack: “Yeah. I thought it meant goosebumps in church. Or a good worship song.”

Jeeny: softly “It’s not that. It’s this — the smell of sweat and dirt. The ache in your bones. The child who smiles because you sat with him in the dust instead of preaching from a distance.”

Jack: “So you’re saying God’s not found in the miracles, but in the mess?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The miracle is the mess.”

Host: Outside, a dog barked, a baby cried, and somewhere a group of women began to sing while preparing food over an open fire. It was ordinary — breathtakingly ordinary.

Jack: “You ever think about going home?”

Jeeny: without hesitation “No. This is home now.”

Jack: “Even with the heat, the bugs, the storms?”

Jeeny: “Even with all of it. Because I finally feel alive here. Back there, I was just... functioning.”

Host: The rain began — slow, deliberate, like the heartbeat of the earth. They stood at the doorway, watching as the drops turned the red dirt into small rivers. The children ran back through it, shrieking with laughter, bare feet splashing in puddles.

Jack smiled.

Jack: “You think this is what Chan meant? That to experience God is to give yourself away until you’re empty?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s to give yourself away until you’re full — with what actually matters.”

Jack: after a pause “Then I think I’m finally learning how.”

Jeeny: “That’s the thing about discipleship. You don’t teach it. You live it.”

Host: The rain grew stronger, the rhythm quickening. Jeeny stepped out into it, her arms open, face turned to the sky. The drops streaked through her hair, down her neck, glistening under the lantern light.

Jack watched her, hesitant at first, then followed. The cold water hit his skin like truth — shocking, cleansing, undeniable.

They laughed — the kind of laughter that comes after years of forgetting how. Around them, the storm sang, the earth steamed, and the scent of renewal filled the air.

Jeeny: through the rain “Do you feel it, Jack?”

Jack: eyes closed, smiling “I do.”

Jeeny: “That’s Him.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the church a small, glowing speck in the vast wet darkness of the night. Two figures, drenched and radiant, stood there — not preachers, not saints, just people finally tasting the real thing.

The voice of Francis Chan seemed to echo through the scene, not as doctrine but as invitation:

“If you really want to experience God, go and make disciples.”

Host: And as the rain continued to fall — steady, merciful, eternal — the world seemed to bow its head in quiet agreement.

Because in that forgotten corner of the earth, beneath a leaking roof and a boundless sky, Jack and Jeeny had found what the world’s noise could never offer:

Not fame.
Not safety.
But presence.

The kind of presence that feels like being seen — by heaven itself.