It's amazing how many introverts go into the ministry. It's

Host: The church hall was empty now — only the echoes of the choir still lingered, faint and ghostlike. A few candles flickered near the altar, their light trembling like small, defiant souls. Outside, the wind sighed through the stained-glass windows, casting soft fragments of color over the stone floor.

Jack sat in the back pew, his hands folded loosely, his coat still damp from the rain. His eyes, pale grey and faraway, drifted between the pulpit and the ceiling’s vaulted shadows. Jeeny entered quietly, her footsteps muted on the carpet, her face serene but thoughtful. She carried two cups of tea, steam curling upward like prayers too gentle to speak.

Jeeny: “John Piper once said, ‘It’s amazing how many introverts go into the ministry. It’s amazing how many people go into the ministry who don’t really like to be with people.’”

Host: Jack let out a soft laugh, low and bitter like a man who found humor only in contradiction.
Jack: “Now there’s a paradox worth preaching.”

Jeeny sat beside him, setting the tea down on the wooden rail between them.
Jeeny: “It’s not a paradox, Jack. It’s a revelation. Maybe people go into ministry not because they love people — but because they’re trying to learn how.”

Jack: “Or because they think serving God is easier than understanding humanity.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that the same thing?”

Jack: “No. One is worship. The other is work.”

Host: The rain outside picked up, tapping gently against the stained glass, the drops refracting light like moving jewels. The church seemed alive, listening.

Jeeny: “You always talk about faith like it’s a career choice.”

Jack: “Isn’t it? Look at them — priests, pastors, missionaries. They talk about love, compassion, community — and half of them can barely make eye contact. Piper’s right. It’s amazing how many people who dread people end up becoming their shepherds.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes them worthy shepherds. They know what loneliness feels like.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but naive. The ministry needs empathy, not isolation.”

Jeeny: “And empathy grows in silence.”

Jack: “Not if you hide in it.”

Host: The candles flickered harder, as if the wind outside had found its way through the cracks. Jeeny turned to look at him, her eyes warm but unyielding.

Jeeny: “You think introverts can’t lead?”

Jack: “I think they lead differently — and sometimes dangerously. They romanticize solitude until it becomes selfishness. Piper wasn’t criticizing them, but he was warning us — the pulpit’s full of people who love ideas more than humans.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because ideas don’t break your heart.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Jeeny: “But ideas don’t heal it either.”

Host: Silence fell again. The clock on the far wall ticked faintly, each second echoing like a quiet sermon.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Piper saw something deeper. He wasn’t just talking about ministers. He was talking about anyone who serves without affection. The danger of doing holy work without holy warmth.”

Jack: “You mean the danger of doing it professionally.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The ministry is supposed to be a calling, not an escape.”

Jack: “Escape from what?”

Jeeny: “From the mess of real connection. From the risk of love.”

Host: Jack’s hands tightened slightly around his tea cup. The steam had faded now, replaced by the scent of rain and wax.

Jack: “You really think faith can survive without solitude?”

Jeeny: “No. But solitude isn’t supposed to be the goal. It’s supposed to be the preparation.”

Jack: “Preparation for what?”

Jeeny: “For reentering the world.”

Host: She gestured toward the rows of empty pews.
Jeeny: “You see this place? It’s beautiful, but it’s not meant to be lived in. It’s meant to send you back out there — into the noise, into the chaos, into the company of other imperfect souls.”

Jack: “And yet people hide here. They trade humanity for holiness, like one can replace the other.”

Jeeny: “Because holiness feels safer. People are messy. They argue. They disappoint. God doesn’t.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why Piper sounded so surprised. He expected love to draw people to ministry — but maybe fear did instead.”

Host: Jeeny considered this, her eyes tracing the light through the stained glass, which painted her face in shifting shades of ruby and gold.

Jeeny: “Or maybe love and fear are twins — both pull us toward the divine, but for different reasons. Some people run to serve because they love the world. Others because they’re terrified of being part of it.”

Jack: “And the church needs both, I suppose.”

Jeeny: “It does. The dreamers and the damaged.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the door. Somewhere, a hymnbook fell from a pew, the sound echoing softly through the nave. Jack smiled faintly.

Jack: “You know, I think Piper’s amazement wasn’t judgmental. It was compassionate. He was acknowledging the irony — that even those who fear people still long to help them. Maybe that’s the miracle of faith.”

Jeeny: “The courage to serve despite discomfort.”

Jack: “Or the humility to admit you’re broken while trying to heal others.”

Jeeny: “That’s the heart of ministry, isn’t it? Broken people holding lanterns for other broken people.”

Jack: “Yeah. Except most lanterns flicker before they reach anyone.”

Jeeny: “Then someone else picks it up.”

Host: The rain slowed. The church felt warmer now, filled not with certainty but with the kind of quiet that follows revelation.

Jeeny: “You know, I think introverts go into ministry because they crave connection too — they just don’t know how to hold it without trembling.”

Jack: “Maybe the trembling is what makes it holy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s what makes it human.”

Host: She smiled, that small, luminous smile that always felt like forgiveness.

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t for the fearless, Jack. It’s for the frightened who keep showing up.”

Jack: “And ministry is what happens when those frightened people decide to help someone else up, even while shaking.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The candles were almost out now, tiny flames clinging to life. Jack reached forward and shielded one with his hand, keeping it from the draft.

Jack: “You know, Piper was right to be amazed. It is astonishing — that people who struggle to face the crowd still step into pulpits. That people who ache for silence still choose to speak.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s why their words matter most — because they cost them so much to say.”

Host: The final candle guttered but did not die. Outside, the first hint of dawn began to seep through the glass — faint blue light rising behind painted saints and angels.

Jeeny stood, pulling her coat tighter.
Jeeny: “You think you’d ever go into ministry?”

Jack: “Me? No. I don’t like people enough.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly why you should.”

Host: Jack laughed — not dismissively, but with that strange blend of irony and awe that lived somewhere between confession and acceptance.

Jack: “I’ll settle for trying to understand them first.”

Jeeny: “Good start.”

Host: They left the church as the morning broke — two quiet figures stepping out into the wet, shimmering streets. Behind them, the sanctuary remained — a place for the weary, the uncertain, the introverts who dared to love loudly in their own quiet ways.

Because, as John Piper had seen, faith doesn’t always come from those who love the crowd. Sometimes it begins with those who fear it — and still walk toward it anyway.