I've traveled all over the country for years speaking in

Host: The church was old — one of those stone sanctuaries that seemed carved from silence itself. The pews creaked when you sat, the candles flickered as if still afraid of the dark, and the air was thick with that unmistakable scent of wax, wood, and history. Outside, the rain tapped against stained-glass windows, sending shifting colors across the aisle — blues and reds and golds trembling like faith in motion.

Host: Jack sat in the third pew, arms folded, his gaze wandering from the altar to the cracked hymn books stacked near the pulpit. Jeeny stood near the organ, fingers tracing over the keys as if touching time itself. The sound of the rain filled the space between them — rhythmic, patient, eternal.

Host: From a portable radio resting on the communion rail, a voice spoke — measured, firm, carrying that strange mix of disappointment and faith.

“I've traveled all over the country for years speaking in churches, teaching the Ten Commandments. It's amazing if 2 percent of any congregation knows the Ten Commandments.” — Randall Terry

Host: The echo of those words hung in the vaulted ceiling like incense — heavy, searching, unwilling to dissipate.

Jeeny: softly, after a moment “Two percent. That’s heartbreak in a statistic.”

Jack: leaning back against the pew “Yeah. It’s strange, isn’t it? People can quote Bible verses about blessing and prosperity, but forget the ones about responsibility.”

Jeeny: nodding “Because commandments aren’t glamorous. They’re about restraint, not reward.”

Jack: half-smiling “We’re a culture addicted to loopholes, not limits.”

Jeeny: quietly “And yet every society needs its commandments — religious or not. They’re the guardrails that keep freedom from turning into chaos.”

Jack: softly “But maybe that’s why people ignore them. Freedom’s intoxicating until you have to handle it.”

Host: The candles wavered, their flames bending in the faint draft that crept under the great doors. Somewhere deep in the church, a wooden cross groaned as the wind pushed against it — a reminder that even symbols must bear weight.

Jeeny: after a pause “Do you think he’s angry? Or just tired?”

Jack: sighing “Tired, I think. Imagine traveling the country, teaching something so foundational — and realizing barely anyone’s listening.”

Jeeny: softly “Maybe they hear, but don’t absorb. Knowing and believing aren’t the same thing.”

Jack: nodding slowly “True. People come to church to feel, not to remember.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Emotion is easier than reflection. It’s easier to sing about grace than to live by commandments.”

Jack: after a pause “And yet, the irony — those commandments were supposed to make living simpler, not harder.”

Jeeny: softly “Simplicity frightens people. It removes excuses.”

Host: The rain grew louder, a steady drumming against the roof like divine punctuation. The stained glass cast shifting shapes across Jack’s face — a halo of fractured color.

Jack: thoughtfully “You know, it’s amazing how people separate faith from morality — as if one can exist without the other.”

Jeeny: nodding “We turned religion into comfort, not conviction. The commandments aren’t cozy; they demand accountability.”

Jack: smiling bitterly “And accountability doesn’t fill pews.”

Jeeny: quietly “But it’s the only thing that makes community real.”

Jack: softly “You think we’ve forgotten how to be accountable?”

Jeeny: gazing toward the altar “No. I think we’ve forgotten why it mattered in the first place. The commandments weren’t control — they were covenant.”

Jack: raising an eyebrow “Between people and God?”

Jeeny: shaking her head “Between people and each other. The divine was just the witness.”

Host: The wind pushed open one of the heavy wooden doors slightly, letting in a rush of cold air. The candles fluttered violently but didn’t go out. The two of them sat in the flickering half-light — small figures inside a great reminder.

Jeeny: softly “You know what’s really amazing? We’ve built a world of laws, systems, rights, and rules — and yet, somehow, we still can’t live by ten simple ones.”

Jack: half-laughing “Ten. Just ten. No fine print. No revisions.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And every one of them, at its heart, is about respect — for God, for others, for yourself. That’s all morality really is: remembered respect.”

Jack: quietly “And forgetting it is the start of every downfall — personal or national.”

Jeeny: softly “That’s what Randall meant by ‘amazing.’ Not admiration. Astonishment. The disbelief that we could know what’s right and still not care to remember it.”

Host: The church bells rang suddenly — not from faith, but habit. The sound filled the air with solemn music, washing over the pews, over the rain, over the silence between them.

Jeeny: after a pause “Do you ever think maybe the commandments aren’t forgotten? Maybe they’re buried — under noise, under comfort, under distraction.”

Jack: nodding “Buried, yeah. Like roots under concrete. Still there. Just waiting for someone to break the surface again.”

Jeeny: softly “And maybe that’s why he keeps teaching them. Because reminders are acts of mercy.”

Jack: quietly “And repetition is an act of faith.”

Jeeny: after a pause “Faith that one day, someone will finally listen.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the church glowing faintly in the rainy dark, the two of them small under its vast arches, like voices lost in prayer but still speaking.

Host: And as the last bell faded, Randall Terry’s words lingered in the air — not as a lament, but as a quiet warning:

that the amazing thing
is not ignorance,
but forgetfulness;

that wisdom, repeated but not lived,
turns sacred truth into background noise;

that commandments,
whether divine or human,
mean nothing until they are embodied —
in kindness, in honesty,
in the everyday decency of remembering what binds us.

Host: The rain softened, the candles steadied,
and in that fragile peace,
the ancient promise whispered again —
simple, enduring,
and waiting to be remembered.