My church has a health and fitness ministry to encourage our

Host:
The sunset bled through stained glass, spilling crimson and amber light across the polished wooden pews of a small church nestled in a quiet corner of Grand Rapids, Michigan. The air carried the faint scent of candle wax, lavender, and sweat — a curious mixture of prayer and perseverance.

In the back hall, where hymns met heartbeat, a group of parishioners finished their evening fitness ministry session. Laughter echoed through the corridors as sneakers squeaked across the polished floor, and a faint gospel song hummed from a distant speaker.

Jack stood by the open door, watching with skeptical amusement — his arms crossed, the glow of sunset cutting sharp across his face. His expression held both admiration and disbelief.
Jeeny, beside him, had that quiet gleam in her eyes — the kind that appeared whenever something beautiful unfolded in ordinary places. She held a towel and a bottle of water, her voice gentle but sure.

Jeeny: “Marvin Sapp once said, ‘My church has a health and fitness ministry to encourage our members to take care of themselves spiritually and physically; how could I not?’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “A church gym. That’s new. I always thought salvation came through sermons, not squats.”

Jeeny: (softly laughing) “Why not both? Maybe the body and the soul are part of the same hymn.”

Host: The last group of exercisers waved goodnight, their laughter trailing out into the parking lot. The hum of conversation faded, leaving behind the soft echo of a treadmill still spinning down — like a prayer winding to silence.

Jack: “I’ve never understood it — bringing faith into fitness. Feels like mixing hymns with dumbbells.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you separate the sacred from the simple. But maybe that’s the problem — maybe faith was never meant to stay on the altar.”

Jack: “You think God cares about your cholesterol?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “I think God cares about wholeness. Sapp isn’t talking about vanity — he’s talking about stewardship. Taking care of what you’ve been given.”

Host: A beam of light flickered across Jeeny’s face, painting her expression in gold. There was no self-righteousness in her tone — only tenderness, a reverence for the union of flesh and spirit.

Jack: “So you think burpees are holy now?”

Jeeny: “Holiness is attention, Jack. When you honor the body, you honor the miracle that lets you breathe, walk, and serve. Every inhale can be a prayer if you mean it.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But people twist that kind of thinking into obsession — gyms full of mirrors, not mindfulness.”

Jeeny: “That’s not faith. That’s ego. Marvin Sapp wasn’t talking about six-packs — he was talking about service. If your body is weak, your spirit can’t do its work. It’s hard to feed the hungry when you’re too tired to stand.”

Host: The church lights dimmed, leaving the stained glass glowing faintly in twilight hues. The air carried that holy stillness found only after the congregation has gone home — a quiet that felt alive.

Jack: (gazing at the altar) “I’ll admit, there’s something moving about it. The idea that worship could look like movement. That you can sweat your way into gratitude.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not about performance; it’s about presence. The same way singing a hymn isn’t about hitting the right notes — it’s about being honest with your breath.”

Jack: “But most religions teach detachment from the body. The flesh is temptation, the soul is salvation.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why so many people live split in half. The divine isn’t against the body — it’s within it. The Incarnation itself is proof. Spirit didn’t escape flesh; it entered it.”

Host:
The church bell chimed once — a soft, singular sound — echoing through the rafters like a pulse. Dust motes floated in the light, drifting slowly, reverently, through the space.

Jack: “You really think taking care of your body is a form of worship?”

Jeeny: “It’s gratitude in motion. Every stretch, every heartbeat — a thank-you. When Sapp said, ‘How could I not?’ he wasn’t boasting. He was marveling at the gift of being alive.”

Jack: “You sound like a preacher.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe. But so was he. And maybe preaching doesn’t always come through words. Sometimes it comes through how you live — how you breathe, how you treat the vessel that carries your soul.”

Host:
Outside, the sky had deepened into a rich indigo, and the streetlights flickered on. A soft rain began to fall, tapping gently against the stained-glass windows — tiny notes of percussion in the church’s quiet symphony.

Jack: “I suppose it’s easy to forget that spirituality isn’t just what we think. It’s what we do with what we’ve been given.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t claim to love life and neglect the body that lives it.”

Jack: “So prayer isn’t just in words.”

Jeeny: “It’s in every breath that remembers to be thankful.”

Host:
A silence fell — not empty, but full, like a pause between verses of a hymn. The rain intensified outside, washing the sidewalks, making them glisten under the lamplight.

Jack: “You know, there’s something almost revolutionary about that — blending theology with health. It takes religion out of abstraction and puts it into muscle and motion.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because faith without embodiment is philosophy. But faith lived through the body — that’s love made visible.”

Jack: “And the church becomes… not just a sanctuary, but a heartbeat.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host:
The two of them stood, side by side, beneath the high arch of the nave. The rain’s rhythm softened, almost syncing with the distant echo of a gospel choir practicing down the hall — their voices rising faintly in harmony, “Lord, make me whole.”

Jack: “So this is what wholeness sounds like.”

Jeeny: “And feels like. The sacred meeting the physical. The divine breathing through sweat and song.”

Host:
The candle flames flickered once, as if acknowledging the truth between them.

Jeeny picked up a stray yoga mat, rolling it carefully. Jack watched her, the corners of his mouth lifting, not in irony but in quiet understanding.

Jack: “Maybe holiness isn’t something we kneel toward. Maybe it’s something we stand inside.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s something we move with.”

Host:
The rain stopped. The world outside the stained glass looked cleaner, brighter — as though the heavens themselves had exhaled.

And there, in that modest Michigan church, Marvin Sapp’s words became flesh and spirit both — not a quote, but a creed:

That faith is not only sung but lived,
that the soul’s health is bound to the body’s honesty,
and that to take care of oneself is not vanity, but reverence.

Host:
As they walked toward the door, the last light of day streamed through the stained glass, splashing color across their faces — red for heart, blue for peace, gold for grace.

And as the door creaked shut behind them, the echo of laughter and prayer lingered —
a soft reminder that the sacred is not separate from the physical,
but that every heartbeat, every stretch, every breath
can be a hymn in motion.