No human being is justified before God or has a right standing

Host: The night hung over the city like an unanswered prayer. Rain fell in thin, relentless threads, tracing the windows of an old church that had long outlived its congregation. Inside, the candles flickered, throwing trembling light against the stone walls, painting halos around dust motes that drifted like lost souls.

Jack sat in the last pew — a silhouette carved out of doubt, his hands clasped not in prayer, but in resignation. His coat, heavy with rain, dripped slowly onto the floor, each drop echoing like a clock measuring faith against failure.

At the far end of the aisle, Jeeny knelt beside the altar, her face pale, her hair loose, her eyes closed — as if the storm outside had found its stillness within her.

Jeeny: “Do you ever wonder, Jack, what it means to be right before God?”

Jack: (dryly) “I don’t even know what it means to be right before myself.”

Host: His voice — low, gravelly, frayed — filled the empty nave like smoke.

Jeeny: “Paul Washer said, ‘No human being is justified before God based on his own virtue. It’s only by faith in the merit of Christ.’ Do you believe that?”

Jack: “I believe men hide behind words like that because it’s easier than taking responsibility for what they’ve done.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Or maybe it’s harder. Maybe admitting you can’t earn forgiveness breaks you more than guilt ever could.”

Host: The rain intensified, the windows trembled, and somewhere above, the bells groaned — old, tired, reluctant.

Jack: “Faith is a nice word for helplessness.”

Jeeny: “No. Faith is what you have when helplessness finally brings you to your knees.”

Host: She stood, turning toward him. The candlelight caught her eyes, filling them with a quiet, dangerous kind of conviction.

Jack: “You sound certain.”

Jeeny: “Not certain. Just surrendered.”

Jack: “And that’s enough for you? To surrender to someone else’s virtue? Doesn’t that make your life meaningless — to believe that everything you are, everything you try to be, amounts to nothing without some divine signature approving it?”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t make it meaningless, Jack. It makes it humble. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Humility’s just another word for defeat.”

Jeeny: “No. Pride is defeat dressed as dignity. Faith is knowing you’re dust and still believing you’re loved.”

Host: The wind howled, pushing against the church doors, as if testing the strength of the words spoken inside. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes grey, haunted by something older than anger — the memory of loss, the weight of sin he pretended not to carry.

Jack: “You really think a man can be forgiven just by believing? No penance, no proof, no payment?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because the payment was already made. That’s the whole point.”

Jack: “You mean Christ on the cross.”

Jeeny: “Yes. His merit. Not ours.”

Jack: “And what about justice? What about the man who ruins lives, hurts people, breaks the world, and then whispers a prayer at the end? You think that’s redemption? Or just manipulation with better lighting?”

Jeeny: “Justice was the cross, Jack. Mercy was the blood that fell from it.”

Jack: “That’s poetry, not logic.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes truth sounds like poetry because it breaks the heart before it fixes the mind.”

Host: The candles flickered, their flames bending under the breath of unseen winds. Jeeny’s shadow stretched, long and trembling, merging with Jack’s — as if their doubts and faith had found the same fragile space.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe. My mother was religious. Every Sunday, without fail, she’d take us to church. She prayed for my father until her hands shook. He still died drunk on the side of the road.”

Jeeny: “Faith doesn’t promise protection, Jack. It promises presence. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Presence? I was there when she cried over that coffin. God wasn’t.”

Jeeny: “He was. You just weren’t looking.”

Jack: (laughing bitterly) “That’s convenient. He hides when things fall apart, then gets credit for showing up after.”

Jeeny: “Maybe He doesn’t hide. Maybe He weeps with us — but we’re too loud in our rage to hear Him.”

Host: The storm outside broke louder, thunder rumbling through the stones, shaking the pews. Jack stood, his voice rising, not in blasphemy, but in pain.

Jack: “Then why the silence, Jeeny? Why does faith feel like shouting into the dark and hearing nothing but your own echo?”

Jeeny: “Because faith isn’t about hearing. It’s about trusting that the silence still belongs to Him.”

Host: The rain slowed, as if the world itself paused to breathe. The candle flames steadied, casting a soft, living glow over the altar.

Jack stepped closer, his expression cracked by exhaustion — the kind that doesn’t come from work, but from carrying too much of oneself.

Jack: “So you’re saying virtue means nothing. That all the good I’ve done, every right choice, every moment I tried to make amends — none of it matters?”

Jeeny: “It matters. Just not as currency. You don’t buy grace, Jack. You receive it.”

Jack: “And what if I don’t believe I deserve it?”

Jeeny: “Then that’s when grace does its greatest work.”

Host: Her voice trembled, not from weakness, but from the weight of the truth she carried. The light shimmered, catching the faint tears forming at the edges of her eyes.

Jeeny: “Do you know what faith really is? It’s saying: I can’t. But He can. It’s admitting you’re broken and still standing before love that refuses to let go.”

Jack: “And that’s enough to make someone righteous before God?”

Jeeny: “That’s the only way anyone ever is.”

Jack: “Then why do we spend our lives trying to prove ourselves?”

Jeeny: “Because pride dies slow.”

Host: Jack laughed — low, almost a sob, shaking his head.

Jack: “You really believe one man’s virtue can cover the sin of billions?”

Jeeny: “Not one man. One God who became man.”

Jack: “You make it sound beautiful.”

Jeeny: “It is.”

Jack: “And terrible.”

Jeeny: “Also true.”

Host: The rain had stopped now. The moonlight slipped through the stained glass, scattering fragments of color across their faces — blue, red, gold — like the residue of grace itself.

Jack sank back into the pew, his eyes fixed on the crucifix above the altar. For the first time, he didn’t look at it with anger, but with exhaustion — the kind that precedes surrender.

Jeeny walked to him, sitting beside him, her hand resting gently on his shoulder.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to carry your righteousness anymore, Jack. It was never yours to carry.”

Jack: “And if I don’t?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll finally be free.”

Host: A long silence filled the church — not empty, but holy. The kind that asks for nothing, promises nothing, but holds everything.

Jack closed his eyes. His breathing slowed. The sound of the storm’s last drops faded against the roof.

Jack: “If He really forgives… then maybe I’ve been angry at the wrong person.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But He’s never been angry at you.”

Host: The candles burned low, their flames steady, their light reaching every corner.

Jack looked up again — the crucifix shimmered in shadow and gold, the face of mercy watching, silent, eternal.

He whispered, not to Jeeny, but to something deeper:

Jack: “Then… I believe.”

Host: The rain began again, but softer this time, like a benediction. The camera pulled back, showing the two figures — small beneath the vast roof, yet somehow infinite within its silence.

Faith had not erased his doubts — it had simply outlived them.

And somewhere in that quiet, the truth of Paul Washer’s words lived, not as doctrine, but as grace:

No man stands righteous by his own virtue —
but some, at last, learn to kneel.