Now the true soldiers of Christ must always be prepared to do

Host: The cathedral ruins stood like bones, silvered by the moonlight. What had once been a house of prayer was now a skeleton of stone — arches half-broken, windows gaping like ancient wounds, vines curling up the edges of fallen walls.

The night wind carried the smell of rain and old incense, the faint memory of prayers still clinging to the stones. A single candle flickered at the altar — its tiny flame fighting the dark with a courage too fragile to name.

Jack stood by the altar steps, coat collar turned up, eyes fixed on the candle. Jeeny walked slowly down the aisle, her footsteps echoing through the hollow nave. She paused halfway, looking up at the moonlight pouring through a shattered window, as though heaven itself were eavesdropping.

Host: In that vast quiet, between faith and fatigue, truth waited — patient, stubborn, undefeated.

Jeeny: [softly] “You always come back here when you’re angry.”

Jack: [without turning] “It’s the only place that doesn’t argue back.”

Jeeny: “You’re arguing with yourself, though.”

Jack: [smiles faintly] “Yeah. I’m losing beautifully.”

Jeeny: “What’s the battle this time?”

Jack: “Truth.”

Jeeny: “That old war.”

Jack: [turns to her] “Origen said, ‘Now the true soldiers of Christ must always be prepared to do battle for the truth, and must never, so far as lies with them, allow false convictions to creep in.’”

Jeeny: [quietly] “And you think you’re a soldier of Christ now?”

Jack: “No. Just a man trying to stand in a world where everyone kneels to comfort instead of conscience.”

Host: The candle flame wavered, caught between the pull of wind and persistence — the perfect symbol for conviction.

Jeeny: “You sound exhausted.”

Jack: “I am. Every argument now feels like mud. People don’t fight for truth anymore — they fight for ownership of opinion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the new faith: belief in being right.”

Jack: “That’s not faith. That’s ego with a hymn.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s truth to you?”

Jack: “Something no one can fully hold, but everyone should be willing to defend.”

Jeeny: “Even when it hurts?”

Jack: “Especially when it hurts.”

Host: The wind blew through the open arches, making the broken bells sway — a faint metallic whisper, like faith remembering its sound.

Jeeny: “You know, Origen wrote that in a world where heresy could cost your life. We just risk losing followers.”

Jack: [half-laughs] “Maybe that’s worse. At least death was cleaner.”

Jeeny: “You’re dramatic.”

Jack: “I’m realistic. The truth gets crucified quietly now — under algorithms, under apathy. No nails, just noise.”

Jeeny: “You think it’s hopeless?”

Jack: “No. Just hard. Truth isn’t fashionable. It doesn’t trend. It demands humility — and humility’s out of stock.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe soldiers like you still matter.”

Jack: “We’re obsolete, Jeeny. These days, even lies come with better lighting.”

Host: The moon slipped from behind a cloud, casting silver light through the broken window — cold, pure, mercilessly revealing.

Jeeny: [sits on a pew] “You really think you can fight lies?”

Jack: [joins her] “I can try. Even if it’s just by not becoming one.”

Jeeny: “But truth changes. What if what you defend today is wrong tomorrow?”

Jack: “Then I’ll apologize. Truth can evolve — deceit can’t. Deceit only adapts.”

Jeeny: “So how do you know when you’re on the right side?”

Jack: [pauses] “When it costs me something.”

Jeeny: “You measure truth by suffering?”

Jack: “By sacrifice. If a conviction doesn’t ask for your comfort, it’s probably just convenience dressed as virtue.”

Host: The sound of rain began, slow at first, then steadier — tapping softly against the stone like a clock that remembered eternity.

Jeeny: “You know, I think people fear truth not because it’s harsh, but because it’s personal. It rearranges you.”

Jack: “Yeah. It doesn’t destroy lies — it exposes the parts of you built on them.”

Jeeny: “You think Origen knew that?”

Jack: “He lived it. He didn’t write about battle as metaphor. He fought the war between ego and revelation — and let revelation win.”

Jeeny: “That’s dangerous faith.”

Jack: “The only kind worth having.”

Host: The candle flame bent in the wind, but didn’t go out. Shadows danced across their faces — truth and doubt sharing the same light.

Jeeny: “So where’s the line between defending truth and becoming arrogant about it?”

Jack: “The line’s in your heart. You can’t fight for truth if you think you own it.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a priest.”

Jack: “No. Priests explain truth. Soldiers bleed for it.”

Jeeny: “You’ve bled enough for ideas, Jack.”

Jack: “Ideas don’t draw blood. Lies do. And silence.”

Jeeny: [gently] “You can’t fight every falsehood alone.”

Jack: [glancing at her] “I can fight the ones that pass through me.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, each drop landing like punctuation on the stone floor — the rhythm of a world still worth defending.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder if it’s pride that makes people chase truth? Wanting to be the one who’s right?”

Jack: “It’s pride if you want to own truth. It’s courage if you want to serve it.”

Jeeny: “And which are you?”

Jack: [after a pause] “A coward trying to be brave.”

Jeeny: “That’s a start.”

Jack: “You?”

Jeeny: “A believer trying not to be blind.”

Host: The candle sputtered, then steadied again — stubborn, alive, flickering like conscience.

Jeeny: “You think truth needs defending, or does it defend itself?”

Jack: “Truth is eternal, but its voice is human. If we stop speaking it, it becomes memory.”

Jeeny: “And memory fades.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Jeeny: “So maybe we’re not soldiers. Maybe we’re archivists.”

Jack: [smiles faintly] “Archivists with swords.”

Jeeny: “Swords made of words.”

Jack: “The sharpest kind.”

Host: The rain softened, replaced by the faint echo of dripping water through the cracks in the ceiling — the sound of patience, persistence, and things that endure despite ruin.

Jeeny: [quietly] “You know, I think Origen would’ve liked this — two flawed people sitting in a broken church, still believing there’s something worth saving.”

Jack: “He’d say the battle’s not against the world. It’s against apathy.”

Jeeny: “And apathy’s winning.”

Jack: “Not while we’re still talking.”

Jeeny: “Talking’s not enough.”

Jack: “No. But it’s the first blow.”

Host: The moonlight brightened as the clouds parted — the candle and the sky sharing their glow, both fragile, both fearless.

Because as Origen said,
“The true soldiers of Christ must always be prepared to do battle for the truth, and must never, so far as lies with them, allow false convictions to creep in.”

And as Jack and Jeeny sat beneath the broken archways of faith and doubt,
they understood that truth is not a fortress — it is a field, and every step into it requires courage.

Host: The candle finally burned low,
its flame shrinking, but never dying,
and in that soft light, conviction and compassion knelt side by side —
still fighting, still believing.