Only the family of God can solve the problems of our time.

Host: The church stood alone at the edge of the city, half-hidden behind a line of bare winter trees. Its brick walls were weathered, its steeple leaning slightly like an old man still standing out of principle. Inside, the air smelled of wax, wood, and old hymns. The last light of dusk streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting the floor in fractured reds and blues — shards of heaven on stone.

Jack sat in the front pew, his elbows resting on his knees, his head low, fingers clasped — not in prayer, but in thought. Beside him, Jeeny sat quietly, her gaze fixed on the altar. The only sound was the faint hum of the heater and the occasional crack of the old wooden beams settling into the cold.

Jeeny: softly, as if reading from memory “James Meredith once said, ‘Only the family of God can solve the problems of our time.’”

Jack: without lifting his head “That’s a dangerous kind of faith.”

Jeeny: turning to him “Why dangerous?”

Jack: finally looking up “Because ‘family’ sounds beautiful — until you realize how many people it leaves out.”

Host: The light shifted, the golden-red fading into deep indigo as the sun surrendered completely. The church began to feel like memory itself — vast, quiet, half-filled with ghosts of conviction.

Jeeny: “I think Meredith meant something bigger than bloodlines or denominations. He wasn’t talking about exclusion. He was talking about the kind of kinship that transcends everything else — race, politics, nation.”

Jack: bitterly “That’s what everyone says before the division starts.”

Jeeny: gently “Maybe. But you can’t heal the world by starting with distrust.”

Jack: leaning back in the pew “I’m not talking about distrust. I’m talking about history. Look around — every time we try to fix the world with religion, we just end up fighting over who owns God.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the stained-glass windows, shaking loose a few notes from the organ pipes — a sigh from heaven itself, weary but listening.

Jeeny: “I don’t think he meant religion, Jack. Meredith wasn’t a preacher — he was a man who walked through fire just to sit in a classroom. When he said ‘the family of God,’ he meant the fellowship of conscience — people who still believe in the sacredness of right and wrong.”

Jack: quietly “You’re saying morality without hierarchy.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. A family bound by faith in goodness, not by creed.”

Host: The candles near the altar flickered, throwing their light against the old stone, making it seem to breathe. Jeeny’s voice carried softly through the stillness — calm but filled with conviction.

Jeeny: “Think about what he lived through — mobs, hatred, bullets. He didn’t lose his faith in God; he expanded it. He realized the only way to fix what’s broken is to see humanity itself as divine family. The moment you stop seeing someone as kin, you give yourself permission to stop caring.”

Jack: softly “And we’ve perfected that permission.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We call it politics, borders, systems, self-interest — but underneath, it’s just estrangement.”

Host: The light from the candles danced across the pews, creating waves of gold and shadow that rolled like breath. Jack stared at one of them — the smallest flame, trembling but unextinguished.

Jack: quietly “So, Meredith believed we can’t legislate compassion. That only the heart can govern the heart.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Yes. The family of God isn’t a church. It’s a conscience.”

Jack: half-smiling back “Then maybe it’s the only government worth trusting.”

Host: The bell in the steeple struck seven, a long, echoing sound that filled the silence like the tolling of eternity itself. Outside, the streetlamps flickered on one by one, their light catching the drifting flakes of the first winter snow.

Jeeny: “You know, sometimes I wonder if that’s why people stopped believing — not in God, but in family. The idea that we could still belong to something bigger than ourselves.”

Jack: after a pause “Maybe we stopped believing because belonging means responsibility. It’s easier to be right than to be related.”

Jeeny: softly “But being right never healed anyone. Only relationship does.”

Host: The snow tapped softly against the glass, each flake like a silent prayer landing gently on the city’s shoulders. The church was darker now, but warmer too — lit only by candlelight and conviction.

Jack: staring at the altar “You think humanity still has a chance? To live as one family again?”

Jeeny: “We have to. Otherwise, we’re orphans with power — building towers to heaven but forgetting what heaven means.”

Jack: quietly “And what does it mean?”

Jeeny: looking straight ahead “It means we’re supposed to take care of each other.”

Host: The wind outside softened, leaving behind a deep, holy stillness. The world beyond the church — the wars, the greed, the noise — felt far away, as if mercy had drawn a small circle of silence just for them.

Jack: softly “Meredith’s right, then. If only the family of God can solve our problems, maybe our greatest sin isn’t disbelief — it’s disconnection.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. The fall didn’t happen because we disobeyed God. It happened because we stopped recognizing each other as part of Him.”

Host: The flame of one candle bent low, flickered, and then rose again — stubborn, alive.

Jeeny: softly “You know what’s beautiful about his words? They remind us that faith, real faith, isn’t about walls or worship. It’s about willingness — to love even the unlovable, to forgive even the unforgivable, to serve even when it hurts.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s what he meant by ‘family.’ Not people who agree — but people who refuse to stop caring.”

Host: The snow thickened outside, blanketing the church steps in white. Inside, the candles burned steadily now, their flames unwavering, reflected in the stained-glass eyes of saints who had watched a thousand centuries of doubt and devotion.

Jeeny: smiling softly, almost a whisper “If we could remember that — that we’re all part of something sacred — maybe we wouldn’t need saving.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Maybe we’d just need reminding.”

Host: The bells rang again, their echo carrying through the cold night air — not as command, but as comfort.

And as the two sat there in the flickering half-light, James Meredith’s words seemed to settle into the silence like a benediction that time itself could not erase:

That redemption isn’t collective policy,
but collective kinship.

That the true family of God
is not confined to church pews or dogma,
but lives wherever hearts are brave enough to belong.

And as they rose, walking slowly toward the heavy doors, Jeeny whispered into the dim air, her voice filled with both reverence and ache:

“Maybe the family of God isn’t something we join.
Maybe it’s something we remember we were never meant to leave.”

Host: The doors opened to a world made white again,
and under the soft fall of snow,
the city breathed — fragile, flawed, and divine.