Refuse to be a lazy Christian, and resist a passive, apathetic

Host: The church hall was nearly empty, the last echoes of a worship song still hanging in the air like the faint scent of incense. A single candle flickered on the altar, its flame fighting against the thick shadows that clung to the wooden pews. Outside, rain tapped gently against the stained-glass windows, scattering fragments of colored light across the floor.

At the back of the hall, Jack sat slouched on a pew, his hands buried in his coat pockets, his eyes half-closed — the look of a man too tired to pray, but too restless to leave. Across the aisle, Jeeny knelt on the worn marble steps, her head bowed, whispering something too quiet for anyone but God to hear.

Host: The air was thick with a strange stillness — the kind that follows confession but precedes change.

Jack: “You ever wonder if God gets bored, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Bored?”

Jack: “Yeah. Watching people promise they’ll change, then go back to doing nothing. Week after week. Same prayers, same mistakes. Must feel like reruns to Him.”

Jeeny: “You’re talking about apathy.”

Jack: “I’m talking about reality.”

Jeeny: “Joyce Meyer once said, ‘Refuse to be a lazy Christian, and resist a passive, apathetic attitude.’ That’s what this is about. People like you — too logical to kneel, too tired to hope.”

Host: Jack gave a short, dry laugh, his breath visible in the chill air.

Jack: “Lazy Christian, huh? That’s rich. You think most people are lazy — or just disillusioned? Maybe it’s not apathy, Jeeny. Maybe it’s exhaustion. You can’t keep running on faith when the world keeps running you over.”

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t running, Jack. It’s standing.”

Jack: “Standing doesn’t fix rent. Or grief. Or the noise in your head at 3 a.m.”

Host: Jeeny stood, slowly, her hands trembling as she brushed the dust from her knees. Her eyes glowed in the candlelight — deep brown, fierce, alive with something unbroken.

Jeeny: “You think faith is about fixing things. It’s not. It’s about refusing to go numb. That’s what Joyce meant — to resist the decay of the heart. To stay awake in a world that keeps trying to lull you to sleep.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic. But most people don’t need poetry; they need survival. And survival doesn’t have time for sermons.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe survival is exactly the sermon.”

Host: Jack turned his head, his grey eyes narrowing. The flame behind her cast long, moving shadows that danced across his face like passing memories.

Jack: “You really believe effort matters in faith? That praying harder makes you holier?”

Jeeny: “No. But surrender does. And surrender isn’t passive. It’s the hardest form of action.”

Jack: “That’s a contradiction.”

Jeeny: “So is grace.”

Host: Silence. The rain deepened, whispering against the roof like a thousand soft pleas.

Jack: “You talk about resisting apathy as if it’s a sin. But sometimes it’s just defense — a way to not feel the disappointment anymore. You keep believing, and the world keeps breaking your trust. Eventually, you stop fighting.”

Jeeny: “That’s not defense. That’s surrender to the wrong master.”

Jack: “And what’s the right one?”

Jeeny: “Hope.”

Jack: “Hope’s a fragile currency.”

Jeeny: “So is breath. But you still take it.”

Host: The light shifted, golden from the candle, mixing with the cold blue from the stained-glass window. Their faces glowed in opposite hues — faith and fatigue, fire and ash.

Jack: “You know, I grew up in church. Every Sunday, sitting in those wooden pews, listening to the pastor talk about purpose. Everyone nodding, smiling, pretending. But the minute service ended, it was back to gossip, greed, hypocrisy. You call that refusing apathy?”

Jeeny: “No. That’s religion without relationship. It’s the same disease Meyer warned about — doing holy things without a holy heart.”

Jack: “And you think you’re different?”

Jeeny: “I try to be awake. That’s all.”

Host: She took a few slow steps toward him, her shoes echoing on the stone floor.

Jeeny: “Jack, when was the last time you did something uncomfortable for your soul?”

Jack: “What does that even mean?”

Jeeny: “Something that costs you something. Time. Pride. Comfort. Love. Anything.”

Jack: “Maybe I outgrew the need for that kind of spiritual performance.”

Jeeny: “No. You just stopped believing it mattered.”

Host: Her words landed with the weight of truth. Jack’s jaw tensed. He looked away, out the window, where rain streamed down the colored glass like tears.

Jack: “I used to think God helped those who helped themselves. But I look around — wars, famine, corruption, preachers with jets — and I can’t help wondering: where’s this active faith you talk about? Seems like the lazy ones are doing just fine.”

Jeeny: “You’re confusing comfort with calling. The lazy ones might be winning by the world’s rules, but they’re losing something greater — the pulse of the spirit. Meyer wasn’t talking about doing more; she was talking about caring more. About refusing the numbness that masquerades as peace.”

Jack: “You mean guilt-tripping yourself into motion?”

Jeeny: “No. Choosing compassion over convenience.”

Host: Jack let out a slow sigh, his fingers tapping against the pew, the rhythm steady and tired.

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. That’s why she said ‘refuse.’ It’s a battle. Every morning, your mind says, ‘Stay asleep,’ and your soul says, ‘Get up.’ It’s the same war, Jack — whether you’re a pastor or a plumber.”

Host: The flame flickered, stretching long and thin, as though listening too.

Jack: “You ever get tired of fighting?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But apathy costs more than exhaustion. It steals meaning. And meaning — that’s what keeps us alive.”

Host: The rain eased, softening to a drizzle. The sound of it became like breathing — steady, patient, alive.

Jeeny: “When Joyce Meyer said those words, she wasn’t scolding. She was pleading — with us not to waste our hearts. To live with fire, not fog.”

Jack: “And what if someone’s fire has gone out?”

Jeeny: “Then we lend them our light.”

Host: Jack stared at her, the line hanging in the air, glowing with quiet conviction. His eyes softened, and for the first time that night, he didn’t look tired — he looked haunted by the possibility of hope.

Jack: “You think that’s enough to change the world? Light and words?”

Jeeny: “It changed mine.”

Jack: “You really believe faith is supposed to be work?”

Jeeny: “I believe it’s supposed to be alive.”

Host: The candle burned lower, the wax spilling like tears onto the table. Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice barely above a whisper.

Jack: “I envy that — that kind of faith. I used to pray with conviction. Now, I just… talk to the ceiling.”

Jeeny: “Then keep talking. Even silence echoes when it’s honest.”

Host: Outside, a single ray of moonlight slipped through the clouds, piercing the window, landing right where the candle stood. Its flame flickered, merged with the beam — and for a heartbeat, the whole church felt illuminated.

Jeeny: “Refuse laziness, Jack — not just of body, but of spirit. Refuse to go numb. God doesn’t need perfect Christians; He needs awake ones.”

Jack: “Awake ones… yeah.”

Jeeny: “Because the opposite of faith isn’t doubt. It’s indifference.”

Host: He stood then, his coat brushing the pew, and looked at her — really looked at her — for the first time that night.

Jack: “You know something? You sound like someone who’s still fighting to believe.”

Jeeny: “I am.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the only kind of believer that matters.”

Host: She smiled, a quiet, worn smile — the kind born not of victory, but endurance.

Jeeny: “Maybe.”

Host: The church clock struck midnight, its chime echoing through the vast, empty space. Jack and Jeeny stood in silence, the last flicker of the candle glowing between them — small, fragile, but alive.

Outside, the rain stopped. The sky cleared, revealing a few faint stars through the stained glass.

Host: And in that stillness — between faith and fatigue, fear and fire — the world seemed to whisper: Stay awake.