Remember that God under the Law ordained a Lamb to be offered up

Host:
The church bells tolled softly through the fog, their sound carrying across the cobblestone courtyard like a heartbeat slow with meaning. The morning light was pale, almost reluctant — a thin wash of silver spilling through stained glass, painting the stone walls with faint echoes of devotion.

At the altar, a single candle burned. Its flame swayed, fragile yet unyielding, as if aware that it symbolized something far greater than itself.

In the front pew sat Jeeny, her hands clasped, her eyes distant — not in prayer, but in contemplation. A few rows behind, Jack leaned back in his seat, his arms crossed, his expression skeptical, as though the holiness of the place both intrigued and repelled him.

Between them, the quote rested on a folded page of scripture, whispered like a relic from another age:

“Remember that God under the Law ordained a Lamb to be offered up to Him every Morning and Evening.” — Thomas Ken

Jeeny:
(softly) “A lamb every morning and every evening… such a beautiful rhythm of surrender, isn’t it? To give something gentle, something pure, twice a day — as a reminder of gratitude.”

Jack:
(his voice low, dry) “Or as a reminder of guilt. Let’s not romanticize it, Jeeny. A lamb is still a sacrifice, not a symbol. It’s blood and death — not poetry.”

Jeeny:
(looking back at him) “You only see the violence because you’ve forgotten the meaning. It wasn’t about death. It was about offering — about giving back what life gives you. Every morning and every night, to say: I remember I am alive because of grace.”

Jack:
(snorting softly) “Grace? It sounds more like debt to me. God as the eternal creditor, demanding interest twice a day. You wake, you pay. You sleep, you pay again.”

Host:
The candle flame shivered in a draft, the wax pooling at its base like melted time. The light trembled on the walls, tracing the carvings of angels, their faces worn, their eyes blind from centuries of devotion.

Jeeny:
(rising, walking slowly toward the altar) “You think it’s about transaction, but it’s not. The lamb wasn’t meant to balance an account — it was a reminder that life itself is something you must constantly renew. Every dawn, every dusk — you begin again. That’s what faith is.”

Jack:
(following her with his gaze) “Faith is exhaustion dressed as duty. People kneel and repeat the same prayers, light the same candles, offer the same sacrifices — all because they’re terrified the silence will answer back.”

Jeeny:
(turning, her eyes bright with conviction) “No. They do it because the silence does answer back — but not in words. In presence. In the way the heart softens when it bows. In the way the world feels sacred, even for a breath.”

Jack:
(coldly) “Or in the way people are taught to fear their own peace.”

Host:
A beam of sunlight pierced through the stained glass, catching the smoke of the candle and painting it gold. It swirled between them like an unseen third presence — ancient, unjudging, eternal.

Jack:
(quietly) “You really believe God needs a lamb every morning?”

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly) “No. But we do. The lamb is just a name for what we must let go of. Our anger, our ego, our control. Every morning and evening — something must die in us so something else can live.”

Jack:
(leaning forward, his voice softer now) “You mean ritual as renewal.”

Jeeny:
“Yes. You wake and offer your best self to the day — your patience, your strength, your forgiveness. And when the night comes, you offer up your failures, your sorrows, your weariness. The lamb is whatever you choose to surrender.”

Host:
The sound of the bell returned, distant yet resonant, as though time itself were agreeing. Jack’s eyes flicked toward the altar — the candle flame, the light, the faint dust that shimmered like prayer in motion.

Jack:
(after a long pause) “So you’d sacrifice twice a day? Morning and night — just to feel at peace?”

Jeeny:
“Not to feel at peace. To remember peace exists.”

Jack:
(slowly) “And if peace doesn’t come?”

Jeeny:
“Then you offer again the next morning. That’s the lesson, Jack. Devotion isn’t a guarantee — it’s a rhythm. The act itself is the faith.”

Host:
Her words hung in the sanctuary, heavier than incense. The stained glass angels seemed to shimmer, their eyes alive again in the morning light. Jack looked around — not with cynicism now, but with quiet bewilderment, as though realizing he’d been standing in something sacred all along.

Jack:
(speaking almost to himself) “So, a lamb every morning and evening… not for God, but for ourselves. For the part of us that forgets.”

Jeeny:
(nods) “Exactly. It’s not God who needs reminding — it’s man. We wake up selfish, and we need to remember humility. We go to sleep bitter, and we need to remember forgiveness. The sacrifice isn’t blood. It’s awareness.”

Jack:
(softly) “Awareness as offering.”

Jeeny:
“And gratitude as survival.”

Host:
Outside, the fog had begun to lift, revealing the world beyond the window — the quiet streets, the trees, the slow awakening of ordinary life. The candle guttered low, its flame small but stubborn, as though whispering that devotion didn’t need grandeur — only continuity.

Jack:
(after a long silence) “You know… I think I’ve been offering the wrong things all my life. I give my time, my work, my arguments — but never the one thing that actually matters.”

Jeeny:
(softly) “Yourself?”

Jack:
(nods) “Yes. The quiet part. The one that still believes something sacred might exist, even after everything.”

Jeeny:
(smiling) “Then you’ve just found your lamb, Jack.”

Host:
The bell tolled again — once, twice — the sound deep and sonorous, filling the church with a living vibration. The light warmed the walls, and the candle, though near spent, burned brighter for a moment before yielding its flame to the air.

The two of them stood there, not praying, not speaking — simply being.

Host (closing):
The Law once demanded a lamb, morning and evening — an offering to remind man of his smallness before the infinite. But perhaps Thomas Ken’s truth was never about ritual at all. Perhaps it was a call to remember that the heart itself is an altar — and every dawn, every dusk, asks the same gentle question:

What will you give up today, so something pure can live in its place?

And as the light broke fully, spilling gold upon the stone, Jack and Jeeny stood in silence — both lamb and priest, both sinner and saint — quietly making peace with the holiness of being alive again.