Salvation is by repentance and faith, and if you have truly

Host: The night was thick with mist and the slow chime of a distant church bell. In a narrow alley behind the old cathedral, the light from a streetlamp bled across the cobblestones like spilled oil. Inside the nearby café, the air carried the weight of incense, coffee, and quiet reverence.

Two figures sat near the window — Jack and Jeeny — their reflections blurring in the rain-streaked glass, faces divided by the faint flicker of candlelight.

Jack’s hands were calloused, his grey eyes thoughtful but guarded — the look of a man who’d wrestled too long with the ghosts of belief.
Jeeny, in contrast, sat with a calm that bordered on radiant; her dark eyes held the kind of fire that doesn’t consume but illuminates.

Outside, the church bell tolled once more — slow, deliberate, like a pulse that refused to stop.

Jeeny: “Paul Washer said, ‘Salvation is by repentance and faith, and if you have truly believed unto salvation, you have been regenerated, which means you have become a new creature, and you are going to live a different life. And so works do not result in salvation.’”

Host: The flame between them danced, throwing fleeting shapes across their faces — light and shadow locked in debate before the first word was spoken.

Jack: (quietly) “A new creature… I’ve heard that before. But tell me, Jeeny — what if the old creature refuses to die?”

Jeeny: “Then the repentance wasn’t real.”

Jack: (smirks) “Spoken like someone who’s never lived with regret. You think faith is a switch — off, then on — and suddenly you’re new? People don’t change like that. They erode. Slowly.”

Host: The rain tapped harder against the window. It sounded like confession.

Jeeny: “You’re confusing salvation with perfection. Washer isn’t saying the new life is flawless — only that it’s different. Repentance isn’t an act of erasure. It’s rebirth.”

Jack: “Rebirth?” He looked out at the church, its spire swallowed by fog. “You make it sound clean. But rebirth’s bloody — messy. You break before you become anything.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You break — but you don’t stay broken. That’s the difference.”

Jack: “Then tell me, why are there so many believers who talk of being reborn but live like they never left the grave?”

Host: The silence between them tightened. A car passed, its headlights sweeping through the mist like judgment.

Jeeny: “Because faith isn’t theater. Saying the words isn’t believing. Real faith costs something. It transforms you — even when no one’s watching.”

Jack: “You sound certain.”

Jeeny: “I am.”

Jack: “I used to be.”

Host: His voice dropped lower, softer, the way a man speaks when the past is pressing against the door.

Jack: “I believed once. Prayed hard. Repented harder. Thought I’d been changed. But the same doubts followed me — same desires, same guilt. If regeneration’s real, why does the rot stay?”

Jeeny: “Because the rot reminds you why you needed saving.”

Jack: (bitterly) “That’s poetic, but useless. Faith shouldn’t be a leash to your pain.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a leash. It’s a compass. It points you home, even when you keep wandering.”

Host: The light caught the tears forming in Jeeny’s eyes — not of sorrow, but empathy. The kind born of shared wounds, not pity.

Jeeny: “You see, Washer’s not talking about moral bookkeeping. He’s talking about grace. Works don’t save you — they prove you’ve been saved. A tree doesn’t bear fruit to become alive. It bears fruit because it is alive.”

Jack: “And what if the tree’s barren?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it was never rooted.”

Host: The wind moaned outside, slipping through the cracks of the old stone walls. The flame flickered violently, as though the night itself objected.

Jack: “You really believe that people who fail in their faith were never true believers?”

Jeeny: “Not fail — fall. Everyone falls. But the regenerated heart keeps standing up. That’s the difference.”

Jack: “You make salvation sound like inevitability.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s choice — again and again. Repentance isn’t one moment. It’s a lifetime of moments, stitched together by grace.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked slowly, echoing in the small space. Time, like faith, was both relentless and forgiving.

Jack: “You talk about grace like it’s some infinite currency. But doesn’t that make repentance cheap? If you’re always forgiven, what stops anyone from sinning freely?”

Jeeny: “Love.”

Jack: (smirks faintly) “That’s the Sunday-school answer.”

Jeeny: “It’s the true one. Love transforms what fear can only restrain.”

Host: The rain softened. A faint choir from the church floated through the air — voices rising like smoke through stained glass.

Jeeny: “Do you know what the hardest part of faith is?”

Jack: “Believing?”

Jeeny: “Living as though it’s already true.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “Explain that.”

Jeeny: “Washer says you become a new creature. That means the transformation has already begun — even if you don’t feel it. Faith is living in alignment with the unseen reality — that you are new, even when the old you whispers otherwise.”

Jack: “So it’s self-deception.”

Jeeny: “No — it’s self-surrender.”

Host: The flame between them steadied, no longer trembling. The tension softened — not resolved, but accepted.

Jack: “You really think repentance alone can save someone like me?”

Jeeny: “Repentance isn’t alone. It’s the bridge faith walks on. You don’t earn salvation, Jack. You receive it — and then you spend the rest of your life learning what that means.”

Jack: “Learning... or pretending?”

Jeeny: “Learning. Pretending is when you act righteous to look holy. Learning is when you keep walking, even in the dark.”

Host: A long silence. The kind that holds weight, not emptiness. Jack’s eyes were wet now, though he didn’t notice. The candle had burned low, but still burned.

Jeeny: “You can’t work your way into heaven. You can only open the door from within.”

Jack: “And what if I can’t find the key?”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “Then maybe you never lost it. Maybe you just forgot you were holding it the whole time.”

Host: Outside, the storm cleared. The first hints of moonlight brushed the slick cobblestones, turning every puddle into a quiet mirror.

Inside, Jack sat back, eyes distant but calmer. Something in him — perhaps small, perhaps eternal — had shifted.

Jack: “You know, I don’t know if I believe all this yet.”

Jeeny: “That’s all right. Faith isn’t the absence of doubt. It’s the courage to keep talking to God through it.”

Host: The camera lingered as the candle finally flickered out, smoke curling into the dim air — a ghost of flame, a whisper of rebirth.

Outside, the cathedral bells began to ring again — not mournful this time, but awake, alive.

And in that moment, under the hum of rain and the echo of truth, the night felt — not saved — but forgiven.

The scene faded as the last bell tolled, and the words of Washer seemed to hang in the silence like a promise:

“You have become a new creature.”

And beneath that — the unspoken echo between them —

“And you are going to live a different life.”