Some movie stars wear their sunglasses even in church. They're

Host: The sunlight slanted lazily through the stained glass windows, scattering fragments of color across the empty pews. A faint smell of incense hung in the air, mixed with the lingering dust of centuries. It was late afternoon in a small church tucked between the glitter and exhaust of Los Angeles, a relic surrounded by billboards and Bentleys.

Jack sat in the back row, his hands stuffed deep in his coat pockets, his grey eyes squinting up at a large wooden crucifix. A pair of sunglasses lay on the bench beside him — expensive, mirrored, perfectly ridiculous under the dim light.

Jeeny entered quietly, her heels clicking against the tiled floor, the sound sharp but respectful. She slid into the pew beside him, her hair catching the colored glow from the glass above.

On the program resting beside a hymn book, a handwritten quote read like a whisper from another era:

"Some movie stars wear their sunglasses even in church. They're afraid God might recognize them and ask for autographs." — Fred Allen

Jeeny: “You actually wore them, didn’t you?”

Jack: “What? The shades? They keep the world at a safe distance.”

Jeeny: “Even from God?”

Jack: “Especially from God.”

Host: The light through the stained glass painted Jack’s face with streaks of red and gold — like guilt pretending to be art. He leaned back, arms crossed, that familiar half-smile on his lips — the kind that hides truth behind irony.

Jeeny: “You look like one of them, you know. Those movie stars who think the world’s always watching.”

Jack: “That’s the problem, Jeeny. It is.”

Jeeny: “Not here, it isn’t.”

Jack: “Oh, come on. Even churches have cameras now. And donors. And PR.”

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in sincerity anymore, do you?”

Jack: “I believe in image. It’s what runs everything — Hollywood, politics, even faith. People come here for the same reason they go to premieres: to be seen.”

Jeeny: “And what about you? Why are you here?”

Jack: “To not be seen.”

Host: A choir boy passed by, his small shoes echoing against the marble floor. The air seemed to tremble for a moment — a hush between disbelief and reverence. Jeeny watched the boy, then turned back to Jack, her eyes soft, her tone sharpened by truth.

Jeeny: “You hide behind cynicism the way those stars hide behind their glasses. You’re afraid if you take them off, someone might recognize the real you.”

Jack: “And what if there’s nothing worth recognizing?”

Jeeny: “There’s always something. Even when you pretend there’s not.”

Host: Jack looked away, toward the flickering candles near the altar. Each small flame seemed to breathe — alive, trembling, unashamed.

Jack: “You know, Fred Allen was right. Fame’s just camouflage. You start wearing it for protection, and one day you realize you’ve gone blind.”

Jeeny: “Then why keep it on?”

Jack: “Because it’s safer to be envied than to be known.”

Jeeny: “That’s not safety, Jack. That’s loneliness.”

Host: The organ hummed faintly in the background, a slow, almost hesitant note. Dust floated in the golden light like quiet confessions. Jeeny tilted her head, studying him with the kind of gentleness that disarms more than it comforts.

Jeeny: “You remember when we were kids? You used to say the stars in the sky were like spotlights for people who never got famous.”

Jack: “Yeah. Back when I thought light was for everyone.”

Jeeny: “It still is.”

Jack: “No. Not anymore. These days, light’s something you earn — or buy.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The real light — the kind that finds you even in silence — that’s not for sale. That’s grace.”

Host: Her voice lingered in the stillness, soft but undeniable. Jack shifted slightly, the weight of her words sitting heavier than the air.

Jack: “You think God gives autographs?”

Jeeny: “No. He gives second chances.”

Jack: “And what if you’ve used yours up?”

Jeeny: “Then He gives you one more.”

Host: A woman entered quietly, lighting a candle near the altar. Her reflection flickered across the glass as she bowed her head. Outside, the faint hum of the city could still be heard — cars, sirens, the restless breathing of Los Angeles chasing its own reflection.

Jack: “You ever wonder how people like them — movie stars, politicians — live with all that adoration? All that fake love?”

Jeeny: “Maybe they don’t. Maybe that’s why they wear sunglasses — to blur the difference between flashbulbs and forgiveness.”

Jack: “You sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “You sound afraid.”

Jack: “Maybe I am.”

Jeeny: “Of what?”

Jack: “Of being ordinary.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve already lost. Because the moment you chase extraordinary, you stop being real.”

Host: The choir began practicing somewhere in the back — soft voices rising, imperfect but sincere. Their harmony filled the small church with something that felt too honest to belong to this city.

Jeeny smiled faintly, turning toward the sound.

Jeeny: “Listen. That’s what truth sounds like. Unpolished. Off-key. But human.”

Jack: “You think God prefers that?”

Jeeny: “I think He recognizes it.”

Host: The light shifted, spilling through a high stained glass panel, painting the pews in deep crimson. Jack picked up his sunglasses, turning them over in his hand — the mirrored lenses reflecting the flicker of the candles.

Jack: “You know, maybe Fred Allen was joking. But he wasn’t wrong. If God really walked in right now, half of Hollywood would duck under the pews.”

Jeeny: “And you?”

Jack: “I’d probably ask Him for a rewrite.”

Jeeny: “Of what?”

Jack: “My life.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you don’t need one. Maybe you just need to take off the glasses.”

Host: He hesitated, then slowly slipped them on instead — and for a brief second, his reflection in the lenses showed Jeeny’s face, the altar, and the burning candles — all blurred together, holy and human at once.

Jeeny laughed softly.

Jeeny: “You know, even hiding, you can’t escape the light.”

Jack: “Maybe not. But I can pretend I’m in control of it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the difference between you and God, Jack. He shines. You deflect.”

Host: Jack’s mouth curved — a smirk, but not cruel this time. More like surrender.

Jack: “You think He’s up there judging me right now?”

Jeeny: “No. I think He’s just waiting for you to look up.”

Host: The choir began the last verse of their hymn — voices echoing through the vaulted ceiling, raw and beautiful. Jack finally leaned back, tilting his head toward the stained glass.

The sunlight hit the lenses of his sunglasses, scattering color across his face. For a moment, it looked as if the world had decided to forgive him — or at least, let him rest.

Jeeny watched quietly, her hands folded on her lap, her smile soft as prayer.

And in that tiny church surrounded by Los Angeles noise, Fred Allen’s words glimmered with irony and truth:

"Some movie stars wear their sunglasses even in church. They're afraid God might recognize them and ask for autographs."

Host: Outside, the city kept flashing. Inside, two souls sat still — one hiding, one shining — both quietly seen.