Take heed, then, often to come together to give thanks to God

Host: The church was small, old, and breathing. Its stone walls had held centuries of whispered prayers, of candlelight and dust, of faith both certain and trembling. The wooden pews creaked softly beneath the weight of memory, and the smell of wax and incense lingered in the air like a patient ghost.

Outside, rain fell gently — a quiet benediction from a grey and forgiving sky. Inside, there was only the low hum of wind through stained glass and the flicker of candles lighting faces with gold and shadow.

At the front pew, Jack sat slouched, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the crucifix above the altar. His grey eyes were distant, haunted — as if he were speaking to something unseen, or waiting for an answer he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Jeeny entered softly, her footsteps respectful on the old stone floor. She carried no Bible, no offering — just a kind of reverence that came from understanding the sacredness of silence.

She stopped beside him, lowering her voice to match the hush of the place:

"Take heed, then, often to come together to give thanks to God, and show forth His praise. For when you assemble frequently in the same place, the powers of Satan are destroyed, and the destruction at which he aims is prevented by the unity of your faith." — Ignatius of Antioch

Her voice seemed to blend with the candlelight — ancient words spoken not as sermon, but as reminder.

Jack glanced at her, faint amusement tugging at his mouth.

Jack: (softly) “You quoting saints at me now?”

Jeeny: “Not at you. For you. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Depends on the saint.”

Jeeny: “Ignatius wasn’t warning the pious. He was warning the lonely.”

Jack: (turning to face her) “The lonely?”

Jeeny: “Yes. He knew that isolation is where despair grows best. That faith isn’t just belief — it’s belonging.”

Jack: “So he was preaching community.”

Jeeny: “No. He was preaching unity — the difference is that community gathers, but unity transforms.”

Host: The candles trembled, their light dancing on the stone walls. A hymn hummed faintly from another room — distant voices, imperfect, yet perfectly joined. The air felt alive with something wordless.

Jack: “You really believe that — that when people come together, evil loses ground?”

Jeeny: “I do. Every time we gather in grace instead of greed, in forgiveness instead of fear, something dark loses its foothold.”

Jack: “Sounds poetic.”

Jeeny: “It’s practical. Look around. Division feeds every cruelty — war, envy, despair. Unity’s the only thing that breaks the pattern.”

Jack: (quietly) “And faith is the glue?”

Jeeny: “Faith is the courage to believe the glue will hold.”

Host: Outside, thunder murmured — a low rumble, not of anger but of reminder. The candles flickered again, casting ripples of light over the statues and the carved wooden saints watching silently from their alcoves.

Jeeny sat beside him, her expression softened by the glow.

Jeeny: “You know, Ignatius wrote that letter on his way to be executed.”

Jack: (frowning) “Really?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Chained, exhausted, heading to Rome to face the lions — and he was still urging others to stay united. He wasn’t afraid for himself. He was afraid for them — for what happens to faith when people forget each other.”

Jack: “He was dying, and he worried about division.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He understood that the death of one man was nothing compared to the death of connection.”

Host: The rain outside deepened, its rhythm a kind of heartbeat against the glass. Somewhere in the church, a door creaked open and closed again, as if the building itself sighed.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? I used to come here as a kid with my mother. Every Sunday. I thought it was all just… ritual. Words said, songs sung. But now…”

Jeeny: “Now it feels different?”

Jack: “Yeah. Now I realize it wasn’t the words that mattered. It was being here — all of us. The smell of rain on coats, the sound of coughs and hymns and laughter in the pews. It wasn’t about perfection. It was about presence.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Exactly. Ignatius called it the ‘unity of faith.’ Not unity of doctrine — unity of heart.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what keeps the darkness out.”

Jeeny: “Not prayer alone, not purity, not punishment — but people. Together.”

Host: The light from the candles shimmered against the stained glass, turning the crucifix above the altar into something almost breathing — not a symbol of death, but endurance.

Jack’s voice softened, carrying both skepticism and yearning.

Jack: “You think that’s enough to stop evil — togetherness?”

Jeeny: “Not stop it. But weaken it. Every act of shared grace — every hand held, every voice raised in compassion — is a fracture in the armor of hate.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Maybe that’s why we keep building churches, even when belief gets hard.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Not to contain God, but to remind ourselves that we still belong somewhere.”

Host: The air shifted, quieter now. The storm outside softened to drizzle. The choir’s voices had faded, leaving only the creak of wood and the steady flame of faith still burning.

Jeeny looked toward the altar — at the flickering candles, at the light trembling across the cross.

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t fragile, Jack. But people are. That’s why we need each other — to remind ourselves of what we already carry.”

Jack: “And what’s that?”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “The image of something divine — something capable of love, even in ruins.”

Jack: “You make it sound like holiness is found in us, not above us.”

Jeeny: “Where else would it be?”

Host: The church bells rang once — a single, deep tone that seemed to vibrate through the stones, through their hearts, through the rain.

For a moment, everything felt connected — the sound, the silence, the storm, the souls.

Jack looked up at the flickering altar, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jack: “Maybe Ignatius wasn’t warning about Satan at all. Maybe he was talking about despair — that slow erosion of hope that happens when we stop gathering, stop believing in each other.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The true destruction isn’t from outside. It’s from forgetting that light multiplies when shared.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “So you’re saying faith is a team sport.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Exactly.”

Host: They both laughed softly — the kind of laughter that sounds like relief. The kind that belongs in sacred places where silence has done its work.

The last candle on the altar flickered but did not go out.

Outside, the rain stopped entirely. A thin beam of moonlight slipped through the stained glass and landed on the floor between them — a pale thread binding shadow and gold.

And in that stillness, Ignatius of Antioch’s words found new life:

"When you assemble frequently in the same place, the powers of Satan are destroyed, and the destruction at which he aims is prevented by the unity of your faith."

Host: Because unity is not agreement.
It’s the decision to stay —
to gather,
to hold hands in the dark,
and to remember that light
is never one flame,
but many — burning together,
as one.