The full benefit of forgiveness of sin through the Savior's

Host: The churchyard lay quiet beneath the late afternoon sun, the air still and heavy with the scent of rain-soaked stone. Light filtered through the stained-glass windows of the chapel, painting the benches inside with streaks of crimson and gold. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled, low and resonant — a sound that seemed less like an alarm and more like an invitation.

Jack sat in the last pew, his hands clasped loosely, his eyes fixed on the floorboards beneath him. His gray suit was rumpled, the tie loosened. There was something weary — but not defeated — in the way he breathed, like a man who had been wrestling with his own soul too long.

Jeeny entered quietly, her footsteps soft on the old wood. The light caught in her hair, casting a soft halo around her as she sat beside him, a small Bible held close to her chest.

Outside, a sparrow sang in the silence.

Jeeny: “James E. Faust once said, ‘The full benefit of forgiveness of sin through the Savior's Atonement begins with repentance and baptism and then expands upon receiving the Holy Ghost.’”

She spoke the words slowly, her voice low but steady, each syllable resting in the still air like a prayer that wasn’t meant to convince — only to be heard.

Jack: “Sounds like the kind of thing they tell people to make them believe they can start over.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with that?”

Jack: “It’s just… convenient. The idea that you can erase everything you’ve done with a few steps — repentance, baptism, some spiritual rebirth. Life doesn’t reset like that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it doesn’t reset. But it renews. There’s a difference.”

Host: The light shifted, a cloud passing over the sun. The colors from the glass — red, blue, gold — slid across their faces like a slow-moving river. Jack turned slightly, his profile hard against the colored light; Jeeny’s, soft and open, like the reflection of something he wanted to believe but couldn’t quite touch.

Jack: “You really believe forgiveness is that simple?”

Jeeny: “No. I believe it’s that hard. It’s easy to ask for forgiveness — it’s hard to let yourself receive it.”

Jack: “You think saying a prayer, confessing sins, and getting baptized fixes what we’ve done?”

Jeeny: “Not fixes. Heals. And healing isn’t instant, Jack. It’s a process — one that begins when you stop running from your own reflection.”

Jack: “That’s the problem, Jeeny. You think there’s a cure for everything. But some people don’t deserve to heal.”

Jeeny: “Everyone deserves to heal. Even you.”

Host: Her words hung there, heavy but soft. The faint sound of the bell echoed again, as if punctuating the moment. Jack leaned back, his eyes closed, his breath uneven.

Jack: “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

Jeeny: “You don’t have to tell me. I just know that if the Atonement can’t reach you, it can’t reach anyone. And I don’t believe that’s how it works.”

Jack: “You think a Savior’s sacrifice wipes the slate clean? That easy?”

Jeeny: “It’s not about ease. It’s about surrender. You don’t earn grace — you accept it. Repentance isn’t payment. It’s permission.”

Jack: “Permission for what?”

Jeeny: “For the light to come back in.”

Host: The wind outside picked up, shaking the branches against the windows. Dust motes drifted in the light like little suspended worlds. For a long while, neither of them spoke.

The silence wasn’t awkward — it was sacred.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I used to think baptism was magic — that you went under the water dirty and came out pure. Then life happened. I realized dirt doesn’t wash off that easy.”

Jeeny: “That’s because baptism doesn’t clean what’s on the skin, Jack. It cleans what’s underneath. The part that never really stops thirsting for hope.”

Jack: “You talk like you’ve been there.”

Jeeny: “I have. We all have. Maybe not in the same way — but I’ve seen the edge. And I’ve felt what it means to be pulled back by something greater than myself.”

Host: The sun reappeared, spilling gold through the colored glass. The blue and red merged on the floor into a kind of living violet — as if heaven and earth were briefly sharing a palette.

Jack looked down at the color, his eyes tracing its edges, his expression softening.

Jack: “You really believe people can change?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But only when they stop pretending they don’t need to.”

Jack: “And what if you’ve hurt people who’ll never forgive you?”

Jeeny: “Then you live in a way that honors what you did wrong — not by guilt, but by grace. Repentance isn’t about pretending it didn’t happen; it’s about transforming what did into something that redeems you.”

Jack: “And baptism? You really think water and a few words can change a soul?”

Jeeny: “It’s not the water, Jack. It’s the surrender. It’s standing there and saying, ‘I can’t carry this anymore.’ And then letting the current carry it for you.”

Host: A faint tear glimmered in the corner of her eye, not from sadness, but from the kind of empathy that wears no label — only presence. Jack noticed but said nothing. His hand, rough and uncertain, brushed against the wood of the pew.

Jack: “And the Holy Ghost? What then? You start glowing? You start hearing voices?”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “No. You start hearing your own again — the one that’s been buried under all the noise. The Holy Ghost doesn’t speak to you, Jack. It speaks through you.”

Jack: “And if you don’t feel it?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’re still too busy shouting to listen.”

Host: The sunlight shifted again, this time landing full on Jack’s face. He blinked against it, his eyes watering slightly — whether from the light or something deeper, it was hard to say.

A moment passed. Then another.

Jeeny stood and walked slowly toward the front of the chapel, placing her hand on the baptismal font, the water within catching the light like glass.

Jeeny: “This isn’t about perfection, Jack. It’s about willingness. You take one step — repentance. Then another — baptism. And somewhere along the way, grace meets you halfway.”

Jack: “And the rest?”

Jeeny: “The rest is listening. Letting the Holy Ghost turn guilt into growth. Letting pain become proof that you’re still alive.”

Host: A long pause. Jack’s shoulders lowered. He looked toward the altar — a simple wooden cross, bathed in light. For a man who had once believed only in reason, his eyes now held something gentler. Something searching.

Jack: “You really think forgiveness starts with us?”

Jeeny: “No. It starts with Him. But it grows through us.”

Jack: “And you think it’s worth trying?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that ever was.”

Host: The bell rang once more, and this time it didn’t sound distant — it sounded close, clear, almost tender.

Jack rose, his shadow stretching across the aisle toward the light. He didn’t speak, but there was something in the way he looked at the cross — not as an answer, but as a door.

Jeeny smiled quietly.

Jeeny: “Come on, Jack. It’s never too late to begin again.”

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “No — just sacred.”

Host: They stood together at the edge of the light, their silhouettes framed against the radiant glass. Outside, the rain had stopped completely. The world smelled new — like something washed clean, forgiven, and still unfolding.

The camera lingered on the rippling water inside the font — still, reflective, waiting.

And as the scene faded, James E. Faust’s truth whispered softly through the air like the closing note of a hymn:

“Forgiveness begins with repentance, deepens with baptism, and blooms fully when the Spirit makes its home within you.”