The gift of the Holy Ghost, which is the right to receive the

Host: The chapel lights burned low against the velvet dusk that pressed through the stained glass windows. The air was still, heavy with the faint perfume of old wood and candle smoke. From outside, a bell tolled, its echo rippling across the silence like a ripple of eternity.

Inside, two figures sat in the front pew: Jack, his posture steady but his face shadowed in thought, and Jeeny, her fingers gently tracing the grain of the polished bench, her expression both tender and illuminated.

The altar before them glowed faintly under the candles — gold and white, symbols of devotion and mystery mingling in quiet harmony.

Jeeny: (softly) “Joseph B. Wirthlin once said, ‘The gift of the Holy Ghost, which is the right to receive the Holy Ghost as a constant companion, is obtained only upon condition of faith in Christ, repentance, baptism by immersion, and the laying on of hands by authorized servants endowed with the Melchizedek Priesthood.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “That’s a lot of conditions for something called a gift.”

Jeeny: (turning toward him) “Maybe that’s because it’s not a gift like the world gives. It’s not bought, or inherited — it’s received through readiness.”

Jack: “Readiness? Sounds more like qualification.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with that? You don’t stumble into holiness by accident.”

Host: The candles flickered, throwing waves of light across their faces. The silence around them felt alive — not absence, but presence; not emptiness, but waiting.

Jack: “I’ve never liked the idea of earning the divine. If grace is conditional, isn’t it just another transaction?”

Jeeny: “You’re mistaking invitation for exclusion, Jack. Faith, repentance, baptism — they aren’t currency. They’re transformation.”

Jack: “Transformation that someone else has to authorize?”

Jeeny: “No. Transformation that someone helps witness.”

Jack: “Through a priesthood? Through hierarchy?”

Jeeny: “Through order. Even heaven has one.”

Host: The bell outside chimed again, its tone low and solemn. The sound lingered, echoing through the rafters like a question neither of them could completely answer.

Jack: “So you’re saying the Holy Ghost — this eternal companion — can only come if the right person lays the right hands at the right time?”

Jeeny: “That’s not what Wirthlin meant. He wasn’t defining a ritual. He was describing a relationship.”

Jack: “Between man and God?”

Jeeny: “Between surrender and grace.”

Jack: (quietly) “That’s poetic, but it’s still exclusive. You think the divine needs a process manual?”

Jeeny: “No, but we do. Otherwise, we start confusing emotion with revelation.”

Host: A draft swept through the chapel, the flames dancing on the candles. For a moment, the entire room seemed to breathe — the walls expanding, the air alive with unseen warmth.

Jack: “So faith, repentance, baptism — they’re like filters?”

Jeeny: “They’re alignments. Steps to tune the soul to God’s frequency.”

Jack: “You make it sound like radio reception.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “In a way, it is. The Spirit’s always broadcasting — we’re the ones who have to adjust the dial.”

Jack: “And if you never find the right signal?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep turning. That’s faith.”

Host: Her voice softened, but the conviction in it trembled through the stillness. Jack looked toward the altar — the light shimmered faintly on the gold cross, its shadow long and reaching.

Jack: “You talk about faith like it’s certainty. But I’ve met too many believers who confuse faith with denial.”

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t denial, Jack. It’s defiance — the refusal to let despair have the last word.”

Jack: “And repentance?”

Jeeny: “Courage. The willingness to face yourself and start over.”

Jack: “And baptism?”

Jeeny: “Rebirth. The surrender of pride.”

Jack: “And the laying on of hands?”

Jeeny: “Connection — the reminder that holiness is never a solitary act.”

Host: The rain began outside, tapping against the tall windows, turning the colored glass into liquid mosaics of blue, red, and gold. The whole chapel glowed like a living prayer.

Jack: “You make it sound beautiful. But beauty’s not proof.”

Jeeny: “It’s evidence. The kind that speaks to the heart instead of the mind.”

Jack: “That’s the problem. I trust what I can see.”

Jeeny: “And yet, every breath you take is invisible.”

Jack: “Touché.”

Jeeny: “Wirthlin wasn’t talking about proof, Jack. He was talking about companionship — divine presence as a partner in your humanity.”

Jack: “And if someone doesn’t believe? If they never kneel, never confess, never immerse?”

Jeeny: “Then the Spirit still waits. But it won’t intrude.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, the sound rhythmic, like the steady pulse of eternity itself. The air between them shimmered with tension — not argument, but longing.

Jack: (softly) “You know, sometimes I envy people like you. You talk about God like He’s in the room.”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “Maybe He is.”

Jack: “Then why doesn’t He talk back?”

Jeeny: “Maybe He already has. Maybe you just keep interrupting.”

Jack: “That sounds like something my mother used to say.”

Jeeny: “She was wise, then.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through the open doorway, scattering a few loose hymn pages from the lectern. The paper fluttered like small, white wings, rising before settling again on the pews.

Jeeny: “You know, when Wirthlin spoke about the Holy Ghost as a constant companion, he wasn’t promising perfection. He was promising presence — even in silence, even in doubt.”

Jack: “So presence is the goal, not certainty.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because certainty ends the conversation. Presence keeps it alive.”

Jack: “And the rituals? The rules?”

Jeeny: “They’re not locks. They’re doors — you just have to be willing to knock.”

Host: Her hand brushed the wood of the pew, slow and reverent, as though she felt something beneath the surface — something warm, unseen, real. Jack’s expression softened; his skepticism was still there, but now it looked more like hunger than defiance.

Jack: “You really believe it’s that simple?”

Jeeny: “Simple, not easy. The Holy Ghost doesn’t arrive with thunder. It comes in whispers — the kind that sound like your own thoughts but feel like mercy.”

Jack: (quietly) “And you think mercy’s earned through faith and water and hands?”

Jeeny: “No. Mercy’s earned through honesty — through admitting you can’t do it alone.”

Jack: (after a pause) “Then maybe I’ve been praying to the wrong silence.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Or maybe you’ve been listening to the wrong noise.”

Host: The rain began to ease, the candles steadying once more. The air shimmered with the faint scent of wax and rain-soaked wood.

Jack: “You know, for all my doubts, there’s something comforting about the idea of a companion — even a divine one. Someone who doesn’t leave, no matter how far you wander.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly it. The Holy Ghost isn’t a judge — it’s a presence that walks beside you through your contradictions.”

Jack: “Even when you can’t believe?”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Jack: “You make doubt sound sacred.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe doubt’s just faith looking for a friend.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving a stillness so pure it felt almost audible. A faint ray of light broke through the clouds, spilling across the chapel floor, gilding their faces in quiet gold.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack — what Wirthlin described wasn’t exclusion. It was an invitation. The Holy Ghost isn’t a privilege. It’s a partnership. But like all partnerships, it asks for trust — not perfection.”

Jack: “And if I can’t trust?”

Jeeny: “Then start with wanting to.”

Jack: (softly) “That’s faith, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: She reached out, and for a moment, their hands rested together on the wooden pew — a gesture so simple, yet it felt like the bridge between heaven and earth.

The light deepened, soft and endless, illuminating the quiet truth between them.

Host: And as the last note of the bell faded into the twilight,
the world outside stilled —
as though listening to the invisible conversation of two souls,
one wrestling, one remembering.

For in the end, perhaps Wirthlin was right —
that divine companionship is not given, but received,
not imposed, but invited.

That faith, repentance, and baptism
are not conditions of worth,
but languages of welcome.

And that the Holy Ghost,
that eternal whisper of grace,
does not demand perfection,
only the courage to open the heart
and say quietly,

“I am ready to listen.”