The historical orthodox Christian faith is extremely wide and

Host:
The church was empty, save for the flickering light of candles scattered like patient stars across a sea of dark wood and shadow. Dust motes floated in golden air, and from somewhere unseen came the faint creak of old beams, the sigh of time breathing through stone. It was not a cathedral of triumph, but of memory — the kind of place that carried the whisper of faith rather than the shout of certainty.

Jack sat in the front pew, his posture somewhere between reverence and rebellion. His grey eyes moved across the stained-glass windows — fragments of saints and stories, fractured light telling a thousand overlapping truths. Jeeny stood near the altar, tracing her fingers along the carved surface, her touch tender but thoughtful, as if she were reading history with her skin.

Jeeny: [quietly, her voice carrying through the hollow space] “Rob Bell once said, ‘The historical orthodox Christian faith is extremely wide and diverse.’”

Jack: [smirking faintly] “That’s not what most preachers like to hear.”

Jeeny: [turning toward him] “No. Because certainty feels safer than diversity. But faith was never supposed to be safe — it was supposed to be alive.”

Host:
The candles flickered, and for a brief moment, the colored glass spilled waves of blue, red, and gold across Jeeny’s face — as if faith itself were painting her in shifting hues.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always thought people use religion like they use architecture — to build walls, when it was meant to be a window.”

Jeeny: [smiling slightly] “And Bell’s point is that Christianity wasn’t born as a wall. It was born as a table. There was room for doubters, mystics, peasants, poets — fishermen and philosophers.”

Jack: “And now it’s an organization with membership tiers.”

Jeeny: [with quiet irony] “Exactly. But historically, the faith was messy. Contradictory. Eastern mysticism meeting Greek logic meeting Jewish poetry. It was a symphony, not a solo.”

Host:
The rain began to tap gently on the stained glass, each drop catching the candlelight as it fell. The church filled with that hushed intimacy only storms can bring — a feeling of being enclosed in thought.

Jack: [leaning forward, elbows on knees] “So what do you think he meant by ‘extremely wide and diverse’? Just theology?”

Jeeny: “No. He meant humanity. That the Kingdom of God — whatever that means to you — isn’t uniform. It’s expansive. It holds contradiction without collapsing. It’s the divine ability to include.”

Jack: “That’s not how it’s usually preached. People want a faith that separates them from others, not one that dissolves boundaries.”

Jeeny: “Because inclusion threatens control. If God’s table is wide, then no one gets to sit at the head.”

Host:
A single drop of rain leaked through the old ceiling, landing softly in a pew behind them — a quiet echo that punctuated Jeeny’s words. Jack looked up, his gaze following the sound, his expression caught between cynicism and longing.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, they told me truth was narrow — a straight road, one right way. But now I think it’s the opposite. Truth’s the ocean. The shorelines are what humans build to make it manageable.”

Jeeny: [softly] “Exactly. Orthodoxy was never meant to shrink mystery into certainty. It was meant to protect the mystery — to say, ‘This is sacred. Let’s explore it carefully.’”

Jack: [half-laughing] “Funny, isn’t it? The word ‘orthodox’ means ‘right belief,’ but maybe the right belief is that belief can’t be caged.”

Jeeny: “And Rob Bell — he’s one of the few who said it out loud.”

Host:
The thunder rumbled faintly outside, low and distant, like the sound of ancient disagreement. The candles trembled, and their flames danced in tiny acts of defiance against the darkness.

Jack: “You know, I used to think people lost faith because they doubted. But maybe they lose it because they were told it wasn’t big enough to include them.”

Jeeny: [quietly, with sadness] “Yes. They were taught that God’s love had an admission fee.”

Jack: “And they couldn’t afford to believe in a God that small.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Bell reminds us — that Christianity’s roots weren’t rigid. They were raw. Fluid. A movement, not a monument.”

Host:
The rain grew heavier, blurring the colored light streaming through the windows. The saints and angels on the glass seemed to move — their faces almost alive in the distortion.

Jack: [gazing up at them] “It’s strange, isn’t it? The more we try to define God, the less we seem to find Him.”

Jeeny: [walking closer to him] “Because definition is about control. Faith is about surrender. The historical church, in its earliest form, understood that tension — that holiness wasn’t ownership.”

Jack: “And maybe diversity — theological, cultural, human — was the proof of the divine, not the threat to it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. God as multiplicity, not monopoly.”

Host:
The bell in the tower chimed once — low and resonant, its echo rolling through the nave like a slow heartbeat. Jack stood, walked toward the altar, and touched the edge of the wood Jeeny had traced earlier.

Jack: [softly] “So maybe faith isn’t something you protect. Maybe it’s something you practice — by listening to the voices you were told to ignore.”

Jeeny: [nodding] “By seeing that the gospel isn’t a fortress. It’s a field.”

Jack: “And it’s wide enough for everyone who still believes in wonder.”

Jeeny: “That’s the faith Bell’s talking about — not the certainty of dogma, but the curiosity of love.”

Host:
The storm outside began to fade, the rain slowing to a whisper. The candles burned lower, their wax pooling like time itself melting. Jack and Jeeny sat side by side in the quiet, not as believers or skeptics, but as seekers in the same vast mystery.

And as the last light flickered against the walls, Rob Bell’s words would rise like a hymn of openness — a faith wide enough to hold the contradictions that make us human:

The historical orthodox Christian faith
is not narrow —
it is oceanic.
It was never a fortress,
but a field where questions grow beside belief.
It holds many voices,
many visions,
many ways of saying the same holy word: love.
Faith is not about certainty;
it’s about spaciousness —
the courage to sit at a table
big enough for doubt, devotion,
and difference to dine together.
That is not weakness.
That is worship.