The truth doesn't change. It was the same when Moses got the Ten

Host: The night was thick with fog and the hum of distant traffic, the city’s pulse muffled under a blanket of quiet. An old church stood at the corner of the street — its windows cracked but still glowing faintly, like weary eyes that had seen too much. Inside, candles burned in trembling clusters, their flames bowing to unseen drafts, each one whispering its small defiance to the dark.

Jack sat in the last pew, his hands clasped, his grey eyes fixed on the dim altar. The air smelled of wax, stone, and the faint ghost of incense long gone. Jeeny entered quietly, her footsteps soft against the worn wood, her hair still damp from the mist outside. She stopped beside him, her voice a murmur that carried both reverence and challenge.

Jeeny: “DMX once said, ‘The truth doesn’t change. It was the same when Moses got the Ten Commandments as it is today. That’s the thing about the truth. That’s the thing about real. It doesn’t change and it doesn’t have to change. Now you can put it in a different book, but it’s still real. It’s still the truth.’”

Jack: leans back, eyes narrowing slightly “Funny coming from a man who lived half his life in chaos.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it beautiful. The ones who’ve seen the deepest darkness usually speak the clearest truth.”

Host: The candlelight flickered across Jack’s face — half in shadow, half in gold. The church’s silence pressed down like the weight of eternity itself.

Jack: “You really think truth doesn’t change? Everything else does — people, laws, love, even memory. The truth’s just another word we bend to fit our moment.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s not truth — that’s interpretation. What DMX meant is that truth is like gravity. It doesn’t care whether you believe in it. It just is.”

Jack: scoffs softly “So we’re all just living under the same truth, pretending we’re discovering it for the first time?”

Jeeny: “No. We’re all walking around blindfolded, bumping into it, denying it hurts.”

Host: The faint creak of the church door echoed as the wind outside shifted. A single candle went out near the altar, leaving a small trail of smoke that curled like a question mark toward the ceiling.

Jack: “The problem with ‘truth,’ Jeeny, is that everyone thinks they own it. Religion, politics, science — all fighting for the same word, all rewriting it to fit their narrative. Moses had commandments. Now we’ve got comment sections.”

Jeeny: “And yet, none of it changes what’s real. DMX wasn’t talking about religion. He was talking about something deeper — the kind of truth that lives under the noise. The truth that doesn’t care about who’s preaching it.”

Jack: “You sound like you’re talking about God.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. Or maybe I’m talking about conscience — that quiet voice that doesn’t evolve with time because it doesn’t need to.”

Host: The flames trembled again as she spoke, their reflections dancing over the stone walls like memories trying to move. Jack’s jaw tightened; his tone grew quieter, heavier.

Jack: “You ever notice how people invoke truth the same way they invoke God? Always when it justifies them, never when it exposes them.”

Jeeny: “That’s human nature, not divine flaw. Truth isn’t moral or kind. It just stands there, waiting for you to stop lying to yourself.”

Jack: “And if the truth hurts too much to stand?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s probably the real kind.”

Host: The silence that followed was sharp, not empty. The rain began to patter softly against the stained-glass windows, distorting the colored light into rippling patterns.

Jack: “You know what I think? Truth might be eternal, but people aren’t built for it. We need our illusions. They’re the only way we can breathe.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Illusions are how we drown slowly — calling it air.”

Jack: “Then tell me — what’s truth to you?”

Jeeny: “It’s not a definition. It’s an encounter. You don’t think your way into truth; you live your way into it. You fail, you break, you repent — and somewhere in that wreckage, you find what never moved.”

Host: Jack turned toward her now. His eyes reflected both defiance and exhaustion, the kind that came from chasing certainties too long.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve met it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I just stopped running from it.”

Jack: lowers his voice “And what if the truth condemns you?”

Jeeny: “Then at least it sees you.”

Host: The rain fell harder now, its rhythm echoing through the hollow of the church, steady as a heartbeat. The flickering candles cast their glow over the crucifix above the altar — not divine in the moment, just painfully human.

Jack: “You think DMX was right — that truth is timeless?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The form changes — the language, the culture, the medium — but the essence doesn’t. When Moses carved the tablets, it wasn’t the stone that mattered. It was the echo of something that already existed inside everyone who’d ever be born.”

Jack: “You talk like truth’s a person.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe that’s why it feels like betrayal when you lie.”

Host: A faint sound — thunder in the distance — rolled through the air. The candles flickered violently, but none went out. Jack looked up at the altar again, his expression torn between skepticism and awe.

Jack: “You ever think truth might be overrated? Maybe ignorance isn’t bliss, but it’s merciful.”

Jeeny: “Mercy without truth isn’t mercy. It’s sedation.”

Jack: “So you’d rather hurt with honesty than heal with lies?”

Jeeny: “Every time.”

Host: She said it quietly, but the weight of it filled the room. Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like a man who’d run out of excuses.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? For someone like DMX — a man who fought demons most of his life — to say truth doesn’t change… maybe that’s why it meant something. He lived in contradiction, but he still knew what was real.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what makes it powerful. Truth doesn’t belong to saints; it belongs to survivors.”

Host: The rain began to slow, the fog outside thinning into transparency. Through the cracked stained glass, a sliver of moonlight crept in, falling across the pews — cold, pure, unwavering.

Jack: “So if truth doesn’t change, why do people forget it so easily?”

Jeeny: “Because comfort’s louder than conscience.”

Jack: after a pause “You think it’s still out there — truth, I mean? In a world like this?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not out there, though. In here.” She tapped her chest lightly. “The place that still aches when you lie.”

Host: Jack looked at her for a long time — and for once, he didn’t argue. He just nodded, slow and silent, like a man hearing a verdict that was both familiar and fair.

The candles burned lower now, their light softening into amber whispers. The church no longer felt empty — it felt honest.

Jeeny: “Truth doesn’t need to change, Jack. It’s the rest of us who keep moving around it, pretending it’s the world that’s spinning.”

Host: Jack exhaled — a sound between a sigh and surrender. His eyes lifted toward the cross once more.

Jack: “Then maybe the only thing real left in this world is what doesn’t move — what doesn’t lie — what still burns.”

Jeeny: softly “And maybe that’s why it hurts.”

Host: The rain had stopped completely. Outside, the streets glistened with moonlight, the world freshly washed but not remade. Inside, the last candle flickered — trembling, stubborn, alive.

And as the flame steadied itself against the silence, the two of them sat still — not as believer and skeptic, but as two souls circling the same fire, realizing what DMX had understood in his own way:
that truth doesn’t change,
because truth never needed to.