There were some things that settled into my heart very early into

Host: The church stood quiet under the weight of twilight—its tall windows streaked with the last threads of sunlight, the faint smell of wood polish and candle wax lingering in the air. Dust floated through the shafts of gold light, slow and reverent, like memory itself deciding whether to rise or settle.

In the empty sanctuary, Jack sat in the second pew, elbows on his knees, hands clasped as though in thought rather than prayer. His jacket hung loose, his tie undone. The day had been long. Too long.

At the far end of the aisle, Jeeny lit a small candle, her face glowing faintly in its trembling light. Her hair caught the fire’s hue; her eyes, deep and unguarded, reflected something quiet yet fierce.

Outside, the wind pushed through the trees, carrying the low murmur of a world too loud for faith. Inside, there was only stillness—and the faint echo of a man’s voice from the past.

Jeeny: softly “John MacArthur once said, ‘There were some things that settled into my heart very early into my life and ministry... The two most dominant realities that captivated my heart very early in my Christian experience were the authority of Scripture and the necessity of holiness.’”

Jack: leans back, eyes tracing the stained-glass figures above the altar “Authority and holiness. Two words that don’t sit well with people these days.”

Host: His voice carried the faint rasp of exhaustion, not defiance. Somewhere deep in it lived the echo of old belief—frayed, but not gone.

Jeeny: “They never sat well with people, Jack. Not because they’re wrong—but because they demand surrender.”

Jack: “Or because they demand obedience. And obedience without understanding is the slow death of freedom.”

Jeeny: turns toward him, the candlelight catching the curve of her face “You think holiness kills freedom?”

Jack: “I think holiness, as preached by men like MacArthur, asks you to put your soul in someone else’s hands. Scripture says, ‘Obey.’ Church says, ‘Submit.’ But life—life teaches you that people twist both for power.”

Host: The flame wavered, as though offended by his cynicism. Shadows danced along the pews, stretching like long fingers of history.

Jeeny: “That’s not what holiness means. It’s not about rules—it’s about reflection. It’s about living in such a way that your heart mirrors something higher. Scripture isn’t a cage, Jack. It’s a compass.”

Jack: smirks faintly “And who decides where north is?”

Jeeny: smiles, patient but firm “Not us. That’s the point.”

Host: A silence fell, sacred and uncomfortable. Outside, a church bell tolled in the distance—one clear note that seemed to hang in the air too long, too pure, too knowing.

Jack: “You sound like my mother. She used to say the Bible isn’t meant to be read—it’s meant to be lived. I told her that was just another way of saying, ‘Stop thinking and start believing.’”

Jeeny: “Maybe she meant stop arguing and start listening. There’s a difference.”

Jack: laughs under his breath “I listened for years, Jeeny. I went to the sermons, sang the hymns, tried to believe the words. But the older I got, the more I realized—holiness isn’t rewarded in this world. Ambition is. Strength is. Survival is.”

Host: He rose from the pew, walking slowly toward the altar, his shoes echoing against the stone floor. He looked up at the cross, half in shadow, half in light.

Jack: “Tell me, what’s the point of holiness when the world doesn’t play fair? When the ones who preach it are sometimes the ones who fall hardest?”

Jeeny: follows him with her eyes, her tone soft but resolute “Holiness isn’t about being flawless. It’s about direction. It’s about wanting to turn toward the light, even when you’ve lived too long in the dark. The world doesn’t reward that—but maybe heaven does.”

Jack: “Heaven’s a long way off. Rent’s due on Monday.”

Jeeny: smiles sadly “And yet you’re here, Jack. Sitting in a church on a Friday night. Maybe something in you still believes the rent isn’t the only debt that matters.”

Host: The rain began to fall against the tall windows, a soft percussion that filled the room like breath. The candle flickered, then steadied, its small flame stubbornly refusing to die.

Jack: quietly “You know, when I was sixteen, I wanted to be a pastor. Thought I’d spend my life teaching what’s true. Then I saw how men twisted Scripture to shame people into silence. I saw ‘holiness’ used like a weapon. After that, I decided I’d rather live flawed but free.”

Jeeny: “And what did freedom bring you?”

Jack: pauses “Noise. Choices. Restlessness. A hundred directions and no peace.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you misunderstood what holiness is. It’s not purity—it’s peace. It’s not the absence of sin, it’s the presence of surrender.”

Host: Her words filled the air slowly, like incense rising from an unseen altar. Jack turned toward her then, his eyes softer, his posture less guarded. The tension between belief and rebellion began to loosen into something more human—something truer.

Jack: “You really think Scripture still has authority? In a world full of lies, where even truth feels manufactured?”

Jeeny: “Especially in that world. Because the authority of Scripture isn’t about control—it’s about constancy. Everything else changes: governments, systems, feelings. But the Word… it stays. Like a steady voice in a storm.”

Jack: looking toward the cross again “And holiness?”

Jeeny: “Holiness is the echo that answers that voice.”

Host: The light shifted as the last of the sun disappeared. Only the candle remained now, its flame a single heartbeat against the dark. Jeeny walked toward Jack and set it at the foot of the altar.

Jeeny: “MacArthur wasn’t talking about power or pride. He was talking about anchors. About two things that keep you from drifting—truth and integrity. Even when the sea gets rough.”

Jack: after a long silence “Maybe I drifted too far.”

Jeeny: “Then start rowing back.”

Host: The rain grew louder, tapping its rhythm against the glass, steady and cleansing. The pews behind them faded into shadow, leaving only two figures in the soft flicker of candlelight—one seeking, one steady.

Jack: “You really believe holiness can survive in a world like this?”

Jeeny: “Not in the world. In people. In quiet acts. In forgiveness. In faith that doesn’t shout, but stays. That’s where holiness hides.”

Host: The candle flared once more, then softened to a steady glow. The cross above them gleamed faintly—neither golden nor perfect, but real.

Jeeny: whispering “It’s not about being pure, Jack. It’s about being honest enough to want to be.”

Jack: nods slowly “And maybe honest enough to admit when you’ve stopped trying.”

Host: The camera would pull back now, the two of them framed against the vast emptiness of the sanctuary—small, human, luminous. The rain continued its hymn outside, each drop like a word in an unseen prayer.

As they stood in silence, the flame wavered, then steadied again—fragile, persistent, alive.

Because faith, like holiness, does not demand perfection.
It only asks that you stay—long enough for the light to reach you.