Those who are preparing for the coming of Christ should be sober

Host: The night hung heavy over the city, thick with fog and the distant echo of church bells tolling the eleventh hour. A cold wind swept through the deserted streets, curling around the edges of an ancient cathedral whose spires pierced the sky like blackened spears. Inside, candles flickered along the cracked stone walls, their trembling flames painting restless shadows on stained glass saints.

At the far end of the nave, near the altar, Jack sat slouched in the last pew — his coat damp, his hands clasped, his eyes distant. Across from him, Jeeny knelt in quiet prayer, her face bathed in amber light, her lips moving with silent conviction.

Host: The air smelled of wax, age, and something almost divine — a promise and a warning intertwined. Outside, thunder rolled softly over the horizon, like a sleeping beast stirring.

Jeeny: “Do you hear it, Jack? The silence between the bells? It feels like the world is holding its breath.”

Jack: “Or like something’s waiting to exhale.”

Host: His voice was low, gravelly, a tired growl in the dark. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the crucifix at the altar.

Jack: “Ellen White once said that those preparing for the coming of Christ should be sober and watch unto prayer. That the Devil walks about like a roaring lion. But look around, Jeeny — no one’s watching anymore. They’ve all fallen asleep.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they haven’t fallen asleep, Jack. Maybe they’re just… afraid. Fear makes people hide their eyes.”

Jack: “Fear’s not an excuse. The world’s rotting from distraction. Everyone’s drunk on noise — politics, screens, dopamine. Sober? Nobody even remembers what silence feels like.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the great wooden doors, and one of the candles near the aisle guttered out, sending a tiny coil of smoke upward — thin, desperate, vanishing.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that why we pray? To remember? To resist the noise with something eternal?”

Jack: “Prayer?” He laughed, the sound bitter, hollow. “Prayer’s like whispering into a void and calling the echo an answer.”

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in prayer?”

Jack: “I believe in action. In fighting your demons face-to-face, not begging heaven to do it for you.”

Jeeny: “And what if the fight isn’t against flesh and blood, Jack? What if it’s against what you can’t see — against what wants you to stop believing at all?”

Host: Her eyes caught the candlelight — deep, alive, unwavering. Jack looked at her, a flicker of conflict in his grey eyes, then looked away.

Jack: “You sound like the old preachers my mother used to listen to. Talking about the Devil like he’s a man hiding in the dark with a pitchfork.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he’s not hiding. Maybe he’s already sitting beside us — in the cynicism that laughs at hope, in the pride that rejects help, in the hunger that devours everything gentle.”

Host: The rain began — slow, patient, like a measured heartbeat against the roof. The candles trembled as if listening.

Jack: “So what then? You think we should all live paranoid? Waiting for demons behind every shadow?”

Jeeny: “Not paranoid — awake. There’s a difference. To be sober is to see clearly. To watch is to care enough not to look away. Ellen White wasn’t warning us about fear, Jack — she was warning us about forgetting.”

Jack: “Forgetting what?”

Jeeny: “That faith isn’t passive. It’s resistance. It’s standing firm when the whole world kneels to convenience.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, glowing like the last candle refusing to die. Jack shifted, his fingers tracing the grooves in the wooden pew. His breath deepened, slow and uncertain.

Jack: “I used to pray once.”

Jeeny: “What happened?”

Jack: “I stopped hearing anything back.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the answer wasn’t silence. Maybe it was survival.”

Host: The thunder outside cracked open the sky, a flash of pale lightning spilling through the stained glass, briefly painting their faces in shards of red and blue. For a moment, Jack looked young again — stripped of armor.

Jack: “You make it sound noble, but what if there’s no one listening? What if we’re just alone with our own voices pretending they’re divine?”

Jeeny: “Then I’ll keep pretending. Because even if the heavens stay silent, I’d rather live like they’re listening than drown in my own doubt.”

Host: Her voice trembled, but not with fear — with faith. The kind born not of certainty, but of endurance.

Jack: “You talk about the Devil like he’s real. Like he’s watching.”

Jeeny: “He is. He doesn’t need horns. He wears exhaustion, despair, pride. He’s in every whisper that says, ‘give up.’”

Jack: “Then why doesn’t God stop him?”

Jeeny: “Because maybe He wants to see who still stands.”

Host: The lightning flashed again, illuminating the great lion carved into the cathedral’s door — its mouth open in a silent roar. The symbolism wasn’t lost on either of them.

Jack: “So you think the lion’s real.”

Jeeny: “I think he’s hungry. But I think faith can starve him.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. That’s why the verse says ‘resist steadfast in the faith.’ Not half-hearted. Not distracted. Steadfast — even when your heart trembles.”

Host: Jack leaned back, eyes lifted toward the altar, where the largest candle still burned, steady and defiant. His voice softened.

Jack: “Maybe being sober isn’t about avoiding temptation. Maybe it’s about seeing clearly what’s worth fighting for.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And maybe prayer isn’t begging for strength. It’s remembering you already have it.”

Host: Outside, the rain eased into mist. The thunder faded into distant murmurs. A single ray of moonlight slipped through a high window, settling on the crucifix — on the carved hands outstretched not in judgment, but in invitation.

Jack: “You think He’s still coming?”

Jeeny: “Every time we choose faith over fear, He already has.”

Host: Jack let out a long breath, the kind that carries more than air — the kind that releases ghosts. He stood slowly, his eyes softer now, his hands still trembling but open.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll try again. Not to pray for answers… but to listen.”

Jeeny: “That’s all He ever asked.”

Host: She smiled — a quiet, knowing smile — and together they walked toward the altar. Their footsteps echoed through the empty cathedral, two fragile beats in an ancient rhythm.

As they knelt before the light, the last candle flared once more — bright, pure, unbroken. The shadows retreated into the corners, patient but powerless.

And the Host — the unseen witness — whispered in the silence:

Those who prepare for the coming of Christ do not wait idly.
They watch.
They resist.
They pray — not out of fear, but of remembrance.

For even in the presence of the roaring lion, the steadfast heart cannot be devoured.