True faith is focused in and on the Lord Jesus Christ and always

Host: The church was almost empty, the pews carved with years of hands that had prayed, fidgeted, or clung to faith through storms of their own. Candlelight flickered across the stained-glass windows, painting red and gold across the stone floor. Outside, the wind carried the soft murmur of an approaching rainstorm.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of incense and wood polish, that quiet perfume of devotion.

Jack sat near the back, his hands clasped loosely, his tie undone. His grey eyes stared at the altar, where the light fell gently over the figure of the crucified Christ.

Jeeny entered silently, her footsteps soft against the old floor. She carried a small Bible, tucked close to her chest. Her eyes, dark and reflective, carried both faith and fatigue — the kind born not from doubt, but from years of believing too much.

Jeeny: “David A. Bednar once said, ‘True faith is focused in and on the Lord Jesus Christ and always leads to action.’ It’s one of those truths people love to quote… but rarely live.”

Jack: (without looking up) “Action, huh? That’s the tricky part. Most people confuse faith with waiting — praying for change instead of being the change.”

Jeeny: (sitting beside him) “And you? What do you confuse it with?”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “With illusion, maybe. I’ve seen too many people use faith as a shield — something to hide behind when life demands courage. They say, ‘God will provide,’ but they never lift a hand to help themselves.”

Host: The candles wavered, as if offended by the cynicism. Outside, the thunder murmured, patient and far away.

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who’s seen faith fail.”

Jack: (quietly) “I’ve seen people fail, Jeeny. Faith’s just the excuse they used on their way down.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve seen the counterfeit — not the real thing. True faith doesn’t paralyze; it propels. It’s not a quiet waiting room; it’s a battlefield.”

Host: Her voice carried across the silence like a hymn — soft, steady, but unyielding. Jack’s jaw tightened, the faint flicker of conflict in his eyes betraying something deeper than disbelief: the ache of memory.

Jack: “Tell that to the mother who prays for her dying child. Tell her faith leads to action when all she can do is kneel.”

Jeeny: (turning to him, her voice trembling but firm) “She is acting, Jack. Every tear, every whispered plea — that’s action in its purest form. Faith doesn’t always build bridges or fight wars. Sometimes, it just keeps breathing when breathing hurts.”

Host: The wind outside howled, rattling the old window frames. The candles fluttered again, scattering light across the statues of saints — their faces serene, unbothered by human doubt.

Jack: “You really think faith is enough? That believing in something unseen makes the world move?”

Jeeny: “Not believing — trusting. There’s a difference. Belief is a thought; trust is a step.”

Jack: (bitterly) “And what if the step leads nowhere?”

Jeeny: “Then you step again. That’s faith.”

Host: Her words fell like drops of rain hitting a still lake — soft, but each one expanding into ripples of reflection. Jack leaned back, running his hand through his hair, the weight of his years showing in that small, tired gesture.

Jack: “When my brother was deployed overseas, he used to write me letters. Said faith kept him sane. Said he prayed before every patrol. I told him faith wouldn’t stop bullets. He said maybe not — but it might help him stand between them.”

Jeeny: (softly) “That’s what Bednar meant, Jack. Faith always leads to action. Not because it guarantees safety, but because it compels love. Your brother’s faith didn’t save him from danger — it made him face it.”

Host: The rain began, soft but steady, tracing the stained-glass reflections down the walls. Jack’s voice faltered, as though the storm outside had found its echo in his chest.

Jack: “He didn’t come home. His last act was pulling another soldier out of the line of fire. The letter they sent said he died ‘in service.’ But I never knew if he died because of faith or in spite of it.”

Jeeny: (her eyes shining, voice breaking into a whisper) “Maybe both. Faith isn’t about survival, Jack. It’s about surrender — not to death, but to purpose.”

Host: The church creaked softly, as if even its walls were listening. Jack’s hand trembled slightly; Jeeny placed hers over it — not to comfort, but to remind.

Jeeny: “You see, the problem isn’t faith itself. It’s how we measure it. We think faith’s a promise of outcomes — but it’s really the courage to act without guarantees.”

Jack: (quietly, almost to himself) “Act without guarantees…”

Jeeny: “Yes. True faith moves your feet before you can see the ground.”

Host: Lightning flashed through the stained glass, illuminating the figure of Christ on the cross. For a brief moment, His face — carved and unmoving — seemed alive in the flicker.

Jack looked up, eyes tracing the light. His next words were quieter, stripped of cynicism.

Jack: “So, what about those who’ve lost their faith entirely? What action does that lead to?”

Jeeny: “Honest searching. Doubt can be faith’s most loyal companion, Jack. It means you’re still wrestling with God — and that’s still movement. The only danger is standing still.”

Host: The rain poured harder now, a baptism over the roof, washing away the world’s noise.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple. Like faith is a verb.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “It is. The hardest one to conjugate.”

Jack: (soft laugh, shaking his head) “You always turn everything into poetry.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because truth is always poetic. Even in pain.”

Host: The candles burned lower, their flames bending toward one another as if in quiet agreement. Jack stood slowly, walking toward the altar, his footsteps echoing softly in the vast silence.

He stopped at the base of the cross, staring upward. The wax of melted candles pooled at his feet like frozen tears.

Jack: “Maybe faith isn’t about answers at all.”

Jeeny: (rising, following him) “It never was. It’s about direction.”

Jack: “And what direction is that?”

Jeeny: (gently) “Toward love. Always.”

Host: The light from outside broke through as the storm began to clear, scattering faint rays through the glass — blue, red, and gold blending into one final benediction.

Jack turned slightly, his expression softer now — weary, but no longer angry.

Jack: “You really believe faith should always lead to action?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because if it doesn’t, it’s not faith — it’s theater.”

Host: The organ above them hummed faintly, as if awakened by their silence. The sound filled the room, low and reverent, carrying the weight of everything left unsaid.

Jeeny walked toward the doorway, the rain having eased into a light drizzle. She paused, turning back.

Jeeny: “You don’t need to believe perfectly, Jack. Just enough to take the next step.”

Jack: (after a pause) “And that’s enough?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “It’s how mountains move.”

Host: As she left, the door creaked open, letting in the scent of wet earth and renewal. Jack remained standing before the cross, the faint light of morning breaking behind it.

His hand rose, hesitant but sure, to trace the air before him — a sign he hadn’t made in years.

And as his fingers trembled into the shape of the cross, a single word escaped his lips — not as belief, but as beginning.

“Amen.”

Host: Outside, the first birdsong broke through the receding storm. The church bells began to ring, echoing across the quiet streets — a call not to worship alone, but to act.

Because, as David A. Bednar said, true faith — focused on the Lord Jesus Christ — always leads to action. And for the first time in years, Jack took a step toward it.