Trust wholly in Christ; rely altogether on His sufferings; beware

Host: The chapel stood on a lonely hill, its steeple dark against the bruised sky. The last light of evening bled through the cracked windows, painting the pews with streaks of amber and shadow. Dust floated like soft embers in the fading glow, each mote a quiet echo of centuries of whispered prayers.

Inside, the air was cold, perfumed with candle wax, stone, and the faint memory of incense.

Jack sat in the front pew, his coat still damp from the rain outside. His hands were clasped loosely, not in reverence, but in restlessness. Beside him, Jeeny knelt, her eyes closed, her fingers brushing the smooth wood of the pew rail as though it could still carry the pulse of faith left by others.

Host: The silence was heavy, the kind that listens more than it forgives. Somewhere in that silence, the words of John Wycliffe seemed to stir from the old stones themselves—
"Trust wholly in Christ; rely altogether on His sufferings..."

Jeeny: (whispering, almost to herself) “Wycliffe said it so simply. ‘Trust wholly in Christ. Faith in Him is enough.’ Just enough. Isn’t that a miracle? That salvation could be so clear?”

Jack: (quietly) “Or so impossible.”

Jeeny: (turning to him) “Impossible?”

Jack: “To trust wholly. To rely altogether. You really think anyone can do that? To believe without doubt?”

Jeeny: “Doubt doesn’t make faith weaker, Jack. It makes it real. Faith without doubt isn’t faith—it’s programming.”

Host: The candles flickered as a draft whispered through the cracks in the ancient walls. Their flames swayed like tiny souls wrestling between belief and reason.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve rehearsed that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I’ve had to.”

Jack: “You actually believe this—atonement, righteousness, salvation? You think one man’s suffering paid for every sin ever made?”

Jeeny: “I think one man’s love did.”

Jack: (shaking his head) “Love doesn’t erase guilt. It doesn’t change the past.”

Jeeny: “No, it redeems it. That’s different.”

Host: The word redeem lingered in the air, heavy, fragrant, like smoke curling upward from unseen fires.

Jack: “You’re telling me that the justice of God—whatever that means—was satisfied by someone else’s pain? That seems… unjust.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you’re measuring divine mercy with human math.”

Jack: “Then explain it.”

Jeeny: “I can’t. Not completely. But I think that’s the point. If faith could be proved, it wouldn’t need to exist. Wycliffe knew that. He said the atonement had to come from someone who was both God and man—someone who could understand both sides of the equation.”

Host: The rain began again outside, tapping softly against the stained glass. The sound filled the chapel like a fragile rhythm of confession.

Jack: “So you think we’re all born broken, waiting for someone else’s sacrifice to fix us.”

Jeeny: “I think we’re born incomplete, longing for reconciliation—with God, with ourselves, with each other. The cross isn’t a transaction—it’s an invitation.”

Jack: “An invitation to what?”

Jeeny: “To stop trying to save ourselves.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on knees, the faint light from the candles casting his shadow like a confession on the wall.

Jack: “You make surrender sound noble. But what about responsibility? Shouldn’t we try to make ourselves better?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But not to earn love—to respond to it. That’s what faith does. It doesn’t remove our work; it changes its reason.”

Jack: “You talk like belief is simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s everything but simple. It asks you to trust in what you can’t see, to love what you can’t prove, to accept a mercy you don’t deserve.”

Host: The light dimmed as one of the candles went out. A thin thread of smoke rose toward the ceiling, a small ghost of surrender.

Jack: (softly) “You sound like someone who’s seen grace.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I have. Maybe you have too, and just didn’t recognize it.”

Jack: “Grace doesn’t feel like light, Jeeny. It feels like weight.”

Jeeny: “That’s because it humbles you before it heals you.”

Host: The wind outside grew stronger, howling faintly through the cracks, as if the world beyond the chapel wanted to enter and argue.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe. When I was a kid. I thought God was listening. Then life happened.”

Jeeny: “And you thought He stopped?”

Jack: “No. I stopped listening back.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Then maybe tonight is just Him whispering again.”

Host: Jack laughed, but it was hollow, the sound of a man who wanted to believe but couldn’t find the door back in.

Jack: “If there’s a God, He’s got a cruel sense of timing.”

Jeeny: “Or perfect timing. Depending on which side of the miracle you’re on.”

Host: The chapel fell silent again, save for the steady patter of rain. Jeeny stood, walked to the altar, and lit another candle. The flame leapt alive, its light spreading to the others that had dimmed.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack—faith isn’t about deserving a miracle. It’s about living as though one already happened.”

Jack: “And what miracle would that be?”

Jeeny: “That God looked at everything we are—our greed, our violence, our arrogance—and still chose to love us enough to suffer for it.”

Jack: “You really think that changes anything?”

Jeeny: “I think it changes everything.”

Host: The candlelight bathed her face, soft and fierce all at once. Her eyes glimmered with the quiet fire of conviction, not loud, not blind, but steady.

Jack: “You know, Wycliffe risked his life for words like those. Translated them into the language of common people. Maybe that’s what faith really is—making the unreachable reachable.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe your doubt is just another translation of longing.”

Jack: (after a pause) “Then what do I do with it?”

Jeeny: “Hold it close. Let it ache. That ache is the space where belief can grow.”

Host: The rain slowed. The last of the daylight was gone, and the world outside had gone still, wrapped in darkness.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, Wycliffe said faith in Christ is sufficient for salvation—not perfect understanding, not spotless living. Just faith. Maybe all God asks is that you stop running long enough to be found.”

Jack: (quietly) “And if I can’t?”

Jeeny: “Then I’ll keep standing here lighting candles until you can see.”

Host: The wind sighed through the cracks again, softer this time, like the exhale of something ancient and merciful. The candles flickered—not as if fighting the darkness, but welcoming it, sharing their fragile light.

And in that small chapel, amid shadow and flame, the words of John Wycliffe echoed not from the stones but from the quiet space between two searching souls—

Trust wholly.
Rely altogether.
Believe that what was once broken can still be redeemed.

Host: Outside, the storm passed. The night cleared. And somewhere in that vast silence, a small, invisible miracle was wrought—
not loud,
not holy,
but human.