We are not forgiven because we are good. We are forgiven because

Host: The church was almost empty, except for the quiet hum of the heating vents and the soft creak of wooden pews contracting in the cold. It was late — long after the service had ended — and the faint scent of melted wax and incense hung in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of winter through a cracked stained-glass window.

Candles still flickered on the altar, their light trembling against the walls — saints and shadows dancing together.

Jack sat halfway down the aisle, his hands clasped, his head bowed. Not in prayer, exactly — more like contemplation born of exhaustion. Jeeny sat beside him, her coat still on, her breath visible in the chill air. Her gaze moved between the flickering light and Jack’s unmoving profile.

Behind them, carved into the marble of the pulpit, was the verse of the night’s sermon:
“We are not forgiven because we are good. We are forgiven because Christ bore our sins.” — Joseph Prince.

Jeeny: “You’ve been quiet all night.”

Jack: softly “Just thinking.”

Jeeny: “About?”

Jack: “About that line. Forgiven not because we’re good, but because someone else paid the price. Doesn’t that make forgiveness… cheap?”

Host: His voice was low, deliberate, like a man trying to wrestle logic into faith. Jeeny turned toward him, her eyes soft but unwavering. The candlelight caught the curve of her cheek, her expression somewhere between reverence and ache.

Jeeny: “It’s not cheap, Jack. It’s costly. That’s the point. Grace costs the one who gives it, not the one who receives it.”

Jack: “Then how’s that fair?”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s love.”

Host: He looked up then, his eyes searching hers — not angry, just weary. The kind of weariness that comes from a life too familiar with guilt.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple. But grace feels impossible. I’ve done things—”

Jeeny: “So has everyone. That’s why the cross exists.”

Jack: “No, I mean really. Things that can’t be prayed away. Things that stay with you, no matter how many candles you light or confessions you whisper.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you’re here.”

Jack: “Habit.”

Jeeny: “No. Hope.”

Host: A draft passed through the church, flickering the candles into trembling shadows. For a moment, their faces looked older, etched by time and the things they couldn’t say aloud.

Jack: “I grew up hearing about forgiveness — in every sermon, every hymn. But it always felt conditional. Like a contract: be good, and maybe you’ll be loved.”

Jeeny: “That’s religion. Not redemption.”

Jack: “And what’s the difference?”

Jeeny: “Religion is man reaching for God. Redemption is God reaching for man.”

Host: Her words fell like the hush after a confession — clean, weighty, irreversible. Jack exhaled slowly, his hands loosening, his shoulders lowering, as though each syllable had untied something inside him.

Jeeny: “You keep thinking forgiveness has to make sense. It doesn’t. It’s not a formula — it’s a miracle.”

Jack: “And you believe that?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, what’s left?”

Jack: “Reality. Responsibility. The idea that maybe some debts aren’t meant to be erased.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll spend your whole life carrying a cross that was already carried for you.”

Host: She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the back of the pew in front of her, the flame of a nearby candle lighting the curve of her face. Outside, a car passed slowly, its headlights briefly illuminating the stained glass — a blur of color that made even the broken pane shimmer with beauty.

Jeeny: “You know what I think the hardest part of faith is?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “Not believing in God. Believing that you’re worth forgiving.”

Jack: “Maybe I’m not.”

Jeeny: “Then why did He die for you?”

Jack: “For humanity.”

Jeeny: “You are humanity.”

Host: The words landed between them like a benediction — quiet, certain, impossible to argue. Jack’s jaw tightened, but his eyes betrayed him — flickering with something fragile and childlike, the kind of vulnerability that only rises when pride finally sinks.

Jack: “When you talk like that, it sounds beautiful. But when I look at the world — the pain, the cruelty — I wonder if forgiveness is wasted.”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness isn’t an award. It’s a lifeline. You don’t throw it because someone deserves it; you throw it because they’re drowning.”

Jack: “And what if they don’t grab it?”

Jeeny: “Then it still floats.”

Host: Silence filled the church again, but it wasn’t empty. It was alive — thick with thought, faith, doubt, and something else that couldn’t be named.

Jack rose slowly, walking toward the altar, his boots echoing against the old wood. He stopped before the cross, staring up at it — not as a believer, not as a skeptic, but as a man standing in front of a question that had outlived centuries.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to understand it, Jack. You just have to accept it.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say when you’re not the one who feels unworthy.”

Jeeny: “You think I don’t?” She stood, moving closer. “Forgiveness isn’t the absence of guilt; it’s the surrender of it.”

Jack: “Then why does it feel like surrendering yourself?”

Jeeny: “Because it is. And that’s where grace begins — when you stop trying to earn what was already given.”

Host: She stepped beside him, the glow of the candles painting their faces in soft gold. Jack’s eyes glistened, not with tears but with the tremor of realization — the kind that shifts something deep inside, where words can’t reach.

Jack: “You make it sound like forgiveness is freedom.”

Jeeny: “It is.”

Jack: “But it feels like defeat.”

Jeeny: “That’s pride talking. Forgiveness doesn’t humiliate you; it humbles you. And humility is the doorway to peace.”

Host: The candles flickered again, as if nodding in agreement. The church’s silence deepened, reverent now, the kind of silence that feels like it’s listening back.

Jack looked at the crucifix once more — the carved wood, the outstretched arms, the stillness of mercy frozen in time.

Jack: “So we’re not forgiven because we’re good.”

Jeeny: “No.”

Jack: “We’re forgiven because He was.”

Jeeny: “Because He is.”

Host: The last word lingered, echoing softly through the empty space. She reached for his hand — not out of pity, but solidarity — and for once, he didn’t pull away.

The rain began again outside, tapping gently against the glass — steady, rhythmic, cleansing. The two of them stood there, motionless, the quiet weight of understanding settling like light snow.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what faith is.”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “Accepting the gift you could never afford.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The camera would pull back slowly now, the image widening — the empty pews, the flickering candles, the distant glow of the altar. The world outside remained cold and indifferent, but inside the church, the air shimmered with something softer — the faint hum of grace rediscovered.

And as the shot faded to darkness, Joseph Prince’s words would remain suspended in the air, luminous and still:

“We are not forgiven because we are good. We are forgiven because Christ bore our sins.”

Because forgiveness was never a transaction —
it was a heartbeat,
a cross,
and a love vast enough to hold both heaven and human failure.