We sing inspirational songs, songs of praise and worship, and

Host:
The church was empty now — the last of the congregation had gone, leaving behind only the echo of music and the faint perfume of faith. Candles still burned along the altar, their flames flickering like the heartbeat of something divine yet unseen. The moonlight streamed through the tall stained-glass windows, scattering shards of color across the marble floor — red, gold, and sapphire melting into one another like forgotten prayers.

At the center of that silent light, Jack sat on the edge of a pew, his hands clasped, not in prayer but in thought. His grey eyes wandered toward the crucifix above the altar, not in reverence, but curiosity — the look of a man who wanted to believe but couldn’t quite cross the distance.

Across the aisle, Jeeny stood near the piano, her fingers gliding gently across the keys, not playing, just touching — the ghost of melody moving through her. Her hair caught the candlelight, a faint halo around her quiet concentration.

For a moment, neither spoke. The church breathed in the hush of holy fatigue. Then Jeeny’s voice rose softly, breaking the stillness like sunlight through fog.

Jeeny:
Fred Hammond once said, “We sing inspirational songs, songs of praise and worship, and about how good and how big God is. We are magnifying the Lord.”

(Glancing toward Jack)
Do you think that’s what music really does, Jack? Magnifies God?

Jack:
(Without looking up)
Maybe it magnifies people. Gives them something to believe they can touch, even when it’s invisible.

Jeeny:
You sound like you’ve never believed in anything beyond reason.

Jack:
(Softly) I believe in reason. It’s the only thing that doesn’t change its tune when the world falls apart.

Jeeny:
But maybe faith isn’t a tune, Jack. Maybe it’s the silence between notes — the space that holds everything together.

Host:
Her words hung in the air like incense — fragrant, rising, and slow to fade. Jack turned his head toward her, his eyes dimmed but searching.

Jack:
You talk about faith like it’s music.

Jeeny:
It is. Faith is the song the soul hums when it can’t explain the world anymore.

Jack:
(Leaning back)
And what if the soul can’t hear it? What if there’s nothing there to hum?

Jeeny:
Then it’s not gone, Jack. It’s just waiting for someone to sing it back.

Host:
A soft wind slipped through the open door, stirring the pages of a nearby hymnal. The notes shimmered faintly in the candlelight — little black stars on white paper.

Jeeny stepped forward and opened the piano lid. Her fingers hovered, trembling slightly before pressing the first key. The sound was pure — one single tone that filled the room, honest and unafraid.

Jeeny:
Fred Hammond didn’t just mean music, Jack. He meant witness.
When we sing — when we praise — we remind ourselves that the world is bigger than our pain.

Jack:
That sounds like comfort disguised as denial.

Jeeny:
Or truth disguised as hope.

Jack:
(Smiling faintly)
You always flip the words so they sound beautiful.

Jeeny:
Because they are. You just forgot how to listen.

Host:
She began to play — soft, reverent chords, the kind that made silence lean closer to listen. Jack’s hands tightened together, his posture uneasy. His skepticism didn’t know what to do with beauty that didn’t ask permission to exist.

Jack:
You really believe God needs to be magnified?

Jeeny:
No. But we need to remember He’s bigger than what we see.

Jack:
And if He’s not?

Jeeny:
Then the act of believing still changes us. That’s what worship does. It reshapes the heart to fit the miracle.

Jack:
(Quietly)
I’ve seen too much for miracles.

Jeeny:
Maybe you’ve seen too little of what’s inside them.

Host:
The piano swelled, and her voice rose with it — gentle at first, then fuller, bolder, like the kind of prayer that begins as doubt and ends as surrender.

Her song wasn’t perfect — her voice cracked once, trembled twice — but it carried something Jack couldn’t name. It wasn’t talent. It wasn’t performance. It was truth in motion.

He watched her, mesmerized despite himself.

Jeeny:
(Softly, still singing)
We magnify You… we magnify You… because the world is too small without You.

Jack:
(Quietly, almost to himself)
You sound like you mean that.

Jeeny:
(Smiling, through the music)
I do.

Jack:
But how can you sing to something that never answers back?

Jeeny:
(Smiling sadly)
Maybe He does. We’re just too busy doubting to hear the echo.

Host:
The final chord faded, leaving a silence so full it almost felt like sound. The candles flickered, and the rain outside softened to a hush.

Jack’s eyes fell to the floor. Something in him — small, invisible — shifted.

Jack:
You know, I used to sing once. Not in church. Not for God. Just… because it felt like being alive.

Jeeny:
(Softly)
And when did you stop?

Jack:
When I realized the world doesn’t listen to the broken-hearted.

Jeeny:
(Stepping closer)
Then you misunderstood what a song is. It’s not about being heard. It’s about being whole enough to sing anyway.

Jack:
(Smiling faintly)
You make worship sound like rebellion.

Jeeny:
It is. Against despair, against silence, against forgetting that light still exists.

Host:
A long moment passed. Jack looked up at the cross again — not with doubt this time, but with a strange, quiet longing.

The firelight from the candles trembled across his face, softening the hardness there.

Jack:
(Quietly)
Do you ever wonder… maybe we don’t magnify God to make Him bigger, but to make ourselves small enough to see Him?

Jeeny:
(Whispering)
Yes. That’s the secret. We sing not to reach heaven, but to remind ourselves it’s already here.

Jack:
And what if heaven’s just a word we made up to feel less alone?

Jeeny:
Then it’s the most necessary word ever invented.

Host:
The clock on the church wall struck midnight — twelve soft chimes dissolving into the air.

Jeeny’s hands rested on the piano keys again, her head bowed slightly. Jack stood, stepping forward until he stood beside her.

He didn’t speak. Instead, he touched the edge of the piano — a hesitant, reverent gesture, as though touching something sacred by accident.

Jack:
Maybe I don’t believe in God the way you do, Jeeny. But when you sing… it feels like He believes in you.

Jeeny:
(Whispering)
Maybe that’s enough for both of us.

Host:
Outside, the rain stopped completely. The moonlight streamed unbroken through the stained glass, flooding the room in color — gold, violet, red, and green, dancing on the floor like fragments of divine laughter.

Jack closed his eyes and took a breath — slow, deliberate, almost like prayer.

Host:
And in that breath, in that stillness, the meaning of Hammond’s words bloomed like dawn:
That worship isn’t about proving faith. It’s about remembering wonder.

To magnify the Lord is not to make Him larger —
but to see ourselves clearly in His reflection.
To sing not for answers — but for alignment.

As Jeeny began to play once more, her voice rose again — steady, luminous, infinite.

And for the first time in years, Jack didn’t analyze the melody.
He didn’t measure the silence.
He simply listened.

The candles swayed.
The air shimmered.
And somewhere in that trembling light —

the skeptic and the believer stood as one,
magnifying not God, but the act of remembering how to praise.