We will not attain a state of perfection in this life, but we can

Host: The chapel was empty, except for the faint echo of rain tapping on the stained-glass windows. The light filtered through in ribbons — soft blues and golds falling across the wooden pews, quiet as prayer. The air smelled faintly of old hymnals and wax candles, the perfume of faith aged but unbroken.

Jack sat near the back, his hands clasped, elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on the pulpit — the place where words become conviction. His suit jacket hung loose on his shoulders, his tie undone, his expression not of disbelief, but of fatigue — the kind that comes from searching too long for something invisible.

Jeeny entered quietly, her footsteps almost inaudible on the carpet. She walked halfway down the aisle before stopping, the dim light catching her profile — calm, composed, the way someone looks when they carry their own doubts with grace.

Jeeny: Softly. “David A. Bednar once said, ‘We will not attain a state of perfection in this life, but we can and should press forward with faith in Christ along the strait and narrow path and make steady progress toward our eternal destiny.’”

Host: The words didn’t echo. They settled. The room seemed to hold them, breathing them in. Jack exhaled slowly, like someone hearing truth he wasn’t sure he was ready for.

Jack: Quietly. “Perfection. That word used to scare me. Still does, honestly. Every time I try to be better, I end up feeling smaller.”

Jeeny: Gently, walking closer. “That’s because perfection isn’t the goal, Jack. It’s the horizon — it keeps you walking but never demands you arrive.”

Jack: Looking up, half-smiling. “You make it sound peaceful. I’ve spent my whole life treating it like a punishment.”

Jeeny: “Because most people confuse perfection with worth. But faith isn’t about earning; it’s about trusting.”

Host: The rain grew heavier outside, a steady rhythm like the heartbeat of the world. A faint crack of thunder rolled somewhere far away, not angry — just alive.

Jack: Leaning back, his voice softer. “I don’t know if I have that kind of trust anymore. I’ve tried — prayed, repented, started over more times than I can count. But every time I fall short, I feel like I’m disappointing someone bigger than me.”

Jeeny: Sitting beside him now. “You’re not disappointing God. You’re learning how to need Him.”

Jack: Turning toward her, searching her eyes. “And you think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s everything. If perfection were possible, grace wouldn’t be necessary.”

Host: The light through the window shifted slightly — a slow shimmer of gold against the pews, like the quiet approval of something unseen.

Jack: After a long pause. “You know, when I was a kid, I thought heaven was a finish line. You die, and if you’ve been good enough, you cross over and finally rest.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: Sighing. “Now I think heaven’s less about crossing a line and more about learning to walk with light — even when it flickers.”

Jeeny: Smiling softly. “That’s exactly what Bednar meant — that faith isn’t flawless. It’s forward motion. You fall, you rise, you fall again, but every time you rise, you rise a little closer to who you were meant to be.”

Host: The candles near the altar flickered, one briefly dimming before flaring back brighter — a small parable of persistence.

Jack: Thoughtfully. “So we’re meant to live incomplete?”

Jeeny: “No. We’re meant to live becoming. God doesn’t ask for perfection. He asks for progress.”

Jack: Half-smiling. “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: Laughs quietly. “It’s simple. Not easy.”

Host: The rain softened again, tapping gently against the glass like quiet applause. The world outside glowed faintly, washed clean by the storm.

Jack: After a silence. “You ever wonder why it’s so hard to forgive yourself?”

Jeeny: Gently. “Because we measure ourselves against ideals instead of intentions. God sees the heart — we see the stumble. But progress isn’t the absence of failure; it’s the refusal to stop walking.”

Jack: “Even when the path feels endless?”

Jeeny: “Especially then. That’s where faith actually starts — in motion without clarity.”

Host: Jack looked toward the front of the chapel again, his eyes softer now, the lines of tension slowly easing. The sound of the rain blended with the faint hum of a world still spinning forward.

Jack: Quietly. “You think God ever gets tired of forgiving us?”

Jeeny: Shaking her head. “No. Because forgiveness isn’t His burden — it’s His joy. The same way love doesn’t tire of giving.”

Jack: Smiling faintly. “Then maybe I’ve been looking at it wrong all along. Maybe perfection isn’t reaching Him — maybe it’s letting Him reach me.”

Jeeny: Nods, eyes bright. “Exactly. That’s the progress Bednar was talking about — the slow, steady surrender to grace.”

Host: The clock in the back of the room ticked softly, its rhythm blending with the gentle patter of rain. The light through the stained glass painted the pews in color — crimson, sapphire, gold — like faith translated into light.

Jack: Softly, almost to himself. “Press forward with faith. Even if it’s small.”

Jeeny: “Especially if it’s small. Because faith doesn’t have to be loud to move mountains — it just has to be alive.”

Host: The camera rose slowly, capturing them sitting together in the quiet — not perfect, not finished, but faithful. Outside, the rain stopped completely. The sky opened just enough to let a soft, clean light fall through the glass, turning the chapel from shadow into glow.

And through that quiet illumination, David A. Bednar’s words lingered — no longer a commandment, but a comfort:

That perfection is not a place we reach,
but a direction we walk.

That our holiness is not measured by flawlessness,
but by persistence —
by choosing, every day,
to rise one inch closer to grace.

For it is not the perfect who inherit heaven,
but the faithful who keep walking toward it.