What is worthy or unworthy on the Sabbath day will have to be

Host: The afternoon sun filtered softly through the stained glass windows, casting a wash of crimson and blue light across the old wooden pews. The church was empty except for the quiet creak of the floorboards and the faint flutter of a hymnbook’s loose page. Dust danced in the air like small souls rising, caught between light and stillness.

Jack sat near the back, his hands folded loosely, his jacket off, tie undone, posture slouched but reverent in its own weary way. Jeeny entered softly, her footsteps careful, her coat draped over her arm, her eyes gentle but clear — the look of someone used to sacred spaces, not because of faith, but because of peace.

Jeeny: “James E. Faust once said, ‘What is worthy or unworthy on the Sabbath day will have to be judged by each of us by trying to be honest with the Lord. On the Sabbath day, we should do what we have to do and what we ought to do in an attitude of worshipfulness and then limit our other activities.’”
She paused, letting the words settle in the space between them. “He made it sound simple — but simplicity is always the hardest thing to live.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You mean resting?”

Jeeny: “Resting honestly. There’s a difference.”

Host: The wind outside rattled the windows, a quiet whisper against glass. From somewhere beyond the walls came the muffled sound of children’s laughter, the echo of life continuing in defiance of sanctity.

Jack: “You think anyone really knows how to do that anymore? Rest, I mean. Not just stop moving, but stop striving.”

Jeeny: “I think that’s what Faust was asking. The Sabbath isn’t about stillness — it’s about sincerity. About learning to stop measuring your worth in motion.”

Jack: “Sincerity’s overrated. Everyone’s honest when they’re tired.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “You’re mistaking exhaustion for truth again.”

Host: The church clock chimed softly, marking another hour’s passing — but inside, it felt irrelevant, as if time itself had decided to pause in reverence. The candles flickered, shadows wavering along the walls like quiet breath.

Jack: “When I was a kid, Sundays meant routine — church, family dinner, a nap if you were lucky. Now it just feels like another deadline. Another box to check. Even rest feels scheduled.”

Jeeny: “That’s because we turned Sabbath into performance. Faust said to ‘be honest with the Lord.’ But we spend more time pretending to be at peace than actually finding it.”

Jack: “Maybe peace doesn’t fit in our calendars.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we stopped making room for it.”

Host: A beam of sunlight shifted, landing across Jeeny’s hands as she rested them on the back of a pew. Her voice softened, as if she was speaking to herself as much as to him.

Jeeny: “What if Sabbath isn’t a day at all? What if it’s an attitude — a kind of stillness we’re supposed to carry into the week?”

Jack: “Then I guess I haven’t kept one in years.”

Jeeny: “You could start today.”

Jack: “By doing nothing?”

Jeeny: “By doing what matters, and calling it enough.”

Host: The sunlight shifted again, and for a moment the whole sanctuary glowed, the light catching on the brass cross above the altar — not shining like dominance, but glowing like forgiveness.

Jack: “You think God really cares what we do on a Sunday? Whether we mow the lawn, check email, or stay in bed?”

Jeeny: “I think He cares how we feel while we’re doing it. Faust said it — honesty with the Lord. You can’t fool divinity with the right behavior. You can only approach it with the right heart.”

Jack: “So if I spend my Sabbath fixing my neighbor’s roof, that’s worship?”

Jeeny: “If you do it with love, yes. If you do it for credit, no.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy again.”

Jeeny: “No, I’m saying it’s sacred because it’s not easy. The world makes noise; holiness whispers. You have to listen differently.”

Host: The silence in the church deepened, wrapping around them like a soft blanket. Jack looked up, watching the light play through the stained glass — Mary’s blue robe, a shepherd’s staff, the golden arc of a sun that would never set.

Jack: “You ever feel like people use God as an escape hatch? A way to justify the things they can’t face?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. But more often, they use God as a mirror. What you see depends on how willing you are to look honestly.”

Jack: “That’s what Faust meant, isn’t it? The Lord doesn’t need our rituals — He needs our reflection.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Worship isn’t what you do — it’s what you allow yourself to feel while you’re doing it.”

Host: The church door creaked, the wind slipping in, carrying the faint scent of rain and soil. Outside, the sun had begun to set, painting the world in a hushed amber glow.

Jeeny: “You know, I think the Sabbath was never about rules. It was about rhythm. You can’t play a symphony without rests, Jack.”

Jack: (quietly) “And I’ve been playing one long note for years.”

Jeeny: “Then no wonder you’re out of tune.”

Host: A smile ghosted across his lips, the kind that carries more memory than amusement. He stood slowly, stretching, his hands sliding into his pockets, the tension in his shoulders loosening for the first time in days.

Jack: “So what would you do today — if you were me?”

Jeeny: “I’d leave this place. Go somewhere without clocks. Take a walk. Listen. Thank God not for what’s done, but for what’s still being done.”

Jack: “And that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It always was. We just forgot.”

Host: The light dimmed, the candles flickered, the church now quiet again — like it had exhaled after holding its breath through their conversation. They stood at the doorway, the sky now lilac, birds crossing it like fleeting prayers.

Jack: “Maybe Faust was right. The Sabbath isn’t about what you do — it’s about what you stop pretending you need to do.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The world keeps demanding performance. The Sabbath invites presence.”

Host: They stepped outside, leaving the door ajar, the warm air meeting cool evening. The bells began to ring in the distance — slow, measured, graceful — as though the earth itself was pausing to remember what it means to rest.

And as they walked down the steps into the fading light, James E. Faust’s words seemed to follow them —
not as commandment,
but as comfort:

that holiness isn’t found in silence or ritual alone,
but in the quiet honesty
of a heart willing to pause,
to listen,
and to call that pause
worship.