When you read the New Testament, you see the Holy Spirit was

Host: The evening air trembled with quiet. Inside a small, worn-down church at the edge of the city, the light came not from chandeliers but from a few flickering candles placed along the wooden altar. The paint on the walls was peeling, the benches scarred by years of hands folded in prayer, but there was still something alive here — something unseen yet palpable.

Jack sat near the front, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, his grey eyes reflecting the flame’s unsteady glow. His suit was still on, but the tie hung loose — the uniform of a man wrestling with something greater than his logic.

Jeeny sat a few pews behind, barefoot, her shoes beside her, her dark eyes fixed on the old wooden cross. A faint hymn — recorded, old, and full of static — played softly through the church speakers, wrapping the silence in nostalgia and ache.

Pinned to the bulletin board beside the altar was a quote, hand-written in looping script:

“When you read the New Testament, you see the Holy Spirit was supposed to change everything so that this gathering of people who call themselves Christians had this supernatural element about them.” — Francis Chan

Jeeny: softly, as if afraid to disturb the silence “It’s strange… this church feels empty, but somehow not.”

Jack: half-smiling without turning around “Empty places can still echo with purpose.”

Jeeny: quietly “Or ghosts.”

Jack: turns, glancing back at her “Same thing, maybe.”

Jeeny: walks forward slowly, her voice gentle “Chan said something powerful there. That the Holy Spirit was supposed to change everything. Not just inspire or comfort — change.”

Jack: nodding, his voice low “Yeah. But most churches forgot that part. We turned fire into formality.”

Jeeny: sitting beside him now “You mean we built structures where there should have been spirit.”

Jack: quietly “Exactly. We started managing God like a business instead of inviting Him like a wind.”

Host: The flames wavered as if stirred by their words, the shadows shifting across the walls. The room seemed to breathe — old wood creaking, the soft hum of night filtering through the cracked stained glass.

There was a tension between reverence and restlessness, the kind that always lived between faith and doubt.

Jeeny: softly “You ever wonder what he meant by ‘supernatural’? Not in the Hollywood sense — but in the way faith was supposed to feel alive.”

Jack: nods slowly “I think he meant that belief was never supposed to be passive. That the Spirit was supposed to be visible — not just in miracles, but in mercy.”

Jeeny: thoughtful “Mercy as evidence of the divine.”

Jack: quietly “Exactly. When people forgive what they shouldn’t, love who they can’t, and believe through what they don’t understand — that’s the supernatural.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “Then maybe the miracle isn’t tongues of fire. Maybe it’s tenderness.”

Jack: after a pause “Tenderness that refuses to die in a cruel world — yeah, that’s pretty divine.”

Host: The sound of wind rose outside, brushing against the cracked windowpanes. The candles flickered wildly for a moment, and the flame nearest the cross nearly went out before catching again, brighter. The room seemed to pulse, filled with a strange and quiet vitality — as if something unseen had leaned closer to listen.

Jeeny: after a long silence “I grew up thinking church was rules. Sit straight, be polite, sing on key. But I never felt… moved. Not like this.”

Jack: softly “Maybe that’s because the Spirit isn’t polite. It doesn’t sit still. It’s supposed to unsettle you.”

Jeeny: smiling slightly “Like love.”

Jack: nods slowly “Exactly like love. Dangerous. Transformative. Unreasonable.”

Jeeny: gently “So, what happened? Why do people talk about faith like it’s a brand, not a force?”

Jack: sighs “We replaced encounter with entertainment. The Spirit asks for surrender — we offered applause.”

Jeeny: quietly, after a pause “And wonder turned into marketing.”

Jack: looking at her, a sad smile tugging at his lips “Yeah. We made the miraculous predictable.”

Host: The camera lingered on their faces — the exhaustion, the longing, the flicker of belief returning despite itself. Behind them, the light through the stained glass formed the faint outline of a dove — fractured but still luminous.

It was a coincidence, or maybe not.

Jeeny: whispers “Do you think the Spirit still moves the same way it did back then?”

Jack: softly “I think it never stopped. We just stopped making room for it.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Because it doesn’t fit in schedules or sermons.”

Jack: quietly “Or certainty.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “You always loved that — the uncertain parts of faith.”

Jack: half-smiling “Faith without uncertainty isn’t faith. It’s control.”

Jeeny: softly “And the Spirit can’t breathe in control.”

Jack: quietly “No. It needs chaos — the good kind. The kind that cracks you open so something new can live.”

Host: The wind outside howled softly, shaking the old wooden door. A few candles guttered, then steadied. The church felt alive again, its silence not absence but presence — a hush of expectancy.

Jeeny looked up toward the cross, her eyes catching a flicker of light that seemed to move without explanation.

Jeeny: barely above a whisper “Maybe He’s still here. Just quieter now.”

Jack: softly “Maybe we’ve just forgotten how to listen.”

Jeeny: after a pause “So how do we listen again?”

Jack: smiles faintly “By letting go of everything that makes us comfortable — even our definitions of God.”

Jeeny: quietly “That sounds terrifying.”

Jack: softly “It’s supposed to be. Real transformation always is.”

Host: The camera panned slowly, capturing the candlelight reflecting across the cracked glass windows. The painted images of saints and angels seemed to shimmer with a strange life, as though memory itself were stirring inside them.

The hymn on the old speakers faded, replaced by silence — a living silence, breathing between them like the very thing they were talking about.

Jeeny: softly, her voice trembling with reverence “Maybe that’s the supernatural element Chan was talking about — not spectacle, but presence. Not lightning. Just… light.”

Jack: quietly “Yeah. The quiet kind that doesn’t demand attention — it changes everything simply by being there.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “The kind that turns gatherings into communion, and people into miracles.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Maybe that’s how the Spirit still moves — not through fire from heaven, but through hearts learning how to love again.”

Host: The last candle flickered, its flame bending low, then rising again — fragile, luminous, alive. The church, once still, now felt full. Full of breath, full of memory, full of something that words could never capture — something like grace rediscovered.

And as the scene faded into darkness, Francis Chan’s words lingered like a whisper of fire in the soul:

That the Spirit was never meant to be ornamental,
but revolutionary —
a breath that turns belief into boldness,
and gatherings into transformations.

That faith was meant to be supernatural,
not because it defies nature,
but because it restores it.

For when the Spirit truly moves,
it does not shout —
it changes everything quietly,
until even the ordinary becomes holy.

The candles burned out,
the room dimmed to memory,
and in the silence that followed,
something unseen —
still moved.