Wherever God has given faith, it is given, among other reasons

Host: The church was nearly empty, a cavern of stone and silence bathed in the amber afterglow of dying candles. Dust hung in the air, caught in thin rays of moonlight pouring through the stained-glass windows — fragments of color splashed across the wooden pews like shattered prayer.

Jack sat alone near the front, his hands clasped loosely, eyes fixed on the flickering altar candles. The air smelled faintly of wax and rain — the scent of patience.

Jeeny entered quietly, her footsteps soft against the cold stone floor. She carried no Bible, no burden, only a warm stillness that contrasted the heavy solemnity of the space.

For a while, neither spoke. The silence itself seemed sacred — not empty, but listening.

Jack: “George Muller once said, ‘Wherever God has given faith, it is given, among other reasons, for the very purpose of being tried.’”

He gave a soft, tired laugh. “You ever think about that? How faith seems to come with a test attached? Like a gift that demands proof you deserve it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not proof, Jack. Maybe it’s purpose.”

Host: Her voice echoed softly through the chapel — a whisper wrapped in conviction.

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t something you earn or keep untouched. It’s something you use — something that’s meant to be stretched until it either breaks or grows.”

Jack: “And if it breaks?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it wasn’t faith. Maybe it was comfort mistaken for belief.”

Host: The candles flickered, shadows shifting across their faces — light and darkness trading places in the rhythm of truth.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple. But when life starts falling apart, when everything you trusted starts to disappear — how are you supposed to believe that God’s behind it and not against you?”

Jeeny: “You don’t believe it right away. You wrestle. You scream. You question. That’s the trial Muller was talking about — not the suffering itself, but the fight to still call it faith in the middle of confusion.”

Host: She moved closer, sitting beside him, the wooden pew creaking softly under their shared weight.

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t built by having everything you pray for answered. It’s built when you’re standing in the silence — and you stay.”

Jack: “Stay? Even when it feels like no one’s listening?”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: The wind outside sighed against the church doors, the sound of the storm softening, as if the world itself paused to listen.

Jack: “You ever lose your faith?”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said simply. “Dozens of times. But every time it came back, it came back quieter — not as a shout, but as a whisper that said, ‘I’m still here.’”

Jack: “That’s not faith, that’s endurance.”

Jeeny: “Endurance is faith wearing its working clothes.”

Host: He smiled faintly, though his eyes were damp with the struggle he didn’t name.

Jack: “I used to think faith meant certainty. That if you really believed, you never doubted.”

Jeeny: “That’s the lie that breaks most believers. Doubt isn’t the enemy of faith. It’s the weight that strengthens it. A bridge without stress cracks — a soul without testing crumbles.”

Host: The light of the last candle wavered — a thin flame dancing in defiance of its own exhaustion.

Jack: “So Muller’s saying God tests faith on purpose? Like… designs the storm just to see if you’ll drown?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly. “He doesn’t send the storm to destroy you. He sends it to reveal what you built your boat from.”

Host: She turned toward him then, eyes catching the faint glow of the altar. “When faith is real,” she said, “it isn’t fragile. It bends. It questions. It weeps. But it survives.”

Jack: “And if it doesn’t?”

Jeeny: “Then it was never anchored in God — just in what you hoped He’d do for you.”

Host: The words fell like drops of truth into still water.

Jack: “You think Muller ever lost his?”

Jeeny: “No. But he let it be bruised. That’s what made it unbreakable.”

Host: The church clock struck midnight — slow, deliberate, echoing through the rafters. Time itself seemed to kneel.

Jack: “You know, I used to think of faith as armor. Something that protected you from pain.”

Jeeny: “It’s not armor, Jack. It’s a wound that heals differently. It doesn’t keep you safe — it keeps you open.”

Host: He nodded slowly, absorbing her words. “You ever wonder,” he said, “why faith needs to be tested at all? If it’s divine, why must it suffer?”

Jeeny: “Because even light needs darkness to prove it exists. Faith, too.”

Host: She stood then, walking toward the altar, her silhouette bathed in soft candlelight. “You see,” she continued, “faith isn’t about trusting God to prevent pain. It’s trusting Him through it.”

Jack: “Through it…”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because the test isn’t for Him to learn your strength. It’s for you to discover His.”

Host: The final candle sputtered, then steadied, its flame smaller but resolute.

Jeeny: “Wherever God gives faith,” she said quietly, repeating Muller’s words, “He also gives the trial — not as punishment, but as invitation. To see, to endure, to grow.”

Jack: “To prove that the light inside you was never borrowed.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain outside began again — soft, cleansing, rhythmic. The two stood together now, their reflections faintly visible in the dark glass of the stained window: two souls mid-trial, mid-belief, mid-grace.

And in that luminous silence, George Muller’s words seemed to live again — not as doctrine, but as dialogue between heaven and humanity:

“Wherever God has given faith, it is given, among other reasons, for the very purpose of being tried.”

Because untested faith is theory,
but tested faith is truth.

And only when it trembles
does it learn to stand.

Only when it’s broken
does it learn what cannot break.

Faith is not proof of God’s favor —
it is the echo of His trust,
that when the storm comes,
you will not hide from it,
but walk through it,
and still whisper,
“I believe.”