Jonathan Roomie was about to speak seven words that would change Joy Bahar’s life forever, but she was certain she had him cornered. She had just delivered what she thought was the perfect blow to dismantle the man who played Jesus on television.
The cameras were rolling, 12 million viewers watching, and Joy was confident her sharpest question yet would expose him. But Jonathan’s response stunned the entire studio. What were those seven words that stopped Joy Cold? What could the man who portrayed Christ say that three major networks later tried to bury? This was the most explosive interview in television history.
A moment when unshakable faith collided with a media empire and it all began when Joy Bahar made the fatal mistake of challenging the wrong person on the wrong day. 3 weeks earlier, Jonathan Roomie sat in his modest Chicago apartment reading his morning prayers, a worn Bible open in his hands. The phone rang, cutting through the quiet.
It was a producer from The View, the iconic talk show led by Joy Bahar, inviting him to a special segment on spirituality and inspiration to discuss The Chosen. The series that had moved millions brought families back to church and sparked a global wave of faith. But Jonathan felt a stirring unease. The View wasn’t known for embracing Christian faith.
He knew Joy Behar’s biting commentary often turned interviews into battlegrounds, especially when it came to religion. Yet something deep within urged him to accept, as if this was a divine summons he couldn’t ignore. His apartment told the story of his faith. Bare walls held only a wooden crucifix carved by his Lebanese grandmother and a faded photo of his father who died believing his son would never amount to much.
Stacks of theology books, their pages worn from years of study lined the room. On his kitchen table, letters from the chosen. Viewers piled high, heartfelt notes thanking him for showing authentic faith in a world of hollow promises. Jonathan had never chased fame or wealth, turning down countless offers to profit from his role as Jesus. This invitation felt different, like a call to carry a light into darkness, no matter the cost.
He began researching, watching old The View episodes. He saw Joyy’s sharp wit cut into guests, dismissing shows like The Chosen as emotional manipulation. He read about viewers hurt by her skepticism, like Clara Evans, a widow who’d found hope through the chosen, but died in poverty after her family, swayed by voices like Joys, shunned her for her faith.
Clara’s final letter to Jonathan sent by her son burned in his mind. Thank you for showing me Jesus loves me even when the world turned away. Her story became a fire in his chest, pushing him to bring truth to that stage. The night before the taping, Jonathan knelt on his apartment floor, praying with an intensity that shook him.
He thought of Jesus overturning tables in the temple, of broken people, the woman at the well, the tax collector, the thief on the cross, finding hope in raw, unfiltered love, not polished promises. He asked for wisdom, courage, and compassion to speak truth, even if it ended his career. In the stillness, a weight settled over him, as if God were entrusting him with a secret.
a flicker of light meant for a darkened place. He didn’t know its shape, but he tucked his worn Bible into his bag, its pages marked with notes and tear stains from moments of revelation. The next morning, Jonathan stepped into the views New York studio, the space dazzled with marble floors, bright lights, and walls lined with photos of Joy Behar alongside celebrities and world leaders.
The green room buzzed with other guests, spiritual speakers, authors, course promoters chattering about million-dollar book deals and speaking fees that could feed entire communities. Jonathan sat quietly in a corner, flipping through the Gospel of Luke, his heart heavy. The contrast was stark.
A world of commercialized spirituality versus a man with no books or products to sell, only a Bible and an undefined mission. A production assistant approached, handing Jonathan a clipboard with questions Joy would ask, urging him to promote his brand. “The audience loves inspirational stories,” she said briskly. “Mention any books, courses, or merchandise you’re selling.
” Jonathan declined the talking points, smiling softly. “I’m not here to sell anything.” The assistant blinked, confused, as if she’d never met someone uninterested in profiting from their platform. Watching other guests take the stage, Jonathan saw Joy steer each interview into a polished pitch, guiding audiences toward books and programs promising success and enlightenment.
The hunger for hope was palpable, but the offerings felt empty. He knew his message. Jesus’s free, transformative love would clash with this world. When his turn came, Jonathan walked onto the stage, wearing his father’s old blazer, clutching his Bible, no promotional materials in sight. Joy greeted him with her signature grin, but her eyes held a calculating edge, sizing him up.
The audience applauded politely, yet the air crackled with tension, as if they sensed something different about this guest. Jonathan took his seat, silently, asking God for words to honor him and reach those seeking truth. Joy began with her usual charm, voice warm, but probing Jonathan.
You’ve touched millions as Jesus in the chosen. Tell us what spiritual practices brought you to this level of inspiration. The question sounded profound but vague, designed to pull him into a generic discussion of spirituality. He took a deep breath, knowing this was the moment to choose. Follow her script or speak the truth that could alienate millions.
Joy, I appreciate the question, he said, voice calm but firm. But I’m not here to talk about spiritual practices. I’m here to talk about Jesus Christ, the way, the truth, and the life. The studio shifted, Joyy’s smile tightening for a split second, enough for Jonathan to notice. The audience stirred, some shifting in their seats, sensing the deviation from the usual banter.
This wasn’t the inclusive, feel-good spirituality they expected. Joy recovered swiftly. her media savvy kicking in. “That’s a beautiful perspective,” Jonathan, she said, voice smooth but edged. “But surely you don’t think billions of good people with different beliefs are wrong. Isn’t that kind of exclusive thinking what’s problematic about religion?” The question was a trap crafted to paint Jonathan as narrow-minded.
But he’d faced such challenges before, knowing the line between truth and cruelty. Leaning forward, his voice carried gentle conviction. Joy. I’d never call anyone a bad person for their beliefs. But truth isn’t shaped by sincerity. If my house is burning and someone genuinely believes water won’t help, their sincerity doesn’t save it. The words hit like a quiet thunderclap.
Some audience members nodded, others whispered, the tension thickening. Joy leaned in, her tone sharpening. Let’s be honest, Jonathan, you’ve made millions playing Jesus. Isn’t it hypocritical to criticize others for monetizing spirituality when your career thrives on it? The accusation was a direct hit meant to expose him as a fraud. The audience leaned forward, expecting him to falter.
Jonathan’s hand rested on his Bible, its worn leather warm under his fingers. “Joy,” he said, voice steady with the authority that moved millions. “I brought this for you because I know what it’s like to carry the world’s expectations while your heart is breaking.” The studio fell silent, Joyy’s eyes narrowing, her confidence wavering.
She laughed, but it was forced, unsteady. A Bible, Jonathan. This is a talk show, not a sermon. The audience chuckled nervously, but Jonathan’s gaze held firm, piercing through her facade. “When was the last time you felt truly loved?” “Joy,” he asked softly. Not cheered, not praised, but loved. The question struck like a blade. Joyy’s breath catching.
The cameras caught every flicker of her expression, every tremble of her hands. She was losing her grip, and the world was watching. Joy Bahar leaned forward, her eyes sharp, ready to pounce. The trademark grin she wore on the view now carried a mocking edge, barely concealed. “Jonathan, what are you even talking about?” she said, her voice laced with sarcasm, light enough to pass as banter.
You bring a Bible here and talk about broken hearts. This is a talk show, not a church service. The audience chuckled, but the laughter felt uneasy, as if they sensed the tension crackling in the air. Jonathan Roomie sat steady, his gaze locked on joy, the worn Bible still resting on the table between them like a silent challenge.
He didn’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch, turning the studio into a pressure cooker of anticipation. “Joy,” he said at last, his voice low but resonant. “I’m not here to play games. I’m here to speak for someone who can’t anymore. He paused, his eyes sweeping the audience, pulling them into his words.
Clara Evans, a widow who found hope through the chosen, was shunned by her family for her faith. She died in a cold apartment believing God had abandoned her because she wasn’t rich enough to claim blessings. The studio grew heavy, the air thick with unease. Whispers rippled through the crowd, eyes darting between Jonathan and Joy.
A woman in the front row covered her mouth, tears glistening. Joy, sensing the shift, moved to regain control. That’s a sad story, Jonathan. But let’s not pretend you’re not cashing in on playing Jesus. The chosen is a money machine, and you’re the face of it.
Aren’t you manipulating people like Clara for fame? Her words were a blade, sharp and deliberate, meant to rattle him. The audience held their breath, waiting for Jonathan to crumble, but he only smiled faintly. Not the smile of a man cornered, but of one anchored in truth. Joy. I don’t blame you for thinking that, he said, his voice calm yet unwavering. But I don’t keep a dime from the chosen beyond what I need to live.
I rent a small apartment, drive a 15-year-old Honda, and cook my own meals because that’s all I can afford. Murmurs spread through the audience, some nodding as his words struck accord. Joy undeterred, pressed harder, her voice cutting.
So, you’re saying you’re a saint? A guy playing Jesus to save the world? Not for profit. Come on, Jonathan. Be real. Isn’t this all about making people feel guilty if they don’t buy into your show? The question landed like a grenade. The audience gasping, some clapping at Joyy’s boldness, others waiting for Jonathan’s response. His hand rested on the Bible, fingers tracing its worn cover.
“Joy, I’m no saint,” he said, eyes never leaving hers. “I’m just a man trying to live by what Jesus taught. Sell what you have, give to the poor, and follow me. I’m not here to guilt anyone. I’m here to remind people God’s love doesn’t come with a price tag. His words washed over the studio like a breeze, easing the tension, but igniting a spark in the crowd.
A man in the middle row stood, shouting, “That’s right.” Scattered applause spread, growing louder like fire catching dry grass. Joy seeing the audience sway. Switched tactics. She laughed sharp and biting. Jesus. Really? Jonathan, you actually believe a 2,000-year-old figure is the answer to everything? The chosen is entertainment, not scripture.
I think you should stop season 2 before you hurt more people like Clara with your religious fantasy. The jab was vicious, drawing gasps from the crowd. Some booed, but Jonathan didn’t flinch. He leaned forward, his voice carrying a quiet power that silenced the room. Joy. Jesus isn’t a character or a product. He’s the way, the truth, and the life.
Clara wasn’t hurt by believing in him. She was hurt by those who called her faith a fantasy. The studio erupted. Applause mixed with shouts. Some audience members standing, others shaking their heads in protest. Joyy’s co-hosts exchanged uneasy glances, unsure how to intervene.
A producer backstage signaled through an earpiece, whispering, “Get ready to cut the feed if this escalates.” But Jonathan, sensing the chaos, raised a hand for silence. The crowd, drawn by his presence, quieted instantly. “Joy,” he said, his tone softening but piercing. “You think faith is something to mock, but I brought this Bible for you because I see what the cameras don’t.
” He paused, his gaze locking onto hers. “I see someone smiling on the outside, but breaking on the inside.” Joy laughed, but it was shaky, unconvincing. Breaking Jonathan. This is national TV, not a therapy session. The audience chuckled nervously, but the laughter died quickly as Jonathan held his ground. When was the last time you felt truly loved? Joy, he asked.
Voice gentle, but unrelenting, not cheered, not applauded, but loved. The question hit like a hammer, Joyy’s breath catching. The cameras caught every flicker of her eyes, every tremble of her hands. She was losing her edge, and the world saw it. “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull,” she whispered, her voice cracking.
For the first time in her career, Joy Behar looked vulnerable on her own stage. Jonathan gently slid the Bible toward her. I brought this for you because I know you’re carrying a burden you don’t want anyone to see, he said, his voice a quiet invitation.
You don’t have to open it now, but there’s something inside that will remind you who you really are,” the audience murmured, curiosity rippling through the crowd. Joy stared at the Bible, her hands trembling as if it were both sacred and terrifying. “What’s inside?” she asked, her voice barely audible. Jonathan smiled, not triumphantly, but with the warmth of someone who knew the truth was about to unfold.
Something you wrote long ago when you believed you could change the world with your heart. Joy pulled back, her eyes wide with confusion. She forced a smile, turning to the audience. Well, Jonathan sure knows how to make things dramatic, but the crowd didn’t laugh.
They sensed the weight of his words, their eyes fixed on joy, not with admiration, but with curiosity and empathy. A woman in the front row wiped tears as if Clara’s story had touched her own pain. Jonathan leaned closer, his voice steady with a new intensity. Joy, I know you think I’m a fanatic, he said, but three days ago, I had a dream about you. You were in a hospital praying with sick children, and it wasn’t a coincidence.
The studio fell so quiet that Joyy’s shallow breathing echoed through the microphones. She stared at him, torn between skepticism and fear. A dream, she said, her voice losing its edge. What are you talking about, Jonathan? He took a deep breath, knowing he was stepping into uncharted territory.
I’ll tell you about that dream, he said, his voice carrying a conviction that drew every eye in the room. But first, I need you to open that Bible. Joy Behar stared at the Bible on the table, her hands trembling as if it might burn her. The view studio was so silent that the ticking of a wall clock sounded like a heartbeat.
The audience held their breath, sensing a turning point they couldn’t quite grasp. Joyy’s voice, usually sharp and commanding, wavered. Open it, Jonathan. What game are you playing? But Jonathan Rooms eyes, filled with compassion, refused to let her hide. No game. Joy, he said, his voice gentle but firm. It’s a chance to remember who you really are.
Joy shook her head, trying to steady herself, but her fingers brushed the worn leather cover of the Bible, as if drawn to it. “You say I wrote something?” she whispered, her voice almost pleading, “But I don’t recall writing any letter.” “How could you know something I don’t?” Jonathan leaned closer, his gaze unwavering. Because your mother kept it for you,” he said, his words cutting through Joyy’s defenses.
She gave it to me before she passed, saying, “One day you’d need it to find yourself again.” The audience gasped, some covering their mouths, eyes glistening. A man in the middle row whispered to his neighbor, “Is this real joy?” Struck by Jonathan’s words, leaned back, her face pale. My mother,” she murmured, her voice breaking. “She died four years ago.” “She couldn’t.” “How did she know you?” Jonathan smiled softly. Not to triumph, but to comfort.
She watched the chosen. “Joy,” she said when she saw me on screen. She saw someone who could bring light to her daughter. She sent me that letter, trusting I’d know when to give it to you. Joy shook her head as if trying to push back the truth rising within her. “Impossible,” she said, her voice nearly desperate.
“I didn’t write letters to anyone. I’m not that person.” But her eyes stayed glued to the Bible as if it were calling her. Jonathan slid it closer. “There’s only one way to find out,” he said, his voice a gentle invitation. “Open it. Let yourself speak to you.” The audience held their breath. Cameras capturing every moment from Joyy’s trembling hands to Jonathan’s steady gaze.
A co-host, eyes red, touched Joyy’s shoulder, as if to lend strength, but Joy barely noticed. She lifted the Bible, her fingers slowly opening the cover. An old yellowed envelope slipped from the pages, landing on her lap. In faded ink, Joyy’s younger handwriting read to Joy.
“If you ever forget who you are,” she gasped, her breath catching like a punch to the chest. “Dear God,” she whispered, voice choking. “I remember this. I wrote it in Brooklyn at 25 before all this began.” Murmurss rippled through the audience, some wiping tears. Jonathan stayed silent, letting the truth unfold.
Joy clutched the envelope, her hands shaking so much she nearly dropped it. She looked at him, eyes brimming with fear and a flicker of hope. “I’m scared,” she whispered, voice so soft the microphone strained to catch it. “I’m scared of what I wrote.” Jonathan leaned closer, his voice warm like a friend’s. Joy, that 25-year-old girl wrote this to save you. You don’t have to be afraid.
Joy took a deep breath, breaking the cracked wax seal. Inside was a single fragile sheet covered in the trembling script of her younger self. She began to read, her voice shaking. Dear Joy, if you’re reading this, you’ve become the person I’m most afraid of becoming. You’ve traded your heart for applause. Her voice broke, tears streaming down her cheeks.
She paused, fighting to hold herself together, but the studio’s silence amplified her sobs. I wrote I wrote that I was afraid I’d forget how to love for real, she continued, voice faltering, afraid I’d become someone who only performs for crowds, who doesn’t know herself alone anymore. The audience wept, some clinging to each other, as if Joyy’s letter spoke to their own hidden pain. A co-host, eyes glistening, whispered, “Keep going, Joy.
” Joy shook her head but pressed on reading. If you’re reading this, remember the last time you felt peace. Shut everything off. Sit in silence for an hour. Call someone who knew you before fame and apologize for vanishing. And if you’re leaning on something to get through the day, throw it away. Being broken is better than feeling nothing.
She stopped, her hands trembling, the paper rustling like leaves, looking at Jonathan, her eyes flooded. She whispered, “How did I know? How did I know I’d become this?” Jonathan, still seated, his gaze soft with compassion, said, “Because even at 25, you saw the cost of fame.
You wrote that letter as a lifeline to pull you back when you got lost. Joy covered her face, tears spilling through her fingers. I forgot, she whispered. I forgot I ever believed in something bigger than myself. The studio froze, the audience, crew, even co-hosts silent, witnessing a moment more sacred than anything the view had ever aired.
Jonathan stood stepping closer to Joyy’s chair, kneeling beside her in a gesture that made the audience gasp. “Joy,” he said, his voice a near prayer. “Three days ago, I saw you in a dream praying with sick children in a hospital. You weren’t performing, weren’t smiling for cameras. You were there giving them hope.
” Joy looked up, her eyes torn between doubt and longing. A dream, she said, her voice breaking. Why me, Jonathan? I mock things like this. I’m not the person you’re looking for. Jonathan smiled, his eyes shining with a strange light. Because Jesus picks the people the world thinks are unworthy, he said. The broken, the skeptics, the ones who’ve forgotten themselves.
He picked you. Joy to bring hope, not tear it down. His words hit like a current, making Joy tremble. She clutched the letter as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded. The audience began clapping, not the loud, showy kind, but a gentle acknowledgement, like they were witnessing a miracle. Joy looked out at the crowd, then back at Jonathan.
If I let this in, she said, her voice steadier but still trembling, it changes everything. My career, this show, all of it. Jonathan nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. It does. Joy, he said, but sometimes changing everything is the only way to find yourself. Joy took a deep breath, gripping the letter tightly. She looked down at the paper where the final line stood clear. Come home. Joy.
God is still waiting. Joy Bahar stood frozen, clutching the letter, tears streaming down her face, but her eyes now held a flicker of something new, as if a part of her was coming back to life. The View studio was hushed in a sacred silence. The audience holding their breath, sensing they were witnessing something far beyond a typical talk show.
Jonathan Roomie, rising gently from his kneel beside Joyy’s chair, kept his gaze soft with compassion. He said nothing, letting the moment speak for itself. Joy looked at the letter, the words, “Come home. Joy! God is still waiting, burning into her mind. She took a shaky breath, trying to steady herself, but her voice trembled as she faced the audience. “I don’t know what to do next,” she said.
No longer the confident host, but a woman facing her own truth. “But I know I can’t keep pretending anymore.” The audience clapped. Not the loud performative kind of TV, but a gentle acknowledgement as if honoring Joyy’s courage. A co-host, eyes red, stood and hugged her, whispering, “We’re with you, Joy.
” Jonathan stepped back, giving Joy space to breathe in this moment. He knew truth, once kindled, would find its own way to spread. But he also knew his mission wasn’t over. He touched the Bible on the table lightly as if it were a reminder that light still guided the way. Joy looked at him, her eyes no longer guarded but filled with questions.
Jonathan, she said, her voice small but clear. If I follow this letter, if I really change, what happens to this show? To everything I’ve built? Jonathan smiled, a smile warm but resolute. Joy. Jesus said, “Whoever tries to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses it for me will find it. What happens next matters less than living true to who you are.
” His words settled over the studio like a quiet breeze, drawing a profound silence from the crowd. A woman in the front row stood wiping tears and shouted, “Do it, Joy! Come home!” Applause rippled, not for a performance, but for a woman standing at a crossroads. Joy gripped the letter, her fingers tracing the handwriting of her 25-year-old self.
She looked at the audience, then at Jonathan. I’ve mocked people like you, she said, her voice stronger now, though still breaking. I’ve called Jesus a fairy tale. But reading this letter, I remember I used to believe. I believed in something bigger than myself. She paused, taking a deep breath, summoning courage for her next words. And I want to find that again.
The studio erupted, applause thundering like a storm. not for entertainment, but for a miracle unfolding. Another co-host, usually stoic, wiped tears and said, “Joy, you don’t have to do this alone.” Jonathan nodded, his eyes shining with quiet affirmation. “Joy,” he said, his voice carrying a gentle authority. “I haven’t told you everything about that dream.
In it, you weren’t just praying with those children. You were leading them to hope. And I know that dream will come true because in 30 days someone close to you will call with something only God could know. Joy stared at him torn between fear and longing. Who? She asked, her voice trembling.
Who’s going to call me? Jonathan smiled, not revealing more, his eyes promising the truth would soon unfold. The studio buzzed with chaos. The production team, already rattled, signaled through earpieces, but no one dared cut the feed. Cameras kept rolling, capturing every second of Joyy’s unraveling and awakening. Social media exploded, audience clips spreading like wildfire.
One post read, I just saw Joy Bahar cry on the view over a letter she wrote herself. Another said, Jonathan Rooney isn’t just playing Jesus. He’s living like him. Comments flooded in from skeptics who’d mocked the chosen to viewers whose hearts were stirred. “Joy,” still holding the letter, faced the audience.
“I don’t know where to start,” she said, her voice now carrying a raw honesty. “But I know I want to try. I want to follow what this letter says.” She looked at Jonathan, her defense is gone. “Will you help me?” Jonathan nodded, his eyes warm. I’ll pray for you. Joy, he said, “And I know Jesus is here right now with you.” He placed a hand on her shoulder and in a rare moment, Joy bowed her head as if praying with him.
The audience, unprompted, followed. Some whispering prayers, others quietly weeping. After the show, Jonathan left the studio. Stepping into the New York dusk where the sunset cast a warm orange glow. He felt a deep peace, as if part of his mission was complete. But he knew more was coming.
His phone buzzed, a number he didn’t recognize. When he answered, Joyy’s voice came through, shaky but resolute. “Jonathan,” she said. “I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about that letter, that dream. I want to do something, but I’m scared. Jonathan smiled, though she couldn’t see. Joy, he said, “Fear means you’re on the right path. Start with the letter. Start with silence.
” Joy paused, then whispered, “I’ll try, but you have to tell me more about that dream. Who’s calling me? What’s going to happen?” Jonathan took a deep breath, knowing the moment to share part of the prophecy had come. In 30 days, he said, “Your nephew Daniel will call. He’ll tell you about a dream where you’re in a hospital praying with children.
He’ll say three words you’d never expect. Jesus loves you. When that happens, you’ll know everything I said today was true.” Joy gasped, her breath catching. Daniel, she murmured. He doesn’t believe in anything. How do you know this? Jonathan let the silence speak, then said, “You’ll see.” Jesus always chooses the least likely.
Joy hung up, but Jonathan knew their conversation was just the beginning. He walked to a small church nearby, its candle lit altar glowing softly, kneeling. He opened his Bible to Matthew 5:16. Let your light shine before others that they may see your good deeds and glorify your father in heaven.
The words were a fire reminding him his mission wasn’t just to confront skepticism, but to bring light to the darkest places. He felt the presence of Clara Evans, Joyy’s mother, and Jesus as if they stood beside him, guiding him forward. Meanwhile, Joy sat alone in her view office, still clutching the letter. She looked in the mirror.
But this time, she didn’t rehearse her smile. She let tears fall. Let truth sink in. She knew tomorrow when she shared this letter on air, everything would change. But for the first time in years, she wasn’t afraid. She felt a spark of hope, as if the 25-year-old girl in the letter was leading her home.
Joy Bahar sat alone in her office, the dim light of a desk lamp casting shadows across her face, where dried tears left faint traces. The letter from her 25-year-old self, still clutched in her hand, felt like a small flame guiding her through the dark. Outside, New York City lights blazed. But within her, a new stillness was taking root.
She knew that tomorrow, standing before the view’s cameras, she would share that letter, and everything, her show, her reputation, her media empire would never be the same. But for the first time, she didn’t fear losing the spotlight. She just wanted to find herself again. the girl who once believed in something greater than applause.
Jonathan Roomie stepped out of the small church, the cool New York night wrapping around him. The city’s glow mingled with starlight, and he felt the unseen presence of Clara Evans, Joyy’s mother, and Jesus, as if they walked beside him. His phone buzzed relentlessly, the screen lighting up with messages from the views viewers people who once scoffed at Faith now thanking him for showing something real. One message from Clara’s son stopped him. Thank you, Jonathan.
My mother would be proud her story changed someone like Joy Bahar. Jonathan smiled, his heart warming, but he knew his mission wasn’t over. The next day, the view studio was packed, but the air felt different. Gone were the usual cheers and easy laughter. The audience sat hushed, waiting for a moment the world was buzzing about. Joy stepped onto the stage.
No heavy makeup, no rehearsed smile. She wore a simple white blouse, holding the letter that had unraveled her. yesterday,” she began, voice trembling but steady. I faced myself through the words of someone I used to be. She held up the letter, letting the cameras catch the shaky handwriting of her younger self.
“I wrote this when I believed in something bigger than fame, bigger than money, bigger than me.” I forgot that girl. But yesterday, Jonathan Roomie helped me find her again. The audience clapped, not the loud TV kind, but a soft acknowledgement as if honoring a miracle. Joy pressed on, her voice growing stronger. I mocked Faith, called it a delusion. I was wrong. I used skepticism to hide my own pain.
Today, I’m sharing this letter, not to save this show, but to reach anyone lost like I was. She read a brief passage. Joy, if you’ve forgotten yourself, find silence. Call someone who knew you before the world did. Let go of what numbs you. She paused, looking into the camera. I’m doing that, and I invite you to do it with me.
The studio erupted, people standing, some crying, others embracing, as if Joyy’s words spoke to their own hidden struggles. Social media exploded. Clips of the broadcast going viral with millions of views in hours. One post read, “I’ve never seen Joy Behar so real. She gave me courage to face myself.” Another said, “Jonathan Roomie didn’t just play Jesus. He lives like him.
” Charities reported a surge in donations as viewers, moved by Joyy’s honesty, turned from chasing empty promises to helping the needy. Jonathan watched the broadcast from his hotel, his heart pounding, he opened an email from Clara’s son. We’re starting the Clara Evans Fund to help people like my mother. Hurt by doubt. Joy pledged support, Jonathan replied instantly, vowing to back the fund, knowing Clara’s story would live on, he opened his Bible to John 13:35.
By this, everyone will know you are my disciples if you love one another. The words burned within him, a reminder that everything from the view stage to Joyy’s letter was about spreading Jesus love. Meanwhile, Joy followed her letter’s instructions. She sat in silence. No phone, no cameras, just her and her breath.
For the first time in years, she felt peace, the kind she’d forgotten existed. That night, she called her old college friend, someone who knew her before fame. “I’m sorry,” Joy whispered over the phone. I’m sorry I became someone you didn’t recognize. Her friend cried. Joy cried. And in that call, a piece of her came back to life. 3 weeks later, as Jonathan had foretold.
Joyy’s phone rang. It was Daniel, her nephew, a skeptic who’d never believed in anything. Aunt Joy, he said, voice shaking. I had a dream last night. You were in a hospital praying with kids. You said Jesus loves you. I don’t get it, but I had to tell you.
Joy sank into a chair, hand on her chest, tears streaming. She recalled Jonathan’s words, and in that moment, she knew everything he’d said was true. She called him. Voice choked. Daniel called, “You were right. I don’t know what’s next, but I want to start over. Jonathan smiled through the phone. Joy, start with love. That’s what Jesus did, and that’s what you’re called to do.
Joy began a new path, stepping away from the spotlight to visit hospitals and community centers, places where real love was needed. She backed the Clara Evans Fund, helping hundreds of families find hope through action, not promises. The view shifted, focusing on stories of compassion and truth, not controversy for ratings. Joy, now living simply, found a piece she’d thought impossible.
She was no longer the host with the practiced smile, but a woman living true to her heart. Jonathan returned to the chosen, carrying a deeper conviction. He wrote a new speech for season 2 emphasizing that faith isn’t for sale. It’s the strength to love and serve no matter the cost. At a small New York church, he stood before a modest crowd sharing. I thought I had to be perfect to earn God’s love.
But I learned his love is free for all of us, no matter how broken. The listeners wept, not from sorrow, but from the hope his honesty gave them. The movement Jonathan sparked spread not through grand stages but through quiet acts reconciled families. Strangers helped. Moments of silence to rediscover oneself. Social media glowed with stories of joy.
Clara and countless others inspired to live differently. One post read, “Joy Bahar gave me courage to call my mom after a decade of silence.” Another shared, “I let go of what numbed me thanks to Jonathan and Joy. Charity saw donations sore as people chose love over argument.
Jonathan stepped out of the church, gazing at New York’s starry sky. He felt Clara, Joyy’s mother, and Jesus beside him. Their presence a quiet affirmation. His mission wasn’t over. It lived in every role, every prayer, every heart touched by truth. Thank you for following this story. Let us know in the comments below. If this story has moved you and you’d like to stand with us in bringing more voices of truth and hope to light, please consider supporting our work.
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