A large part of mankind is angry not with the sins, but with the

Host: The rain fell in slow, heavy drops, blurring the neon lights outside the bar’s window. It was late, that kind of urban hour when time seems to pause, and every sound becomes lonely. The smell of wet asphalt drifted in each time the door opened, mixing with cigarette smoke and the low hum of a forgotten jazz record.

At a corner table, Jack sat with his coat draped over the chair, his grey eyes fixed on a glass half-full of whiskey. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, her hair still damp from the rain. There was something in the air — a quiet, tense expectation, like the moment before a confession.

Jeeny: “Seneca once said, ‘A large part of mankind is angry not with the sins, but with the sinners.’ You know, I think about that a lot lately.”

Jack: “And you agree with him, I suppose.”

Jeeny: “Of course I do. We condemn people more than we condemn actions. We forget that humanity isn’t a clean line between good and evil — it’s a mess, full of shadows and reasons.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened slightly as he stirred his drink, the ice clinking with a deliberate rhythm. His voice was calm, but there was a hard edge underneath.

Jack: “Sounds like forgiveness dressed up as philosophy, Jeeny. If someone chooses to do harm, why should we separate them from their actions? A murderer isn’t just a man who made a mistake — he is the murder.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. He committed a murder. That doesn’t erase his humanity. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Tell that to the family of the victim. Or to history’s monsters. You think people should have patted Hitler on the back and said, ‘We’re only angry at what you did, not at who you are’?”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes flashed, her fingers tightening around the cup. Steam rose like a small, futile cloud between them.

Jeeny: “That’s not what I’m saying. But you can’t heal a world by burning its people. Look at post-war Germany — they didn’t just punish; they rebuilt, re-educated, forgave. That’s what brought the light back.”

Jack: “And yet, Jeeny, some things can’t be rebuilt. Some sins stain so deep they become the person. You can’t separate a wolf from its teeth.”

Host: The music shifted — the saxophone lingered in a low, melancholic note. Outside, the rain slowed, tapping against the glass like an anxious hand.

Jeeny: “But that’s the point, Jack. If you believe people are their sins, you leave no space for change. What’s the use of redemption, of justice, of faith in anything, if we think a person can never be more than their worst moment?”

Jack: “Redemption is a story, Jeeny. It comforts the guilty, but it doesn’t protect the innocent. The world runs on consequences, not forgiveness.”

Jeeny: “You sound like the world itself has hurt you.”

Host: Jack’s eyes narrowed, but then softened, like a door half-opening in the dark. He didn’t speak for a moment. The bar’s light flickered, casting shadows across his face.

Jack: “It has. And that’s why I’ve learned not to expect mercy from it. People are cruel, Jeeny. They don’t just punish sins — they enjoy punishing sinners. Look around. Cancel culture, public shaming, digital lynchings. We’ve turned moral judgment into entertainment.”

Jeeny: “You’re right about that. But that’s exactly what Seneca meant. The anger isn’t really about justice — it’s about vengeance. People don’t seek to heal; they seek to hurt. And when you punish from anger, not from understanding, you become what you hate.”

Host: The silence hung between them, thick as smoke. Somewhere in the corner, a man laughed, the sound sharp and out of place.

Jack: “Understanding doesn’t stop harm, Jeeny. If we keep forgiving, the guilty will just keep doing it. You can’t teach a thief to be honest by understanding his hunger.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can understand what made him steal, and maybe change it. That’s how societies grow. If we punish without listening, we just repeat the cycle. Every child who grows up in anger becomes an adult who carries it forward.”

Jack: “You talk about understanding like it’s a cure. But it’s a luxury. When evil is in front of you, there’s no time for understanding — only for stopping it.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the moment you stop trying to understand, you lose what makes you human.”

Host: Her voice trembled, but not from fear — from belief. The rain had stopped, but the wind pushed against the windows, as if the night itself was listening.

Jack: “Do you remember that teacher who was fired last year for one wrong comment online? A decade of teaching, erased in a day. That’s not justice. That’s the mob. People aren’t angry about the wrong done — they’re angry at the person who did it. It’s personal.”

Jeeny: “I know. And that’s why I said — our anger is misplaced. We’re blind with rage, so we forget that we’re all capable of the same darkness. The moment we believe we’re better than the sinner, we’ve already fallen.”

Jack: “So what, we should embrace everyone? Even the cruel?”

Jeeny: “No. But we should remember that the line between cruelty and compassion runs through every heart. That’s what Seneca meant. We should hate the disease, not the patient.”

Host: The bar fell quiet for a moment, only the record crackling as the needle spun toward its end. The tension in the air softened, like a storm passing.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we’ve confused justice with satisfaction. I can’t deny it — even I’ve felt that rush of anger, that need to punish, to make someone feel what they caused.”

Jeeny: “That’s the darkness Seneca warned us about. It’s human, Jack. But we can rise above it — if we choose.”

Jack: “And if we can’t?”

Jeeny: “Then at least we can try to see the person before we judge them. That’s where change begins.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his fingers tracing the rim of the glass. A small, tired smile tugged at his lips. Outside, the clouds parted, and a thin shaft of moonlight spilled through the window, painting their faces in silver.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… sometimes I envy your faith in people. I lost mine a long time ago.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time you found it again. Even Seneca, with all his stoicism, believed that anger is weakness — that it consumes more than it corrects.”

Jack: “Maybe. Maybe the real strength isn’t in judging, but in forgiving.”

Jeeny: “And in understanding before we condemn.”

Host: They sat there, the rain starting again — soft, rhythmic, gentle. The bar’s light glowed against the wet glass, reflecting two faces that were both changed, if only slightly. In the quiet, the world seemed a little more forgiving.

And as the music faded, the night breathed, calm, and alive again — as if even the darkness had finally understood.