Among the best traitors Ireland has ever had, Mother Church ranks

Host: The rain fell hard that evening — not in gentle drops, but in angry, relentless sheets that turned the streets into rivers and the sky into a sermon. The old pub stood at the edge of a forgotten town square, its windows glowing like amber eyes in the dark. Inside, the air was thick with smoke, whiskey, and the hum of a half-broken jukebox playing something mournful — a song about loss and rebellion.

Jack sat at the corner table, coat drenched, jaw tight, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. Across from him sat Jeeny, dark hair damp, eyes shining in the dim light like polished wood. Between them lay a folded newspaper, yellowed and fragile, its ink smudged but legible. The headline read: “Among the best traitors Ireland has ever had, Mother Church ranks at the very top.”

Host: The quote from Bernadette Devlin, fierce and unflinching, hovered in the air between them — a ghost from history, demanding reckoning.

Jeeny: (softly) “She said it because no one else dared to.”

Jack: “She said it because she wanted a riot.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe she wanted a resurrection.”

Host: The fireplace crackled nearby, its light flickering across their faces — Jack’s sharp, angular, restless; Jeeny’s steady, but burning with conviction.

Jack: “You talk like she was a saint.”

Jeeny: “No. Saints ask for mercy. She asked for truth.”

Jack: “Truth?” (He scoffs.) “You think calling the Church a traitor is truth? Ireland would’ve torn itself apart without her. Faith held people together when politics failed.”

Jeeny: “Faith, yes. The Church, no. Don’t confuse God with the ones who claimed to own Him.”

Host: The wind howled outside, rattling the old glass panes. The sound felt almost like the earth protesting — a raw, ancient grief clawing at the walls.

Jack: “You think rebellion makes someone right? Every revolutionary believes they’re saving the world. And when the dust settles, they just build a new prison with different rules.”

Jeeny: “Then why do we remember them, Jack? Because they dared to break the first one. Bernadette wasn’t attacking faith — she was attacking the institution that used faith to silence women, the poor, the questioning. She called out betrayal, not belief.”

Host: A tense silence filled the air — the kind that doesn’t demand resolution, only honesty.

Jack: “You talk like faith’s the enemy.”

Jeeny: “Faith is light, Jack. But the Church turned it into a weapon. Look at history — Magdalene Laundries, the mothers separated from their children, the priests who preached obedience while breaking souls. Tell me that isn’t betrayal.”

Host: The words hit hard — like stones thrown into a lake, rippling outward. Jack took a drag from his cigarette, exhaled slowly, watching the smoke coil toward the low ceiling.

Jack: “I don’t deny the sins. But the Church built schools, hospitals, charities. It gave people identity when the English took everything else.”

Jeeny: “And then used that identity to control them. Charity is not freedom. It’s dependence dressed as virtue.”

Host: The fire cracked louder — a small explosion of sparks. Jeeny’s voice grew quieter, but sharper, cutting through the warmth.

Jeeny: “You know what’s worse than cruelty, Jack? Comfort that demands silence. That’s what she fought — that sacred quiet that let power rot unchecked.”

Jack: “So she fought God?”

Jeeny: “No. She fought the men who pretended to speak for Him.”

Host: The light from the fire danced on Jack’s face as he turned, his expression softening from defiance into something deeper — reflection, maybe even shame.

Jack: “You know, my mother used to kiss her rosary every night. Said it was her armor. Said the Church was her family.”

Jeeny: (gently) “And did it love her back?”

Jack: (after a long pause) “It loved her obedience.”

Host: The rain softened now, but it didn’t stop. It just became quieter — like the world was listening.

Jeeny: “That’s the thing about Bernadette. She didn’t curse faith. She cursed the cage it was kept in. The Church was supposed to heal — but instead, it guarded wounds, called them holy, and told people to be grateful for the pain.”

Jack: “You sound like her. Fire and fury.”

Jeeny: “Because the truth needs fire. You can’t cleanse rot with incense.”

Host: The jukebox clicked softly — a new song, an Irish ballad of rebellion and lost love. The melody wrapped around the room like a memory too old to die.

Jack: “Still, she went too far. Calling the Church a traitor to Ireland — that’s like calling the heart a traitor to the body.”

Jeeny: “Not if the heart poisons the blood.”

Host: The words landed with quiet violence. Jack looked at her, then away — eyes tracing the curve of the rain on the windowpane.

Jack: “Maybe betrayal was necessary. Maybe she had to wound something sacred to wake it up.”

Jeeny: “That’s what prophets do. They’re never polite. They break things so truth can breathe again.”

Host: A moment — long and trembling — passed between them. The firelight softened, the storm beyond began to ease, and the silence became something different: not argument, but mourning.

Jeeny: “You know what I think she meant, Jack? When she called the Church a traitor — she was saying it betrayed its own Gospel. It stood beside the powerful when it was supposed to walk with the broken.”

Jack: (quietly) “And yet, people still kneel.”

Jeeny: “Because they still hope.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, his expression finally unclenching. The anger drained, replaced by something like understanding. He stubbed out his cigarette, the smoke curling like a prayer dissolving into air.

Jack: “So maybe the Church isn’t the enemy. Maybe the silence is.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Silence is the altar where injustice survives longest.”

Host: The clock behind the bar struck midnight. The sound echoed through the room like a tolling bell. Jeeny stood, pulled her coat around her, and looked at Jack.

Jeeny: “Do you know what’s funny?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “Every institution thinks it’s eternal. But even empires made of faith crumble when the people remember they were the foundation all along.”

Host: She started toward the door. Jack watched her go, then called out — his voice low but sure.

Jack: “You think she’d still say those words today?”

Jeeny: (pausing at the doorway) “No.” (She turned back, her eyes catching the last flicker of firelight.) “She’d say them louder.”

Host: The door opened, and the storm’s wind rushed in — wild, unrepentant. For a brief moment, Jeeny stood framed in the light and rain, then disappeared into the night.

Jack sat alone now, staring at the dying fire. Outside, the church bell in the square began to ring — slow, uncertain, its sound echoing through the soaked streets.

Host: And as the flames dimmed, only one truth remained burning in his mind —
that faith is not obedience, and truth is not treason.

Because sometimes, to love a country — or a god —
you must first dare to accuse them of betrayal.