Before the sacred, people lose all sense of power and all

Host: The night had fallen heavy over the old city, its streets washed in the dim orange of streetlights and the faint murmur of distant traffic. Inside a small, smoky bar on the corner, the air was thick with silence and memory. Rain tapped the window, slow and rhythmic, like a heartbeat lost in time. Jack sat by the window, a glass of whiskey untouched before him, the liquid catching stray reflections from a flickering neon sign outside. Jeeny sat across from him, hands clasped around a cup of coffee, her eyes soft but burning with something deep — a kind of faith that refused to die even in the darkest hour.

Jeeny: “Do you ever wonder, Jack, what makes something sacred? Why people bow, pray, or tremble before certain things, even when there’s no real power in them?”

Jack: (leans back, smirking) “Because people are afraid, Jeeny. They see what they don’t understand and they call it ‘sacred’ so they can feel small, humble, and safe. It’s not reverence; it’s fear dressed up as virtue.”

Host: A bus passed outside, its headlights cutting a thin line of light across Jack’s face — half in shadow, half in truth.

Jeeny: “You sound like Max Stirner himself. But tell me then, if nothing is sacred of itself — if everything becomes sacred only when we declare it so — what does that make of conscience? Isn’t conscience something real, something beyond declaration?”

Jack: “Conscience?” (He lets out a short laugh.) “Conscience is just the echo of society’s rules bouncing in your head. You call it sacred because it’s been drilled into you since you could walk. The church, the state, your parents — they’ve all whispered in your ear until their voices sound like your own.”

Jeeny: “And yet people have died for their conscience, Jack. Socrates drank the hemlock rather than betray his truth. Martin Luther stood before the Diet of Worms and said, ‘Here I stand; I can do no other.’ Were they just puppets of society’s echo?”

Host: A faint wind pushed through the tiny crack in the window, fluttering the napkins on the table. The bar had grown quieter, as if the walls themselves leaned closer to listen.

Jack: “Those men were products of their time, Jeeny. They thought they were defying society, but they were only creating a new one. Stirner was right — it’s all about my declaration, my judgment, my conscience. The sacred doesn’t exist until I make it so.”

Jeeny: “But that’s a lonely world, Jack. A world where nothing has value until you bless it — that’s a kind of godhood without grace. Don’t you see the arrogance in that?”

Jack: (his tone sharpens) “And you don’t see the slavery in your version? People kneeling before idols, flags, or gods, pretending that something outside them gives meaning to their lives — that’s not humility, Jeeny. That’s surrender.”

Host: The light flickered again. A drip from the ceiling fell onto the table, leaving a dark ring on the wood. The silence between them thickened.

Jeeny: “Maybe surrender isn’t weakness. Maybe it’s recognition — that there’s something larger than your will. You talk about conscience as if it’s a trick of the mind. But what about those who stand against power because their conscience tells them to? The people who risk their lives to protect strangers? Can that come from ego?”

Jack: “It can. And often does. People like to believe their cause is sacred because it gives their suffering purpose. Look at the Crusaders — they slaughtered thousands under the banner of God. Were they following conscience, or feeding vanity?”

Jeeny: “So you equate all devotion with vanity?”

Jack: “Not all — but most. The moment you kneel, you give away your power. Stirner said it perfectly: ‘They occupy a powerless and humble attitude toward it.’ People lose themselves in worship. And once they do, they’re easy to rule.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, almost a growl. His hand gripped the glass until the faint clink of its edge broke the tension. Jeeny’s eyes glimmered in the half-light — not with tears, but with defiance.

Jeeny: “Then maybe what’s sacred isn’t the thing itself, but the act of devotion — the capacity to care beyond oneself. You say people lose themselves, but maybe that’s the only way to truly find meaning.”

Jack: “Meaning is a human invention. We give names to illusions because we’re terrified of the void. You talk about ‘caring beyond oneself’ — but even that’s selfish. It’s just another way to feel significant.”

Jeeny: “You call it selfish, I call it love.”

Host: The rain intensified, streaking down the window in long silver threads. The bar’s old jukebox crackled faintly, a broken melody leaking into the air.

Jeeny: “Do you remember that photo — the one of the man standing in front of the tank in Tiananmen Square? He wasn’t protecting himself. He was protecting an idea, a hope. Do you think he was seeking significance?”

Jack: (pauses) “Maybe. Maybe he wanted to be remembered. Or maybe he didn’t care at all. But what’s certain is this: the sacredness of that act doesn’t exist without you — the observer — declaring it sacred. Without your conscience to name it, it’s just a man and a machine.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you see how cold that is? If everything sacred depends on our declaration, then nothing holds unless we keep it alive. Doesn’t that make sacredness fragile — fleeting?”

Jack: “It makes it honest. Fragility is truth. Nothing is sacred by itself, Jeeny. Not God, not love, not conscience. We make them sacred, and we can unmake them too.”

Host: The thunder outside rolled low and long, as if echoing Jack’s words. Jeeny’s fingers trembled slightly, but her voice grew steadier.

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the tragedy — or the beauty. That sacredness depends on us means we’re responsible for it. That’s not fragility; that’s freedom. We give meaning its pulse.”

Jack: “Freedom? That’s a heavy word, Jeeny. Most people don’t want freedom; they want permission. Permission to feel small. Permission to be told what’s right so they don’t have to decide.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you sit here defending your own gods — reason, autonomy, self. You bow too, Jack. You just bow to your reflection.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like a blade, shimmering between truth and cruelty. Jack’s jaw tightened. The rain outside softened, almost stopping, as if the sky itself held its breath.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we all bow to something. But I’d rather bow to my own will than to an invisible hand that demands worship.”

Jeeny: “And I’d rather bow to something that humbles me. Something that reminds me I’m not the center of the world. You think humility is weakness — but maybe it’s the only thing that keeps us human.”

Host: The bar had emptied now, leaving only the hum of the neon and the faint drizzle outside. The light painted their faces — Jack’s sharp and cold, Jeeny’s soft and luminous. The argument had burned away its fire, leaving a strange stillness.

Jack: “You know… maybe Stirner wasn’t trying to kill the sacred. Maybe he was just trying to hand it back to us. To remind us that holiness isn’t out there, waiting — it’s in the act of choosing.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Then perhaps we agree more than we think. Maybe to declare something sacred isn’t arrogance… it’s creation.”

Jack: “Creation and destruction — same hand, same conscience.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked once — sharp and final. Outside, the rain had stopped. A thin moonlight slipped through the clouds, touching the window where their reflections lingered — two figures divided by belief, united by the faint glow of understanding.

Jeeny: “So, Jack… what do you call sacred now?”

Jack: (after a long pause) “This moment. Because I said so.”

Host: She laughed, soft and incredulous, and for the first time that night, Jack’s eyes softened. The world outside shimmered — washed clean, renewed, undefined. Perhaps sacred, perhaps not. But alive, because they had named it so.