Business underlies everything in our national life, including our

Host: The city was asleep in name only. Midnight had settled over downtown, but the glow of skyscrapers still pulsed like electric constellations. Through the wide windows of a glass-walled office, the world below looked like circuitry — veins of light carrying the rhythm of commerce.

Inside, Jack sat behind a mahogany desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, a half-empty cup of coffee cooling beside a stack of documents. His expression was sharp, but tired — the kind of fatigue born not from labor, but from thought. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the window, her reflection faintly ghosted over the city lights. She watched him for a long moment before speaking.

Jeeny: “You ever read what Woodrow Wilson said? ‘Business underlies everything in our national life, including our spiritual life. Witness the fact that in the Lord’s Prayer, the first petition is for daily bread. No one can worship God or love his neighbor on an empty stomach.’”

Jack: (smirking) “Yeah. Leave it to a politician to turn prayer into economics.”

Jeeny: “You think he’s wrong?”

Jack: “Not wrong — just pragmatic. He’s saying faith needs fuel. You can’t preach compassion to someone starving.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s what’s fascinating — he wasn’t demeaning spirituality. He was grounding it. Making the point that morality isn’t an abstraction. It’s sustained by bread, by livelihood, by work.”

Host: The fluorescent light above flickered softly, throwing a tired glow over papers and polished surfaces. Outside, a neon sign blinked rhythmically — OPEN 24 HOURS — a quiet hymn to the creed of business itself.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? We separate economics and ethics like they’re oil and water. But Wilson saw the truth — the wallet and the soul are part of the same anatomy.”

Jeeny: “You think so?”

Jack: “Of course. Poverty tests faith more than prosperity ever could. A man can talk about love and mercy all he wants, but empty stomachs don’t listen.”

Jeeny: “That’s why he said daily bread. Not riches, not abundance — just enough. Enough to live, to hope, to believe.”

Host: The wind outside pressed against the windowpane. Somewhere below, a siren wailed, then faded — the city’s eternal heartbeat.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about that quote? It’s not cynical. It’s compassionate. Wilson wasn’t glorifying business; he was reminding the powerful that commerce isn’t sacred because it’s profitable — it’s sacred because it feeds people.”

Jack: (leaning back) “That’s an uncomfortable truth for this room.”

Jeeny: “And for this century.”

Jack: “We built capitalism like a cathedral — then forgot the altar was supposed to serve people, not consume them.”

Host: The city lights shimmered on the glass between them, each reflection layered like meaning — ambition, hunger, guilt, survival. Jeeny turned toward him, her eyes catching the faint gleam of the skyline.

Jeeny: “Do you think business can still have a soul?”

Jack: (quietly) “It has to. Otherwise, it’s just appetite.”

Jeeny: “And yet appetite drives it.”

Jack: “True. But even hunger has ethics. You can crave, but you can’t devour everything.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve wrestled with that.”

Jack: “Every day. I’ve seen men justify cruelty with profit margins. They forget — money’s not evil. It’s just a mirror. It reflects whatever’s inside you.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked loudly now — each second cutting through the quiet. Jeeny moved closer, pulling up a chair, sitting opposite him.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Wilson was really saying. That business isn’t the opposite of spirituality — it’s one of its expressions. You earn, you build, you trade — all to sustain life. But once you forget the purpose — the daily bread — it becomes idolatry.”

Jack: “So faith without bread is blind. But bread without conscience is poison.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Jack rubbed his temples, exhaling deeply. The papers on his desk caught a draft from the vent and fluttered slightly — contracts, figures, numbers that measured gain but not grace.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, sometimes I think the modern world turned the Lord’s Prayer upside down. Instead of ‘Give us this day our daily bread,’ we pray, ‘Give us this day our record profits.’”

Jeeny: “And the price is spiritual malnutrition.”

Jack: “Yeah. People have full plates and empty hearts.”

Host: Jeeny looked down at the city again — at the rivers of headlights, the endless movement of people trading hours for paychecks, dreams for security.

Jeeny: “You know what strikes me? He said business underlies everything — even our spiritual life. He didn’t separate the sacred and the secular. He saw them as one thread. Maybe the real moral test isn’t what we believe, but how we feed each other.”

Jack: “Faith as function.”

Jeeny: “And economics as empathy.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly — the automatic timer kicking in, reminding them that even buildings need rest. The world below kept moving, but slower now, gentler.

Jack: “When you think about it, that’s what every society’s built on — an unspoken contract: I’ll help you survive, and in return, we both get to hope.”

Jeeny: “That’s the soul of business — the invisible hand that’s supposed to lift, not strangle.”

Jack: “But these days, it feels like we’ve forgotten that part.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But the truth always resurfaces. Just like tonight — two people talking about bread and justice in an empty office.”

Host: A long pause followed — the kind that makes silence feel sacred again. Jack looked at the skyline, at the faint glow of dawn beginning to wash the blackness from the horizon.

Jack: (softly) “You know, Wilson was right. You can’t love your neighbor on an empty stomach. But maybe the trick is remembering that feeding someone — materially, emotionally, spiritually — is an act of worship in itself.”

Jeeny: “The most practical kind of faith.”

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe holiness starts at the dinner table, not the altar.”

Host: Jeeny smiled — a slow, knowing smile that seemed to light the space more than any bulb. She rose, gathering her things, pausing at the doorway.

Jeeny: “So tell me, Jack — what will you feed today? The hunger for profit, or the hunger for purpose?”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Depends which one’s starving more.”

Jeeny: “Make sure it’s the right one.”

Host: She left him there, alone with the rising dawn, the hum of the city resuming its ceaseless work. The first light touched the glass towers — gold, clear, and merciless — illuminating both the ambition and the ache that built them.

And in that fragile morning, Woodrow Wilson’s truth stood quietly between faith and finance:

That business is not beneath the sacred —
it sustains it.

That morality means little when hunger still speaks louder.

And that true prosperity is not found in profit margins,
but in the grace of sharing one’s daily bread —
the simplest, holiest transaction of all.