Every dogma has its day.

Host: The rain had just begun — not a storm, not yet, just a fine mist that shimmered under the streetlights like memory made visible. The café windows fogged gently from the inside, framing two figures at a small table near the back. The city outside was restless — neon reflected on wet asphalt, a thousand philosophies dissolving into puddles.

Host: Inside, Jack sat with his coat still damp, his grey eyes thoughtful, his fingers tracing the rim of a coffee cup he hadn’t touched. Across from him, Jeeny leaned back in her chair, her hair loose and dark, her smile small but sharp, the kind of smile that could puncture or heal depending on what she said next.

Host: Between them lay a torn page from a paperback, the ink smudged by a raindrop:

“Every dogma has its day.”
— Anthony Burgess

Jeeny: “You have to admit,” she said, “Burgess was brilliant. Six words — and he managed to make theology sound like satire.”

Jack: “Everything he wrote was satire. Even his sincerity.”

Jeeny: “That’s because he knew how to laugh at certainty. Dogma thrives on seriousness — take away the solemn tone, and it starts to look ridiculous.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why it dies. Not from rebellion — from ridicule.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the café door. Someone outside cursed at the rain, their voice dissolving into static. Inside, the lights hummed, throwing faint golden halos over the table.

Jack: “Still,” he said, “there’s something cruel about how easily belief turns stale. One generation calls it truth; the next calls it tyranny.”

Jeeny: “That’s the natural order. Every dogma thinks it’s immortal until time turns it into irony.”

Jack: “And then a new one takes its place.”

Jeeny: “Of course. People can’t live without faith — only without admitting it.”

Host: The barista clanged a cup onto a saucer somewhere behind them, a small sound that cut through the soft hum of rain and jazz.

Jack: “You think that’s what Burgess meant? That every belief gets its moment in the sun — then fades into the same dusk it once condemned?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And that’s the mercy of it. Nothing stays sacred long enough to enslave forever.”

Jack: “That sounds like hope.”

Jeeny: “It’s realism. History is one long parade of convictions — each swearing it’s the final truth, each ending up in the museum of beautiful mistakes.”

Host: The rain intensified, tapping faster against the windows, a percussive reminder of passing time. The world outside blurred — shapes melting, lights bleeding together like old ideologies losing form.

Jack: “You know what’s funny?” he said. “Even rebellion becomes dogma eventually. Look at revolutions. They start with freedom and end with bureaucracy.”

Jeeny: “Because certainty’s addictive. Once people tear down one temple, they start building another — usually with the same stones.”

Jack: “So the real heretic,” he said, “is the one who refuses to build at all.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The one who keeps walking while everyone else is kneeling.”

Host: A long silence followed — not awkward, but heavy with shared recognition. Outside, thunder rolled softly in the distance, low and steady, like a warning disguised as applause.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder,” she said, “what our modern dogmas will look like in fifty years? The ones we think are enlightened now?”

Jack: “Sure. Our science, our politics, our moral hashtags — all future relics. One day someone will study our outrage the way we study medieval superstition.”

Jeeny: “And they’ll laugh at how certain we were.”

Jack: “Just like Burgess laughed at his own age.”

Host: The lights flickered, briefly plunging the café into shadow, then flaring back to life. Jeeny leaned forward, her face half-lit, half-dark — as though truth itself couldn’t decide where to sit.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what he meant by ‘every dogma has its day.’ It’s not cynicism. It’s rhythm. Everything burns bright for a while — then makes room for something else.”

Jack: “So faith isn’t the problem — permanence is.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The danger isn’t in believing, it’s in thinking belief should last forever.”

Jack: “You sound like a theologian.”

Jeeny: “I sound like someone who’s lost enough certainties to stop worshipping them.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like incense — fragrant, unsettling, oddly sacred. Jack smiled — not mockingly, but with the kind of respect one gives to honesty when it risks being beautiful.

Jack: “You know, Burgess wrote A Clockwork Orange about free will — about the horror of forcing virtue. Maybe this line is the same argument. Even goodness becomes tyranny if it demands obedience.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe laughter is the only moral act left — the refusal to take eternity too seriously.”

Jack: “Laughter as rebellion.”

Jeeny: “And forgiveness.”

Host: The rain began to slow, softening into the faint hiss of drizzle. The café windows reflected their faces now — two figures blurred together by the light, indistinguishable from the city’s reflection beyond.

Jack: “Do you think truth ever survives dogma?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said. “But that’s what keeps it alive. It has to keep escaping.”

Jack: “Like sunlight between clouds.”

Jeeny: “Like laughter between sermons.”

Host: A faint smile crossed both their faces — two heretics sharing coffee, irony, and the quiet revelation that even disbelief can be holy.

Host: And as the last of the storm faded, Burgess’s words seemed to echo through the soft hum of the café, no longer cynical but strangely serene:

“Every dogma has its day.”

Host: Because conviction, like sunlight,
burns brightest before it blinds.

Host: Every certainty demands to be worshipped —
until time teaches it to laugh.

Host: And somewhere between prayer and parody,
between the pulpit and the puddle,
the world keeps renewing its faith —
not in gods,
but in the fleeting beauty of doubt.

Host: The rain stopped.
The world outside glistened —
washed clean, for now —
ready for the next belief
to have its day.