Give the people not hell, but hope and courage.

Host: The night was alive with a thousand muted sounds — the distant roar of the city, the whisper of the wind against the old church walls, and the faint tremor of rain beginning to fall on the cobblestone streets. Inside, the air was thick with incense and memory.

The once-bustling sanctuary now stood mostly empty. Only the candles flickered along the aisles, their light stretching across the worn wooden pews like tired spirits. A single lamp hung above the pulpit, swaying ever so slightly in the draft.

Jack sat on the bottom step of the altar, his hands clasped together, elbows resting on his knees. His face, half-lit by the orange glow of the candles, was drawn tight with fatigue — not physical, but spiritual, the exhaustion that comes from trying to lead when one no longer believes in the light ahead.

Jeeny stood near the open door, the rain dripping from her coat. She watched him silently for a moment, then spoke — her voice soft, carrying through the empty space with the gravity of something that mattered.

“Give the people not hell, but hope and courage.”
— John Murray

Host: The words landed like a spark in the quiet room — not loud, but unmistakably alive.

Jack: (grimly) Hope and courage. Easy to say. Hard to live by.

Jeeny: (steps closer) Maybe because you’ve been giving them something else for too long.

Jack: (glances up, bitterly) What — truth?

Jeeny: (gently) No. Fear. You’ve been preaching survival when what they needed was faith.

Jack: (dry laugh) Faith doesn’t pay rent. Faith doesn’t stop wars.

Jeeny: (softly) No, but it stops despair.

Host: A gust of wind blew through the open doorway, scattering candle flames into nervous tremors. For a moment, the whole room seemed to breathe with the tension between them — light and dark, reason and soul.

Jack: (low) I’ve seen too much to believe in the easy kind of hope, Jeeny. I’ve seen people lose everything — jobs, homes, dignity. What do you tell someone standing in that rubble? “Be brave”?

Jeeny: (quietly) No. You tell them they’re not alone in it. You tell them they still matter. That the world hasn’t finished with them yet.

Jack: (shakes his head) That’s just poetry.

Jeeny: (firmly) No — that’s leadership.

Host: The rain began to fall harder now, drumming against the stained-glass windows like a thousand quiet fists. The flickering light painted their faces in colors of red, blue, and gold — the same holy shades that once told stories of redemption.

Jack: (tired) When I speak, they listen. But they don’t change. They don’t move. It’s like talking to ghosts.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe because you’re talking to their fear, not their fire.

Jack: (looks at her) And what would you say to them? What would you give them — lies about a better world?

Jeeny: (shakes her head) No. I’d give them courage. The kind that doesn’t deny pain — but still chooses to love anyway.

Host: The candles steadied again, the trembling light finding balance. Outside, thunder rumbled softly, distant but present, like a warning and a promise all at once.

Jack: (after a pause) You think hope is stronger than truth?

Jeeny: (firmly) Hope is truth — the kind we forget when fear is louder.

Jack: (grimly) I tried that once. I told people things would get better. They didn’t.

Jeeny: (gently) Then maybe “better” wasn’t the point. Maybe the point was to keep them alive until they could make it so.

Host: The light caught Jeeny’s face — rain glistening on her cheeks, her expression fierce yet tender. Jack looked at her for a long moment, his own face softening, his eyes carrying the weight of all the people he’d failed to save — and all the ones he still could.

Jack: (quietly) “Give the people not hell.” (smiles faintly) That’s ironic. My sermons used to be full of it. Fire. Punishment. Judgment. It made them listen.

Jeeny: (softly) Fear makes them obey. Hope makes them rise.

Jack: (murmurs) Maybe I was afraid to give hope. Afraid it would sound naive.

Jeeny: (smiles sadly) Hope isn’t naive, Jack. It’s rebellious. It refuses to die even when everything else does.

Host: The rain outside softened to a whisper, the rhythm slower now — steady, like breath returning.

Jack: (quietly) I wanted to save them by scaring them.

Jeeny: (steps closer) You can’t save people from their humanity by making them fear it. You lift them by helping them forgive it.

Jack: (low voice) I thought fear kept people moral.

Jeeny: (gently) No. Fear keeps them small. Love teaches them to choose goodness without the whip.

Host: Her words lingered in the air, glowing faintly in the half-dark. The old walls, once filled with sermons of fire and guilt, seemed to absorb them — as though even they longed for redemption.

Jack: (after a long silence) And if they’ve already lost hope?

Jeeny: (quietly) Then you start small. You tell them the sun will rise again, and mean it. You show them how to hold a hand that’s trembling. You remind them that courage isn’t the absence of fear — it’s the act of kindness despite it.

Host: The lamp above them swayed once more, its chain creaking softly. The air smelled of wet earth and candle smoke — the scent of something old ending and something fragile beginning.

Jack: (voice soft) I used to believe people needed saving from hell. Now I think the real hell is hopelessness.

Jeeny: (nodding) Exactly. And courage is the only fire that burns without destroying.

Jack: (smiles faintly) You sound like a preacher yourself.

Jeeny: (grinning slightly) I just believe in people, Jack. Even when they stop believing in themselves.

Host: A small smile crept across his face — tired, genuine. The kind that comes after surrender, not victory.

Jack: (softly) Maybe it’s time to change my sermons.

Jeeny: (smiling) Or maybe just your tone. Stop warning them about the dark. Start showing them the light.

Host: The candles flickered again, brighter this time. Outside, the rain had eased completely. The silence was full — not hollow, but full of the things that follow awakening: peace, ache, understanding.

Jack: (quietly) Hope and courage. That’s all they need.

Jeeny: (softly) That’s all any of us need.

Host: He stood slowly, his shadow stretching long against the altar. The quote still echoed in the hollow air — not as an instruction, but as a prayer.

Jack: (softly) “Give the people not hell…”

Jeeny: (finishing for him) “…but hope and courage.”

Host: The church seemed to breathe again, its silence no longer heavy but alive. Jack reached out and extinguished one candle — then lit another. The small flame rose steady, unflinching.

Host: And as the light spread through the darkened room, something shifted — not in the world, but in the space between two hearts learning what it means to heal through gentleness.

Host: Outside, dawn began to break over the city. The storm had passed. The world waited, washed and new.

Host: And for the first time in a long while, Jack spoke not to warn, but to warm — his voice low, steady, filled not with fire, but with light.

Host: Because in the end, it isn’t fear that saves the world — it’s the courage to keep giving hope where hope once died.