God will forgive me. It's his job.

Host: The night hung heavy over the city, draped in a blanket of mist and distant neon. Rain tapped softly on the window of a dimly lit bar tucked between silent alleyways. The air smelled of smoke, whiskey, and rain-soaked asphalt. Jack sat at the corner, his hands around a half-empty glass, the liquid inside catching the amber glow of a flickering bulb. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair damp, her eyes alive with quiet intensity. Outside, a church bell rang, its sound faint and lonely.

Jeeny: “You always pick the darkest places to talk, Jack.”

Jack: “Darkness hides truth better than light ever could.”

Host: A pause stretched between them — like a held breath. Then Jeeny leaned forward, her voice soft but cutting through the smoke.

Jeeny: “You said something earlier. About not fearing judgment. About... forgiveness.”

Jack: “Yeah.” He smirked. “‘God will forgive me. It’s His job.’ Heinrich Heine said that. And he wasn’t wrong.”

Jeeny: “You think that’s wisdom?”

Jack: “It’s realism. The kind that comes after you’ve seen too much of the world’s hypocrisy. People sin, pray, sin again — and still they get another sunrise. If there’s a God, He’s got to be used to forgiving. That’s His full-time occupation.”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers tightened around her cup, the ceramic warm against her skin. The rain outside grew heavier, drumming against the glass.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’re excusing yourself. Like you think divine mercy is just some cosmic insurance policy.”

Jack: “Maybe it is. You think the Pope never lies? Or a priest never doubts? The whole system runs on forgiveness credit. Everyone spends, and God foots the bill.”

Jeeny: “That’s not forgiveness. That’s entitlement.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered, grey and tired, reflecting the light from the bar’s neon sign — the word ‘GRACE’ barely visible in its flickering letters.

Jack: “Entitlement? No. Acceptance. Of our nature. You can’t expect a lion to repent for killing a gazelle. Why should man be any different? We’re built on flaw.”

Jeeny: “But we know we’re flawed, Jack. That’s what separates us. Awareness gives us responsibility.”

Jack: “Awareness gives us guilt. Guilt gives us religion. Religion gives us comfort. It’s a cycle — same as breathing.”

Host: The bar’s door creaked open; a gust of cold air swept through, stirring the smoke like ghosts in motion. Then it closed, and silence reclaimed the room.

Jeeny: “You talk like forgiveness means nothing. Like it’s just a bureaucratic stamp from heaven.”

Jack: “Isn’t it? Heine knew it — people sin, and God forgives. It’s the balance of power. Keeps the world running.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Forgiveness isn’t a balance. It’s a miracle — undeserved, unpredictable. If you expect it, it stops being divine.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. He lit a cigarette, the flame trembling before it caught. The smoke rose, curling lazily toward the ceiling fan that barely turned.

Jack: “Tell that to Martin Luther, Jeeny. He built an entire revolution on the idea that God’s grace is absolute. Not earned, not bought — given. Whether you’re a saint or a murderer, grace is grace. You don’t need to deserve it.”

Jeeny: “But that grace changes you. If it doesn’t, you never really received it.”

Jack: “You’re talking poetry. The world doesn’t change because someone says a prayer.”

Jeeny: “It’s changed plenty of times because someone believed forgiveness was real.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice rose, a tremor of passion breaking through her usual calm.

Jeeny: “Think of Nelson Mandela — twenty-seven years in prison. He walked out and forgave his captors. That wasn’t logic, Jack. That was faith in something greater than revenge. Forgiveness rebuilt a nation.”

Jack: “Or maybe it just delayed another collapse. You think the world’s better now? People forgive to feel superior, not to heal.”

Jeeny: “That’s a cruel way to see it.”

Jack: “It’s the honest way. History’s full of forgiveness that fixed nothing. The Church forgave crusaders. Nations forgave tyrants. Humanity’s just good at forgetting its crimes.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glistened, catching the light like wet glass. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

Jeeny: “Then why do you still ask for it, Jack?”

Jack: “Who says I do?”

Jeeny: “Your eyes.”

Host: Jack looked away, the smoke curling from his lips like a confession he wouldn’t speak aloud.

Jack: “I don’t ask for forgiveness. I ask for understanding. There’s a difference.”

Jeeny: “But understanding without forgiveness is just observation without compassion.”

Jack: “Maybe compassion is overrated.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s what keeps the world from burning.”

Host: The clock ticked, a slow, hollow rhythm against the rain. Time seemed to stretch, bending around their words.

Jack: “You think God cares about compassion? Look around. The innocent die, the guilty thrive. If He’s up there forgiving, He’s doing a terrible job of managing outcomes.”

Jeeny: “You confuse forgiveness with fairness. They’re not the same. Forgiveness isn’t about setting the scales right — it’s about freeing yourself from the weight of vengeance.”

Jack: “So it’s selfish.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s salvation.”

Host: The word hung in the air, glowing with a strange stillness. Even the rain softened, as if the sky itself paused to listen.

Jack: “You really think God forgives everyone?”

Jeeny: “I think God’s forgiveness is bigger than our comprehension. But it’s not cheap. It demands transformation. Heine’s line — it’s witty, yes, but it hides despair. It’s the laugh of a man who stopped believing change is possible.”

Jack: “Maybe he was right. Maybe some of us don’t deserve to change.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the point of living?”

Host: Jack’s fingers trembled around his glass. The ice had melted, leaving only diluted amber. He set it down, his voice low, almost breaking.

Jack: “The point is to keep walking. Even if you’re damned.”

Jeeny: “No one’s beyond redemption, Jack.”

Jack: “Tell that to the people I’ve hurt.”

Host: Her hand reached across the table, resting on his. The touch was gentle, but it carried weight — like forgiveness itself, quiet and undeserved.

Jeeny: “Then start by forgiving yourself.”

Jack: “That’s harder than asking God to do it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s His job — to wait until we learn to do ours.”

Host: The silence deepened, but it was no longer cold. The rain eased, the streets glistening under the soft light of dawn. In the reflection on the window, two faces appeared — tired, flawed, but somehow lighter.

Jack: “You think He forgave Heine?”

Jeeny: “I think He smiled.”

Host: Outside, the church bell rang again — not in warning, but in mercy. The sound rolled through the streets, washing away the night. Jack and Jeeny sat in quiet, the world breathing anew.

The forgiveness they spoke of was no longer an idea — it had become a presence, unseen but felt, like the first light breaking through a storm.