He best keeps from anger who remembers that God is always looking

Host: The churchyard lay wrapped in the pale glow of an early winter evening, the kind of light that blurs the line between sky and earth. The air was cold enough to make breath visible, drifting like small ghosts between the tombstones. Inside, the chapel was nearly empty — only the flicker of candles and the faint hum of an old organ warming the silence.

Jack sat in the back pew, his coat unbuttoned, his hands resting loosely on his knees. The faint scar above his brow caught the candlelight — a quiet reminder of old fights, inside and out. Jeeny stood near the altar, lighting one last candle, her hair falling forward, catching a whisper of gold from the flame.

The quote had been written in chalk on the blackboard outside the chapel: “He best keeps from anger who remembers that God is always looking upon him.” — B.C. Forbes.

Host: The words had drawn them both here, as if to settle a score neither had spoken aloud.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to sit so far back, Jack. It’s not a courtroom.”

Jack: “Feels like one.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because someone’s always watching. Or so your quote says.”

Host: Jeeny smiled softly, but there was sadness in it.

Jeeny: “You think that’s a threat?”

Jack: “Depends who’s doing the watching. If it’s God, it feels like surveillance. If it’s people, it feels like judgment. Either way — not much peace in being watched.”

Jeeny: “You see it as control. I see it as conscience.”

Jack: “Conscience doesn’t need eyes in the sky, Jeeny. It’s what you do when no one’s watching that defines you.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what the quote means. To remember that God is watching isn’t fear — it’s awareness. It’s about living as though every act matters, even when no one else cares.”

Host: The wind outside brushed against the stained glass, and a soft creak ran through the old wood of the pews. The candles flickered, as if listening.

Jack: “I can’t buy that. Living in fear of divine eyes doesn’t make people good — it makes them obedient. History’s full of examples. People have done horrors ‘under God’s gaze,’ claiming righteousness. Crusades, inquisitions, wars — all while believing God was looking right at them.”

Jeeny: “And yet, that’s not God’s fault. That’s human blindness. They remembered the words but forgot the meaning.”

Jack: “Meaning. Right. You really think remembering God watching over you keeps you from anger? Tell that to Job.”

Jeeny: “Job was angry at suffering, not at God. And still, he refused to curse Him. That’s strength, Jack — not blindness.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice grew steadier, her eyes alive with something fierce and quiet. Jack leaned back, his jaw tightening, a half-smile forming — not mockery, but resistance.

Jack: “I don’t envy Job. I envy those who can face injustice and not break something. Me? I see cruelty, lies, manipulation — and I burn. Not at one man. At the whole system. At the sky that lets it all happen.”

Jeeny: “That’s the difference between rage and faith. Rage wants revenge. Faith wants understanding.”

Jack: “Understanding doesn’t fix the broken. It just makes the pain polite.”

Jeeny: “No. It transforms it.”

Host: Her words hung like smoke in the dim air, and for a moment, even the organ’s hum seemed to fall silent. Jack stood, his shadow stretching long against the pews.

Jack: “You ever watched someone get humiliated for doing the right thing, Jeeny? Watched them get crushed by the people they trusted? Tell me then to remember God watching. What does that change?”

Jeeny: “It changes you.”

Jack: “Not enough.”

Jeeny: “It keeps your soul from becoming what you hate.”

Host: The tension between them crackled — like static before a storm. Jack’s breath quickened. Jeeny took a slow step forward, her hands still trembling slightly from the cold.

Jeeny: “Anger’s easy, Jack. Righteous even. But it devours. Every tyrant starts with the belief that his anger is justified. Remembering that God is watching isn’t about fear — it’s about humility. About remembering we’re not the judge.”

Jack: “Then who is? Because from where I’m standing, divine justice looks a lot like silence.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not silence. Maybe it’s space — space for us to grow.”

Jack: “Or to destroy ourselves.”

Jeeny: “We choose.”

Host: A long pause filled the room — thick, breathing. The wind had quieted; now only the faint crackle of the candles broke the stillness.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe what you believe. I thought God was watching. But after my brother died — after the company blamed him for their mistake and called it ‘God’s will’ — I stopped looking up.”

Jeeny: “That wasn’t God’s will. That was men hiding behind His name.”

Jack: “Then why didn’t He stop them?”

Jeeny: “Because free will means even monsters get to move.”

Host: Jack’s fists tightened. For a heartbeat, his eyes glistened — then hardened again.

Jack: “So we suffer while He watches. And we’re supposed to be grateful.”

Jeeny: “Not grateful. Aware. Because even in our anger, we are seen — fully, painfully seen. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe knowing that keeps us from turning into what we despise.”

Jack: “That’s... beautiful. Naïve, but beautiful.”

Jeeny: “Then let me ask — when was the last time your anger made something better?”

Host: The question hit him like cold wind. His breath caught. He didn’t answer.

Jack: “Maybe it hasn’t. But it’s the only thing that’s ever felt real.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve mistaken heat for truth.”

Jack: “And you’ve mistaken faith for comfort.”

Host: The candles trembled; one went out. Darkness gathered in the corners.

Jeeny: “You think I’ve never wanted to break something? I have. I’ve wanted to scream at the world, to curse heaven for its silence. But every time, I remember — He’s watching. Not to punish, but to witness. To remind me I’m more than the storm in my chest.”

Jack: “And that stops you?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Sometimes it just slows me down enough to choose.”

Host: Jack looked at her — really looked. Her face, lit by the candle’s trembling flame, was both fragile and unwavering. A quiet strength lived there, the kind that doesn’t announce itself.

Jack: “So you think remembering God makes people moral?”

Jeeny: “No. But it makes them accountable — even in secret.”

Jack: “And what if they don’t believe in Him?”

Jeeny: “Then let them remember something else that’s watching — their own soul.”

Host: Silence settled, deep and reverent. Outside, the wind carried the faint chime of a distant bell — midnight. The kind of sound that feels like an ending and a beginning at once.

Jack sat back down, his anger dimming, not gone, but quieter — like embers under ash.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right, Jeeny. Maybe remembering someone’s watching makes you think twice. Not because of fear — but because it reminds you you’re not alone.”

Jeeny: “That’s all it means, Jack. To live as though you’re seen — not by eyes of judgment, but of mercy.”

Host: The last candle burned low, its flame stretching thin before bowing out. The chapel darkened, but the air felt lighter. Outside, the first snow began to fall — soft, unhurried, covering the earth in white.

Jeeny walked toward the door, pausing to look back.

Jeeny: “Anger blinds. But remembrance — that’s what brings sight.”

Jack: “Maybe faith is just learning to look up again.”

Host: And as the door opened, spilling cold light into the room, the night felt less bitter. The camera would pull back slowly — the cross, the pews, the empty seat where Jack still sat — and the whisper of snowfall filling the silence.

In that moment, even God, unseen, seemed to be listening.