Human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires.

Host: The rain had been falling since afternoon, a soft, relentless curtain that blurred the streets of Manila into a watercolor of neon reflections and ghostly motion. Inside a small boxing gym near Quiapo, the air smelled of sweat, liniment, and memory. The ring ropes sagged slightly, their tape peeling, and an old radio hummed faintly in the corner, playing a half-static gospel tune.

It was late, past the hour of training, yet two figures remained. Jack, his shirt damp, his knuckles still wrapped, sat on the edge of the ring, staring at the floor, his breathing heavy. Across from him, on a wooden bench, Jeeny tied her hair back, her eyes thoughtful, her voice steady.

The Host’s voice drifted like the camera’s gaze, quiet but all-seeing.

Host: The storm outside beat on the roof like the pulse of a world that refused to rest. Jack’s anger lingered in the air, thick as the humidity, while Jeeny’s calm seemed to absorb it—like a candle holding its light against the wind.

Jeeny: “You know what Manny Pacquiao said once? ‘Human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires.’”

Jack: He scoffed softly. “Pacquiao? The boxer turned preacher? Funny, coming from a man who made his living throwing punches.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s why it matters. He knows the difference between fighting and rage. Between discipline and destruction.”

Host: Lightning flashed, illuminating the room in a brief white silence. Jack’s eyes—cold gray and clouded—lifted, then fell again, as if the light itself had questioned him.

Jack: “Righteousness? That’s a church word. Out here, it’s survival. You get hit, you hit back harder. That’s the only justice this world understands.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why the world keeps bleeding.” Her tone softened, but her eyes didn’t waver. “You call it justice, but it’s just vengeance dressed in reason.”

Jack: “So what, Jeeny? We just take the hits? Let the liars win, the corrupt thrive? You talk about peace like it’s some divine trophy—out of reach for anyone who’s actually been hurt.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying anger can be fuel, but not compass. Once it takes the lead, it burns everything—even the truth.”

Host: The radio crackled, the old gospel tune fading into static. The gym lights flickered, throwing shadows of their faces against the wall—two silhouettes locked in a battle older than both of them: justice and mercy, fire and grace.

Jack: “You think God wants calm hearts while the world falls apart? Look at what’s happening—politicians stealing from the poor, violence on the streets, families torn apart. If anger isn’t holy, what do we have left to fight with?”

Jeeny: “Faith. Love. Patience. The hard weapons, not the easy ones.”

Jack: He laughed bitterly. “Those don’t win wars.”

Jeeny: “They end them.”

Host: Her words landed like soft blows, but they carried weight, the kind that forces a man to look inward. The rain outside slowed, becoming a gentle tapping, like the earth exhaling.

Jack: “You talk about righteousness as if it’s some gentle light you can just turn on in the dark. But have you ever been betrayed? Watched someone you love destroyed because someone else had power and no conscience?”

Jeeny: “Yes.” Her voice trembled slightly. “And I learned that revenge never rebuilds. It only multiplies the ruins.”

Host: A silence stretched—long, thick, and raw. The neon glow from the nearby street sign bled through the window, painting Jeeny’s face in pale blue light. She looked tired, but unwavering.

Jeeny: “Anger makes us feel strong, but it’s a counterfeit strength. The kind that drains the soul. Righteousness isn’t about winning—it’s about transforming.”

Jack: “Transforming what? Corruption? Evil? You think a prayer changes a system?”

Jeeny: “No. But it changes the one fighting it. And maybe that’s the beginning of change itself.”

Host: The air shifted, heavy with something unspoken. Jack’s fists unclenched slowly. He looked down at them—the same hands that had defended, struck, survived.

Jack: “You think Pacquiao understood that? He fought with anger. That’s what made him unstoppable.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. He fought with purpose. Anger gets you through a round. Purpose gets you through life.”

Host: The thunder rolled again, low and distant, like the echo of something ancient and moral. The gym felt smaller now, intimate—just two voices searching for truth beneath the noise.

Jeeny: “When Jesus was struck, He didn’t strike back. That wasn’t weakness. That was power under control. Maybe that’s the righteousness God desires—the kind that restrains itself for something greater.”

Jack: His voice softened, uncertain. “But doesn’t that make you a target?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. But better a target of hate than a vessel of it.”

Host: The rain had stopped entirely now. Only the drip from the eaves remained, falling in slow, rhythmic beats. Jack stood, his shadow long and unsteady, then walked to the ring, his fingers tracing the worn rope.

Jack: “You know, I used to think anger was the only thing that kept me alive. When my brother was killed, it was anger that pushed me to train harder, to fight stronger. I thought if I hit the world hard enough, it would feel what I felt.”

Jeeny: “And did it?”

Jack: He shook his head. “No. It just made me emptier. Like every punch was a prayer that never reached heaven.”

Host: Jeeny rose, walked slowly toward him, her steps light, her presence steady. She stopped just a few feet away.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Pacquiao meant. Anger can take you to the fight—but love is what makes it worth winning.”

Jack: He looked up, meeting her eyes for the first time that night. “You really believe love can fix what fury can’t?”

Jeeny: “Not fix. Redeem.”

Host: The lights above the ring hummed, and in their faint buzzing glow, the two stood in stillness, like boxers before the final bell—but this fight wasn’t against each other. It was against something within.

Jack: “You know… I used to think God wanted warriors. Maybe He just wants healed ones.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because a healed heart fights differently. It fights for restoration, not revenge.”

Host: Outside, the sky began to clear, and the first star appeared through the cracks in the clouds. The city lights below shimmered faintly, alive again, reflecting on the wet streets like small, stubborn flames.

Jack: “Human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires…” He repeated slowly, almost reverently. “Maybe I’ve been fighting in the wrong ring all along.”

Jeeny: Softly. “Then step out of it, Jack. There’s another kind of strength waiting for you.”

Host: The camera of the moment lingered: Jack, standing by the ropes, his hands open, no longer ready to strike but to release; Jeeny, standing nearby, her eyes gentle, her presence calm, the faint sound of rainwater dripping still marking time.

In the stillness, something shifted—a quiet conversion not of faith alone, but of the human will.

And as the lights dimmed, the Host’s voice spoke one last time:

Host: In the end, anger may burn, but it cannot build. Only love, patience, and grace—the quiet tools of heaven—can shape the righteousness that God desires.

The rain stopped. The ring stood empty. But in that small gym, something sacred had already won.