I discipline churchgoers with godly lessons and sharp words if

Host: The wind whistled low across the barren hillside, carrying with it the smell of smoke, salt, and faith. The small chapel stood alone, a crooked wooden cross etched against a bruised sky, its bell long rusted, its windows glowing faintly with the flicker of oil lamps inside.

Evening had come, and the fields beyond were dark — save for the glow that spilled from within the chapel like a fragile promise.

Jack sat in the last pew, his hands clasped loosely between his knees, his eyes fixed on the floorboards that creaked with every breath. Jeeny stood near the pulpit, the light from a single candle painting her features in gold and shadow. Her voice was low, reverent, but sharp enough to split silence.

Behind her, carved into the wooden wall, hung a plaque bearing the words of William Brewster — the pilgrim preacher who crossed an ocean to build a new world of worship, and whose zeal for salvation sometimes cut as deeply as it healed:

“I discipline churchgoers with godly lessons and sharp words if they do not change their ways. My goal is to open their hearts so that they seek forgiveness.”
— William Brewster

Jeeny: “He didn’t mean cruelty, you know. Brewster’s words were born from conviction — the kind that believed the heart had to break before it could open.”

Jack: “Break, or bleed? Sounds like fear dressed up as faith to me.”

Host: The rain began to patter lightly on the roof, a steady, patient rhythm — like the world itself waiting for confession.

Jeeny: “It wasn’t fear. It was discipline. The Puritans believed that the soul was like iron — it had to be tempered in fire before it could hold truth. Brewster wasn’t punishing them. He was shaping them.”

Jack: “And how many souls broke in that fire, Jeeny? How many people walked out of churches like this one, more ashamed than saved?”

Host: Jack’s voice echoed in the wooden chamber, hard but not unkind. His eyes, sharp and weary, lifted toward the flickering flame at the altar.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve been burned before.”

Jack: “Haven’t we all? I grew up sitting in pews like this — watching men preach forgiveness with one hand and fear with the other.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why his words still matter. Because they force us to ask which one we truly follow — love or fear.”

Jack: “Forgiveness built on guilt isn’t forgiveness. It’s control.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s redemption. Sometimes people don’t change until they’re made to look in the mirror — and they don’t always like what they see.”

Host: The candlelight flickered, casting shadows that danced across the old wooden walls. For a moment, it almost seemed as if the ghosts of the past — pilgrims, penitents, believers — watched quietly from the edges of the dark.

Jack: “You really think shame opens hearts? It shuts them, Jeeny. It turns people into liars — to God, to each other, to themselves.”

Jeeny: “And what would you do? Preach comfort to the corrupted? Let people think their sins are sweet so they never change?”

Jack: “No. I’d preach compassion. Because you don’t lead people out of the dark by shouting at them — you walk beside them.”

Jeeny: “But if you never raise your voice, how do you wake the sleeping?”

Host: Her words hung in the still air like the lingering smoke from a blown-out candle. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes fixed on the pulpit where she stood — half preacher, half rebel.

Jack: “You talk about fire like it’s medicine. But I’ve seen it destroy too much. Churches like this — they make people afraid of the same God they’re supposed to love.”

Jeeny: “Maybe love and fear were never meant to be separate. Maybe that’s what Brewster understood. That awe and trembling are the price of holiness.”

Jack: “Or maybe holiness was never supposed to cost so much.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, drumming against the roof like distant applause or warning. The candle’s flame swayed, its shadow elongating across the wall, cutting between them like a question no one wanted to answer.

Jeeny: “He was a man of his time, Jack. Harsh words were his only weapon against a world full of chaos and sin. The people needed order. He gave them structure.”

Jack: “And structure built prisons.”

Jeeny: “No. It built community. It gave people something to hold onto.”

Jack: “At the cost of their freedom.”

Jeeny: “At the cost of their apathy.”

Host: The tension thickened — not anger, but an ache, the weight of two different faiths colliding: one born of discipline, the other of mercy.

Jack: “You really believe that discipline saves people?”

Jeeny: “Not discipline itself. The love beneath it. Brewster wanted people to see that salvation wasn’t passive. You had to work for it. You had to want it.”

Jack: “You make it sound like punishment is love.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it is. The kind that demands we rise above who we are, not just feel sorry for it.”

Host: Her voice softened, the fire of conviction cooling into compassion. She stepped down from the pulpit, walking toward him. Her bare feet made no sound on the wooden floor, only the faint whisper of cloth and rain.

Jeeny: “You remember when you told me you stopped believing because you couldn’t stand the hypocrisy?”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Jeeny: “That’s what he was fighting too. The same rot — people who wore piety like armor but never let it touch their hearts.”

Jack: “So he used words like a blade.”

Jeeny: “A surgeon’s blade, not a soldier’s. To cut out the sickness, not to kill the soul.”

Host: Jack’s eyes dropped to the floor again. The candlelight trembled on the curve of his face — tired, conflicted, but softening.

Jack: “You ever wonder if maybe he cut too deep?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But maybe the wounds he left made room for something better to grow.”

Host: A long silence settled, filled only by the rain — steady, rhythmic, like penance turned into prayer.

Jeeny moved to the window and drew back the curtain. The moon had broken through the clouds, its pale light spilling into the chapel. The candle burned low, but still it burned.

Jeeny: “You know what I think forgiveness really is?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “The act of staying soft in a world that keeps trying to harden you. That’s what Brewster wanted. His words were rough because the world was rougher.”

Jack: “So the sharpness wasn’t cruelty. It was survival.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The same way storms prune trees so they grow stronger.”

Host: The candle finally flickered out, leaving only moonlight and the faint scent of wax and smoke. The chapel seemed to exhale, its old timbers creaking softly, as though relieved that the argument had turned into understanding.

Jack: “You know, for a man who crossed the ocean to build a city of faith, he must’ve been lonely — preaching to people who feared his words more than they loved his God.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why he spoke so fiercely. Sometimes the ones who love the most sound the hardest. Because they’re begging the world to wake up.”

Host: The rain eased into drizzle. Outside, the hills glistened faintly in moonlight — washed clean, as if forgiven.

Jeeny sat beside Jack now, the quiet between them no longer heavy, just human.

Jack: “You ever think we still need voices like his?”

Jeeny: “We do. But we need hearts like his too — ones that correct to heal, not to hurt.”

Host: The candle gave its last faint sigh of smoke. Beyond the chapel walls, the world stretched wide and waiting — flawed, yearning, and still capable of grace.

And as the two sat there in the soft afterglow of their own reckoning, William Brewster’s words seemed to breathe again, no longer harsh, but human —

a reminder that discipline without love is tyranny,
that correction without compassion is hollow,
and that the truest path to forgiveness
is not found in fear of sin,
but in the courage to be broken
and still reach toward light.