I only want three children for every family. I'm a Christian, but

Title: The Gospel of Realism

Host: The room was dim, lit only by a faint candle on the table and the distant glow of the city skyline through the rain-blurred window. The air was heavy with heat and contradiction — the kind that clings to nights when belief collides with necessity.

In the half-light, Jack sat by the window, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his face caught between thought and fatigue. He swirled a glass of water in his hand, watching the ripples form and vanish — small metaphors for control.

Across from him, Jeeny sat on the edge of the wooden table, her arms folded, her eyes steady, unafraid of his cynicism. The candlelight trembled between them, casting shadows that danced like ghosts of ideas not yet spoken.

Jeeny: “Rodrigo Duterte once said — ‘I only want three children for every family. I’m a Christian, but I’m a realist, so we have to do something with our overpopulation. I will defy the opinion or the belief of the Church.’”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “That’s not a quote, that’s a declaration of war — realism against revelation.”

Host: His voice was low, edged with a sort of admiration he’d never admit. The kind of respect one cynic reserves for another.

Jeeny: “It’s a strange kind of heresy, isn’t it? To say you love your faith — and still contradict it in the name of survival.”

Jack: “It’s not heresy. It’s evolution. Even faith has to adapt or it dies in the desert of population charts.”

Jeeny: “But what happens when realism starts rewriting morality?”

Jack: “Then you’ve arrived at the 21st century.”

Host: The rain tapped against the glass, rhythm steady, patient — like a debate too old to end.

Jeeny: “You talk about adaptation as if it’s noble. But isn’t there something dangerous in defying the spiritual compass that built you?”

Jack: “Only if the compass still points to truth. Otherwise, you’re just circling the same delusion — calling it devotion.”

Jeeny: “So you’d replace doctrine with data?”

Jack: “Absolutely. At least numbers don’t lie. Faith asks you to multiply; reason reminds you of consequences.”

Jeeny: “But faith gave humanity its conscience. Without it, realism becomes machinery.”

Jack: “And with it, realism becomes guilt. We’re damned either way — by scarcity or by scripture.”

Host: The candle flame shuddered slightly in the draft, a flicker of orange over their faces — one questioning, one defiant, both alive.

Jeeny: “Duterte’s words sound pragmatic, but there’s arrogance underneath — the belief that morality can bend to math.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s humility — the recognition that divinity won’t feed starving mouths.”

Jeeny: “That’s a cruel view of faith.”

Jack: “No, it’s a practical one. Faith is beautiful until it starts killing people with its beauty.”

Jeeny: “And realism without faith?”

Jack: “Efficient. Cold. But survivable.”

Host: Her eyes softened. There was no anger — only a quiet ache in her voice when she finally spoke again.

Jeeny: “You know, faith isn’t blind obedience. It’s the courage to believe in more than calculation.”

Jack: “Then maybe faith’s been misused — a kind of anesthesia for conscience. Religion says ‘be fruitful and multiply,’ but never sticks around to count the hungry.”

Jeeny: “And yet it gives people hope — the poor, the broken, the forgotten.”

Jack: “Hope without bread is cruelty disguised as virtue.”

Jeeny: “You think Duterte’s right then?”

Jack: “No. I think he’s honest. And honesty frightens the faithful more than sin ever will.”

Host: Outside, the rain intensified, washing the streets clean — as if heaven itself were trying to scrub away the argument.

Jeeny: “But defiance of the Church isn’t courage, Jack. It’s hubris when it’s done without love.”

Jack: “And obedience without reason is cowardice when it’s done without thought.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both are right — the Church and the realist. One protects the soul, the other the species.”

Jack: “But the soul doesn’t survive extinction.”

Jeeny: “Nor does extinction redeem the soul.”

Host: The candlelight bent lower now, shadows pooling in the corners like silent witnesses. Their conversation had become something heavier — a philosophical duel waged not for victory, but for clarity.

Jack: “You know, I think Duterte’s statement isn’t really about children or population. It’s about power — who gets to decide what’s moral when survival’s at stake.”

Jeeny: “And you think survival justifies defiance?”

Jack: “Always. When you’re drowning, you don’t ask whose law you’re breaking by swimming.”

Jeeny: “But laws — divine or human — are supposed to keep us from drowning in our own chaos.”

Jack: “Then why is the world still gasping for air?”

Jeeny: “Because realism fixes the world’s body. Faith heals its heart.”

Jack: “And which one do we need more?”

Jeeny: “Both. Without one, we starve. Without the other, we forget why it mattered that we survived.”

Host: A long silence followed. The rain softened. The flame steadied, small but insistent — like conscience refusing to die.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? Duterte says he’s Christian — but chooses logic over doctrine. That tension is modern faith in a sentence.”

Jack: “It’s not strange. It’s human. Everyone wants heaven — but no one wants to die to get there.”

Jeeny: “And yet, choosing control over compassion risks losing both.”

Jack: “Sometimes compassion without control is the greater sin.”

Jeeny: “So realism becomes religion?”

Jack: “Only when religion stops being realistic.”

Host: The city lights flickered through the rain — gold and uncertain. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang, soft and weary.

Jeeny: “Do you think belief and reason can ever coexist?”

Jack: “They can. But not easily. Faith prays for miracles; reason builds them.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re meant to be uneasy companions. Faith gives direction, reason gives restraint.”

Jack: “And defiance?”

Jeeny: “Defiance is the child of both — born when truth refuses to kneel.”

Host: The candle burned low, its wax pooling like melted time. Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes heavy but alive.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny. Duterte sounds like he’s rebelling against God. But maybe he’s actually defending Him — by trying to protect the creation He left in our hands.”

Jeeny: “That’s the paradox of belief, isn’t it? Every act of rebellion against heaven might just be an act of stewardship.”

Jack: “And every act of obedience, a form of avoidance.”

Jeeny: “So maybe true faith isn’t blind loyalty — it’s the courage to question what love demands in the real world.”

Jack: (softly) “A realist’s prayer.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The last of the rain tapered to silence. The candle sputtered once, then steadied into a small, unwavering glow — fragile, but enduring.

Host: And as they sat there — two souls caught between belief and survival — Rodrigo Duterte’s words echoed not as defiance, but as the dilemma of every age:

That faith without realism becomes denial,
and realism without faith becomes despair.

That to love both God and truth
is to live forever in contradiction —
to build with one hand while breaking with the other.

That the true act of nobility
is not obedience or rebellion,
but the ability to hold both
and still remain human.

The candle burned low.
The storm was gone.

And in that soft, exhausted peace,
Jack looked toward the window and whispered,
“Maybe salvation isn’t in heaven or earth —
but in learning how to stand between them.”