I would say the hierarchy has made terrible errors in judgment

Host: The night hung heavy over the city, like a confession that refused to be spoken. The rain had just ceased, leaving the streets slick with reflections of neon light and memory. In the corner of an old café, its windows fogged from breath and coffee, two figures sat across from each other — Jack and Jeeny. The clock above the counter ticked with an uneasy rhythm, as if it too were waiting for absolution.

Jack leaned back, his coat still damp from the rain, his grey eyes fixed on the steam rising from his cup. Jeeny, her hands wrapped tightly around her mug, watched him — not with judgment, but with a quiet ache, as though she already knew the battle they were about to enter.

Jeeny: “You’ve been reading again,” she said softly. “Your face always gets that look when you’re haunted by something you can’t quite forgive.”

Jack: “Maybe I am,” he murmured. “Leahy’s words — ‘the hierarchy has made terrible errors in judgment and it has to seek forgiveness by its members.’ It’s an interesting idea. Almost naïve.”

Jeeny: “Naïve?” Her brows lifted. “You think it’s naïve for a structure, for those in power, to seek forgiveness?”

Jack: “I think it’s impossible,” he replied. “Institutions don’t feel remorse. People do. A hierarchy doesn’t bleed, Jeeny. It protects itself. Always has, always will.”

Host: The lights from passing cars slid across the window, brushing Jeeny’s face in flashes of white and shadow. Her eyes were dark, filled with belief, the kind that hurts to hold.

Jeeny: “But hierarchies are made of people, Jack. And if those people have consciences, if they recognize their errors, they can change the very structure that failed.”

Jack: “You’re assuming guilt leads to change. It doesn’t. History is full of the same mistakes, repeated by new faces wearing old titles. Look at the Church scandals — centuries of errors, and still the same silence dressed as repentance.”

Jeeny: “You think all those apologies meant nothing?”

Jack: “They meant damage control. Not forgiveness.”

Host: The rain began again, faintly, as though the sky had overheard them and decided to weep a little. Jack’s voice grew sharper, his fingers tapping the table like a slow drumbeat of anger and truth.

Jack: “Forgiveness, Jeeny, is personal. It’s one human looking another in the eye and saying, ‘I was wrong.’ But hierarchies — they don’t have eyes, they have walls. You can’t confess to a wall.”

Jeeny: “You’re right that it’s hard. But that’s exactly why it matters. When the Catholic Church faced its greatest crisis, when victims came forward with their stories, it wasn’t the walls that spoke, it was the people inside. Some priests, some bishops, even a few leaders — they did ask for forgiveness. Publicly. Tears, letters, reform. Isn’t that proof that the structure can still find a soul?”

Jack: “A soul that wakes up only when it’s cornered. That’s not redemption, Jeeny. That’s survival.”

Host: The steam from Jeeny’s cup swirled between them like a veil. The café had grown quiet; even the music from the old radio seemed to fade, replaced by the sound of their breathing, heavy with unspoken grief.

Jeeny: “You talk like forgiveness is a transaction. Like it needs to be earned.”

Jack: “It does. Without justice, forgiveness is just a way to forget.”

Jeeny: “And without forgiveness, justice becomes vengeance.”

Host: The words hit like a strike of lightning. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes flickering — the logic in him wrestling with the pain he carried. There was a long pause, the kind that holds more truth than argument.

Jack: “You really believe in it, don’t you? In the possibility of redemption. Even for the powerful.”

Jeeny: “I believe in accountability that leads to healing, not punishment that breeds fear. If we deny the possibility of forgiveness, we deny what makes us human.”

Jack: “But what if the ones asking for forgiveness never change? What if their words are just smoke?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s not forgiveness they receive. It’s exposure. Forgiveness doesn’t erase truth, Jack. It demands it.”

Host: The rain had grown heavier now, drumming against the window, reflecting their voices in a rhythm of conflict. Outside, a figure passed by — an old man holding a newspaper over his head, his shoes splashing through puddles. Inside, the air was thick with conviction.

Jack: “You sound like you want to save everyone.”

Jeeny: “Not everyone. Just the idea that people can still learn. Even those who’ve failed.”

Jack: “The hierarchy Leahy talked about — it’s not just the Church. It’s corporations, governments, every system that protects itself before it admits it’s wrong. Tell me, when was the last time a leader truly asked for forgiveness? Not a press release, not a speech written by a team, but a real, trembling admission?”

Jeeny: “Maybe Nelson Mandela, when he spoke about his own anger after prison. Or Pope John Paul II, when he apologized for the Church’s role in the Inquisition. Or the truth commissions in South Africa — people facing their victims, confessing, crying, sometimes forgiven.”

Jack: “And yet the world keeps repeating the same sins.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe forgiveness isn’t about the world. Maybe it’s about the few who still try.”

Host: The light flickered, casting a brief shadow over Jack’s face. For a moment, the cynicism in him cracked, revealing a trace of sadness — a wound from his own past, perhaps, a betrayal that never received its apology.

Jack: “You think I’m cold, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I think you’re hurt. Somewhere, someone asked for your forgiveness, and you didn’t believe them.”

Jack: “No,” he whispered. “They never asked.”

Host: The silence that followed was almost sacred. The rain softened again, like a benediction. Jeeny reached across the table, her fingers resting lightly on his. Jack didn’t pull away.

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why you can’t believe in it. Because you never saw what it could heal.”

Jack: “And you? Have you ever had to forgive someone who didn’t deserve it?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And it didn’t make them innocent. But it made me free.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, not from weakness, but from the memory of the pain she had already turned into grace. Jack looked at her for a long moment, his breath shallow, his eyes softening.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the real meaning of Leahy’s words. Not that hierarchies should seek forgiveness because they can be forgiven — but because they must learn to be human again.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To admit wrong is to reclaim one’s humanity.”

Host: The clock ticked once more, louder now, as if time itself had shifted. The rain had stopped. The streets outside gleamed like new glass, every reflection sharper, every shadow cleaner.

Jeeny: “Forgiveness isn’t a weakness, Jack. It’s an act of strength — for both the one who asks and the one who gives.”

Jack: “And judgment?”

Jeeny: “That’s what keeps us honest. Forgiveness without judgment is blind. Judgment without forgiveness is cruel.”

Host: They both smiled, faintly — the kind of smile that carries the weight of understanding. Jack took a slow sip of his coffee, now cold, but somehow comforting.

Jack: “Maybe the world doesn’t need perfect hierarchies. Just imperfect ones that can say, ‘We were wrong.’”

Jeeny: “And people brave enough to listen.”

Host: Outside, the first light of morning began to break through the clouds, touching the pavement with thin threads of gold. The city exhaled — and for a moment, everything felt forgiven, or at least, willing to begin again.