If we may not remain silent about evil in the Church, then

Host:
The cathedral was almost empty. The evening service had ended an hour ago, but the air still carried the faint scent of incense and candle wax. The stained-glass windows glowed faintly from the streetlights outside — fractured light spilling over the pews like remnants of divine thought.

The organ’s low hum still lingered, a ghost of music suspended in the high arches. In the front row, Jack sat with his coat folded beside him, his hands clasped loosely, eyes fixed on the flickering votive candles. Jeeny walked softly down the aisle, her heels barely making a sound against the stone floor. She stopped beside him, her gaze following his — toward the altar, toward the trembling light.

Jeeny: “You’ve been sitting here a long time.”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Jeeny: “Looking for answers?”

Jack: “No. Just… looking.”

Jeeny: (gently) “You sound tired.”

Jack: “Maybe I am. It’s strange — I come here to find peace, but sometimes all I see is contradiction.”

(She sits beside him. The echo of her movement vanishes into the vast quiet.)

Jeeny: “Contradiction’s been part of faith since the beginning.”

Jack: “Pope Benedict once said, ‘If we may not remain silent about evil in the Church, then neither should we keep silent about the great shining path of goodness and purity which the Christian faith has traced out over the course of the centuries.’”

Jeeny: “A hard truth for both sides.”

Jack: “Exactly. Everyone wants the Church to be perfect — or corrupt. No one wants to see that it’s both human and holy.”

(The candle nearest to them flickers violently, a small reminder that even light trembles.)

Host:
The camera would move closer — the candles reflected in Jack’s eyes, two small, wavering stars. The weight of history hung between them: stained glass saints above, silent pews below, a thousand years of faith and failure pressing against the air.

Jeeny: “Do you think we should talk about the good when the bad still hurts so many?”

Jack: “I think we have to. Otherwise, we forget that light still exists.”

Jeeny: “But doesn’t that sound like justification?”

Jack: “No. It’s balance. Justice without mercy turns into vengeance. Faith without truth becomes theater.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a priest.”

Jack: “I sound like someone who’s still wrestling with belief.”

(She studies him — not with pity, but recognition. The kind that comes from fighting the same quiet war.)

Host:
A draft of wind drifted through the cathedral doors, causing a line of candles to flicker in unison. The faint sound of rustling pages — an old Bible left open on the lectern.

Jeeny: “You know, people always think faith is certainty.”

Jack: “It’s not?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s endurance. Certainty doesn’t need God. But endurance does.”

Jack: “So faith is survival?”

Jeeny: “It’s choosing to see goodness even when the world gives you every reason not to.”

(He looks at her, the shadows of the candles dancing across his face.)

Jack: “And what about the Church? When the institution becomes the wound?”

Jeeny: “Then we remember that the Church is people — broken ones, just like us. You don’t abandon the idea of medicine because a doctor fails.”

Jack: “But you hold them accountable.”

Jeeny: “Always. Truth doesn’t silence love. Love demands truth.”

(Her tone is soft, but her eyes — fierce. Faith, for her, isn’t blind. It’s blazing.)

Host:
The organ let out a faint sigh — a remnant of sound caught in the pipes. The light from the candles shifted across the stone floor, revealing the engravings of names long gone.

Jack: “You know, it’s easy to criticize religion when you only see its corruption. But when I hear a choir sing, or see an old nun teaching kids to read, I think — maybe this faith is bigger than the people who’ve failed it.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Benedict meant. Evil deserves exposure, but goodness deserves voice. The world needs both truths, or it loses perspective.”

Jack: “We’re living in a time that only knows outrage. Nobody wants nuance — just villains.”

Jeeny: “Because nuance doesn’t trend.”

(He laughs quietly — a hollow sound that still carries warmth.)

Jack: “So maybe silence isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s selective silence.”

Jeeny: “Yes. People shout about what they hate but whisper about what they love. Imagine if it were reversed.”

(She stands, walking slowly toward the altar. The hem of her coat brushes against the stone like a small storm.)

Host:
The camera would follow her, capturing her silhouette against the golden glow of the altar candles. Her voice, when she speaks, is calm — reverent but resolute.

Jeeny: “The Church has carried both saints and sinners through history. The mistake is thinking they ever walked separately. The truth is, holiness has always been found among the wounded.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe that’s what redemption really means — not the absence of sin, but the persistence of grace.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

(She turns back toward him, the candlelight haloing her face.)

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t pretending there’s no darkness. It’s choosing to light one more candle anyway.”

(He looks up at her — and for the first time that night, his eyes reflect hope instead of heaviness.)

Host:
The bells outside begin to toll — slow, resonant, echoing through stone and sky. Their sound rolls over the city like an invocation, ancient yet alive.

Host: Because Pope Benedict was right — we may not remain silent about evil in the Church,
but neither should we hide the light that still burns within it.

Host: For every act of harm, there are a thousand acts of healing —
quiet, unrecorded, unseen.
For every lie, there are prayers whispered in sincerity.
For every abuse, there are lives quietly lived in mercy.

Host: The Church — like humanity — is a paradox:
a sinner holding a candle.
A flawed vessel still somehow carrying the divine.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… maybe faith was never meant to be clean.”

Jack: “What do you mean?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s supposed to be messy — like love, like forgiveness. Maybe God’s light looks dim to us only because we’re always staring straight into the smoke.”

(She kneels briefly before the altar, crossing herself. Jack watches in silence, something stirring in him — not understanding, but surrender.)

Jack: “You still believe?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “I still hope. Belief changes. Hope survives.”

Host:
The camera widens, showing the cathedral bathed in the soft, golden tremor of candles. The two figures — one kneeling, one seated — surrounded by the long echo of faith itself.

Host: Because silence about evil is complicity.
But silence about goodness is betrayal.

The full truth demands both —
the courage to name what’s wrong,
and the reverence to defend what’s still right.

Host: In that tension,
faith endures — not pure, not perfect,
but alive.

(The final shot lingers on a single candle burning steady at the altar. The flame wavers, then steadies again — fragile, unyielding, eternal.)