I'm a minister, I preach forgiveness all the time.

Host: The night was heavy with rain, each drop a silver needle piercing the darkness. Inside a dimly lit church hall, a single candle flickered on a wooden table, casting trembling shadows across cracked walls. The air smelled faintly of wax and old prayers — of forgiveness left hanging in the air, unclaimed.

Jack sat slouched in a wooden pew, his hands clasped, his eyes fixed on the floorboards like he was trying to read something carved beneath them. Jeeny stood near the altar, her silhouette framed by the candle’s light, her face soft, but her eyes burning with quiet conviction.

The quote hung between them like a ghost from the pulpit:
“I’m a minister. I preach forgiveness all the time.” — Ted DiBiase Sr.

Jeeny: “He said it with such certainty. A man who’s seen both sin and redemption, who’s lived in both darkness and light. To preach forgiveness is to believe in the possibility of change, Jack. Isn’t that something holy?”

Jack: (gruffly) “Or something naïve. To preach forgiveness is easy when you’re the one behind the pulpit. But try offering it when someone’s torn your life apart — when the knife is still in your back.”

Host: Jack’s voice carried a low weight, like gravel dragged across stone. His eyes — gray, cold, but shimmering faintly with hurt — met Jeeny’s for only a moment before drifting again toward the floor.

Jeeny: “You think forgiveness is for the offender. But it’s not. It’s for the one who’s been wounded — to let go before the pain poisons everything left inside.”

Jack: “You sound like a sermon. But tell me, Jeeny — would you forgive a man who killed your child? A dictator who slaughtered thousands? The men who profited from war while people starved?”

Host: The rain outside quickened, beating against the windows like impatient fingers. The candlelight trembled, throwing fractured shadows on Jeeny’s face.

Jeeny: “History is full of those who tried, Jack. Nelson Mandela forgave the ones who imprisoned him for twenty-seven years. He said, ‘If I didn’t, I’d still be in prison, only inside myself.’”

Jack: “Mandela was an exception — not the rule. Most people drown in their own bitterness. And maybe they should. Maybe some things shouldn’t be forgiven. Maybe forgiveness lets evil off the hook.”

Host: His hands clenched unconsciously. The candle flame leaned toward him, its light trembling as though afraid.

Jeeny: “Forgiveness doesn’t erase justice, Jack. It frees you from vengeance. They’re not the same.”

Jack: “Easy to say when you’re not the one burned.”

Host: Silence fell, thick and absolute, like dust settling after a battle. Jeeny turned slightly, her eyes moist with unspoken memories.

Jeeny: “You think I haven’t been burned? My father left when I was twelve. He stole every cent my mother had. I spent years hating him. It ate through me like acid. One day I realized he didn’t feel it — I did. My hate didn’t punish him, it only destroyed me.”

Jack: “So you forgave him.”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Jack: “And did it change him?”

Jeeny: “No. But it changed me.”

Host: The storm outside roared louder, like some divine argument between heaven and earth. Jack’s jaw tightened. His heart, though armored, shifted uneasily beneath the iron of his logic.

Jack: “Then forgiveness is selfish. You do it for yourself, not for anyone else.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. But what’s wrong with that if it saves your soul?”

Host: The candlelight caught her face, illuminating every curve of her grief, every crease carved by memory. Jack looked at her, really looked, as if he was seeing the echo of something he’d lost long ago.

Jack: “You talk about souls as if they’re still real. I see people forgive, then get betrayed again. They call it ‘grace.’ I call it amnesia.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s courage. To forgive is to look pain in the eye and still say, ‘You don’t own me anymore.’”

Host: Her voice quivered, but it wasn’t weakness — it was the tremor of a soul refusing to break.

Jack: “What about consequences? Forgiveness without consequence is mercy without wisdom. Should we forgive tyrants, murderers, abusers, just to prove we’re pure?”

Jeeny: “No. But we must forgive to stop them from defining who we are. Justice is for the world. Forgiveness is for the heart.”

Host: The clock in the corner ticked — each sound a reminder of the passing moment, each second a quiet witness to their struggle.

Jack: “You’re asking people to believe in something that defies instinct. We are wired to survive, Jeeny, not to absolve.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why it’s divine — because it rises above what we’re wired for. Because it’s hard.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes tracing the ceiling — the old wood, the faint crossbeam of the rafters. The flame danced on the edge of the wick, like it too was wrestling with whether to endure or die.

Jack: “You know what I think forgiveness really is? A performance. A priest tells you to do it, you pretend to feel cleansed, and then you carry the same wound, just hidden better.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s pretending, not forgiving. Forgiveness doesn’t happen at the altar — it happens in the silence after, when no one’s watching.”

Host: Her words cut through him sharper than his own cynicism ever could. His eyes softened, and for a brief second, his breathing faltered.

Jack: “And what if the silence never comes? What if some wounds never close?”

Jeeny: “Then you live with them. But you don’t have to let them speak for you.”

Host: The rain began to slow. The thunder rolled farther away, dissolving into the night’s distance. The air was thick with that strange stillness that follows every storm — the world catching its breath.

Jack: “When Ted DiBiase said he preaches forgiveness all the time, I wonder if he meant it for himself. You can’t preach something forever unless you’re still learning it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The greatest teachers are the ones still wounded by their lessons. Maybe that’s why ministers talk of forgiveness — because they need it as much as anyone else.”

Host: The candle burned lower, its wax a small pool of exhausted light. Jack reached across the table, his hand brushing against hers — a hesitant gesture, uncertain but alive.

Jack: “Maybe forgiveness isn’t about letting someone off the hook. Maybe it’s just about dropping the rope before it hangs you both.”

Jeeny: “Yes… maybe forgiveness is just learning how to stop fighting ghosts.”

Host: The church seemed to breathe then — a soft exhale of peace, faint and fragile, yet undeniably present. The last raindrops tapped against the glass, like applause from the unseen heavens.

Jeeny smiled faintly, her eyes glistening. Jack’s expression softened — not into belief, but into understanding.

Jack: “You win tonight, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No. We both do.”

Host: The flame flickered one last time, then steadied — calm, unwavering. Outside, the clouds parted just enough for the moonlight to fall across the wooden cross on the wall, silver and serene.

The world, for a fleeting moment, felt forgiven.