Is it not hard that even those who are with us should be against

Host: The rain had stopped, leaving the city wrapped in a quiet mist that glowed under the trembling neon. The café was almost empty — a late-hour refuge for the restless and the broken. A faint jazz melody drifted from an old radio, cracked and faded like a memory refusing to die. Jack sat in the far corner, a half-empty cup of black coffee before him, fingers tapping absently against the wood. Jeeny sat across from him, her coat still damp, her eyes reflecting the dim light with the softness of something weary but still willing to believe.

Jack: “You ever notice how people preach about loyalty, but the knives always come from the ones closest to you?”

Jeeny: “You’re quoting Wesley now?”

Host: Her voice was gentle, but there was a faint smile — not of humor, but of recognition, as though she had carried that same pain once before.

Jack: “Yeah. ‘Is it not hard that even those who are with us should be against us.’ He knew what he was talking about. It’s not your enemies that destroy you, it’s your own kind. The ones who nod when you speak, then tear you down when you turn away.”

Jeeny: “He wasn’t talking about betrayal, Jack. He was talking about division — about how people who believe in the same light can still fight over how to follow it.”

Jack: “That’s betrayal dressed up as philosophy. Call it what you want — division, doctrine, politics — it’s still people turning on each other. You’d think shared faith, shared purpose, would mean something. But no. You bleed with them, and they still find a way to question your wounds.”

Host: The lamp above them buzzed faintly, the light flickering in rhythm with Jack’s frustration. Outside, the pavement gleamed — a mirror for the streetlights, each one trembling, uncertain, like human conviction itself.

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

Jack: “Haven’t you?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But I don’t think being hurt by your own means they were never with you. Sometimes it’s just… different paths to the same mountain.”

Jack: “That’s too kind, Jeeny. Some people don’t want the mountain at all. They just want to make sure no one else reaches the top before they do.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s pride that poisons the faith, not the faith itself. Wesley saw it. He knew even people of the same belief could turn against one another — not because they hated truth, but because they loved it differently.”

Host: A pause fell between them — the kind that feels like a breath the world forgets to take. The steam from Jeeny’s cup rose like a small ghost, curling and vanishing into the still air.

Jack: “Different ways of loving truth, huh? Tell that to Galileo when the Church put him under house arrest. Same faith, different love of truth — and they broke him for it.”

Jeeny: “And yet, his truth endured. The Church came to accept what it once feared. That’s the strange mercy of time — it forgives through evolution.”

Jack: “Or it just forgets.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. But even forgetting is a kind of healing, Jack. You can’t carry every wound forever. Not every betrayal deserves a monument.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his chair creaking under the slow shift of his weight. His eyes, gray and cold, flickered for a moment with something softer — not forgiveness, but fatigue.

Jack: “You ever fight for something, Jeeny — a cause, a belief — and find the people beside you start doubting your motives? That’s what kills you. Not the enemy’s hate. The friend’s doubt.”

Jeeny: “Yes. I’ve felt that. In faith, in love, even in work. But doubt isn’t always betrayal. Sometimes it’s just the other person’s way of saying, ‘I’m scared too.’”

Jack: “That’s a poetic excuse for hypocrisy.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s human weakness. Wesley was mourning that weakness — not condemning it. He saw that even people bound by the same light can cast shadows on each other. It’s what happens when conviction outgrows compassion.”

Host: Her words lingered like the faint ring of a bell after the sound fades. The room felt smaller now, the air thicker, filled with invisible memories neither of them had spoken aloud.

Jack: “Conviction without compassion. Yeah. That’s every revolution that eats its own children.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Think of the French Revolution. They began with liberty, equality, brotherhood — and ended with guillotines. They all believed in justice, but they couldn’t forgive the differences in their belief.”

Jack: “And so faith became fear, and fear became blood.”

Jeeny: “That’s what happens when you forget that the person standing beside you isn’t your mirror — they’re your reflection in another direction.”

Host: The rain began again, gentle this time, like an echo returning home. Jack stared at the window, the droplets catching the light like scattered stars.

Jack: “So what are we supposed to do? Pretend unity where there isn’t any? Smile through the knives?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe learn to hold space for the knives — to see them not just as weapons, but as tools. Sometimes disagreement carves truth out of stone. Wesley wasn’t lamenting the end of faith — he was reminding us that true faith survives even when the house divides.”

Jack: “You talk like faith is invincible.”

Jeeny: “Not invincible. Just stubborn. Like love. It keeps showing up, even when it shouldn’t.”

Host: A faint laugh escaped Jack’s lips, unguarded and a little sad. He rubbed his temple, staring down at the cooling coffee as though answers might be hiding in its dark surface.

Jack: “You always manage to turn pain into poetry, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Maybe because pain and poetry share the same root — longing.”

Jack: “And longing is the one thing everyone understands, even when they hate each other.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Wesley’s words — they’re not despair, Jack. They’re recognition. He’s saying, ‘Yes, it hurts that even your own can wound you.’ But he’s also saying, ‘Yet so it is.’ Acceptance. Not surrender — acceptance.”

Host: The wind outside carried a faint howl, brushing through the narrow street like a ghost. The sign above the café door swayed on its rusted chain, creaking with the memory of countless nights like this one — filled with quiet wars of the spirit.

Jack: “You think he found peace in that acceptance?”

Jeeny: “I think he found clarity. That to walk with others in faith is to accept their flaws as your own — to love them even when they wound you.”

Jack: “That’s a hard doctrine.”

Jeeny: “The hardest. But it’s the only one that keeps faith human.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The café owner turned off one of the lights, and a soft darkness filled the corners of the room, leaving only the faint glow of the streetlamp filtering through the glass.

Jack: “So, Jeeny… what do you do when the ones you trusted turn against you?”

Jeeny: “You grieve. You let the ache breathe. And then, you forgive — not because they deserve it, but because you do.”

Jack: “Forgive?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Otherwise, their wound becomes your faith.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but it trembled at the edges, like the last note of a song that refuses to fade. Jack’s eyes lifted to hers, gray meeting brown, disbelief meeting faith — and somewhere in between, something like understanding.

Jack: “Maybe Wesley wasn’t mourning division. Maybe he was warning us not to lose love in the fight for truth.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because once love is gone, the same household of faith becomes just a house.”

Host: The rain eased, the clouds thinning, and a thin ray of moonlight fell through the window, resting softly across their faces. The radio hissed quietly, the music fading into static, then into silence.

And in that stillness — among the half-drunk cups, the flickering light, and the fragile hum of forgiveness — two weary souls found something that felt like peace.

Not agreement. Not victory.
Just the quiet, stubborn faith that even among those who wound us — we are not alone.