It is not fit the public trusts should be lodged in the hands of

Host: The night hung heavy over the city, a velvet cloak of rain and neon. Cars hissed down wet streets, their headlights slicing through mist like tired swords. Inside a small café tucked between two dark buildings, the air was thick with the smell of coffee and rain-soaked coats. A dim lamp hung low, casting amber light over a wooden table where two silhouettes sat — Jack, his coat draped over the chair, and Jeeny, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup as if drawing warmth from it.

Host: The clock ticked slowly, every second echoing like a heartbeat. Outside, a sirens' cry faded into the distance, and the city exhaled. The moment felt suspended, fragile, waiting for the words that would break its silence.

Jeeny: “Matthew Henry once said, ‘It is not fit the public trusts should be lodged in the hands of any, till they are first proved and found fit for the business they are to be entrusted with.’”
She lifted her eyes, the reflected light from the window flickering in them. “Don’t you think that’s what our world has forgotten, Jack? The idea that power must be earned, not merely taken?”

Jack: He leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight, fingers tapping on the tabletop. “Earned? In what world, Jeeny? You think the people who rise to power today do it by being the most fit? No. They climb because they know the system, not because they deserve it.”

Host: A shadow passed across Jack’s face as the light from a passing car cut through the window, illuminating his grey eyes — cold, clear, and tired.

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly the problem,” she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of sorrow. “We’ve accepted the corrupt as normal. We’ve forgotten that trust is a sacred thing — not a transaction, not a favor, not a game.”

Jack: “Sacred?” He smirked, but it wasn’t unkind. “You make it sound like politics should be a religion.”

Jeeny: “No,” she replied, her tone sharpening, “I’m saying it should be a responsibility. When a doctor is trained, he’s tested before he touches a life. When an engineer builds, their work is reviewed before it’s trusted with a bridge. But when it comes to public trust, we just hand it to whoever promises the most, whoever shouts the loudest.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, drumming against the windows like restless fingers. Steam from their cups rose, curling into the air, blurring the edges of their faces.

Jack: “You’re talking about idealism. It’s a nice dream — people being tested for honesty and integrity before they’re elected. But who does the testing, Jeeny? Who decides who’s ‘fit’? Every judge has a bias, every system gets corrupted. Even the good ones fall.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point, Jack?” she leaned forward, her voice trembling with conviction. “That we should at least try? That we shouldn’t surrender to cynicism? Look at history — when people stopped demanding accountability, tyrants rose. Rome, Weimar Germany, even our own modern democracies — they crumble not from enemies, but from inside, when the unfit are trusted too easily.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked out the window, watching the reflection of a passing bus wash across the glass, its lights distorted by raindrops. His silence was the pause before a storm.

Jack: “You know what else history shows, Jeeny? That the so-called qualified can destroy just as much. Think of the financial crises — the most trained, tested, educated people on Wall Street, and they nearly burned the world down. Fit for the job, right? Every qualification, every degree — and still millions suffered.”

Jeeny: “Because they were never tested for character,” she shot back, her eyes burning. “Only for skill. That’s the difference. Matthew Henry wasn’t talking about competence — he meant fitness of soul, of motive, of heart.”

Host: The tension between them thickened, a silence that hummed like a wire. The rain was now a veil, hiding the outside world, trapping them in a small universe of thought and emotion.

Jack: “Heart doesn’t keep a nation running. Systems do. Checks, balances, data, laws. If we rely on heart, we get chaos. Everyone feels they’re right.”

Jeeny: “And yet,” she said quietly, “without heart, we get machines. Cold systems, efficient but soulless, where people become numbers, votes, statistics.”

Host: Her voice softened, but the weight of her words lingered, like embers in the air. Jack’s fingers stilled. For a moment, the storm outside and the storm between them matched rhythm.

Jack: “So what do you propose? Some kind of moral tribunal? Before anyone takes office, they sit before a council of virtue? It’s not realistic, Jeeny. People lie, they pretend, they mask their greed with smiles.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the solution isn’t in systems, but in culture,” she said. “In raising a generation that values integrity more than ambition. It starts before the election, before the position — in how we teach, how we judge, how we honor.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window. The lamp above them flickered, casting shadows that moved like ghosts across their faces.

Jack: “You sound like a teacher in a world that’s already dropped out of class,” he said, but his voice had softened. “You’re right about one thing — the rot starts early. But so does the hunger for power. And no lesson can cure that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not,” she whispered, “but we can choose who we feed. Society keeps rewarding the hungry wolves, not the faithful shepherds. Until that changes, every public trust will be betrayed, again and again.”

Host: The café door creaked as someone entered, bringing in a gust of cold air and the smell of wet pavement. For a moment, the noise of footsteps and rain filled the space, dulling their voices. Then it faded, leaving only the two of them, and the question that hung between them like a weight.

Jack: “You think there’s still hope, don’t you?” he asked, his voice quieter now. “That somehow, after all the lies, all the failures, we’ll still find people who deserve trust.”

Jeeny: She looked at him for a long moment, then smiled, faint but luminous. “I don’t think, Jack. I believe. Because if we stop believing, we stop trying. And if we stop trying, then we’ve already lost.”

Host: Her words settled over the table like a gentle snowfall, quiet, but changing everything they touched. Jack’s eyes lowered, his thumb tracing the edge of his cup. His expression was not of defeat, but of reflection — as if some cracked window inside him had opened, letting in a bit of light.

Jack: “Maybe the test isn’t for them,” he said finally, meeting her eyes. “Maybe it’s for us — the people who choose, who vote, who look away when we shouldn’t. Maybe we’re the ones who need to be proved fit for the trust we’re giving.”

Jeeny: Her smile widened, tenderly, and a tear glimmered in the light. “That’s what I’ve been saying all along, Jack. It’s not about them. It’s about us.”

Host: The rain began to slow, each drop more gentle than the last. The neon signs outside blurred into puddles of color, like melting stars. The lamp burned steady again, its light spilling across their faces, softening the lines of anger and doubt.

Host: In the quiet, two people sat across a table, divided by belief, united by truth — that trust, like faith, must be earned not by power, but by character. And as the night lifted, so did the weight of their words, leaving behind only the sound of a city still breathing, still hoping, still trying to be fit for its own promises.