Let judges secretly despair of justice: their verdicts will be

Host: The cathedral was empty, its air thick with dust and echo, the kind of silence that still hums with the residue of prayer. Candles trembled along the stone walls, their flames whispering like frail hearts refusing to go out. The stained-glass windows threw colored light across the pews — red for sin, blue for mercy, gold for what’s left of belief.

At the far end of the nave, Jack sat on the altar steps, coat draped over his shoulders, head bowed, a man caught between confession and fatigue. Across from him, Jeeny stood near the last row, tracing a hand over the smooth wood of a pew, her reflection fractured by the jeweled light. The air carried the faint scent of wax, stone, and history’s breath.

Jeeny: “Leonard Cohen once wrote, ‘Let judges secretly despair of justice: their verdicts will be more acute. Let generals secretly despair of triumph; killing will be defamed. Let priests secretly despair of faith: their compassion will be true.’”
Her voice echoed softly, suspended in the stillness. “It’s one of those truths that hurts because it’s too honest. He’s saying we only become moral when we stop pretending we’re pure.”

Jack: “Or when we admit we’re failures at what we claim to serve.”
He looked up, his eyes catching the flicker of the nearest candle. “Despair makes people dangerous — but it also makes them honest. That’s the paradox Cohen’s talking about.”

Jeeny: “It’s the despair that strips away illusion.”

Jack: “Exactly. Once you despair of perfection, you can finally act with sincerity.”

Jeeny: “So, he’s not condemning despair — he’s sanctifying it.”

Jack: “Yes. Because only when you stop believing in your own righteousness do you start serving what’s real.”

Host: The light shifted, a cloud passing over the sun outside. Shadows lengthened across the stone floor, like thoughts darkening with understanding. Somewhere high in the rafters, a single drop of water fell, echoing like a heartbeat in the great hollow space.

Jeeny: “It’s dangerous, though, to say that despair makes us better. Most people fear despair because they think it means surrender.”

Jack: “But despair isn’t surrender — it’s clarity. When judges despair of justice, they stop serving ideology and start serving people.”

Jeeny: “And when priests despair of faith, they finally understand mercy.”

Jack: “Because compassion born of certainty is condescension. Compassion born of doubt is grace.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful. And terrifying.”

Jack: “All truth is both.”

Host: A ray of light pierced through the stained glass, landing directly on the altar — illuminating a small crucifix of tarnished gold. The face of Christ was half in shadow, half in firelight — a perfect metaphor, if anyone dared to look closely enough.

Jeeny: “Do you think Cohen meant that despair redeems us?”

Jack: “Not redeems. Refines.”
He stood, his boots echoing against the stone. “Despair isn’t the opposite of faith. It’s faith without illusion. It’s what’s left after belief burns away.”

Jeeny: “Then despair is divine honesty.”

Jack: “Exactly. It’s the moment when you stop saying I understand and start saying I don’t — but I’ll love anyway.”

Jeeny: “So faith purified by failure.”

Jack: “And justice purified by doubt.”

Jeeny: “And power purified by guilt.”

Jack: “That’s the world Cohen wanted — one where humility replaces conviction.”

Host: The candles flickered harder, a sudden gust sneaking through the high windows. The flames bent but did not die, trembling like conscience.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? He’s asking judges, generals, priests — all the guardians of our institutions — to lose faith in their own myths.”

Jack: “Because only then can they stop worshiping their roles and start serving their purpose.”

Jeeny: “When a judge believes too much in justice, he becomes cruel. When a general believes too much in victory, he becomes a murderer. When a priest believes too much in heaven, he forgets the suffering in front of him.”

Jack: “Exactly. Certainty blinds compassion. Despair reopens the eyes.”

Jeeny: “Then despair isn’t darkness — it’s unfiltered light.”

Jack: “The kind that hurts to see.”

Jeeny: “And yet we call it hopelessness.”

Jack: “Because hope without humility feels safer.”

Host: A choir of wind passed through the cracked doors, carrying the faint hum of the city outside — life going on, unaware that two souls inside were dissecting divinity itself.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? Despair humanizes holiness. A priest who doubts God is closer to God than one who never questions Him.”

Jack: “Because doubt is dialogue.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And compassion without doubt becomes arrogance.”

Jack: “Same with justice. Once a judge despairs of pure justice, he stops sentencing people and starts seeing them.”

Jeeny: “And when a general despairs of triumph, he stops seeing war as strategy and starts seeing it as tragedy.”

Jack: “That’s what Cohen meant. Despair doesn’t end morality — it resurrects it.”

Host: The light returned, spilling gold across the altar, turning the cracks in the stone into rivers of brightness. For a moment, even despair looked like illumination.

Jeeny: “But why does it take despair to awaken compassion? Why can’t faith alone do that?”

Jack: “Because faith without despair is untested. It’s too clean. It doesn’t bleed.”

Jeeny: “You think God needs us to bleed?”

Jack: “No. I think He needs us to understand what it means to hurt — so that our mercy has weight.”

Jeeny: “So despair becomes the crucible of empathy.”

Jack: “Exactly. That’s why Cohen was never cynical. He saw despair as a teacher, not a void.”

Jeeny: “Because only those who’ve stood at the edge of meaninglessness can recognize meaning when it returns.”

Jack: “And when it returns, it’s no longer naive — it’s sacred.”

Host: The church bells rang distantly — a slow, weary sound. Each toll felt like time itself remembering something it had tried to forget.

Jeeny: “Then maybe the true priest isn’t the one who believes without question — it’s the one who still blesses while doubting.”

Jack: “The true judge isn’t the one who punishes perfectly, but the one who hesitates.”

Jeeny: “And the true general isn’t the one who wins, but the one who regrets.”

Jack: “Yes.”
He smiled faintly, almost sadly. “Cohen saw humanity’s salvation in imperfection. He knew that despair humbles the ego — and humility is the seed of every virtue.”

Jeeny: “Because despair empties us — and only the empty can be filled with mercy.”

Jack: “And with truth.”

Jeeny: “And with love.”

Host: The candles burned lower, their flames now small but unwavering. The church seemed to breathe, the air vibrating faintly — as though the stones themselves agreed.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s why Cohen’s work always feels sacred — not because it worships, but because it doubts reverently.”

Jeeny: “And because it forgives failure. Even God’s.”

Jack: “Especially God’s.”

Jeeny: “That’s the secret. He wasn’t a blasphemer. He was a believer who dared to tell the truth about belief.”

Jack: “Which makes him holier than most who kneel.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because he knelt knowing the floor was empty — and still called it sacred.”

Host: The light dimmed, leaving the church bathed in quiet. The candles shimmered, the last ones fighting the dark. Jeeny walked slowly toward the altar, her hand brushing the edge of the wooden cross. Jack stood behind her, his shadow merging with hers in the soft gold glow.

And in that silence — where even faith dared not speak — Leonard Cohen’s words hung like scripture unspoken:

that despair, when honest, is not the enemy of faith but its foundation;
that the failure of justice births empathy,
the loss of victory births peace,
and the collapse of belief births compassion.

To despair secretly is to serve truth silently.
To serve truth silently is to become kind.

The candles burned out one by one,
and the last light left in the church
wasn’t from wax or flame —
but from understanding.

And in that final stillness,
the sacred and the broken
were the same thing,
and both were beautiful.