Men have always shown a dim knowledge of their better

Host:
The cathedral was empty, except for the low hum of rain sliding down its stained-glass windows. The candles, tall and thin, flickered like small souls resisting darkness, each flame whispering to the next: Hold steady.

In the center of the aisle, beneath a crucifix veiled in shadow, Jack stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his gray eyes distant, his jaw clenched with the quiet ache of one who has long sought faith in a world that trades it for convenience.

From the side, Jeeny entered, her steps soft, her face lit by the flame of a single candle she carried. Its light trembled across the marble floor, a small defiance against the immensity of stone and doubt.

Outside, thunder rolled — not loud, but deep, like a memory speaking.

Jeeny: softly, reverently “Erik Erikson once said, ‘Men have always shown a dim knowledge of their better potentialities by paying homage to those purest leaders who taught the simplest and most inclusive rules for an undivided mankind.’”

She set the candle down, its light reflected in her dark eyes. “Do you hear that, Jack? A dim knowledge of their better potentialities. He didn’t say ignorance. He said dim knowledge — meaning we’ve always known what we could be… but we keep turning away.”

Jack: quietly “Maybe we turn away because the light burns, Jeeny. Every time someone has come with simple truths — love your neighbor, forgive your enemy, see all as one — the world crucifies them before it listens.”

Jeeny: steps closer “And yet, it keeps building temples to them afterward. Isn’t that the paradox? We destroy the purest leaders, then we worship their ghosts.”

Jack: bitterly “Because ghosts don’t challenge us. They can’t change the tax code, or stand in a protest, or look us in the eye and say, ‘You’re living beneath your potential.’ It’s easier to pray to them than to become like them.”

Host:
The rain outside softened, melancholy turning melodic, drops tapping on the glass like the slow beat of conscience. The candles swayed, their flames leaning toward Jeeny — as though drawn by the conviction in her voice.

Jeeny: gently “But that’s what Erikson meant, Jack. The fact that we pay homage means the light is still alive in us. Even if dim, it’s still there. Humanity keeps bowing before the idea of goodness — not out of guilt, but out of remembrance. Deep down, we know our nature isn’t cruel — it’s confused.”

Jack: half-smiles, rueful “Confused? That’s a kind word. I’d call it corrupted. Look around — the world runs on division: race, class, nation, profit. And yet, every time someone dares to preach unity, they’re called naïve.”

Jeeny: her tone soft but firm “Naïve, maybe. But necessary. The purest leaders weren’t trying to rule, Jack. They were trying to remind us — that all these differences are shadows cast by the same flame. That humanity isn’t about sides, it’s about sight.”

Jack: turns toward her, eyes narrowing slightly “And you think people can still see? That they can still tell the difference between a prophet and a politician?”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “They can — when they’re willing to look past the podium and into the intent. The purest leaders don’t command; they call. They speak not to the crowd’s anger, but to the crowd’s capacity.”

Host:
A flash of lightning illuminated the cathedral’s high ceiling, revealing centuries of dust and devotion, both clinging to the same beams. The light lingered, just long enough for them to see their reflections in the waxed marble — two small figures, dwarfed by faith and history.

Jack: after a long silence “You know what I fear, Jeeny? That we’ve become addicted to the idea of leadership — but not the responsibility of it. We want saviors, not examples. We don’t want to change — we want someone to change it for us.”

Jeeny: quietly, with feeling “That’s the sickness of power, Jack — not just for those who hold it, but for those who give it away. We forget that the leaders we honor — the pure ones — were ordinary souls once. No crown, no divine title. Just people who refused to let fear make them smaller.”

Jack: his tone softens “And yet, the world needs leaders. The moment there’s no one to follow, chaos fills the void.”

Jeeny: nods slowly “True. But maybe the world doesn’t need fewer followers — it needs more awake ones. The ones who understand that every leader worth honoring was simply the first person brave enough to live what others only believed.”

Jack: half-smiles, with quiet awe “You sound like you’ve already forgiven us — for all the idols we built and the truths we buried.”

Jeeny: softly “Forgiveness isn’t the point. Recognition is. To look at history — all its wars, its ruins, its candles — and still say, ‘We knew better. We just didn’t try hard enough to be better.’ That’s what Erikson was holding up — the mirror we keep avoiding.”

Host:
The candles flickered, one flame faltering, then catching itself again. The air was full of quiet — the kind that comes after confession, when words no longer reach, but meaning still lingers.

Jack: quietly “You really think there’s hope left in that dim light?”

Jeeny: nods slowly, eyes glistening “Yes. Because even when humanity stumbles, it stumbles toward the light. Every generation rediscovers what the last one forgot — that power without purity is noise, but purity without courage is silence.”

Jack: looks toward the altar, his voice low “And maybe leadership is what happens in the space between those two.”

Jeeny: smiles “Yes. The space where a voice becomes a vision — and a vision becomes a vow.”

Jack: turns toward her, his tone almost a whisper “And what vow would you make, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: meeting his gaze “To keep believing in the better potentialities of humankind — even when the world insists on its worst. To hold the candle steady, even when the wind calls it foolish.”

Host:
The storm outside quieted, leaving the steady drip of rain through the gutter like a metronome of grace. The candles burned lower, but their light merged into a single glow, soft and whole — no longer competing, but coexisting.

Jack stood beside Jeeny, and for a long moment, they said nothing. The silence between them was not emptiness — it was understanding, the kind that needed no applause, no proof, just presence.

And in that stillness, Erik Erikson’s words seemed to echo through the arches, carried by time and thunder alike —

that even in our dim knowledge,
we still recognize the better angels of ourselves;

that every act of homage to purity
is the soul’s way of remembering what it might yet become;

and that genuine leadership,
the kind that binds rather than breaks,
is not built on power,
but on the simple, inclusive rules
of compassion, courage,
and the unshakeable belief
that mankind, however divided,
was always meant to be one.