My heart hath often been deeply afflicted under a feeling that

Host: The churchyard was nearly empty, the evening mist curling low around gravestones like silent smoke. A single lamp burned inside the old Quaker meeting house, its dim light spilling through a cracked windowpane onto the wet cobblestones outside. The world was quiet — the kind of quiet that presses against the chest, heavy and sacred.

Inside, two figures sat facing one another on the worn wooden benches. The air smelled faintly of wax, dust, and the kind of age that memory alone cannot touch.

Jack sat stiffly, his coat still damp from the rain, his grey eyes fixed on the floorboards. Across from him, Jeeny sat with her hands clasped, a small Bible resting in her lap. Her face, framed by long black hair, carried both gentleness and resolve — the look of someone who believed in goodness, even when goodness felt far away.

The old clock in the corner ticked — each second landing like a drop of rain on an empty roof.

Jeeny: “John Woolman once said — ‘My heart hath often been deeply afflicted under a feeling that the standard of pure righteousness is not lifted up to the people by us, as a society, in that clearness which it might have been, had we been as faithful as we ought to be to the teachings of Christ.’”

Jack: (quietly) “Righteousness.” (he exhales, the word heavy) “That word feels almost… extinct these days.”

Host: His voice carried the rough timbre of honesty, but also of weariness — the kind that comes from seeing too much of what the world chooses to ignore.

Jeeny: “Maybe it isn’t extinct. Maybe it’s just buried. People forget to dig.”

Jack: “Or maybe we stopped wanting to find it. Righteousness doesn’t pay bills. It doesn’t trend. It doesn’t win elections.”

Jeeny: “That’s because we’ve mistaken noise for moral clarity. Woolman saw that even in his time — he saw people preach goodness, but live convenience. He saw the difference between speaking of Christ and living Christ.”

Jack: (grimly) “And nothing’s changed in two hundred years.”

Host: The rain began again — soft, deliberate, as if each drop was echoing their words. Jeeny’s eyes drifted toward the flickering lamp. Its small, trembling flame seemed almost symbolic — faith, fragile but persistent.

Jeeny: “You think the world’s lost, don’t you?”

Jack: “I think it’s worse — I think it’s indifferent. People use the word ‘good’ like it’s a prop. Even in churches, in politics, in business. Everything’s righteousness until it costs something. Then it becomes negotiation.”

Jeeny: “But righteousness isn’t comfort. It’s sacrifice. Woolman knew that. He refused to wear dyed clothes because they were made by slaves. He gave up luxury because it was born of injustice. He didn’t preach purity — he practiced it.”

Jack: “And he died poor.”

Jeeny: “And lived true.”

Host: The silence that followed was long and heavy. The flame inside the lamp wavered, casting shadows on their faces like ripples across water.

Jack: “You really believe we can live like that now? Purely? Faithfully? When the whole system is built on compromise?”

Jeeny: “We may not fix the world, Jack, but we can refuse to become it. Every compromise we make out of convenience — every small silence when truth should be spoken — that’s what Woolman was mourning. Not sin, but the comfort of it.”

Jack: (bitterly) “Easy to say when you’re not standing in the fire.”

Jeeny: “We’re all standing in it. The question is whether we let it refine us or consume us.”

Host: The wind outside howled, bending the trees, shaking loose a few dry leaves that fluttered against the window. The sound was raw and human — like the world itself crying out for something lost.

Jack: “Do you really think Christ would recognize us now? Any of us? The way we live, the way we speak of righteousness while living on greed and comfort?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But He would still forgive us. That’s the part we forget — righteousness isn’t a performance. It’s a direction. It’s falling, and choosing to rise toward light again.”

Jack: “And what if the light keeps moving?”

Jeeny: “Then we keep walking.”

Host: The words hung there, quiet but fierce, cutting through the dimness like a small torch in fog. Jack shifted, his hands clasping the edge of the bench — not in frustration this time, but in contemplation.

Jack: “You ever feel like the more you try to live rightly, the lonelier it gets?”

Jeeny: “Yes. All the time. But loneliness in truth is better than belonging in hypocrisy.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “You sound like a martyr.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I just sound like someone who’s tired of pretending that compromise is wisdom.”

Host: The lamp sputtered, its flame shrinking, then flaring back to life. The old wooden walls seemed to breathe — their cracks filled with a century’s worth of whispered prayers.

Jack: “I envy your faith.”

Jeeny: “It’s not faith that I have — it’s stubborn hope. The kind Woolman had. The kind that refuses to believe goodness has lost its place, even when it’s invisible.”

Jack: “Hope can be a cruel teacher.”

Jeeny: “So can truth.”

Host: Outside, a distant bell rang — slow, deliberate, marking the hour. It echoed through the valley, reminding them that time was still passing, even in places where eternity felt close.

Jack: “You know what I think Woolman feared most?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “That one day, faith would become aesthetics. That people would sing the hymns, build the churches, quote the verses — but forget to live them. That righteousness would become a brand.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that day’s already here.”

Jack: “Yeah. And maybe that’s why we sit here — trying to remember what real light feels like.”

Host: Jeeny’s hand reached across the table, brushing lightly against Jack’s. There was no sermon in it, only quiet recognition — two souls aware of their frailty, and yet still reaching toward something higher.

Jeeny: “It’s not too late, you know. To lift the standard again.”

Jack: (softly) “You think we can?”

Jeeny: “If we live it. If we stop waiting for society to carry it and start carrying it ourselves. Every act of kindness. Every truth told. Every wrong refused — that’s the banner Woolman spoke of.”

Host: The rain eased, turning to a faint drizzle that glittered against the lamp’s light. Outside, the world seemed freshly washed, as though heaven itself had leaned close enough to listen.

Jack: “And if no one notices?”

Jeeny: “Then righteousness will notice. That’s enough.”

Host: The flame steadied, brightening the room with new resolve. Jack’s eyes softened, his skepticism bending toward a quiet reverence.

Jack: “You make faith sound like rebellion.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe it is. The holiest kind.”

Host: Beyond the window, dawn began to break, painting the mist with faint streaks of gold and rose. The first light touched the old wooden cross on the wall, and for a moment, it gleamed as though alive.

Jack and Jeeny sat in silence — not as believers and doubters, but as two human hearts still learning to lift the banner Woolman once mourned.

The light grew, the lamp flickered out, and the world — just for a breath — seemed to whisper with them:
that righteousness, though buried by time and comfort,
still waits quietly in the corners of conscience,
asking only one thing —
to be lived.