Nothing is more generally known than our duties which belong to

Host: The morning was gray, soft fog clinging to the rooftops of the old town like unspoken regret. A church bell tolled in the distance, its sound rolling through the air like the echo of a forgotten promise. Inside a small diner by the harbor, the smell of coffee mingled with the salt from the sea. Jack sat by the window, his hands clasped around a chipped cup, staring out at the mist-covered boats. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea, her eyes calm but burning with quiet conviction.

Jeeny: “George Whitefield once said, ‘Nothing is more generally known than our duties which belong to Christianity; and yet, how amazing is it, nothing is less practiced?’”

Jack: “Yeah, I’ve heard that one. Kind of sums up humanity, doesn’t it? We know what’s right — we just never do it.”

Host: The light through the window flickered, dancing across their faces like the tremor of an old truth trying to find its place again. Jack’s voice was sharp, detached, the kind that cut through illusions without mercy.

Jeeny: “But don’t you find that tragic, Jack? To know goodness and ignore it — that’s worse than ignorance. It’s hypocrisy.”

Jack: “Hypocrisy’s the glue that holds society together. Everyone preaches one thing and practices another — that’s balance. It’s how the world functions. If every person lived exactly by the virtues they claim to believe in, civilization would collapse under its own purity.”

Jeeny: “That’s cynical even for you. Are you saying morality is just decoration now?”

Jack: “I’m saying it’s theater. People perform goodness because it’s expected, not because it’s natural. Look around — politicians quoting scripture while they lie on camera, priests caught in scandals, charities pocketing donations. Everyone knows the duty — ‘love thy neighbor,’ ‘do unto others’ — and yet the streets are full of the hungry, the lonely, the unseen.”

Host: The rain began again, tapping softly on the glass. The sound was patient, like a question that refused to fade. Jeeny’s eyes lifted from her tea, her voice softer, but steadier.

Jeeny: “But Jack, isn’t that the point Whitefield was making? That we’ve turned faith into habit — words without action. Maybe people know their duties, but they’ve forgotten the heart behind them.”

Jack: “Or maybe there never was a heart behind them. Religion’s just old moral software. Useful once, outdated now. People say ‘forgive your enemies,’ then cheer when their rivals fall. They say ‘blessed are the poor,’ then scroll past them on the sidewalk. It’s not faith, Jeeny — it’s branding.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Faith isn’t branding. People fail, yes, but that doesn’t make the ideal false. If anything, it proves how much we still need it. The fact that we fall short doesn’t mean the mountain isn’t worth climbing.”

Host: A truck rumbled past outside, splashing through the puddles. Jack’s reflection wavered in the window, blurred by the rain, his features dissolving into something almost ghostly — the shape of a man unsure of what he still believed.

Jack: “Then why do we pretend to climb? Why go to church, pray, confess, sing hymns — if the world stays just as cruel after Sunday?”

Jeeny: “Because the act of trying matters. Faith isn’t about arriving at perfection; it’s about refusing to stop walking. Do you remember that old man on Main Street — the one who fixes shoes for free for people who can’t pay? He doesn’t preach. He doesn’t talk about God. But he lives it. Quietly. That’s the kind of Christianity Whitefield was talking about — the one you do, not the one you advertise.”

Jack: “That’s not religion. That’s decency. You don’t need God for that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it’s strange, isn’t it, that most of the values we call ‘decent’ — compassion, forgiveness, humility — were carried forward by the faith you dismiss? Maybe God is less about belief and more about memory — a way to remind us of the better parts of ourselves.”

Host: A moment of stillness. The fog outside began to lift, revealing the sea, pale and endless. Jack leaned back, his eyes narrowing, the skeptic inside him wrestling with something fragile.

Jack: “If we really remembered those parts, Jeeny, we wouldn’t need reminders. But look at history. Look at the Crusades, the Inquisition, wars waged in the name of peace. Every century, someone holds a cross and swings a sword.”

Jeeny: “Yes, Jack. And every century, someone else holds the same cross and kneels beside the dying, feeding them, healing them, forgiving them. You can’t use the shadows to disprove the light. Both exist.”

Host: Jeeny’s words hung in the air like incense — soft, fragrant, unshakable. Jack sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, as if her faith were a weight pressing gently against his reason.

Jack: “You really believe people can change? That knowing what’s right can eventually lead us to do what’s right?”

Jeeny: “I believe people already know what’s right. They just forget it under the noise — the greed, the fear, the rush. But when something cracks them open — grief, love, loss — they remember. Even you, Jack. You’d help a stranger if they fell in front of you, wouldn’t you?”

Jack: “…Maybe. Depends on the day.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It depends on the day, but it’s still there. That’s what Whitefield meant. The knowledge of goodness never leaves us. We just neglect to practice it.”

Host: The rain eased into a drizzle, a soft rhythm like the slowing of a restless heart. Jack’s eyes softened; for the first time that morning, he smiled — not out of joy, but recognition.

Jack: “You make it sound like there’s hope.”

Jeeny: “There always is. Not in the sermons, not in the institutions, but in the smallest choices. When someone forgives. When someone shares. When someone stays kind even when it’s hard. That’s faith practiced, not preached.”

Jack: “Maybe I envy people like that. They seem… lighter.”

Jeeny: “They are. Because they carry less contradiction. When what you believe and what you do finally match, you stop fighting yourself.”

Host: The sun broke through the fog, a pale beam cutting across the table, illuminating their faces. The steam from their cups curled upward like faint prayers, fragile but real. The harbor outside shimmered, every wave catching the new light.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe the hardest duty of all isn’t loving others. Maybe it’s believing we’re still capable of it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beginning of faith, Jack — not believing in God, but in goodness. Once you find that, the rest follows.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, the edges of his cynicism softening, replaced by something humbler — a quiet understanding that morality wasn’t a sermon or a rule, but a daily practice of trying, failing, and trying again.

Outside, the bell rang once more — not as a call to worship, but as a reminder of everything already known, and still waiting to be lived.

The light filled the room, gentle and honest, as if the day itself had forgiven the world for forgetting.