One is called to live nonviolently, even if the change one works

Host: The city slept uneasily under a sky bruised with stormlight. The streets, slick with rain, reflected the glow of street lamps like shattered halos. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed — not loud enough to terrify, but constant enough to remind.

On a quiet street corner, in a dim café that had long since closed, two figures lingered by candlelight. Jeeny sat by the window, hands clasped around a steaming mug, eyes fixed on the storm outside. Across from her, Jack leaned forward, cigarette unlit between his fingers, his expression sharp, defiant — a man who believed peace was a word for idealists, not survivors.

The rain beat harder against the glass, a percussion of conscience.

Jeeny: “Daniel Berrigan once said, ‘One is called to live nonviolently, even if the change one works for seems impossible.’”

Jack: (scoffing) “Called to live nonviolently… That’s beautiful. But it’s a fantasy. The world doesn’t bend to kindness — it kneels to force.”

Host: The candle flame trembled, its reflection dancing in the window — light fighting to exist in a city that forgot what light meant.

Jeeny: “You sound like every empire that’s ever fallen. Violence has always promised change — and always delivered ruins.”

Jack: “And peace has delivered graves. Gandhi, King, Berrigan — they all preached nonviolence, and the world answered with bullets.”

Jeeny: “But they changed the world anyway.”

Jack: “Did they? The wars kept coming. The poor stayed poor. The powerful got richer. You call that change?”

Host: Her eyes met his, unwavering — two elements meeting mid-storm, conviction versus cynicism. Outside, thunder rolled like the sound of judgment itself.

Jeeny: “Yes. Because change isn’t measured in results, Jack — it’s measured in conscience. They didn’t end war; they preserved humanity inside it.”

Jack: “That’s philosophy. People bleed while the saints pray.”

Jeeny: “And people rot when cynics stop believing they can be better.”

Host: The rain slowed, now softer, like a breath catching in the throat of the world. The café’s flickering light cast their shadows across the wall — hers calm, still; his restless, fractured.

Jack: “You ever seen what violence does to a man up close?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And that’s why I believe in what he said. Berrigan was a priest, a protester, a fugitive — he faced prisons for peace. And he never stopped believing that gentleness could outlast hatred.”

Jack: (quietly) “Gentleness doesn’t win wars.”

Jeeny: “It wins souls. That’s harder.”

Host: A gust of wind slammed against the window; the candle nearly went out. Jeeny reached forward, shielding it with her hand. The flame steadied, small but stubborn.

Jeeny: “That’s what nonviolence is. Not weakness. Protection. Choosing to hold the light, even when the wind mocks you for it.”

Jack: “So we just keep forgiving? Turning cheeks while the world breaks bones?”

Jeeny: “No. We resist — fiercely. But without hatred. That’s harder than fighting. Anyone can kill. Few can endure without becoming what they oppose.”

Host: The room thickened with tension. The smell of rain, smoke, and the faint sweetness of wax mingled like prayer and despair in the same breath.

Jack: “You think peace changes tyrants?”

Jeeny: “Not always. But it changes witnesses. It changes those who see. That’s how movements start — not with victory, but with vision.”

Jack: “Vision doesn’t feed the hungry.”

Jeeny: “Neither does rage, once it burns everything down.”

Host: He looked away, the cigarette trembling slightly between his fingers. His reflection in the glass stared back — tired, older, wearing the kind of weariness that comes from too many battles, both physical and moral.

Jack: “You ever wonder why peace sounds so impossible?”

Jeeny: “Because we’ve mistaken violence for courage. But violence is just fear in armor.”

Jack: “And peace?”

Jeeny: “Peace is fear, unarmed — but unbroken.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked, slow and deliberate. Outside, a car splashed through a puddle, scattering reflections like fragments of broken halos.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I used to think nonviolence was weakness. My father said men had to be tough. I carried that like scripture. But lately…” (he hesitates) “Lately I wonder if toughness just means being too scared to be gentle.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe that’s the bravest kind of confession.”

Host: A long silence followed, heavy but not hopeless. The rain had stopped, leaving the city glistening — as if washed clean, though only for a moment.

Jeeny: “That’s what Berrigan meant — to live nonviolently even if it seems impossible. Because the impossibility is the proof that it’s needed.”

Jack: “You think people can change without punishment?”

Jeeny: “I think they can change because of love. Punishment hardens. Love disarms.”

Jack: “Love doesn’t stop bullets.”

Jeeny: “No. But it stops the need to fire them.”

Host: The storm clouds began to part, revealing faint stars — fragile but fearless, like wounds learning to glow instead of bleed.

Jack: “You think he really believed it? Even at the end?”

Jeeny: “He didn’t just believe it. He lived it. That’s what makes it real. The world can argue against words — but not against a life that refuses to hate.”

Host: The candle finally burned low, the wax spilling slowly down the glass like time itself melting. Jack reached forward and snuffed it out with his fingers — not carelessly, but reverently.

Jack: “You know what scares me most, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “That he might be right — and I’ve wasted half my life fighting ghosts that never existed.”

Jeeny: “Then stop fighting ghosts. Start building peace.”

Host: The camera pulled back, showing the two of them framed in the dim café, surrounded by rain-streaked windows and the faint breath of dawn beginning to push at the edges of night.

And as the light grew — soft, uncertain, like the first sigh after grief — Daniel Berrigan’s voice seemed to rise from the silence, a benediction for a world still learning to heal:

that nonviolence is not surrender,
but strength without cruelty;
that to live gently in a brutal world
is to wage the hardest war of all;

and that even when peace seems impossible,
the act of believing in it —
the stubborn refusal to strike back —
is itself
the beginning
of change.