The famous saying 'God is love', it is generally assumed, means

Host: The night had fallen heavy over the city, a mist rolling through the narrow streets like a forgotten memory. The café sat at the edge of a quiet square, its windows glowing amber against the damp darkness. Inside, the smell of coffee and old books mingled with the faint hum of jazz spilling from a dusty speaker.

Jack sat by the window, his coat still wet from the rain, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. His eyes, grey and distant, followed the rising smoke as if it carried the questions he’d stopped trying to ask. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair falling over one shoulder, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea she hadn’t yet tasted. The quote lay open on the table, scribbled in her notebook — Charles Williams’ words, heavy with paradox.

Host: The room was silent except for the soft dripping from the roof, and the low murmur of the espresso machine — like a machine whispering confessions.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How we say ‘God is love’ as if it’s supposed to comfort us. But what if it’s supposed to frighten us instead?”

Jack: “You mean, like love should come with a warning label?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Real love — divine love — isn’t sweet. It breaks you. It demands everything. It has that ‘otherness’ Williams talks about — that holy terror that makes you realize how small you are.”

Jack: “Sounds more like control than love. I thought love was supposed to be about freedom.”

Jeeny: “Freedom, yes — but not comfort. Freedom that costs you something. Don’t you think there’s something terrifying about being truly seen — no excuses, no disguises, nothing left of your pretenses?”

Host: Jack leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight, his expression caught between skepticism and intrigue. The light from a passing car flickered across his face, revealing a trace of old weariness — the kind that hides behind reason.

Jack: “I’ve seen that kind of love. People call it divine, but it looks a lot like obsession. The kind that says, ‘I destroy you because I care.’ That’s not love, Jeeny. That’s the same madness that built cathedrals and started wars.”

Jeeny: “You’re talking about human imitation — not the thing itself. Every war, every tyrant, every fanatic who claimed to fight for love… they all forgot the ‘otherness’. They turned God into a reflection of themselves. Love without mystery becomes idolatry.”

Host: The rain outside grew stronger, tapping the glass in steady rhythm. The world beyond the window blurred into streaks of light and shadow.

Jack: “So what — we’re supposed to love something that terrifies us? Worship the unknowable just because it’s bigger than us?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because if love doesn’t humble you, it isn’t love. Think of Abraham standing with the knife over his son — not because he wanted to kill, but because he trusted the one who asked the impossible. That’s not sentiment. That’s awe. That’s the terror of the divine.”

Jack: “And yet, if someone did that today, we’d lock him in an asylum. Funny how the same act changes meaning depending on who commands it.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly the point. We’ve domesticated love — made it soft, safe, Instagram-friendly. We talk about love like it’s a cushion, not a cross.”

Host: The music changed — a slow, haunting saxophone filling the space between their words. The air thickened with thought, with unspoken things.

Jack: “You talk about love as if it’s supposed to hurt. But what kind of God builds love out of pain? Isn’t that cruel?”

Jeeny: “Not pain for punishment. Pain for purification. Think of childbirth — pain that brings life. Or forgiveness — it costs you pride, but it gives back peace. The terror of God isn’t cruelty, Jack. It’s the recognition that love asks more of you than you’re ready to give.”

Jack: “And when it takes everything? What’s left of you then?”

Jeeny: “Everything worth keeping.”

Host: Jack looked down at the table, tracing the rim of his glass with one finger, the smoke from his cigarette curling like a question mark between them.

Jack: “You ever wonder if maybe love — this divine version of it — is just humanity’s way of coping with chaos? Like we made God out of our longing for meaning.”

Jeeny: “And maybe God made longing out of His love for us.”

Host: Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the noise of the rain like a blade through silk. Jack exhaled, a small, bitter laugh escaping.

Jack: “You really believe in that, don’t you? A love that burns but never destroys. That kind of faith… it’s either beautiful or delusional.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Maybe the difference between delusion and faith is just whether the fire consumes you or transforms you.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated the window, throwing their shadows across the wall — two souls suspended between belief and disbelief. The storm outside echoed the quiet turmoil within.

Jack: “You know what I think, Jeeny? People don’t fear God anymore because they don’t fear love. They use it like currency. Sell it cheap. Trade it for comfort. Maybe that’s what Williams meant — we turned God into an emotion we can control.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We made Him manageable. The kind of God who fits in a Hallmark card — all warmth, no wildness. But love, the real kind, doesn’t fit in our categories. It’s the burning bush that doesn’t consume, the voice that shakes you but still says, ‘Do not be afraid.’”

Jack: “And yet, everyone’s afraid. Maybe that’s what makes it holy.”

Host: The wind pressed against the windows, a deep sigh from the unseen. The lightbulb above them flickered, then steadied. The barista wiped down the counter, his motions slow and rhythmic — the world’s background music.

Jeeny: “When I was younger, I thought love was supposed to make me feel safe. But the older I get, the more I realize — love is supposed to make you honest. And honesty is never safe.”

Jack: “So, love’s a mirror that never lies.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes, it’s the only mirror worth looking into.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, the kind of smile that hides surrender behind sarcasm.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, for someone who believes in terror, you talk about love like it’s the only thing that can save us.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. Not the sentimental kind — the kind that ruins your ego, strips you bare, and still calls you worthy. That’s the kind of love that terrifies and redeems.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why we run from it. Because deep down, we know what it would demand of us.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why Williams called it ‘otherness’. Because love, if it’s real, is not ours to define. It defines us.”

Host: The rain had stopped now, leaving behind the faint smell of wet earth and electricity. Outside, the streetlights shimmered on puddles like scattered fragments of light. Jack extinguished his cigarette, watching the tiny ember die out.

Jack: “Maybe God isn’t love the way we think He is. Maybe love is God — and that’s why it scares us.”

Jeeny: “Because to love like that… is to become like Him.”

Host: For a moment, they said nothing. The music faded, replaced by the low hum of silence. In that silence, something fragile passed between them — not understanding, but recognition.

The city outside breathed again, the night exhaling its long-held sigh.

Jeeny reached for her cup, took a slow sip, and whispered,

Jeeny: “Perhaps the holiest thing about love… is that it makes us tremble.”

Host: Jack nodded, eyes distant but softened. The reflection of the streetlight glimmered in his pupils, like a confession barely spoken.

Jack: “And maybe trembling is the first step toward truth.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the window, the rain, the quiet café glowing like a sanctuary in the dark. Two souls, small against the vastness of night, speaking softly of terror and tenderness — the twin faces of the divine.

Outside, a bell from a distant church began to toll, each sound a heartbeat echoing through the mist. And in that rhythm — the trembling, the awe, the love — the world felt, for a moment, almost holy.