The goodness of a thing created is the perfection of its fitness

Host: The library smelled of leather, wood polish, and candle smoke, the kind of place where even time itself seemed to slow down to read. Tall shelves rose like cathedrals, lined with old theological works, their spines cracked from centuries of thought. Dust floated through the dim golden light filtering from a single window, where rain drew patient streaks against the glass.

Jack sat at the heavy oak table, sleeves rolled, a faint ink stain on his wrist. He turned the brittle pages of a small, ancient book — The Marrow of Theology — its Latin margin notes like whispers from another age. Across from him, Jeeny sat with her chin resting in her hand, watching him with quiet amusement and curiosity.

Jeeny: softly “William Ames once said, ‘The goodness of a thing created is the perfection of its fitness for the use which it serves. Now that use is either particular or universal.’”

Jack: looking up, half-smiling “Ames — the Puritan who turned logic into scripture. He made theology sound like architecture.”

Jeeny: smiling back “Maybe because to him, creation was design. Everything had a function — moral, physical, divine.”

Jack: leaning back in his chair “So goodness isn’t about beauty or morality, it’s about purpose. A thing is good when it does what it was made to do.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Perfection is function fulfilled.”

Host: A soft creak of the floorboards echoed somewhere in the quiet. Outside, the rain deepened, rhythmic, steady — nature’s metronome. Jack traced the embossed title on the book’s cover with his finger, as though reading beyond words into meaning.

Jack: “It’s a strange thought, though — that even a storm has its purpose, even a thorn. That what we call imperfection might just be misunderstanding its function.”

Jeeny: nodding “Yes. Ames would say the universe is moral architecture — every beam and flaw part of a structure we can’t fully see.”

Jack: “So in that sense, even suffering serves use.”

Jeeny: after a pause “If we can bear to believe that.”

Host: The light flickered with a gust of wind. Jeeny reached to steady the candle. The flame bowed, then straightened — small but resolute.

Jack: gazing at it “You know, I used to hate this kind of theology. The idea that everything, even pain, has divine justification. It felt cold. Convenient.”

Jeeny: softly “And now?”

Jack: sighing “Now I think maybe it’s not about justification. Maybe it’s about recognition — that nothing in existence is wasted. Even broken things hold meaning if you look from the right height.”

Jeeny: “Or from the right humility.”

Host: A clock ticked faintly in the distance, counting the moments like prayers. Jeeny stood and began walking slowly along the shelves, running her fingers along the spines — Aquinas, Augustine, Milton, Spinoza. She stopped at one, smiling faintly.

Jeeny: “Ames was trying to make sense of creation after chaos. A world where faith had to explain everything — even the dark parts. His logic was his ladder to heaven.”

Jack: smiling faintly “And ours is still Excel spreadsheets and therapy sessions.”

Jeeny: laughing softly “Maybe not so different. We’re still trying to find purpose in the mess.”

Host: The rain softened, and the room filled again with that rich silence that only books can make — the sound of pages absorbing thoughts.

Jeeny: “You know what I like about his idea? It’s forgiving. It means that everything — even us — has a role, whether we see it or not. That goodness isn’t comparison, it’s completion.”

Jack: leaning forward, thoughtful “Completion... like a key fitting its lock.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. A melody finding its last note.”

Jack: after a pause “Then maybe sin isn’t rebellion — it’s misalignment. A thing forgetting what it was made for.”

Jeeny: quietly “And redemption would be... remembering.”

Host: The flame trembled again, reflecting in Jack’s eyes like understanding just beginning to dawn. The rhythm of the rain faded into a soft murmur, like the heartbeat of the old building itself.

Jack: “So by Ames’s logic, goodness isn’t subjective. It’s objective — built into the design. A hammer is good when it drives nails, not when it looks polished.”

Jeeny: “And a human being is good when they live in harmony with their purpose — whatever that is.”

Jack: half-smiling “So the question isn’t am I good? It’s am I fitting?”

Jeeny: softly “Yes. Are you becoming what you were meant to serve?”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving the faint scent of wet earth drifting in through the cracked window. Outside, the last clouds began to part, revealing a thin sliver of silver moonlight.

Jeeny returned to the table and sat down across from Jack again, her eyes thoughtful, her voice gentler now.

Jeeny: “You know, when Ames said ‘use is either particular or universal,’ he meant that even the smallest acts — a cup holding water, a soul choosing kindness — echo the design of the cosmos. The local reflects the eternal.”

Jack: quietly “Like charity beginning at home. Or forgiveness starting with yourself.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The particular becoming a mirror of the universal.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Then maybe the test of a life isn’t success or sainthood — just alignment. The grace of being who you are, completely and honestly.”

Host: The clock chimed softly, the sound resonating through the wood and dust — ancient, grounding. The two of them sat in silence for a while, surrounded by centuries of thought and the smell of time.

Jeeny: finally, softly “So, the goodness of a thing isn’t in how it looks or what it claims — it’s in how it serves.”

Jack: nodding slowly “And maybe that’s the definition of love too.”

Host: The candle flame stilled, steady now, its light soft but unwavering. The room seemed warmer, the air fuller somehow, as if the conversation had left something sacred hanging between them.

And in that fragile quiet, William Ames’s words seemed to glow in the air like scripture rediscovered:

That goodness is not a feeling,
but a function —
the quiet perfection of purpose fulfilled.

That the smallest act well-aligned
reflects the symmetry of creation itself.

And as they rose, closing the ancient book with reverence, Jeeny whispered,
almost like a benediction:

“Maybe holiness isn’t about being flawless.
Maybe it’s just being useful —
in the way love intended.”

Host: Outside, the moonlight poured through the rain-washed sky, silver and sure,
and the night — clean, calm, whole —
breathed again in perfect fitness to its purpose.