The intellect of the wise is like glass; it admits the light of

Host:
The cathedral stood silent in the golden dusk, its arches towering like frozen prayers carved into stone. Sunlight, fractured through ancient stained glass, scattered in colors across the cold floor — ruby, emerald, sapphire, and amber. The air smelled faintly of dust, candlewax, and time.

Jack stood before one of the great windows, his hands in his coat pockets, his grey eyes studying how the light fell, refracted, and then dissolved. The glass, delicate yet enduring, seemed to mirror something inside him — something that both revealed and concealed.

A few rows back, Jeeny sat on a worn pew, her fingers folded loosely, her gaze lifted to the high vaults where light and silence met in quiet communion. She looked small beneath the vastness, yet utterly unafraid — as if she belonged more to the heaven that the light came from than to the stone that held it.

Host:
When Jack finally spoke, his voice echoed softly through the empty hall, like a thought half-prayed.

Jack:
Augustus Hare once said, “The intellect of the wise is like glass; it admits the light of heaven and reflects it.”
It’s poetic, but I don’t buy it. Wisdom isn’t glass — it’s armor. The moment you let too much light in, you start to crack.

Jeeny:
(Quietly) Or maybe the cracks are where the light gets through, Jack.

Jack:
(Chuckles dryly) That sounds like something embroidered on a pillow. Light, heaven, reflection — all metaphors people use to hide how fragile they are.

Host:
A faint breeze slipped through the half-open door, stirring the candles at the altar. The flames flickered, throwing long, restless shadows against the ancient walls, as if the cathedral itself was listening to them.

Jeeny:
Maybe fragility isn’t a weakness. Glass may break, but it also shines. It doesn’t hide the light — it becomes a way for the light to be seen.

Jack:
You mean it’s just a medium — transparent, passive, nothing of its own. That’s not wisdom, Jeeny. That’s submission.

Jeeny:
No. It’s humility. The wise don’t try to own the light — they let it pass through them.

Jack:
So wisdom is letting other people see through you?

Jeeny:
Not people — truth.

Host:
Her voice carried softly through the space, touching the air like the echo of a bell. Jack turned his gaze from the window to her — a mixture of disbelief and something close to longing in his expression.

Jack:
Truth is dangerous, Jeeny. I’ve seen what it does — it blinds. It burns. If you let it shine straight through you, you’ll shatter.

Jeeny:
Only if you try to hold it too tightly. The wise don’t trap the light; they let it move freely — in, through, and out. That’s what Hare meant, I think.

Jack:
(Sharply) So wisdom is porous now? That’s convenient.

Jeeny:
(Smiling faintly) Maybe it’s not convenient. Maybe it’s costly — because it means accepting that you’re both clear and breakable.

Host:
Jack’s jaw tightened. His fingers flexed unconsciously, brushing against the cool stone of the window’s base. The last rays of the sun spilled across his face, half in gold, half in shadow — the look of a man torn between revelation and resistance.

Jack:
You speak like faith has never failed you.

Jeeny:
It has. Many times. But it’s not faith in heaven that keeps me going, Jack — it’s faith in the light itself.

Jack:
And what if that light comes from nowhere? What if it’s just illusion — some chemical trick of the brain trying to make sense of the void?

Jeeny:
Then let it trick me. If the void wants to speak through light, I’ll still listen.

Jack:
You’d rather be fooled than face the dark?

Jeeny:
I’d rather be illuminated by a lie than blinded by despair.

Host:
The words hit like quiet thunder in the hollow space. The light trembled across her face — her eyes glowing with a stubborn warmth, while Jack’s remained cold, analytical, searching. The tension between them felt almost sacred — a battle between faith and fear disguised as thought.

Jack:
You make wisdom sound like surrender. Like letting the world define you.

Jeeny:
No — it’s the opposite. When you let the light in, you start to reflect it. That’s not surrender; that’s participation.

Jack:
(Glancing toward the glass) Reflection, you say… That’s the part I can understand. Reflection is logic — understanding the light, not just letting it through.

Jeeny:
But logic alone only mirrors what it sees. Wisdom transforms it. It doesn’t just bounce the light back — it colors it, softens it, gives it meaning.

Jack:
(Quietly) So the glass chooses what kind of light it gives back.

Jeeny:
Exactly. The wise aren’t blank panes; they’re stained glass — made from fragments, flaws, colors, pain — yet when the light passes through them, it becomes something beautiful.

Host:
For the first time, Jack’s eyes softened. The hardness in his posture eased as he looked again at the window — the reds and blues shimmering across his face like small miracles.

Jack:
You know, I used to stand in churches as a kid, staring at windows like these. I thought the beauty was in the colors. Now I think… it’s in the light that forgives them for being broken.

Jeeny:
(Whispering) That’s wisdom, Jack. That’s what Hare meant.

Jack:
(Soft laugh) So now I’m wise because I’m cracked?

Jeeny:
Because you’re letting the light in, even through the cracks.

Host:
The bells began to ring in the tower — deep, resonant, and slow. Each toll vibrated through the stone like the heartbeat of eternity. Jeeny stood, walked closer to Jack, and the light caught her hair in a haloed shimmer.

Jack:
Maybe the intellect of the wise really is like glass. But not because it’s fragile — because it’s honest. It shows everything, hides nothing, even its imperfections.

Jeeny:
That’s the only kind of wisdom that lasts. Everything else is just polished stone — beautiful, but blind.

Host:
They stood side by side now, both looking up at the immense window. The sun had nearly gone, and the light dimmed to a soft, sacred glow. The colors on the floor began to fade, one by one, until only the faintest gold remained — the color of forgiveness.

Jack:
It’s strange, isn’t it? How something as fragile as glass can outlast centuries of storms.

Jeeny:
Maybe because it never fights the storm — it just lets the light keep finding it.

Host:
Her words lingered, delicate as the last trace of sunset. Jack’s eyes followed the fading light until it disappeared into the stone. A small smile crossed his lips — tired, thoughtful, real.

He turned toward Jeeny and spoke with a quiet resignation that carried the weight of revelation.

Jack:
Maybe wisdom isn’t what I thought it was. Maybe it’s not about protecting yourself from the world’s light, but learning to bear it.

Jeeny:
And maybe bearing it is the only way to reflect it.

Host:
The cathedral fell silent once more. The last beam of sunlight kissed the window before fading into the deep blue of night. The candles flickered gently, like the remnants of heaven’s touch refusing to leave.

Outside, the first stars appeared — small lights in the immense darkness, scattered like thoughts of the divine across the black sky.

And there they stood — Jack and Jeeny — two souls caught between reason and reverence, glass and light, earth and heaven.

And the world, in its quiet wisdom, whispered back to them:
The wise are not those who see the light, but those who let it pass through them.