The laity ought to understand the faith, and since the doctrines

Host: The church bells tolled in the distance, low and echoing, their sound carried through the fog that hung over the old town like a ghost reluctant to leave. The cobblestones were slick with rain, and the faint scent of incense lingered in the air, spilling out from a nearby cathedral whose stained-glass windows burned with candlelight from within.

Across the narrow street, a small bookshop glowed dimly — a forgotten relic between modern cafés and cold metal signage. Inside, the air was thick with dust, ink, and the quiet reverence of paper. Jack sat at a wooden table, flipping through a worn Bible, its edges frayed, its pages trembling under his fingertips. Jeeny stood across from him, a half-finished cup of tea beside her, her eyes soft but burning with purpose.

Host: Outside, a storm gathered strength — thunder rumbling like the echo of old arguments, of voices that once whispered and roared about truth, translation, and power.

Jeeny: “Do you know who John Wycliffe was?”
Jack: without looking up “The guy who got in trouble with the Church for translating the Bible into English.”
Jeeny: “Not just trouble, Jack. He was condemned. His writings were burned, his bones dug up and scattered. All because he believed the people deserved to understand their own faith.”

Host: A bolt of lightning flashed outside, illuminating her face — earnest, bright, and unafraid.

Jack: “Yeah, I know the story. But what if the Church was right to guard it? Words are dangerous. Especially divine ones. Give everyone access, and you risk twisting meaning. Truth isn’t a democracy.”
Jeeny: smiling faintly “And yet, it never belonged to a throne either. Wycliffe said, ‘The laity ought to understand the faith, and since the doctrines of our faith are in the Scriptures, believers should have the Scriptures in a language familiar to the people.’ He wasn’t trying to rebel. He was trying to reveal.”
Jack: “And in doing so, he dismantled centuries of control. You think that’s revelation? Or revolution?”

Host: The wind rattled the window, and a few loose pages fluttered from the shelf, like ghosts of forbidden words returning to life.

Jeeny: “Revelation is revolution when truth’s been imprisoned. Think about it — before him, the Word of God was locked behind Latin. The people prayed, but they didn’t understand. They worshipped what they were told to. Wycliffe gave them language — gave them light.”
Jack: “Light can blind as easily as it guides. You give a sacred text to the masses, and soon everyone claims to know God better than the next man. That’s how wars start. That’s how fanatics are born.”
Jeeny: “No, Jack. Wars start when people are denied understanding. When they’re told that divine truth belongs to a select few. Knowledge wasn’t the sin — arrogance was.”

Host: Her words fell heavy, like the slow drip of water into an ancient well. Jack leaned back, his eyes catching the flicker of the candle on the table.

Jack: “Maybe. But there’s comfort in mystery, Jeeny. Maybe some things aren’t meant to be dissected by human language. The Holy Ghost, he said, gave them ‘knowledge of all tongues’? That sounds divine. But human tongues corrupt. They cheapen. You translate sacred truth enough times, and all that’s left is human noise.”
Jeeny: “And yet, the divine chose to speak through human noise. The miracle wasn’t in preserving holiness from people — it was in making holiness accessible to them. That’s why Wycliffe mattered.”

Host: A faint rumble of thunder trembled through the floorboards, the candle flame bending in submission. The two sat in a moment of heavy silence, broken only by the creak of old wood and the steady rhythm of rain.

Jack: “You think everyone deserves divine truth?”
Jeeny: “I think everyone deserves the chance to seek it. Whether they find it or not — that’s between them and heaven.”
Jack: “And when they twist it to justify hate? Violence? Dominion?”
Jeeny: “Then they’ve turned light into shadow. But that’s not reason enough to keep the world blind.”

Host: Her voice softened, and something in Jack’s expression cracked — a flicker of memory, perhaps. He stared at the Bible before him, tracing the fragile, inked lines like they might cut his skin if he pressed too hard.

Jack: “My mother used to read this book to me. Every night. Her English was broken, but her faith wasn’t. She used to whisper that God heard her even if she said His name wrong.”
Jeeny: smiling sadly “She understood something Wycliffe fought for — that truth isn’t bound to pronunciation, but to the heart behind it.”
Jack: “Maybe. But the world doesn’t honor that kind of simplicity anymore. It wants order. Authority. Versions stamped with approval.”
Jeeny: “The world’s always wanted that, Jack. The Church of Power never left — it just changed clothes.”

Host: The clock ticked. Somewhere outside, a church door slammed against the wind. The rain had softened now, but it carried an almost sacred rhythm — like the steady beating of a prayer long forgotten.

Jack: “You really think language can set people free?”
Jeeny: “Language is freedom. Every tongue we’re given — every word we dare to speak — is an act of rebellion against silence. The Holy Ghost didn’t grant tongues for ceremony, Jack. He granted them for connection.”
Jack: “And yet, connection always divides. Every translation makes a new wall.”
Jeeny: “No. Every translation builds a bridge. You just can’t see it because you’re standing on the wrong side.”

Host: The tension in the room pulsed — quiet, electric. The candlelight flickered between them like a small, stubborn sun. Jack’s jaw tightened; Jeeny’s hands trembled — not with fear, but with conviction.

Jack: “So, what — you think everyone should write their own gospel?”
Jeeny: “Maybe not write. But live it, yes. In their own words. In their own voice. Isn’t that what faith is supposed to be — personal, alive, and human?”
Jack: “You’re turning divine truth into poetry.”
Jeeny: “Maybe poetry is the closest thing we have to divinity.”

Host: A sudden silence descended — vast, heavy, sacred. The rain stopped. The streets outside glistened like silver veins under the pale moonlight. Jack looked at Jeeny for a long time, his eyes soft now, almost tender.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? I wanted to believe what she believed — my mother. But when she died, I stopped understanding the language of faith. It became… foreign.”
Jeeny: “Then maybe tonight, you’ve begun to translate it again.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like a quiet benediction. The clock struck eleven. The flame on the table flickered once — then steadied. Jack reached across the table, his hand brushing the open page of the Bible.

Jack: “Maybe Wycliffe wasn’t wrong. Maybe the point wasn’t just language. Maybe it was courage.”
Jeeny: “Courage to speak truth in the tongue of your own heart.”
Jack: “And to trust that others might hear it too.”
Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Outside, the fog began to lift, revealing the faint outline of the cathedral’s spire against the night sky. The bells rang again — softer now, almost forgiving. Inside, the old bookshop glowed with quiet warmth, and the two remained — a skeptic and a believer, both translating the sacred silence between them into something almost holy.

And for a brief, fleeting moment, the world outside their window — every stone, every raindrop, every whisper of air — seemed to speak in a single, shared language: understanding.