The world needs anger. The world often continues to allow evil

Host: The city square lay under the restless twilight, that blue hour when streetlights awaken and the horizon still remembers fire. The air was thick — humid with coming rain, electric with quiet tension. Protest signs leaned against the base of a statue that once stood for something noble but now felt like stone pretending to have a conscience.

Jack stood near it, his coat unbuttoned, his fists in his pockets, staring at the gathering crowd — people chanting, some crying, some simply standing as if presence itself was defiance. Jeeny was beside him, holding a candle whose flame trembled but refused to die.

For a long while, they said nothing. Then the first thunder rumbled above, low and patient, like the sound of history waking up.

Jeeny: softly but with weight “Bede Jarrett said, ‘The world needs anger. The world often continues to allow evil because it isn’t angry enough.’”

Jack: eyes still on the crowd “He was a priest, wasn’t he? Strange — you don’t expect priests to endorse anger.”

Jeeny: nodding slightly “He wasn’t talking about rage. He was talking about conscience — that sacred kind of anger that refuses to stay silent when silence becomes sin.”

Host: The wind stirred the flags above them, the sound of fabric snapping sharp against the storm’s breath. Jack looked down at the candlelight trembling against Jeeny’s face — fragile, defiant.

Jack: low “You know, I used to think anger was poison. That it only led to destruction. But lately… I think the greater danger is comfort. Everyone’s too busy being polite while the world burns.”

Jeeny: quietly fierce “That’s what Jarrett meant. Evil doesn’t always scream — sometimes it whispers, and people nod along because it’s easier than getting angry.”

Jack: grimly “And the good people? They sit and debate tone.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We confuse civility with morality. Anger’s not the opposite of peace — apathy is.”

Host: The rain began in soft, uncertain drops. The candle flame wavered, but Jeeny shielded it with her hand. The two of them stood like figures in a painting — one flame, one shadow, one shared grief turned to resolve.

Jack: softly, almost confessing “You know what’s strange? Every time I get angry about injustice, people tell me to calm down. To be rational. But I’ve never seen a single good thing born from indifference.”

Jeeny: “Because indifference is how cruelty survives. Anger, when it’s pure, is compassion in motion. It’s love refusing to stay quiet.”

Jack: turns to her, searching her face “But how do you know when it’s pure? When it’s not just ego — not just wanting to feel right?”

Jeeny: “You ask yourself who you’re angry for. If it’s for yourself, it’s pride. If it’s for others — the voiceless, the broken — it’s purpose.”

Host: The thunder cracked again, this time closer, the echo rolling through the square like a heartbeat through concrete. The crowd lifted their voices — not shouting now, but chanting something deep and unified.

Jack: “Purpose. You make it sound holy.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly, eyes bright with conviction “It is. Holy fire burns to illuminate, not consume. The world doesn’t need more fury — it needs righteous fire. The kind that builds, protects, transforms.”

Host: The rain began to fall harder now, soaking their coats, their hair, their anger. Yet no one moved to leave. Jack’s eyes glistened — from rain or emotion, it was impossible to tell.

Jack: “You really believe anger can save us?”

Jeeny: “Not anger alone. But anger guided by empathy — that’s how revolutions begin. Every act of justice, every social change, every truth told against power starts with someone saying, ‘This is wrong.’ That’s anger at its most honest.”

Jack: half-smiling, tired but alive “And at its most dangerous.”

Jeeny: “For those who profit from silence, yes.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated their faces — her expression unwavering, his torn between fury and faith. The storm wasn’t violent yet, just honest.

Jack: looking out at the crowd again “Maybe the world doesn’t need less anger. Maybe it needs better anger.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Anger with direction. Anger that speaks, not screams. That builds bridges instead of barricades.”

Jack: quietly “Like this.”

Jeeny: nodding “Like this. People gathered in the rain, refusing to look away.”

Host: The camera would have drifted upward now — revealing hundreds of candles in the square below, glowing against the encroaching storm. The fire flickered in every color of humanity — old, young, weary, unbroken.

Jack: after a pause, voice softer “You ever think maybe the world’s problem isn’t that people hate too much… but that they don’t hate enough of the right things?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Yes. We should hate cruelty. Hate exploitation. Hate lies — but never the people trapped inside them.”

Jack: “That’s the difference between revolution and revenge.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. One heals through fury. The other just bleeds louder.”

Host: The rain fell harder still, but the candles kept burning — hundreds of small, stubborn suns refusing extinction. Jack took Jeeny’s candle and lifted it, holding it higher against the dark. She looked at him — a faint smile, quiet pride.

Jack: low, resolute “Then let’s be angry enough to make something right.”

Jeeny: softly “And wise enough to know what that means.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the storm swelling, the city glowing in defiance, two figures in the heart of it, lit by one trembling flame that refused to die.

And as the scene faded, Bede Jarrett’s words resonated through the thunder —

that anger, when born of love,
is not a sin but a summons;
not destruction, but awakening.

Host: For it is not wrath that saves the world,
but the courage to feel what others have numbed;
to burn without hate,
to rage for justice,
to weep and still rise.

And in that rare, fierce harmony —
between compassion and fire —
lies the only anger
that is truly,
deeply,
amazing.