There's no anger ever in a spiritual. There's always the dream of

Host: The night was thick with rain, each drop a whisper against the window of the old church café. A dim lamp cast a golden haze across the wooden table, where two figures sat facing each other — Jack, his grey eyes reflecting the flicker of light, and Jeeny, her hands wrapped gently around a cup of steaming tea, her expression both tired and tender.

The radio hummed in the background, playing a recording of Jessye Norman — her voice deep, majestic, filled with the ache of centuries.
The words lingered in the air:
“There’s no anger ever in a spiritual. There’s always the dream of a hope of a better day coming. That God understands the troubles that I’m experiencing.”

Jack: (quietly) Hope. That’s what it always comes down to, doesn’t it? People cling to hope when they have nothing else — as if it’s some sort of currency to buy peace from the universe.

Jeeny: (softly, eyes glimmering) It’s not a purchase, Jack. It’s a prayer. Hope is what keeps the soul from crumbling when the world becomes unbearable. It’s what songs like this one were born from — not anger, but endurance.

Host: The light trembled against the rain-streaked glass, and a gust of wind howled through the chimney, as though the earth itself wanted to listen to their words.

Jack: You talk about endurance as if it’s virtue, but to me, it feels like surrender. Spirituals, these songs — they were sung by people who had every right to be furious, Jeeny. Enslaved, beaten, humiliated — and yet, they sang of hope. Isn’t that just a form of submission dressed in faith?

Jeeny: (her voice rising slightly) No, Jack. It was defiance. Quiet, beautiful defiance. When you’re stripped of everything — your freedom, your name, your future — and you still choose to believe in God, in a better day, that’s not weakness. That’s the strongest rebellion of all.

Host: A pause. The sound of rain deepened, as though time itself had taken a breath. Jack’s fingers drummed against the table, a habit born from restlessness, while Jeeny’s eyes remained steady, anchored in conviction.

Jack: You’re romanticizing it. You call it rebellion, but it’s just acceptance with melody. They should have been angry — furious, even. That’s the only honest response to injustice. Hope might soothe the heart, but anger drives change.

Jeeny: (leans forward) Do you think anger alone freed them? Or that hope played no part? Think of Harriet Tubman — she carried both. Her anger made her act, but her faith guided her. She said God showed her the path, step by step, in the darkness. Without hope, her anger would’ve burned her alive.

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated Jack’s face, the sharp lines of doubt carved deep. Jeeny’s eyes, however, reflected the light — as if hope itself had found a home there.

Jack: (sighs, voice low) I’m not against hope, Jeeny. I just don’t trust it. It feels like a comfort invented by religion to keep people quiet. To make them believe their suffering means something. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe God doesn’t understand. Maybe there’s no one to understand.

Jeeny: (her voice soft, trembling) And if that were true, Jack — if there were no God, no meaning, no understanding — would you still get up tomorrow? Would you still try? What would keep you from giving up entirely?

Host: The rain slowed, tapping softer now, like fingers on skin. The world seemed to lean in, waiting for his answer.

Jack: (after a moment) Maybe… stubbornness. Maybe just the refusal to let life win by crushing me. But that’s not faith, Jeeny. That’s just — survival.

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) And yet, survival is the first hymn of faith. You call it stubbornness; I call it the divine spark — the same one that lit those voices Jessye Norman speaks of. The spirituals weren’t just songs; they were promises to the future, whispered in the dark.

Host: A silence descended — not empty, but alive, like the space between two heartbeats. The radio continued to play, Jessye’s voice swelling in the background, her notes both sorrowful and transcendent.

Jack: (half-smiling) You always make it sound so poetic. But the world doesn’t run on poetry. It runs on power, money, decisions. Faith doesn’t stop wars or feed the hungry. Action does.

Jeeny: (eyes narrowing) And where do you think action comes from? From numbers and logic? No. It comes from belief. Faith in something unseen — whether it’s justice, love, or tomorrow. Even the ones who fight hardest for change are driven by that kind of hope.

Jack: (quietly) You sound like Martin Luther King.

Jeeny: (smiles) Maybe because he was right. He said, “We must accept finite disappointment but never lose infinite hope.” He understood that anger without hope becomes destruction. But hope without action becomes illusion. Both must breathe together.

Host: The air between them crackled with understanding, yet neither looked away. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the smell of wet earth clung to the night — a reminder of things that grow after storms.

Jack: (leans back, voice weary) Maybe you’re right. Maybe there’s strength in that kind of gentleness. But sometimes I wonder if hope is just how people make peace with pain they can’t escape.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe it is. But isn’t that what makes us human — the ability to turn pain into song instead of silence?

Host: The clock on the wall ticked — slow, steady, relentless. Jack’s eyes softened, the hardness of his cynicism giving way to something almost like tenderness.

Jack: (after a pause) So… no anger, huh? Just the dream of a better day?

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) No anger, Jack. Just the faith that even if the day never comes for me — it might come for someone after me. And that’s enough.

Host: A long silence. The lamp began to dim, its light fading into the shadows of the room. Jessye Norman’s voice reached the final note — a note that seemed to hang in the air, both mourning and hope intertwined.

Jack: (whispering) You really believe God understands?

Jeeny: (looks out the window) I believe God listens. And maybe that’s the same thing.

Host: The camera would pull back now — through the window, past the rain, into the still night. Inside, two souls sat beneath the dying glow of a lamp, one skeptic, one believer, both bound by the same quiet longing: that their troubles meant something, that their songs, however fragile, might reach some infinite ear.

And in that moment, as the rain clouds began to part, a sliver of moonlight touched their faces, and the world itself seemed to exhale — not in anger, but in the dream of a better day coming.