Thou must be emptied of that wherewith thou art full, that thou

Host: The cathedral bells had just finished ringing, their echoes lingering in the winter air, fading into the distance like a prayer unanswered. The evening light — that holy kind of gold that feels borrowed from heaven — spilled through the stained glass windows of a small chapel tucked away at the edge of an ancient square. Dust drifted through the air like slow snow, catching color, catching time.

Jack sat alone in the second pew, his coat damp from the drizzle outside, his hands clasped, though not in prayer — more in weariness. Across from him, Jeeny moved quietly through the aisle, her steps soft, her face serene, the kind of calm that comes only from long conversations with silence.

The candles flickered, casting halos of trembling light on the walls — the saints and their painted sorrow looking down, patient, knowing.

Jeeny: “Saint Augustine once said — ‘Thou must be emptied of that wherewith thou art full, that thou mayest be filled with that whereof thou art empty.’”
Jack: “He had a way of making suffering sound poetic.”
Jeeny: “It isn’t about suffering. It’s about surrender.”
Jack: “Surrender sounds like losing.”
Jeeny: “Only to those who haven’t tried it.”

Host: The organist, somewhere unseen, pressed a single note to test the pipes. The sound hung in the air — long, low, and aching — like a soul stretched thin between heaven and gravity. Jack looked up, the light touching his face, revealing exhaustion, but also something softer — the faint memory of belief.

Jack: “Emptying yourself... that’s the hardest thing in the world. We spend our whole lives trying to fill the void — with work, with people, with noise.”
Jeeny: “Because the silence terrifies us.”
Jack: “Doesn’t it terrify you?”
Jeeny: “It used to. Until I realized silence isn’t absence. It’s invitation.”
Jack: “Invitation to what?”
Jeeny: “To hear what’s been speaking all along.”

Host: The flame nearest to them flickered, its light dancing on Jeeny’s eyes like a reflection of something divine — not distant, but intimate. She spoke quietly, each word like a thread weaving its way into the space between them.

Jeeny: “Augustine was talking about the paradox of grace — that you can’t be filled with truth while you’re still full of yourself.”
Jack: “So what — I’m supposed to empty out ambition, pride, anger, desire, everything that makes me human?”
Jeeny: “Not everything. Just what blinds you to everything else.”
Jack: “You make it sound like cleansing. It feels more like erasing.”
Jeeny: “Only if you mistake ego for identity.”

Host: The wind outside whistled through a cracked window, stirring the flames, making the shadows move, as if the holy figures on the wall were shifting to listen. Jack leaned forward, his voice rough, conflicted, but honest.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe in things. In causes, in plans. I used to wake up certain that what I did mattered.”
Jeeny: “And now?”
Jack: “Now I feel like a man trying to fill a leaking bucket. No matter how much I pour in, it never stays.”
Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not supposed to. Maybe the hole is the point.”
Jack: “The point?”
Jeeny: “Yes. Because what’s leaking out is what was never meant to stay — what’s left behind is what you’re made of.”

Host: The church clock struck six, the sound deep and resonant, shaking the dust loose from corners and memory alike. A bird fluttered in the rafters, lost, circling the ceiling — seeking an exit but finding only echoes.

Jack: “So Augustine’s telling us to be... empty? That’s the goal?”
Jeeny: “No. He’s saying you can’t be filled with the divine while you’re already full of the world.”
Jack: “But the world’s all we have.”
Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s all we hold onto. There’s a difference.”
Jack: “You sound like a mystic.”
Jeeny: “Maybe mysticism is just what happens when practicality finally breaks.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked down, the light catching the lines of his hands — lines that had built, repaired, grasped — but rarely let go. Jeeny watched him, her expression tender, as though she could see the battle he refused to name.

Jeeny: “You’re tired because you’re carrying what isn’t yours to carry.”
Jack: “And what is mine, then?”
Jeeny: “Whatever’s left when you put everything else down.”
Jack: “That’s not much.”
Jeeny: “That’s enough.”
Jack: “Enough to do what?”
Jeeny: “To be.”

Host: The organist began to play, soft and distant — a hymn without words, more feeling than sound. The notes climbed the walls, curved around the arches, filled the emptiness. And somehow, that emptiness didn’t feel hollow anymore — it felt alive.

Jack: “You really think we can live like that? Empty, trusting something will fill us again?”
Jeeny: “Not something. Someone.”
Jack: “You mean God.”
Jeeny: “Or whatever name your soul gives to peace.”
Jack: “You make it sound simple.”
Jeeny: “It isn’t. It’s the hardest thing — to open your hands when you’ve spent your whole life clenching them.”
Jack: “And if what comes isn’t what I wanted?”
Jeeny: “Then you’ll finally learn the difference between want and need.”

Host: The music swelled, the melody trembling, aching, as if even sound itself were learning to surrender. The light dimmed as clouds passed over the sun, casting gold into grey, the kind of transition you only notice if you’re paying attention.

Jeeny: “You know, Augustine also said that our hearts are restless until they rest in God. Maybe rest isn’t escape — maybe it’s alignment.”
Jack: “Alignment sounds easy until you’ve broken in a hundred directions.”
Jeeny: “Then maybe breaking was the first step toward bending.”
Jack: “You talk like pain’s a gift.”
Jeeny: “Sometimes it is. Pain empties the soul so joy has room to live.”
Jack: “So I should thank my suffering?”
Jeeny: “Not thank it. Redeem it.”

Host: Jack turned his head, the light from the candles now a soft halo behind Jeeny’s silhouette. Her words hung in the air, fragile but eternal, the way truth always does when it touches both faith and fatigue.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, I think Augustine understood something we keep forgetting. That emptiness isn’t punishment — it’s preparation.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. The soul can’t receive until it lets go of what it’s clinging to.”
Jack: “And what if the thing you’re clinging to once saved you?”
Jeeny: “Then you bless it for saving you — and release it for keeping you.”
Jack: “That’s… terrifying.”
Jeeny: “Only until you realize you’re not falling — you’re being made room for.”

Host: The organ fell silent, leaving behind a stillness so pure, even the air seemed to kneel. The candles flickered, the bird found an open window at last and flew into the dusk.

Jack looked up, his eyes wet, not from sadness but from recognition. Jeeny smiled, a quiet, knowing smile, the kind that carries peace without pride.

Jeeny: “You look lighter.”
Jack: “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m finally... less.”
Jeeny: “Good. That means there’s space now.”
Jack: “For what?”
Jeeny: “For whatever love’s been trying to give you all this time.”

Host: The bells began again, slow and deep, filling the cathedral with a sound that was both grief and grace. Outside, the sky opened, rain falling softly over the square, washing the stone clean, making everything glisten anew.

And as the two of them sat there — one learning to let go, the other teaching how —
the truth of Augustine’s words took root in the stillness:

that before the soul can be filled,
it must first be emptied,
not of love, but of everything that blocks it —

for only in hollow spaces
does the divine finally speak,
and only in emptiness
does the heart finally hear.