We all can do our part to address America's anger mismanagement

Host: The church hall was dimly lit by the soft flicker of candlelight. Rows of folding chairs stood in imperfect lines, their metal legs scraping faintly against the wooden floor as the last few parishioners left. Outside, rain pattered gently against the stained glass windows — each drop shimmering with fractured light, tiny mosaics of color cascading across the room.

At the far end, a cross loomed, not in grandeur but in quiet witness. The night hummed with that sacred kind of silence that only exists after people have prayed — or argued — with equal fervor.

Jack sat alone on one of the back benches, his jacket draped loosely over his shoulders. His hands were clasped, not in piety but in thought. Jeeny, still wearing the faint glow of the service’s aftermath, approached and sat beside him. Her eyes were tired, kind, reflective — the kind of eyes that had learned that compassion often hurts more than anger.

Jeeny: (softly) “Eric Metaxas once said, ‘We all can do our part to address America’s anger mismanagement crisis. And for us Christians, it starts with a little more faith, hope, and love.’”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Faith, hope, and love — the old trinity of idealists.”

Host: His voice was quiet but sharp, like the first crack in a mirror. Yet beneath the sarcasm was something softer — fatigue, not cynicism.

Jeeny: “Idealists are just realists who still remember how to dream.”

Jack: “Dreams don’t calm riots.”

Jeeny: “Neither does outrage.”

Jack: (leaning back) “So what, we all just sing hymns while the world burns?”

Jeeny: “No. We start by cooling the fire inside ourselves.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. But anger’s contagious — and so is grace.”

Host: The rain outside deepened, its rhythm like a slow heartbeat against the roof. Somewhere, the faint echo of thunder rolled — not violent, but warning.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? Everyone’s angry. Not just the loud ones. Even the quiet people. They just hide it better.”

Jeeny: “Because anger makes us feel alive. It’s simpler than sorrow.”

Jack: “And easier than faith.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Faith demands patience. Anger gives you action — even if it’s destruction.”

Jack: “So Metaxas is saying what? That Christians are supposed to be the therapists for a nation having a breakdown?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “No. He’s saying we’re supposed to be the example. To show that healing’s louder than hate — if you live it right.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like incense — fragrant, invisible, persistent.

Jack rubbed his temples, staring up at the dark rafters where the candlelight flickered like nervous stars.

Jack: “Faith, hope, and love. You know what that sounds like to me?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “A formula for heartbreak. You keep believing, hoping, loving — and the world keeps spitting in your face.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But the alternative is worse.”

Jack: “Indifference?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Anger without love turns into cruelty. But love without anger turns into cowardice.”

Jack: “So we need both?”

Jeeny: “We need balance. Righteous anger without resentment. Compassion without passivity.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “That’s… hard.”

Jeeny: “Faith is always hard. That’s why it’s called faith.”

Host: A draft crept through the hall, flickering the candles along the altar. Shadows danced across the crucifix — light and dark shifting in equal rhythm, as though the wood itself remembered struggle.

Jeeny: “Metaxas said ‘anger mismanagement crisis’. It’s funny — we treat anger like a weapon, not a wound.”

Jack: “Because a wound admits weakness.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But all anger comes from pain — fear, loss, shame, injustice. And instead of healing, we weaponize it.”

Jack: “And the church isn’t innocent in that either.”

Jeeny: “No, it isn’t. Sometimes we confuse conviction with cruelty.”

Jack: “You ever get tired of forgiving people who mistake faith for control?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But forgiveness isn’t agreement. It’s release.”

Jack: (quietly) “Release from what?”

Jeeny: “From carrying poison that someone else brewed.”

Host: The candles crackled softly — one melted down to a small puddle of wax, its flame stubborn to the last. Outside, the storm softened, turning to drizzle — a baptism of the earth.

Jack: “You know what I think the real problem is?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “Nobody listens anymore. Everyone just waits to talk. And the louder we get, the less we understand.”

Jeeny: “Listening is the first form of love.”

Jack: “Then the world’s running low.”

Jeeny: “That’s why faith, hope, and love matter. They’re not sentimental words — they’re disciplines. You practice them like you practice forgiveness.”

Jack: “And what happens when they don’t work?”

Jeeny: “They always work. Just not the way you expect.”

Host: Her voice was calm — not naive, not even optimistic, just quietly certain, the way someone sounds who’s seen too much and still chooses gentleness.

Jack: “You think anger’s always wrong?”

Jeeny: “No. Anger’s sacred when it defends, poisonous when it dominates.”

Jack: “And how do you tell the difference?”

Jeeny: “Love. If anger burns what you hate, it’s vengeance. If it protects what you love, it’s justice.”

Jack: “So faith tempers anger.”

Jeeny: “And hope keeps it from despair. And love makes it human.”

Host: The room was nearly dark now, the candles mere embers in glass. The sound of the rain had faded completely. The silence that remained wasn’t empty — it was the pause after a wound begins to close.

Jeeny leaned back, her hands resting loosely in her lap.

Jeeny: “The crisis Metaxas talks about — it isn’t political. It’s spiritual. We’ve forgotten how to forgive, how to trust, how to love beyond agreement.”

Jack: “You think love can fix all that?”

Jeeny: “Not love as emotion. Love as action. As restraint. As mercy.”

Jack: “Mercy.” (he repeats the word quietly, as if tasting it) “That’s the hardest one.”

Jeeny: “It’s the one that starts all the others.”

Jack: “You ever notice how mercy feels weak to people? Like you’ve surrendered your power?”

Jeeny: “That’s because mercy isn’t weakness — it’s strength without cruelty.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You sound like you believe this stuff.”

Jeeny: “I do. Because I’ve seen anger destroy what love could’ve mended.”

Host: The rain stopped entirely, and a faint moonlight filtered through the stained glass, painting the wooden floor in soft colors — fragments of blue, red, and gold mingling like grace made visible.

Jack looked at the cross again — its shadow stretched across the floor, merging with his own.

Jack: “You think America’s healable?”

Jeeny: “Only if we remember we’re not enemies, just strangers with wounds that rhyme.”

Jack: “And faith, hope, love… that’s the cure?”

Jeeny: “It’s the beginning of one.”

Jack: “And if no one believes anymore?”

Jeeny: “Then someone has to start.”

Host: The moonlight shifted, illuminating their faces — his lined with skepticism, hers calm with conviction. It was not a scene of conversion, but of recognition — two souls sitting in the ruins of anger, trying to remember how to build again.

And in that fragile stillness, Eric Metaxas’s words seemed to echo through both the sacred and the secular air:

“We all can do our part to address America’s anger mismanagement crisis. And for us Christians, it starts with a little more faith, hope, and love.”

Host: Because the world won’t be healed by louder voices,
but by quieter hearts.
By the patient alchemy of mercy,
the radical act of listening,
and the courage to love first —
even when it hurts.

The candles flickered once,
then steadied.
The storm was gone.
The silence remained.

Fade to faith.
Fade to hope.
Fade to love.