We cannot go alone to God. We belong to His Mystical Body, the

Host: The church bells tolled across the old town, their echoes threading through the misty evening like whispers of forgotten prayers. Inside a crumbling monastery courtyard, candles flickered against the stone walls, their light trembling in the cold wind. Jack sat on a bench near the fountain, his hands clasped, his face shadowed by the fading sun. Jeeny stood across from him, her black hair swaying gently, her eyes alive with a quiet fire.

The sky bled from amber to violet, and the air held that stillness — the kind that arrives just before confession or forgiveness.

Jeeny: “Vincent McNabb once said, ‘We cannot go alone to God. We belong to His Mystical Body, the Church.’”
Her voice trembled softly, yet her words rang with conviction. “Do you believe that, Jack? That even our most private sins reach others, like ripples in a shared soul?”

Jack: He exhaled slowly, the smoke of his breath mingling with the chill air. “No. I don’t. Our sins are our own. What I do in the dark, Jeeny, dies there. Nobody’s hurt if nobody knows.”

Host: A gust of wind stirred the fallen leaves, carrying the smell of wet earth and wax. Jeeny’s eyes followed the movement, her hands tightening around her scarf.

Jeeny: “You’re wrong, Jack. Every wound we give to ourselves leaves a scar on the whole body. Think of how addiction, greed, or betrayal never stay hidden — they seep out, they change how we love, how we forgive. Even silence can wound others.”

Jack: “You’re talking in poetry again. Life’s not a choir of souls. It’s just... people, struggling alone. I’ve seen enough to know that when you fall, no one feels your pain but you.”

Jeeny: “And yet you expect others to understand it.”

Host: Jack looked up, startled — as if her words had struck something buried beneath his calm tone. The fountain’s water fell in rhythmic drops, like a clock counting guilt.

Jack: “Understanding isn’t the same as sharing the blame. You think sin’s contagious? That if I lie or fall, I infect the world?”

Jeeny: “Not infect. Reflect. We are mirrors, Jack. What you break in yourself distorts what others see. When one part of the body aches, the rest limps with it. That’s what McNabb meant — the Church isn’t a building, it’s a living network of souls.”

Jack: He gave a dry laugh. “Souls. You sound like an old priest.”

Jeeny: “Maybe priests have something we’ve forgotten — the idea that we’re not self-contained islands.”

Jack: “But isn’t that dangerous? To think your guilt belongs to everyone? It’s how religion manipulates — by making your private choices into public crimes.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s not manipulation, it’s connection. Take the world today — when a company dumps poison into a river, it’s not just one man’s sin. The villagers drink that water, the children fall ill. One greed, one secret act, injures the whole.”

Host: The candles sputtered in the breeze, casting shadows like moving ghosts on the walls. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he gazed at the crucifix above the door.

Jack: “Fine, but what about when the opposite happens? When you suffer quietly, and no one comes? If the body is so mystical, why does it abandon its limbs?”

Jeeny: “Because the body forgets, not because it ceases to exist. When you feel alone, it’s not proof that you are — it’s proof that others have stopped listening.”

Jack: “Or proof that there’s nothing to hear.”

Jeeny: “Then why are you here, Jack? In this place of prayer, under these bells?”

Host: Jack’s silence filled the courtyard like fog. His eyes flicked toward the altar, then to Jeeny — her face glowing in the faint light of the candles.

Jack: “Because I lost someone. And I keep wondering if her forgiveness matters now that she’s gone.”

Jeeny: Her tone softened. “It does. Forgiveness doesn’t vanish with death; it echoes in the living who remember. When you seek it, you’re already reaching back into that body you think doesn’t exist.”

Jack: “But what if I can’t reach far enough?”

Jeeny: “You don’t have to. The Mystical Body reaches for you too.”

Host: The moment hung between them — fragile, like glass about to break. The sound of the wind against the bells carried the faint tremor of hope.

Jack: “You talk about this ‘body’ as if it were perfect. But what about corruption in the Church, or cruelty done in God’s name? You can’t tell me that’s part of His body too.”

Jeeny: “It is — in the same way a wound is part of a body until it’s healed. The body carries its sickness; it doesn’t deny it. When the Church fails, it doesn’t mean God is absent — it means we’re diseased, and we must confess, together.”

Jack: “So even the Church sins?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And in confessing, it becomes holy again.”

Host: The rain began, soft at first, then steadier — droplets glimmering on Jeeny’s hair, darkening Jack’s coat. The courtyard seemed to breathe with them, the smell of wet stone rising in the air.

Jack: “You sound like you still believe in redemption — not just for the soul, but for the whole mess of humanity.”

Jeeny: “I do. Because every act of kindness is a kind of confession. When you forgive, when you mend what’s broken, you heal a piece of the world’s soul.”

Jack: “That’s poetic again. But what about those who can’t forgive? Or those who hurt others and feel nothing?”

Jeeny: “Then the rest of us must feel for them. That’s the weight of belonging. We bear the pain of others so they might one day remember what it means to be human.”

Jack: “That’s too heavy, Jeeny. You can’t carry the world’s sins.”

Jeeny: “No, but we can refuse to pretend we’re separate from them.”

Host: A pause followed, long and trembling. The rain blurred the candles, their flames bending but refusing to die.

Jack: “You know, I used to come here with my mother. She said God listens better when you’re quiet. I thought she meant silence made prayer stronger. But maybe she meant something else — maybe silence lets you hear the others.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Maybe silence is how the Mystical Body breathes.”

Jack: “So you think even my sins — my private ones — echo out there?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But so do your prayers.”

Host: A light flickered across Jack’s face — not from the candles, but from within, something faint and awakening. He looked toward the altar, where a single beam of moonlight had slipped through the broken roof, cutting through the rain like a blessing.

Jack: “If that’s true, then maybe the only way to heal is to stop pretending we’re not all connected. Maybe my pain isn’t mine alone.”

Jeeny: “That’s all I’ve been trying to tell you.”

Jack: He smiled faintly. “Then maybe I owe more apologies than I thought.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you owe the world your forgiveness, too.”

Host: The rain began to ease. The bells tolled once more — slow, resonant, and filled with the weight of eternity. The two of them sat there, side by side, the sound of the fountain mingling with the drizzle, the silence between them no longer empty but full — like the quiet heartbeat of something larger than either could name.

The moonlight deepened, washing the courtyard in silver. Jack closed his eyes, and for a moment, his breathing matched the rhythm of the world’s — as if the Mystical Body itself had drawn him back in.

Jeeny whispered, almost to herself:
“None of us go alone, Jack. Not even when we think we do.”

Host: And the night answered with stillness — a sacred stillness, holding them both in its arms, like the unseen body of a God who was never far at all.