We must never forget that higher knowledge has to do with

Host: The hallway of the old university was silent, the kind of silence that carries weight — the silence of thought, of souls wrestling with truth. The lamplight from the arches spilled across the stone floor, painting long shadows that looked almost like questions stretched thin.

In one of the lecture rooms, Jack stood by the chalkboard, jacket off, his sleeves rolled up, hands dusted with chalk. The air smelled of old paper and burnt coffee. He had just finished his lecture, but he hadn’t left. He stared at the sentence he’d written on the board:

“We must never forget that higher knowledge has to do with revering truth and insight and not with revering people.” — Rudolf Steiner

At the back of the room, Jeeny leaned against the doorframe, watching him. Her eyes, dark and alive with curiosity, reflected the chalk dust swirling in the light, like tiny constellations of ideas between them.

Jeeny: softly “You left the quote up again. It’s been there all week.”

Jack: without turning “Because no one reads it, Jeeny. They take notes, they memorize, they nod at all the right times — but they don’t see it. They revere the teacher, not the truth.”

Jeeny: steps closer “That’s not their fault, Jack. People are taught to follow, not to question. They’re afraid of being wrong — afraid of not having someone to admire.”

Jack: turns, voice sharp “And that’s the disease of education. We’ve replaced insight with idolatry. Students quote names like Steiner, Plato, Einstein — but never their own minds. They revere the thinker, not the thinking.”

Host: The lamplight flickered, casting a shadow of Jack’s profile against the wall — strong, tired, and restless. Jeeny walked closer, her voice softening into something measured, patient, like a teacher guiding a wounded pupil.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because truth feels too vast to touch. People cling to figures because faces are easier than philosophy. Steiner, Einstein, Socrates — they’re like lighthouses in a storm. We need someone to see the light before we can follow it.”

Jack: bitter laugh “And in the process, we worship the lighthouse, not the light. That’s what he was warning against. Higher knowledge isn’t about heroes, Jeeny — it’s about humility. The moment you start revering people, you stop thinking. You just inherit their beliefs like a hand-me-down coat — it fits, but it’s not yours.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “But isn’t that where every learner begins — by borrowing voices until they find their own? Maybe reverence isn’t the enemy of truth — it’s the doorway to it.”

Host: The clock ticked in the distance, its rhythm steady, like the heartbeat of time itself. The chalk dust in the air moved through the light like thoughts suspended between conflict and understanding.

Jack: paces slowly “But reverence too often turns to blindness. Look around — we’ve built monuments to men, not movements of mind. Universities have become temples, professors their priests, and students their devotees. It’s no longer about truth — it’s about approval.”

Jeeny: gently “And yet, even priests once believed they were servants of truth, not its owners. Isn’t that the balance? To admire deeply, but still dare to disagree?”

Jack: stops, facing her now, his eyes alive with tired fire “To disagree requires courage, Jeeny. Most people don’t want truth — they want comfort that feels profound. They want to follow someone who seems certain, because certainty is a kind of drug. Steiner, Nietzsche, Kant — they were all just men trying to see, but we’ve turned them into gods who forbid us to look in new directions.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “And yet, those same men would have wanted us to look beyond them. Maybe the tragedy of great thinkers is that they’re remembered for their names, not their intentions.”

Host: The firelight from the old radiator grill cast moving shadows across the floor, dancing like thoughts flickering between certainty and doubt. Outside, a gust of wind rattled the windowpanes, and the rain began to fall, soft at first, then steady, as if the world were cleansing itself of illusions.

Jack: sits down on the desk, rubbing his eyes “When I started teaching, I thought knowledge would make people free. But now I see it just shifts their prison. They escape ignorance, only to be imprisoned by influence.”

Jeeny: steps closer, placing a hand gently on his shoulder “You’re wrong about one thing, Jack. Knowledge doesn’t trap — ego does. When we revere people, we borrow their confidence instead of earning our own. But truth doesn’t need to be owned — it just needs to be recognized. And maybe that’s what higher knowledge really means — to stop asking who said it, and start asking is it true?”

Jack: looks up at her, half-smile forming “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: softly “It is simple. But not easy.”

Host: The rain outside softened, its rhythm steady now, like a metronome for thought. The chalkboard behind them gleamed, the white letters of Steiner’s quote shimmering faintly in the lamp’s reflection.

Jack: stands again, voice quieter now, almost reverent “You know, maybe the problem isn’t that people revere teachers. Maybe it’s that teachers forget to revere truth themselves.”

Jeeny: smiling, eyes glowing with warmth “Yes. Truth doesn’t belong to us, Jack. We belong to it. It’s not a crown to wear, it’s a mirror to hold.”

Jack: grinning faintly “A mirror that never flatters.”

Jeeny: laughs softly “Exactly. And that’s why it’s sacred.”

Host: The room grew still, the lamplight steady, the storm outside fading into quiet surrender. The quote on the board seemed to glow softly, as if it were alive — as if Steiner’s words had waited all along for this very moment of comprehension.

Jack picked up the chalk again and drew a small line beneath the quote. Then, beneath it, in his own handwriting, he added:

“Reverence belongs not to the teacher, but to the truth we all serve.”

He stepped back, his face illuminated by a quiet clarity. Jeeny watched him, her smile tender, the firelight flickering in her eyes.

Host: And as they stood there, surrounded by the echoes of thought, the rain washed the windows clean, the night air pure again — as though truth itself had been listening.

In that small room, in the company of humility and insight, they both understood what Steiner meant —

that knowledge is not about adoration,
but about awakening;

not about names remembered,
but about truth rediscovered;

and that to revere truth is to bow not before people,
but before the light within us that forever seeks it.