When I am angry I can pray well and preach well.

Host: The sun had fallen, leaving behind a burnt-orange afterglow that lingered over the churchyard. The air was cool, tinged with incense and dust, and the faint hum of an organ drifted from the chapel next door—melancholy, slow, and holy.

Host: Inside the small stone church, Jack sat in the front pew, his hands clasped, his head bowed, though not in prayer. A half-burned candle flickered beside him, casting long, shifting shadows across the walls. Jeeny stood behind the altar, arranging hymn books, her movements calm, her voice gentle when she spoke.

Jeeny: “Martin Luther once said, ‘When I am angry I can pray well and preach well.’”

Host: Jack’s head lifted slightly, a bitter smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

Jack: “That’s because anger makes you honest. It strips you down. No politeness. No pretense. Just truth.”

Jeeny: “Truth, maybe. But raw truth can wound deeper than lies.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the point. Wounds wake people up. Luther wasn’t gentle when he nailed his theses to the door. He was furious. And that fury shook an empire.”

Host: The wind pushed through the open window, snuffing one of the candles. Smoke curled upward, twisting like a ghost between them.

Jeeny: “You think that’s what prayer is—shouting at God?”

Jack: “Sometimes it has to be. You ever try to pray when you’re calm? It’s empty. But when you’re angry—when your chest feels like it’s going to explode—you don’t have time to fake it. You tell the truth then. To God. To yourself.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened, but there was steel in her tone.

Jeeny: “And what happens when that anger starts to sound more like pride than prayer?”

Jack: “It’s not pride if it’s justified.”

Jeeny: “That’s what everyone says before they start believing they’re the only one who’s right.”

Host: The candles flickered again, casting shadows on the stone floor, like old sins resurrected. A bell tolled somewhere outside, its echo lingering like an accusation.

Jack: “You make anger sound like a disease.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a disease, Jack. It’s a weapon. Useful—if you know where to aim it. Dangerous—if you don’t.”

Jack: “Then maybe I’m tired of being careful.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll hurt someone who doesn’t deserve it.”

Host: Jack rose, his hands trembling, fists tightening, his voice low but burning.

Jack: “You think I haven’t already? You think I don’t know what that feels like?”

Jeeny: “Then why keep feeding it?”

Jack: “Because it’s the only time I feel alive! When I’m angry, I can speak. I can move. I can see things clearly. The lies, the hypocrisy—they all burn away.”

Jeeny: “And what’s left after the burning, Jack?”

Jack: (pausing) “Ashes. Maybe that’s enough.”

Host: The organ stopped, leaving a vacuum of silence. The wind sighed through the open door, carrying the smell of wet stone and memory.

Jeeny: “Anger might light the fire, but it doesn’t keep it warm. Luther’s anger worked because it wasn’t for himself—it was for truth. For people chained by fear. Can you say yours is the same?”

Jack: “Truth doesn’t care why it’s told.”

Jeeny: “But people do. You preach when you’re angry, Jack. But who are you preaching to—God, or your own ghosts?”

Host: Her words hung in the air, sharp yet tender, like a blade held to save, not kill. Jack’s breathing slowed; the flame of the remaining candle wavered, casting a halo around his face that made him look both saint and sinner.

Jack: “I don’t know anymore. Maybe I just want to be heard.”

Jeeny: “Then be angry with silence, not with people.”

Jack: (bitter laugh) “Silence doesn’t fight back.”

Jeeny: “It listens. That’s harder.”

Host: A raindrop hit the stone window ledge, then another, until a soft drizzle began, the sound melting into the quiet of the chapel.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when you gave that speech at the protest? You said you felt ‘alive’ for the first time.”

Jack: “Yeah. And I also nearly got arrested.”

Jeeny: “You were right to be angry. But it wasn’t your anger that moved people—it was your pain. You let them see it.”

Jack: “What’s the difference?”

Jeeny: “Pain humbles you. Anger blinds you.”

Host: The rain intensified, rattling the windows, as if echoing their conflict. Jack’s eyes were dark, unsteady, his voice now a whisper wrapped in thunder.

Jack: “You know, Luther was excommunicated for his anger. But he didn’t stop. He said his wrath helped him speak against lies and stand before kings. Maybe we need more of that.”

Jeeny: “We need his courage, not his fury. His anger served faith. Yours serves your wounds.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe my wounds deserve a sermon.”

Jeeny: “Then make sure your sermon heals, not condemns.”

Host: The rain began to ease, turning from storm to whisper. The candle flame steadied, casting a warm light now, softening their faces.

Jack: “You ever think maybe anger can be holy? That it’s the soul’s last defense against apathy?”

Jeeny: “It can be holy—if it burns for justice, not revenge. Even Jesus overturned the tables in the temple, Jack. But when He left, He didn’t build a shrine to His anger. He built a way to forgiveness.”

Host: The words settled between them, like dust finding rest after a collapse. Jack’s expression changed—the edges of his anger softened, revealing the weary man beneath the fire.

Jack: “I thought anger gave me purpose.”

Jeeny: “It gave you a voice. But now you need a heart to carry it.”

Jack: “And if I can’t?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll preach beautifully and live miserably.”

Host: A church bell chimed midnight. The rain had stopped, leaving drops on the windows that caught the candlelight, each one shining like a miniature world, fragile and trembling.

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You know, for someone who believes in peace, you argue like a preacher.”

Jeeny: “And for someone who believes in anger, you sound a lot like a prayer.”

Host: He laughed, quietly this time, the kind that carries both resignation and relief. The church was still, bathed in a golden calm that seeped into their voices.

Jack: “Maybe Luther was right after all. Maybe anger can make a man pray well… if it’s pointed the right way.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Toward heaven, not toward others.”

Jack: “Then maybe tonight, I’ll pray in anger—but I’ll end in grace.”

Jeeny: “That’s all God ever asks.”

Host: The flame of the last candle flickered, then settled, steady and bright. Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, their shadows touching on the stone floor, as if the fire inside them had finally found its altar.

Host: And as the night deepened, the anger that once raged in Jack’s chest became something else—not a weapon, not a curse, but a prayer: raw, real, and forgiven.