When men don't fear God, they give themselves to evil.

Host: The church bells tolled softly through the thick fog that clung to the city like a restless ghost. The streets were wet with the last rain of evening, and the smell of stone, iron, and old prayers filled the air.

Inside a near-empty cathedral, light flickered from hundreds of candles, their flames trembling like tiny souls in the dark.

Jack sat at the far pew, his coat still damp, eyes fixed on the altar — not in devotion, but in defiance. Jeeny knelt two rows ahead, hands clasped loosely, the faint reflection of flame dancing in her eyes.

Outside, the world buzzed with its Friday night — sirens, laughter, music, sin — all mingling beneath the indifferent sky.

Jack: “Ray Comfort once said, ‘When men don’t fear God, they give themselves to evil.’”

Jeeny: “Yes. And what do you think about that?”

Jack: “I think it’s naïve. Men don’t need to stop fearing God to fall into evil — they do it just fine while worshiping Him.”

Host: His voice echoed against the stone walls, hard and cold. A few heads turned briefly from the back pews, then turned away again. The cathedral swallowed his words like it had swallowed centuries of doubt before.

Jeeny: “You’re twisting it, Jack. He didn’t mean religion. He meant reverence. When people lose reverence for something higher than themselves, they start serving only themselves.”

Jack: “And what’s wrong with that? If God gave us reason, shouldn’t we use it? Maybe the real evil is kneeling to something you can’t prove.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe the evil begins when you stop kneeling altogether.”

Host: The wind outside groaned through the cracks in the great doors. The candles fluttered. Somewhere, an organ sighed — not a hymn, just a tired breath of air.

Jeeny rose slowly, turned to face him, her eyes soft but fierce.

Jeeny: “You think fear of God is primitive — that it’s just control, obedience, superstition. But what if it’s not about fear of punishment? What if it’s fear of forgetting what’s right?”

Jack: “You don’t need God to remember what’s right. We have laws. We have conscience.”

Jeeny: “And yet the world still burns. Every century writes new laws and still repeats the same sins.”

Jack: “Because people are flawed. Not because they forgot God.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they forgot the part of God that lives in them.”

Host: Her words landed like drops of holy water on hot stone — hissing, fading, but leaving a mark. Jack leaned back, his hands tightening around the edge of the pew.

He spoke again, slower now, his voice lower, more uncertain.

Jack: “You think fear makes people good?”

Jeeny: “Not fear itself. Awareness. The kind that humbles you.”

Jack: “Humility doesn’t stop evil. Power does.”

Jeeny: “Power without humility becomes evil.”

Host: The great clock above the entrance ticked once — a sound so small it felt eternal. The cathedral seemed to breathe.

Jack: “You talk about evil like it’s something we can separate from ourselves. But it’s not. It’s human. It’s born with us.”

Jeeny: “So is compassion. So is the desire to do good. The difference is what we choose to feed.”

Jack: “You think fear of God is the leash that keeps the dog in line.”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s the reminder that the leash exists.”

Jack: “And what if there’s no one holding it?”

Jeeny: “Then the reminder becomes even more important.”

Host: A candle sputtered and went out between them, its smoke curling upward — a small funeral for a moment of belief.

Jeeny sat down beside him now, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. The great stained glass above them caught the faint moonlight, washing their faces in color — blue, red, gold — fragments of saints and suffering.

Jeeny: “You know, every time people tried to build heaven without God, they ended up building hell instead. Look at history — revolutions that promised freedom, empires that promised equality. The French Revolution started with liberty and ended with guillotines.”

Jack: “And plenty of people were burned alive in the name of heaven. Don’t act like belief’s any cleaner.”

Jeeny: “It’s not clean. It’s never clean. But at least belief starts with awe. With a reminder that we’re small.”

Jack: “Maybe smallness is the problem. Maybe that’s why we kill each other — because we can’t stand it.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t peace — it was the kind of silence that presses against the chest, that demands to be broken.

Outside, the rain began again — soft, relentless, as if the world were washing itself.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was a child, my mother used to say the fear of God wasn’t about trembling. It was about respect. Like how a sailor respects the sea. You don’t worship the waves, you just know they can drown you if you forget what they are.”

Jack: “That’s a poetic way to describe submission.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the only way to survive the storm.”

Jack: “And what if the storm is inside you?”

Jeeny: “Then you kneel to it until it passes.”

Host: A long pause. Jack stared at the floor — the stone, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. His reflection flickered faintly in the candlelight: two eyes, sharp and tired, searching for something to anchor to.

Jack: “You know what I think? I think people fear God because they don’t trust themselves. It’s easier to blame the devil than admit your own weakness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But sometimes fear saves you before wisdom can.”

Jack: “Fear’s a crude teacher.”

Jeeny: “And yet we still learn.”

Host: She stood then, walking slowly toward the altar. Her footsteps echoed — the sound of resolve, soft and steady. Jack watched her, unable to tell if she was chasing something or surrendering to it.

Jeeny: “You call it naïve, but I call it necessary. Because when people stop fearing anything greater than themselves, they start believing they are God. And that’s when cruelty becomes logic.”

Jack: “You mean like dictators?”

Jeeny: “Dictators. CEOs. Soldiers. Even lovers. Everyone who forgets the sacredness of limits.”

Jack: “So you think fear keeps us moral?”

Jeeny: “Not fear. Reverence. The awareness that what you do matters beyond your own skin.”

Host: She reached out and touched one of the candles — the flame bent but didn’t die.

Jack rose, his boots echoing across the marble floor. He joined her there at the altar, both of them standing before the vast emptiness of stone and light.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we need something bigger to keep us small.”

Jeeny: “And maybe you’re right too — maybe what we fear isn’t God at all. Maybe it’s what we might become without Him.”

Jack: “Evil, then?”

Jeeny: “No. Empty.”

Host: The final bell rang. The city outside pulsed with life again — cars, laughter, hunger, noise. But inside the cathedral, the world had narrowed to two figures and a thousand flickering flames.

The air felt cleaner now, though neither had converted the other. They’d only met halfway — between reason and reverence, between doubt and prayer.

Jack’s voice came last, barely above a whisper.

Jack: “Maybe fear’s not the beginning of wisdom, Jeeny. Maybe it’s just the shadow of love.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s all God ever wanted us to remember.”

Host: The candles wavered. The light trembled. And as they turned to leave, the door creaked open, letting in the night’s cool breath — a whisper of the divine in the scent of rain and stone.

They stepped into the darkness, their footsteps echoing softly down the wet streets — two small, imperfect souls walking through a world that still hadn’t decided whether it feared God or had simply forgotten how to.