Woe to us if we get our satisfaction from the food in the kitchen

Host: The night lay still over a quiet suburb, each house glowing faintly from within — little boxes of comfort and containment. Through one of those houses, the camera drifted slowly, gliding past the soft hum of the refrigerator, the flicker of a television, the shadows of lives repeating themselves.

It stopped in the living room, dimly lit by a single lamp. Two figures sat on an old couch — Jack, slouched, holding a half-empty glass of whiskey, and Jeeny, sitting upright beside him, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes fixed on the flickering TV screen that played a muted game show no one cared about.

Outside, the rain whispered against the window, as if trying to remind them of something they’d both forgotten.

Jeeny: “John Piper once said, ‘Woe to us if we get our satisfaction from the food in the kitchen and the TV in the den and the sex in the bedroom with an occasional tribute to the cement blocks in the basement.’”

Jack: smirking “Leave it to a preacher to turn a house into a sermon.”

Host: The TV light danced across his face, carving out the lines of both defiance and fatigue. He looked not angry, but quietly haunted — the kind of man who’d already lived the thing being condemned.

Jeeny: “He’s not talking about houses, Jack. He’s talking about hunger.”

Jack: takes a sip “Yeah, the kind that never shuts up. But tell me — what’s wrong with being content? You work, you eat, you rest. Isn’t that the point of surviving?”

Jeeny: “Surviving, maybe. But not living. There’s a difference.”

Jack: leans back, cynical smile forming “And what’s your version of ‘living’? Poetry and prayer? A noble emptiness that feels righteous but pays no bills?”

Jeeny: “No. Real living is when your soul still aches for meaning even after your stomach’s full.”

Host: Her voice cut through the room, gentle yet firm, like a chisel striking marble. The TV continued to flicker — laughter without joy, applause without reason.

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t pay for heating, Jeeny. You can’t light purpose when the power’s out.”

Jeeny: “You think comfort is a substitute for purpose? That’s the real poverty — to be full and still hollow.”

Host: The rain outside grew stronger, tapping against the glass like an anxious thought. Jack’s eyes drifted toward the muted TV — its colorless movement reflecting the endless loop of modern noise.

Jack: “You make it sound like having things is a sin. People want safety, predictability. What’s wrong with that?”

Jeeny: “Nothing. Until safety becomes the altar you kneel to. Until the house owns the man who bought it.”

Host: The words landed like quiet thunder. The room, filled moments before with static and light, suddenly felt smaller — suffocating, even.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never wanted a quiet life.”

Jeeny: “I have. But not a numb one.”

Jack: “Same thing, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “No. Numbness pretends to be peace. It’s the soul’s anesthesia.”

Host: She rose from the couch, walking slowly toward the window, her silhouette framed by the streetlight outside. The rain illuminated her in fragments — the glow of someone both fragile and unyielding.

Jeeny: “Do you ever wake up and wonder if this is it? The repetition — work, eat, scroll, sleep — like someone pressed pause on your life and called it stability?”

Jack: quietly “Every damn day.”

Host: He set his glass down. The faint clink sounded louder than it should have. The silence that followed was alive — restless, breathing, waiting.

Jeeny: “That’s what Piper meant. Woe to us when the flame inside us settles for sparks from television screens and kitchen lights. When we trade transcendence for convenience.”

Jack: “Transcendence?” he laughs softly “You sound like a priest.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And you sound like a man afraid to be alone with his own silence.”

Host: His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he turned off the TV. The room plunged into a deeper darkness, the only light now coming from the window and the faint glow of her reflection beside his.

Jack: “You ever think maybe the problem isn’t that people settle — but that the world gives them nothing greater to reach for?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The world gives us more than enough. We’re just too distracted to see it.”

Jack: “You mean faith.”

Jeeny: “I mean hunger. The kind that doesn’t go away with food.”

Host: The thunder rolled faintly outside. The clock ticked — each second like a quiet warning.

Jack: “When I was younger, I thought ambition was the cure for emptiness. You work, you build, you climb. Then one day, you’re standing at the top, looking down at everything you’ve built… and wondering why the view feels cold.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s missing altitude of another kind — the kind that comes from within.”

Jack: “You think spirituality fills that hole?”

Jeeny: “Not spirituality. Gratitude. Awe. The recognition that there’s something sacred even in the mundane — if you’re awake enough to see it.”

Host: The rain softened. The silence between them grew thick, not tense, but contemplative. The kind of silence that feels like the pause before understanding.

Jack: “You ever feel like you’re waiting for something divine that never comes?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s been coming all along. We just keep changing the channel.”

Host: She looked around the room — the furniture, the screens, the quiet hum of comfort. It wasn’t judgment in her eyes — it was mourning.

Jeeny: “We build our walls higher — not for safety, but to block out the question: Is this really living?”

Jack: softly, almost to himself “Maybe that’s why I drink.”

Jeeny: “To drown the question?”

Jack: “To drown the silence that follows the question.”

Host: She walked back to him, sat down beside him again. The light from the window carved their faces in chiaroscuro — half shadow, half grace.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Piper was warning us about?”

Jack: shakes his head “Enlighten me.”

Jeeny: “That we’ll confuse abundance with meaning. That we’ll fill our homes and empty our souls — and never notice the trade.”

Jack: “And what’s the cure?”

Jeeny: “To want less. And to love more.”

Host: The words hung there — simple, radical, true.

The rain slowed to a whisper. Jack leaned back, eyes closed. The room was quiet now — not hollow, but heavy with reflection.

Jeeny reached over and switched off the lamp. The room dissolved into gentle darkness. Only the sound of the rain remained, steady and cleansing.

Jack: after a long pause “You think we could start over?”

Jeeny: “Every morning. As long as we remember to wake up.”

Host: The camera pulled back through the window, the two of them barely visible now, small silhouettes against the soft glow of the city — a house no longer asleep but listening.

Outside, the storm passed. The sky cleared, revealing a thin sliver of moonlight resting on rooftops, silent but watchful.

And as the world returned to stillness, the echo of Piper’s warning lingered like a benediction —

that comfort is not peace,
that fullness is not joy,
and that a life built only on the pleasures of its rooms
will one day wake to find its walls without windows.