You may call God love, you may call God goodness. But the best

Host: The night lay quiet over an old monastery perched above a mist-laden valley. Candles flickered against ancient stone walls, their light trembling like souls unsure of their faith. The air was thick with the scent of incense and rain-soaked earth.

In the chapel, two figures sat beneath a towering stained-glass window—Jack and Jeeny. The light from the moon bled through the colored glass, spilling shards of crimson and blue across their faces.

Jack, in his dark coat, leaned against the pew, a cigarette unlit between his fingers, his eyes distant and skeptical.
Jeeny, cloaked in a soft gray shawl, sat with her hands clasped, her eyes reflecting the flickering flame of a nearby candle.

The wind sighed through the arches, as if the stone itself remembered prayers from a forgotten age.

Jeeny: “Meister Eckhart once said, ‘You may call God love, you may call God goodness. But the best name for God is compassion.’”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Compassion. That’s convenient. A nice word to soothe the pain of a chaotic world. But tell me, Jeeny, where’s that compassion when children starve or bombs fall on innocents?”

Host: The candle flame wavered as a gust of wind crept through a cracked windowpane, whispering like the ghost of an old doubt.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about where God’s compassion is, but where ours has gone. If God is compassion, then we are His mirrors — and lately, Jack, our reflection’s been broken.”

Jack: “Mirrors? We’re more like cracked glass, Jeeny. We see what we want to see. Compassion is just a word people use to feel holy while stepping over beggars on their way to church.”

Host: The rain began to fall again, soft against the roof, a steady rhythm that filled the space between their words.

Jeeny: “You always go for the worst in people. But compassion isn’t about perfection — it’s about trying despite the darkness. Think of the doctors in war zones, the strangers who risk their lives for others. Don’t you see divinity in that?”

Jack: “Divinity? I see human instinct, maybe empathy. But divinity? No. If there’s a God, He’s outsourced His job to us — and we’re doing a miserable job of it.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Or maybe He never wanted control. Maybe He just gave us the seed of compassion — and asked us to grow it.”

Host: The thunder rumbled faintly in the distance, like a reminder of something eternal beyond their understanding. Jack’s eyes flicked toward the window, the lightning etching his profile in silver lines of tension.

Jack: “You really believe compassion can hold this world together? It’s not enough. Empires are built on power, nations on fear, and progress on greed. Compassion doesn’t fund revolutions — it buries their dead.”

Jeeny: “Yet it’s the only thing that makes burying them bearable.”

Host: Her voice trembled, but her eyes burned with conviction. Jack looked at her, the smirk fading, replaced by a flicker of something like sorrow.

Jack: “You always talk like pain has meaning. Like it’s all part of some grand design. But what if there’s no design, Jeeny? What if compassion is just a trick of the brain — chemicals rewarding us for keeping the tribe alive?”

Jeeny: “And what if that’s the design? That even in the machinery of biology, there’s a whisper of grace — a reminder that we’re built to feel for each other?”

Host: The light from the candles danced across the altar, illuminating the carved faces of angels, their expressions worn by centuries of faith and doubt.

Jack: “Faith is easy when the world’s quiet. But I’ve seen compassion die in the noise. I saw a man step over another bleeding in the street, eyes straight ahead. That’s what people are. We look away.”

Jeeny: “And yet you didn’t look away, did you?”

Host: Silence. The word hung between them like a bell that refused to fade.

Jack: (after a pause) “No. I didn’t.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s God — not in the heavens, not in churches — but in that moment when you couldn’t turn your eyes away. Compassion isn’t something you find; it’s something that finds you.”

Host: The storm outside grew louder, as if the world itself leaned closer to hear them.

Jack: “That sounds beautiful. But beauty doesn’t fix the broken. You talk about compassion as if it’s a cure. It’s not. It’s a wound that never heals — and we keep pressing it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes it sacred. The willingness to feel pain without running from it. Compassion isn’t comfort, Jack. It’s courage.”

Host: A flash of lightning washed the chapel in white light, and for an instant, the statue of Christ above the altar seemed alive — eyes full of agony and mercy both.

Jack: “Courage? Or futility? You know what I think compassion does? It kills you slowly. The ones who care too much burn out first. Look at the nurses in pandemics, the aid workers in wars — they carry everyone’s grief until it eats them alive.”

Jeeny: “And still they choose it. That’s the miracle.”

Host: The rain softened. The candles hissed gently, the flames small but stubborn.

Jack: (voice quieter now) “So you think compassion is God because it survives us?”

Jeeny: “Because it transcends us. Even when it hurts, it remains. That’s something no empire, no science, no logic has ever managed — to make people care when there’s nothing left to gain.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his cigarette forgotten. The light caught in his eyes, reflecting both weariness and something awakening.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what terrifies me. If God is compassion, then He suffers with us. And if He suffers — He’s not all-powerful. He’s… human.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe God became human not to save us from suffering — but to show us how to bear it.”

Host: The wind quieted. The rain turned to mist that clung to the windowpanes like tears. The chapel seemed to breathe with them — alive, trembling, listening.

Jack: (almost whispering) “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t simple. It’s impossible — and yet we do it. Every time we hold someone who’s breaking. Every time we forgive the unforgivable. That’s God moving through us.”

Host: A bell in the distance tolled once, long and low. The sound rolled through the valley, through the stone, through their hearts.

Jack: “So… love, goodness, compassion — they’re all names for the same thing?”

Jeeny: “No. They’re all shadows of the same light.”

Host: The candle nearest to them guttered out. The smoke curled upward, a fragile thread dissolving into the darkness.

Jack: “And what happens when the light goes out?”

Jeeny: “Then compassion becomes the match that starts it again.”

Host: A slow smile crept across Jack’s face, the kind that carried both pain and peace. He reached into his pocket, struck a match, and relit the candle before them.

The flame flickered — small, defiant, golden.

Jack: “Then maybe… that’s the only miracle left worth believing in.”

Jeeny: “The only one that ever was.”

Host: The camera pulled back. The chapel glowed faintly in the dark valley, a beacon of fragile light against the storm’s shadow. Two souls, weary yet awake, sat beside a single candle that refused to die — as if the universe itself breathed the same quiet word into the night:

Compassion.