As a Christian, there is no other part of the New Right ideology

Host: The church bells of an old English town echoed through the foggy evening, their sound drifting across the river like a solemn memory. The sky was the color of ash, the kind that still glowed faintly from a fire long extinguished. Inside a small café near the cathedral, Jack and Jeeny sat at a corner table, the faint smell of incense still lingering in the air from the Sunday service.

A Bible lay between them — not open, not closed, just resting — as if waiting for someone to decide whether to believe in it or question it.

The quote had come up earlier, casually, but it now hung between them like a cross made of thought:
"As a Christian, there is no other part of the New Right ideology that concerns me more than its self-serving misuse of religious faith." — Mark Hatfield.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How faith, something meant to unite, can be so easily weaponized. Hatfield saw it clearly — the New Right didn’t want salvation, they wanted justification. They took the language of God and made it serve their power.”

Jack: “And that’s new to you?” His voice was low, rough like gravel underfoot. “Every institution twists what it touches. Faith, freedom, justice — all of it gets rewritten to fit someone’s agenda. Religion’s just the oldest tool in that toolbox.”

Host: The light above them flickered, catching the edges of the Bible’s gold leaf, turning it into a fleeting halo before fading again.

Jeeny: “But doesn’t that bother you, Jack? Using God’s name to sell hate or fear? To turn compassion into a campaign slogan?”

Jack: “It bothers me the same way gravity bothers me. It’s just there. People will always find ways to bend truth around their ambitions. You call it a misuse of faith, I call it human nature.”

Jeeny: “That’s a convenient cynicism. If we just accept corruption as inevitable, what’s left of belief?”

Jack: “Belief? That’s a personal illusion. The moment it goes public, it becomes politics. Look at the Crusades — centuries of blood spilled in the name of Christ. Or the Salem trials, where fear was dressed up as virtue. People don’t serve God; they make God serve them.”

Host: Jeeny’s hand tightened around her cup, her reflection trembling in the coffee’s surface. The rain had started again, soft, then steady, tapping against the windowpane like an impatient heartbeat.

Jeeny: “You’re right about history, but that doesn’t make it right now. If faith is twisted, then the answer isn’t to abandon it — it’s to reclaim it. To remember what it actually means. Christ stood with the poor, the broken, the outcast. The New Right turned that humility into a banner for power. That’s not faith, Jack. That’s theft.”

Jack: “You think you can untangle God from politics? You can’t. Religion gives people identity, and identity gives them leverage. It’s the oldest bargain in the world. Every prophet had a crowd, and every crowd had someone ready to use it.”

Jeeny: “So, what then? We just let them use it? Let faith become a marketplace for control? You sound like you’ve given up on human decency.”

Jack: “No,” he said, leaning forward, his grey eyes hardening. “I’ve given up on pretending. You think the megachurches in America preach the Gospel? They preach success, prosperity, and fear of the outsider. The New Right figured out the formula — wrap greed in scripture, and you can make sin look like salvation.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glistened, not from anger, but from that ache that comes when truth wounds what you still want to believe in. The cathedral bells rang again, distant but clear, each chime like a question with no easy answer.

Jeeny: “You sound like the very people you criticize — so sure that everyone’s corrupt, so certain that faith is dead. But I’ve seen grace, Jack. In small, quiet acts that never make it to newsrooms. In people who still feed the hungry and love their enemies. That’s faith too — the kind that survives without needing to perform.”

Jack: “Then maybe that kind of faith belongs in hearts, not headlines. Because once it hits the airwaves, it’s over. People will twist it. Like they twisted Jesus — turned a revolutionary into a mascot.”

Jeeny: “But you’re still quoting him, aren’t you?” she said quietly. “So even mascots can outlast their manipulators.”

Host: That line hung there — fragile, beautiful, and sharp. The room seemed to pause, as if the rain outside had stopped just to listen.

Jack: “You think the message still has power?” he asked after a long silence.

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said simply. “Because truth doesn’t need a pulpit. It just needs a heart that’s still open.”

Host: Jack looked away, his jaw unclenching, his hands now still. The sound of rain softened, blending with the faint organ music drifting from the cathedral across the street. There was something ancient in the sound — not holy, not secular — just human.

Jack: “I’ll admit something,” he said finally. “I used to believe. Not in God, exactly — but in goodness. Then I saw how easily language can be twisted, how every cause can become a brand. I started thinking maybe the whole thing was just... a story we tell to make our cruelty look purposeful.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is a story,” she said softly. “But some stories are true not because they happened, but because they happen in us. The abuse of faith doesn’t erase faith, Jack — it just makes its real meaning more urgent.”

Host: A silence fell between them, heavy but not hostile. The Bible still sat on the table, the light catching its edges. For a moment, it looked like the still center of all their arguments — fragile, beautiful, and tired.

Jeeny: “You know,” she whispered, “Hatfield wasn’t just criticizing politics. He was mourning the way faith had been hijacked — how people stopped asking, What would Christ do?, and started asking, What would my side approve of? That’s the real sin, Jack. Turning God into a mirror for our biases.”

Jack: “And what would Christ do?” he asked, half-smiling, but his eyes searched hers.

Jeeny: “He’d forgive us, probably. Then break the mirror.”

Host: A faint laugh escaped Jack — not cynical this time, but quiet, almost grateful. The rain had stopped completely now, leaving behind the scent of wet stone and distant bells.

Jeeny reached out and closed the Bible gently.
Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what faith really is — not certainty, but responsibility. Not using God, but listening for Him, even in the noise.”

Jack: “And maybe,” he murmured, “it’s the one thing we’ve been using so long we forgot how to hear.”

Host: The cathedral lights outside flickered, their reflections dancing on the rain-soaked glass. The two of them sat in silence, neither converted, neither victorious, but both somehow lighter, as if they had laid down a shared burden.

The city breathed, the bells faded, and through the quiet window, the cross atop the cathedral gleamed faintly — not as a symbol of conquest, but as a small, persistent reminder that faith, when stripped of ambition, still has the power to redeem.