Being a person of faith is just another of a wide range of fun

Host: The evening fog rolled over Harvard Yard, curling between the lampposts and the bare trees like a ghost that had never quite left. The bells of Memorial Church had just finished their hourly chime, and the air smelled faintly of wet stone and old paper. In the courtyard, a cluster of students laughed under an umbrella, their voices bouncing off the brick walls — that peculiar blend of intellect and innocence that belongs to youth in the midst of discovery.

Inside the café by the Square, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other. Books lay open between them — theology, philosophy, and a newspaper with an op-ed by Alexandra Petri. Jeeny’s finger rested on the quote, her eyes bright with that mixture of amusement and contemplation that always preceded their arguments.

Jeeny: “Listen to this, Jack. Alexandra Petri said, ‘Being a person of faith is just another of a wide range of fun activities available to those who come to Harvard.’” (She smiles.) “Isn’t that fascinating?”

Jack: (leans back, snorts) “Fascinating? It’s absurd. She’s mocking the idea that faith means anything here. It’s just another club, another brand to wear between classes. Like joining a cappella or ultimate frisbee.”

Host: Jack’s voice carried the dry edge of sarcasm, but beneath it was tension, the kind that comes from knowing you once believed — and no longer do. The light from the window fell across his face, dividing it between shadow and gold, as if even the room was arguing with him.

Jeeny: “You think she’s wrong?”

Jack: “I think she’s right — and that’s the problem. Faith used to mean sacrifice, discipline, devotion. Now it’s a bullet point on an application, a quirky trait for the diversity brochure. ‘Oh, you play the violin, and you’re Episcopalian? Wonderful!’”

Jeeny: (laughs softly) “That’s cynical, even for you. Maybe she’s just observing the change — how faith has become more open, more accessible, not confined to rituals or fear.”

Jack: “Accessible? No, Jeeny. Trivialized. When Harvard boasts about its forty religious groups in the same breath as its a cappella teams, it’s saying — ‘Faith is just another option, not a conviction.’ It’s a flavor, not a foundation.”

Host: A waiter passed, the clatter of cups interrupting the tension for a moment. The window fogged, blurring the view of the Yard, as if the world outside had stepped back, watching the debate with interest.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what freedom looks like? When people can choose their beliefs, or even treat them lightly, without fear? Isn’t that what progress is supposed to bring — not triviality, but choice?”

Jack: “You call it choice. I call it consumerism. You can’t shop for faith like you’re shopping for a major. Real belief asks you to stand for something — not just sample it because it looks good on a resume.”

Jeeny: “But maybe sampling is where faith begins. Maybe a student joins a group out of curiosity, and finds something real there. Isn’t that better than forcing people to believe without question?”

Host: Jeeny’s tone was soft, but her eyes were steady, fixed on him like a lighthouse in a storm. Jack rubbed his temples, as if her hopefulness was a kind of ache he couldn’t cure.

Jack: “You sound like one of those orientation brochures: ‘Discover your inner self and your spiritual community.’ It’s all branding, Jeeny. Even God has a club table now.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Or maybe God just learned to meet people where they are — in the mess, in the noise, in the clubs, even between a cappella rehearsals.”

Host: The rain began, softly, tapping against the glass like fingers of a ghost. The reflections of streetlights stretched across the wet pavement, shimmering like gold on water. Inside, their voices dropped lower — not out of weariness, but intimacy.

Jack: “When I was here, I used to go to church every Sunday. The pews were half-empty. Half the people came because it looked good, or because the sermon gave them something to quote in an essay. After a while, I stopped going. It felt like pretending.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it wasn’t pretending for all of them. Maybe for some, that was the only place they could still breathe.”

Jack: “You still believe in that?”

Jeeny: “I believe in people, Jack. In their need to belong, to connect to something bigger than themselves. Even if they find it in Harvard’s forty groups, or in a song, or a late-night conversation. Faith doesn’t have to look serious to be sincere.”

Jack: (shakes his head) “You make it sound like faith can be a hobby.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it can. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

Host: The silence that followed was not an ending, but a pause — like the rest in a melody that makes the next note matter more. Jack looked out at the rain, his reflection blurring with hers in the window. Two faces, one skeptical, one hopeful, both searching.

Jack: “You really think faith can survive being casual?”

Jeeny: “It’s survived being corrupted, weaponized, forgotten — why not being casual? Maybe lightness is its latest test.”

Host: Jeeny’s words floated like smoke, gentle yet impossible to grasp. Jack sighed, leaned back, and for the first time, smiled — not in mockery, but in recognition.

Jack: “You always find a way to believe in the best of people, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Someone has to. You’re already busy believing in the worst.”

Host: The rain thickened, dimming the streetlights, and for a moment, the world seemed to shrink to that table, those two cups, and the flicker of doubt and faith between them. The tension was no longer combative — it had shifted, matured, like an argument that had learned to listen.

Jack: “Maybe Petri was right, though. Maybe faith at Harvard really is just another activity — but maybe that’s the point. Maybe the divine hides in ordinary things, waiting for people to treat it like it’s fun, not fearful.”

Jeeny: “Now you sound like a believer.”

Jack: (half-smile) “Maybe I just miss being one.”

Host: The rain softened again, turning to a mist that glowed under the lamplight. Jeeny reached for her cup, her fingers brushing his — a small, human gesture, but one that carried more grace than any sermon.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what faith is, Jack. Not certainty, not ritual — just a moment where you feel connected. Even if it’s over coffee, under rain, in a university café.”

Host: The camera pulled back — the rain, the books, the light of the lamps spilling into the darkness. Outside, Harvard Yard breathed, alive with voices, music, and the quiet hum of beliefs being tested, mocked, and reborn.

And as the scene faded, the echo of Petri’s quote lingered, reshaped — not as irony, but as a truth: that even when faith becomes a club, it still reminds us that meaning — like music — is something we make together.