Educational institutes can no longer be prizes in church politics

Host:
The evening sky burned a dull orange, the kind that lingers too long before surrendering to night. Inside a university hallway, the florescent lights hummed, flickering between white and grey, giving everything a feeling of being half-awake, half-forgotten.

The walls were lined with old portraits—stern-faced deans, rectors, and benefactors, their eyes following you as you passed, like the ghosts of a forgotten order. Outside, a protest chant echoed faintly through the courtyard, carried by the wind—a demand for change, for accountability, for something more than ceremonial ideals.

At the end of the corridor, inside a faculty lounge that smelled faintly of coffee and paper, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other at a wooden table scarred by decades of debate.

Jack’s sleeves were rolled up, his grey eyes hard, focused, a man too familiar with the machinery of institutions. Jeeny’s hair was pulled into a messy knot, her eyes alive, a spark of belief refusing to be extinguished by bureaucracy.

Pinned to the corkboard behind them was a quote, yellowed and curling at the edges:
“Educational institutes can no longer be prizes in church politics or furnish berths for failure in other walks of life.” — E. Franklin Frazier

Jack:
There it is—the line that should’ve been engraved over every university gate since the 1930s. And yet, here we are. Same names, same dynasties, same games. The institutions Frazier warned about have just changed costumes.

Jeeny:
I don’t think it’s as hopeless as you make it sound, Jack. The fact that people are even talking about reform now—that’s progress.

Jack:
“Talking” is cheap, Jeeny. You can’t fix a machine by writing essays about it. Universities were built to protect privilege, not to question it.

Jeeny:
Maybe once. But they can become something better—if people inside them choose to.

Host:
The sound of distant chanting rose again outside—students marching beneath banners that read “Education is not a commodity.” Jeeny’s eyes flicked toward the window, her expression softening into something like pride.

Jack’s gaze stayed fixed on her, sharp and steady.

Jack:
You still believe that good intentions can fix systems, don’t you? You think that if we just educate people, they’ll somehow change.

Jeeny:
I believe education should be liberation, not indoctrination. Frazier saw that even back then. He wasn’t just talking about religion—he was talking about power, about how knowledge gets weaponized to keep people in their place.

Jack:
And who’s holding the weapon now? The same people who talk about equity in the morning and budget cuts at night. You think these institutions can be moral? They’re built on politics, not principles.

Jeeny:
Then what’s the alternative, Jack? Burn the libraries? Silence the teachers?

Jack:
No. Just stop pretending the ivory tower is a temple. It’s a marketplace—and every lecture, every degree, every hire has a price tag.

Host:
The clock on the wall ticked like a metronome of disillusionment. The light flickered again, painting their faces in alternating warmth and sterility.

Jeeny’s voice rose, not in anger, but in urgency, like a heartbeat quickening.

Jeeny:
You think cynicism makes you honest, Jack. But it just makes you paralyzed. Frazier wasn’t cynical. He was furious—and he turned that fury into change. He named the corruption in education, the way the church used schools to secure status, and how failed politicians ended up as rectors and deans.

Jack:
And yet, we’re still sitting here, aren’t we? In the same halls, under the same portraits, pretending academia isn’t just elitism in a robe.

Jeeny:
Then maybe we’re supposed to reclaim it, not abandon it. Frazier didn’t say to destroy the institutions. He said to purify them—strip them of politics, of cronyism, of mediocrity disguised as tradition.

Jack:
You can’t “purify” something that was born dirty.

Jeeny:
No. But you can wash it until it starts to reflect the light again.

Host:
A silence settled—thick, heavy, but not hopeless. Outside, the protesters’ voices had turned into a song, the kind sung when anger has exhausted itself and only conviction remains.

Jeeny stood, her hands trembling slightly, pacing by the window.

Jeeny:
Do you know what Frazier risked to say that? In the 1930s, to stand up and say that education was being used as a political trophy—that was heresy. He was calling out systems that pretended to be holy but were really just corrupt networks.

Jack:
And what happened? He was ostracized, criticized, almost exiled from his own field. That’s what happens when you speak truth to institutions—they close the doors and call it decorum.

Jeeny:
But he kept writing. Kept teaching. That’s what courage looks like. It’s not about winning, it’s about refusing to surrender your voice.

Jack:
Maybe you’re right. But I’ve seen what happens to people who fight too long. They either burn out or get absorbed by the very system they hate.

Jeeny:
Then maybe our job isn’t to win or lose. Maybe it’s to remind people that the fight still matters.

Host:
Jeeny’s eyes glowed, her voice steady, though her hands shook. Jack’s expression softened, his shoulders relaxing as if he’d been holding up the weight of something invisible for years.

He glanced again at the quote on the wall, his voice low, almost to himself.

Jack:
“Educational institutes can no longer be prizes in church politics…”
He said that almost a century ago. And yet, it feels like it was written this morning.

Jeeny:
Because it still is. The church may have changed names—it’s corporations now, or donors, or political boards. But the disease is the same. It’s the idea that education exists to serve power, not truth.

Jack:
Truth doesn’t pay salaries.

Jeeny:
No, but it saves souls.

Jack:
You sound like a priest.

Jeeny:
No. Just a believer. In students, in teachers, in the possibility that a classroom can still be a revolution, not a transaction.

Host:
Jack’s lips curved, not into a smile, but something quieter—respect, maybe even recognition. The light above them steadied, the flicker gone. Outside, the chanting had stopped; only the echo remained, floating between the buildings like the ghost of a promise.

Jack:
You think these kids out there know who Frazier was?

Jeeny:
Maybe not yet. But they’re living his truth. They just call it something different.

Jack:
Like what?

Jeeny:
Like justice. Like freedom. Like dignity.

Host:
The clock struck seven, its sound deep and final, echoing down the hallway. Jack stood, put on his jacket, and for a moment, the weight of his cynicism seemed to lift.

He looked at Jeeny, smiled faintly, and said—

Jack:
Maybe education isn’t dead. Maybe it’s just… waiting for new hands.

Jeeny:
It always is. But only if those hands aren’t afraid to get dirty fixing it.

Host:
Outside, the night had fallen completely now, but the protest lights still burned, small orbs of defiance against the dark.

Jack and Jeeny walked out, their shadows stretching long under the arches of the old university, past the portraits that no longer seemed to judge, but to watch quietly, as if curious about what the next generation might dare to build.

And as the door closed behind them, the words on the corkboard caught a final glow from the exit light—
reminding the empty hallway that education, like truth, cannot be owned, only fought for.