Evangelicals have, for decades, believed that the country was

Host: The city was wrapped in the faint hum of winter wind, its streets glowing under the orange lamps like veins of a tired organism. Inside a narrow diner at the corner of Elm and 3rd, the neon sign flickered, spelling “Faith’s Grill” in trembling light. The hour was late — somewhere between midnight and memory — when truth feels heavier than the coffee that fuels it.

Jack sat in the far booth, his collar loosened, a newspaper folded beside him, the bold headline about religious liberty debates still visible. Jeeny slid into the opposite seat, the snow melting off her coat, her eyes sharp, searching.

The world outside was silent. But inside — the conversation was about to wake the sleeping ghosts of faith and politics.

Jeeny: “You read this?” She tapped the headline. “Ben Domenech said, ‘Evangelicals have, for decades, believed the country was more conservative than not, more Christian than not… Now they’ve woken up to a reality that this was a polite fiction.’ He’s right, isn’t he? The illusion’s finally broken.”

Jack: “Or maybe just replaced. Every generation thinks they’ve peeled back some mask — that they see the truth clearer than their parents did. But this?” He tapped the paper. “This isn’t revelation. It’s just the pendulum swinging the other way.”

Host: The coffee machine hissed, releasing a plume of bitter steam. Jeeny folded her hands, her fingers trembling slightly, not from cold but conviction.

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s not just the pendulum. It’s the mirror breaking. For decades, people thought America was fundamentally Christian — that the country’s soul was tied to a church bell. But the truth is, it was never as pure or united as they believed. It was politeness. A myth that covered division.”

Jack: “You make it sound like hypocrisy. But myths aren’t always lies, Jeeny. Sometimes they’re the glue. ‘Polite fiction’ — that’s how nations survive. You take away the illusion of unity, and you get chaos. Look around: culture wars, polarization, everyone screaming into their corners.”

Host: A truck rumbled past outside, its headlights sliding across the window like fleeting ghosts. The silence that followed seemed to magnify every heartbeat.

Jeeny: “So you’d rather live inside a comforting lie? That’s what you’re saying?”

Jack: “I’m saying societies need a story. Even if it’s half fiction. Every civilization builds its peace on shared myths — the Greeks had Olympus, the Romans their divine Caesars, America had its ‘Christian nation.’ It wasn’t true, not fully, but it worked. It kept people talking in the same language.”

Jeeny: “Until the language stopped meaning anything.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice rose slightly, enough to make the waitress glance over before retreating behind the counter. Her breath fogged the air, her words thick with belief.

Jeeny: “That illusion you defend — it excluded people. It kept power in certain hands, faith in certain mouths. It pretended morality was monopoly. What happens when the myth serves only those who built it?”

Jack: “And what replaces it, Jeeny? Secularism? The illusion of neutrality? Don’t fool yourself. Every worldview wants dominance — religion, reason, even your beloved inclusivity. People don’t want coexistence; they want confirmation.”

Host: The rain began outside, soft at first, like the whisper of confession. The windows fogged with condensation, reflecting both their faces — one defiant, the other weary.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve lost faith in everything.”

Jack: “No — I’ve just learned to mistrust anyone who claims ownership of truth. I’ve seen both sides — the preachers who turned pulpits into platforms, and the activists who replaced sermons with hashtags. It’s all the same performance.”

Jeeny: “You think faith is performance?”

Jack: “I think public faith is. Private faith — that’s something else. But the minute it steps into politics, it stops being holy. It becomes marketing.”

Host: The rain hit harder, drumming against the roof like the heartbeat of a restless city. Jeeny looked down, her reflection in the dark coffee trembling.

Jeeny: “You’re bitter, Jack. But maybe you’re just disappointed. Because once, you believed in the same polite fiction, didn’t you? The idea that we were better — kinder, more moral — just because we called ourselves a Christian country.”

Jack: pausing “Maybe. But I also believed people could handle truth. Turns out they can’t. The moment you tell them the myth is gone, they tear each other apart trying to build new ones.”

Jeeny: “That’s the pain of waking up. You confuse disillusionment with destruction. But the truth doesn’t destroy; it rebuilds differently. It’s like the Reformation all over again — tearing down indulgences, yes, but making room for something more honest.”

Jack: “Honest? Luther replaced one dogma with another. History doesn’t purify — it just rearranges power.”

Host: The lights flickered as thunder rolled in the distance, low and trembling. For a moment, both sat in silence, the storm outside mirroring the one between them.

Jeeny: “So you’d rather sleep in the comfort of illusion than face the cost of awakening?”

Jack: “No. I’m just saying — when you tear down the myth, make sure you’ve built something to stand in its place. Because right now, all we’ve built is noise.”

Jeeny: “Maybe noise is what truth sounds like before it finds harmony.”

Host: Her words cut through the hum of the diner like a faint melody. Jack looked at her — really looked — as if hearing something he’d forgotten.

Jack: “You actually believe this country can find harmony after all this? After religion turned into politics, and politics turned into worship?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because beneath all the anger, people still ache for meaning. Whether they find it in a pew or a protest, it’s the same hunger. Faith isn’t dying, Jack. It’s just changing its accent.”

Host: The rain softened again, tapering to a delicate whisper. Jack leaned back, eyes tracing the slow drip from the roof outside.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what scares me most — that belief will survive us. That even after all our cynicism, someone will still be praying for a country that doesn’t exist.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that prayer itself is the proof we’re not lost.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked steadily, marking the quiet truce between exhaustion and understanding. The storm outside had passed, leaving the streets slick and shining under the lamplight.

Jeeny reached across the table, her hand resting lightly on Jack’s.

Jeeny: “Every myth begins as faith. Every faith ends as myth. But somewhere in that cycle, something real remains — the human need to believe in more than ourselves.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the only polite fiction worth keeping.”

Host: A faint smile ghosted across his face, weary but sincere. The lights steadied, the diners’ hum returning to its ordinary rhythm. Outside, the city exhaled — its streets gleaming, its windows reflecting the quiet survival of belief in a skeptical age.

As the camera panned out, the neon sign outside blinked again — Faith’s Grill — its flickering light both broken and unextinguished, like the faith it was named for. And in that fragile, glowing moment, one truth lingered: that polite fictions die, but the longing for meaning — that ancient, stubborn light — never does.