God is not on the side of the big battalions, but on the side of

Host: The morning fog clung to the harbor, wrapping the ships in a pale veil of light and salt. The air smelled of iron and oil, a strange mixture of industry and sea. Gulls screamed above the cranes, circling like restless souls.

On the pier, Jack stood in his work jacket, hands shoved deep into his pockets, staring at the cargo containers lined up like silent soldiers. His eyes, grey and distant, carried the kind of weariness that doesn’t come from lack of sleep — but from seeing too much.

Jeeny sat nearby on a coiled rope, her hair tied back, her fingers clutching a small thermos of coffee. She looked at Jack with a half-smile, sensing the storm behind his quiet.

Host: It was the kind of day when words felt heavier than the fog, and the truth came dressed in the cold.

Jeeny: “You’ve been out here for hours. What are you looking at?”

Jack: “The ocean. It doesn’t care who wins or loses. It just takes what falls into it.”

Jeeny: “That’s not true. The sea gives back, too.”

Jack: “Sometimes. But not always.”

Host: His voice was low, coarse — the voice of a man who’s fought too many battles, most of them invisible.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s already surrendered.”

Jack: (turning slightly) “No. Just someone who’s learned that size doesn’t mean strength. Voltaire said it better — God is not on the side of the big battalions, but on the side of those who shoot best.”

Host: The quote fell between them like a coin tossed into deep water, rippling through silence.

Jeeny: “So you think skill wins over faith?”

Jack: “Skill wins over almost everything, Jeeny. Faith doesn’t stop bullets. Accuracy does.”

Jeeny: “But without faith, why aim at all?”

Host: Her eyes searched his, the brown warm against the cold morning.

Jack: “Because aiming is all there is. The world doesn’t care about prayers — it cares about precision. History proves that. Napoleon’s armies, Alexander’s legions — they didn’t win because God favored them. They won because they trained better, moved faster, hit harder.”

Jeeny: “And still, Napoleon fell. Alexander died alone. If power was all that mattered, Jack, they’d be immortal.”

Host: The sound of a ship’s horn bellowed across the bay, cutting the air like a warning. Jack didn’t flinch.

Jack: “They fell because time spares no one — not because they lacked divine favor. God, if He’s watching, doesn’t take sides. He just observes the ones who do their work right.”

Jeeny: “You really believe that? That God is just a spectator in our chaos?”

Jack: “What else could He be? If He picked favorites, half this planet would’ve burned out centuries ago.”

Host: Jeeny sipped her coffee, the steam brushing her face like a small ghost.

Jeeny: “I think you misunderstand Voltaire.”

Jack: “Enlighten me.”

Jeeny: “He wasn’t dismissing faith. He was warning against arrogance. The big battalions — the empires, the armies, the corporations — they all think size guarantees victory. But Voltaire’s point was moral. Skill, courage, truth — those are the real marksmen.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He turned his gaze toward the sea, where the light was breaking through the fog.

Jack: “Courage doesn’t stop a warhead.”

Jeeny: “But it can stop a hand from launching it.”

Host: The wind picked up, lifting the edges of her coat. For a moment, neither spoke. The seagulls screamed louder, as if arguing on their behalf.

Jack: “You’re an optimist.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m just stubborn enough to think conscience still matters.”

Jack: “Conscience doesn’t win wars.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we shouldn’t be fighting them.”

Host: Her words hit him like a slap, not of anger, but of truth. He exhaled — a long, heavy breath — and kicked at a loose bolt on the dock.

Jack: “You talk like peace is a skill too.”

Jeeny: “It is. Just harder to master.”

Host: Jack gave a faint smile, though his eyes stayed cold.

Jack: “You really think one well-aimed soul can change anything?”

Jeeny: “Wasn’t it one man who stood in front of the tanks in Tiananmen Square? One girl who refused to sit at the back of the bus? They didn’t have battalions, Jack. They just had the courage to aim their hearts where it mattered most.”

Host: The harbor quieted — the kind of quiet that felt earned, not given.

Jack: “You sound like faith is a weapon.”

Jeeny: “No. Faith is the aim. The weapon is choice.”

Host: He looked at her then, really looked — at the way the light softened her face, the way her eyes didn’t blink even as the wind cut against them.

Jack: “Maybe Voltaire meant something else entirely. Maybe he wasn’t talking about God’s side at all. Maybe he was warning us — that when men invoke God in war, they better shoot straight, because He won’t intervene to clean up their mistakes.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe He’s waiting for us to learn how to aim at something better.”

Host: The fog began to thin, revealing the outline of the city across the bay, shimmering in the pale sun. Jack followed the light with his eyes, his expression softening.

Jack: “You think He’s out there — watching us?”

Jeeny: “No. I think He’s in here.” (she pressed her hand to her chest) “And maybe that’s what Voltaire really meant — that God’s on the side of those who try to aim their souls the best they can.”

Host: A moment passed — quiet, fragile, eternal. Then Jack gave a short, low laugh that cracked the silence.

Jack: “You always have to turn my cynicism into poetry.”

Jeeny: “Someone has to. Otherwise, you’ll turn it into smoke.”

Host: He took the thermos from her hand, sipped, and winced slightly at the bitterness.

Jack: “You make terrible coffee.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you keep drinking it.”

Jack: “Because you keep making it.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the smell of salt and metal, the scent of life itself — raw, imperfect, enduring.

Jeeny stood, brushing off her coat, her hair catching the first rays of sunlight.

Jeeny: “You can’t control which side God’s on, Jack. But you can control how you aim — how you live.”

Jack: (quietly) “And if I miss?”

Jeeny: “Then try again. That’s what marksmen do.”

Host: He smiled faintly — not in victory, but in understanding. The light hit his face, revealing the first trace of peace in his eyes.

The ships began to move, the engines humming like the slow heartbeat of the world. Above them, the sky cleared — a vast canvas of blue, stretching over two souls who had finally found aim, not in power, but in purpose.

And in that moment, beneath the rising sun, it seemed Voltaire’s truth was not about God or war, but about human precision — the art of living so well that even the divine might pause to watch how you aim your life.