I don't care what religion you are, you cannot say 'I accept

Host:
The stadium lights had long been turned off, leaving the vast field bathed in the quiet silver of moonlight. The air still carried the faint echo of roars, chants, and the restless energy of thousands — but now, all that remained was the soft whisper of wind through the empty stands.

On the sideline bench, Jack sat with his hands clasped, a small soccer ball resting near his feet, its surface worn and scuffed, like something that had known too many victories and defeats. Across from him, Jeeny stood with her arms crossed, the faint glow of her phone screen lighting her face as she read aloud.

Jeeny: quietly, reading from her screen — “Demba Ba once said, ‘I don’t care what religion you are, you cannot say “I accept certain things but I reject others.” That’s not the right behaviour.’”

Jack: leans back, eyes narrowing thoughtfully — “That’s quite the statement. Sounds like someone who believes in absolutes.”

Jeeny: looking up from her phone — “Or someone who believes in consistency. There’s a difference.”

Host:
The moon hung low, reflecting off the metal bleachers and puddles left by a brief rain. The field, half-lit and half-shadowed, looked like the perfect metaphor for what they were about to argue: the endless pull between conviction and compromise.

Jack: dryly — “Consistency? Or obedience? Because those two often wear the same uniform. I’ve seen what happens when people stop questioning their creeds. They stop thinking — and start preaching.”

Jeeny: steps closer, her tone calm but pointed — “But Jack, isn’t the other extreme just as dangerous? The idea that truth is a buffet — that you can take what tastes sweet and leave what challenges you? That’s not faith. That’s convenience.”

Jack: half-smiling, half-sighing — “Maybe convenience is what keeps faith human. We pick, we adapt, we survive. If religion doesn’t bend, it breaks.”

Host:
A gust of wind moved across the field, rippling the flags above the stands. The echo of a whistle seemed to drift through memory — faint, distant, like a lesson from a past match still replaying in the mind.

Jeeny: softly but firmly — “That’s the problem. We treat faith like a game to survive, not a way to live. Demba Ba wasn’t talking about rigidity; he was talking about integrity. If you claim to follow something sacred, you don’t get to rewrite it when it’s inconvenient.”

Jack: leans forward, voice lower now — “And what if that something sacred was written by men who didn’t understand half the world we live in now? You follow that blindly, you end up defending cruelty in the name of consistency.”

Jeeny: without hesitation — “Then maybe the problem isn’t the teaching — it’s the heart of the one who interprets it. The scripture doesn’t sin; people do.”

Host:
The silence between them stretched, the kind that hummed with unspoken emotion. The ball rolled slightly, caught by the wind, tapping softly against Jack’s shoe — a quiet reminder of the conversation’s tension: movement, impact, consequence.

Jack: his tone reflective now — “So, what are we supposed to do? Follow every commandment, every rule, even the ones that don’t make sense anymore? Even the ones that hurt people?”

Jeeny: walks toward the field, her shoes brushing through the damp grass — “No. We’re supposed to understand what the rules were meant for. Every religion — every moral system — started as an attempt to shape the soul, not suffocate it. But we’ve twisted faith into allegiance. We defend dogma instead of embodying compassion.”

Jack: stands, following her gaze — “Then maybe what he said doesn’t hold anymore. Maybe it’s okay to reject some parts — if rejecting them brings you closer to humanity.”

Jeeny: turns to him, eyes fierce but full of sorrow — “And who decides what humanity is, Jack? You? Me? We’ve been rewriting morality for centuries, and all we’ve done is find new ways to justify old wrongs.”

Host:
The lights flickered faintly from the scoreboard above — a remnant of the past game’s memory. The numbers still glowed dimly, as if the match had never truly ended.

Jack: rubbing his hands together against the cold — “You talk about faith like it’s a contract — no negotiation, no freedom. But the best kind of belief, Jeeny, is the kind that breathes. The kind that can evolve.”

Jeeny: softly, but unyielding — “No, Jack. The best kind of belief doesn’t evolve — the believer does. Faith isn’t supposed to change the rules; it’s supposed to change the person.”

Host:
A faint mist rolled across the field, blurring the edges of the scene — the way conviction and doubt blur inside every thinking person. The moon now hung directly overhead, bright, almost accusing, as though watching their every word.

Jack: quietly, almost a whisper — “So, what if you can’t believe all of it anymore? What if part of you rebels?”

Jeeny: after a pause, her voice tender now — “Then wrestle with it. But don’t lie to yourself and call rebellion righteousness. There’s a difference between questioning to understand and rejecting to justify.”

Host:
Her words hung in the cold air, like the mist itself — weightless yet heavy, gentle yet impossible to ignore. Jack looked down, his expression softening, the stubbornness in his eyes giving way to something more fragile: honesty.

Jack: slowly — “When I was younger, I used to think faith was a kind of blindness. But maybe it’s more like sight — the painful kind that makes you face things you’d rather not see.”

Jeeny: nods softly, smiling faintly — “Exactly. Faith doesn’t ask you to close your eyes. It asks you to open them wider — even when the light burns.”

Host:
The wind shifted again, carrying a faint echo of applause — perhaps only imagination, or memory, or the sound of old souls approving from somewhere unseen. The stadium, once a place of noise, had become a cathedral of thought.

Jack: quietly, after a long silence — “You know what I think Demba Ba meant? He wasn’t saying ‘Don’t question.’ He was saying ‘Don’t pretend.’ Don’t call yourself faithful if you’re not willing to live by what you claim to believe.”

Jeeny: smiling gently — “And that, Jack, is integrity. Not in the doctrine — but in the doing.”

Host:
The camera pulls back, the two figures small against the massive field, surrounded by shadows and silver light. The ball rolls again, this time coming to rest perfectly still — as if the argument had found its balance.

Host (closing):
Demba Ba’s words echo beyond religion — they speak to the human tendency to wear our convictions like costumes: convenient when admired, discarded when challenged.
But belief — whether in God, justice, or simple goodness — is not a garment to be changed with the weather. It is the thread that weaves our choices together.

Faith, stripped of comfort, is not about certainty — it’s about honesty.
To live with integrity is to say:
“I do not understand it all, but I will not pretend to believe what I do not live.”

And as the moonlight fades, the two silhouettes remain — not in opposition, but in understanding —
that true religion, like true character, is not about accepting or rejecting,
but about becoming whole enough that nothing within you needs to be rejected at all.