I don't have any faith in the Republican Party. I don't have any

Host: The sun was setting over a rusted overpass on the edge of town, where billboards peeled and dust rose like memory smoke. The air smelled of oil, old asphalt, and the faint metallic taste of rain yet to come. A worn American flag hung from a bent pole, its threads frayed, its colors faded but still visible — red, white, blue — like stubborn ghosts that refused to die.

Jack sat on the hood of his truck, the engine ticking as it cooled, his hands stained with grease. Jeeny stood nearby, leaning against the railing, her eyes watching the road where headlights appeared and vanished like fleeting thoughts.

Host: The town was quiet now — a place where factories had closed, dreams had packed up, and faith had turned into small talk over coffee. It was here, amid the smell of rust and rain, that their words began.

Jeeny: “Franklin Graham once said — ‘I don’t have any faith in the Republican Party. I don’t have any faith in the Democrat Party. The only hope for this nation is God.’”

Jack: (snorts) “Of course he did. Preachers always say that when politics stop listening to them.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about politics listening. Maybe it’s about people remembering what they’ve stopped listening to — conscience, spirit, humility.”

Jack: “Spirit doesn’t pay for roads or feed families, Jeeny. Policy does. Systems do.”

Jeeny: “And yet, look around, Jack. How are those systems doing?”

Host: A truck roared past, spraying gravel, breaking their pause. The sound faded into the distance, leaving a heavier silence behind.

Jack: “You really think God’s gonna fix this country? The same God people use to justify wars, hate, and greed? Don’t tell me He’s our hope when He’s been used as our excuse.”

Jeeny: “I’m not talking about religion. I’m talking about belief — the idea that there’s something higher than our own power games. A moral gravity that keeps us from floating into chaos.”

Jack: “We’ve already fallen, Jeeny. Look at Congress. Look at Wall Street. Look at the streets themselves. Nobody’s waiting for God — they’re waiting for opportunity.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the problem. We’ve replaced grace with ambition. We’ve made gods out of parties, out of power, out of ourselves.”

Jack: “Because no one else is coming to save us.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we were never supposed to be saved. Maybe we were supposed to remember how to be good.”

Host: A low thunder rolled across the horizon, rumbling like ancient judgment. The light dimmed, shadows grew longer, and the first drops of rain fell, darkening the dust beneath their boots.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe — when I was a kid. My mom dragged me to church every Sunday. I prayed for things to get better. For her to stop crying. For Dad to stop drinking. For our town to come back to life. None of it happened.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe it did, Jack. Just not the way you expected.”

Jack: “No, Jeeny. Sometimes prayers don’t get answered. Sometimes they just echo until you stop listening.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe the answer isn’t in what changes — but in how you endure what doesn’t.”

Host: The rain began to pour, pounding against the metal, washing away dust, leaving only reflection — streetlights doubled in puddles like eyes watching themselves.

Jack: “You still think faith can save a nation? Faith can’t even save a family dinner from turning political.”

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t about saving arguments. It’s about saving the soul that argues. When Franklin Graham said he had no faith in parties, he was talking about something deeper — the rot in the human heart that no ballot can fix.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say when you’ve never had to rely on a paycheck written by those same parties.”

Jeeny: “And yet, those same parties rely on people’s faith — in them, in the system, in false promises. Isn’t it strange? Everyone believes in something, Jack. The question is, what’s worth believing in?”

Jack: “Survival. Reality. The things you can touch.”

Jeeny: “And what happens when what you can touch turns to dust?”

Host: The rain slowed to a drizzle, the sky a bruise-colored blend of purple and smoke. Jack’s hands trembled as he lit a cigarette, the flame flickering like a tiny defiance against the coming dark.

Jack: “You talk about faith like it’s a weapon. But faith has been used to divide as much as any flag.”

Jeeny: “Only when it’s turned into an institution. Not when it’s lived as a truth.”

Jack: “Truth? Everyone’s got their own version.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe God isn’t a version. Maybe He’s the space between them — the silence where all sides stop shouting.”

Host: Her voice softened with something ancient, like a hymn sung under breath. The rainlight caught her face, and for a moment, she looked almost timeless, like she belonged to another century — the kind where people still knelt without asking why.

Jack: “You really think this nation could kneel again?”

Jeeny: “Not in submission — in humility. In remembering that no empire lasts forever. Not Rome. Not Babylon. Not us. Every one that forgets its soul collapses from within.”

Jack: “History as morality tale, huh? You sound like my grandfather. He used to say the same — ‘God bless America,’ even when he had nothing left but his tools and an old radio.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he was right. Maybe the blessing wasn’t in what he had, but in what he refused to lose — faith.”

Host: The lightning flashed, illuminating the town’s ruins — the abandoned mill, the graffiti-covered church, the empty diner. In that brief glow, the truth was visible: a nation built from dreams and debts, still standing but barely breathing.

Jack: “You know what scares me, Jeeny? Not that people have lost faith in God — but that they’ve replaced Him with politics. We’ve made the White House our temple, and our votes our prayers.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And neither party can resurrect the human heart. That’s why Graham’s words sting — because they’re true. Without something greater than ourselves, we just keep fighting over ashes.”

Jack: “So what — we close Congress and open churches?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “No. We open our eyes. We stop worshiping tribes and start remembering what it means to love beyond opinion.”

Jack: “Love doesn’t legislate.”

Jeeny: “Neither does cynicism.”

Host: The rain stopped altogether. A ray of gold broke through the clouds, striking the flag that hung nearby. It moved, just barely, as if remembering how to breathe.

Jeeny: “You know what faith really is, Jack? It’s the courage to believe in something pure in a corrupt world. Not because it’s easy — but because it’s the only thing left that’s clean.”

Jack: (quietly) “And if God doesn’t answer?”

Jeeny: “Then we keep living like He’s watching. That’s what keeps nations honest.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the smell of wet earth and oil, mingling into something strangely sacred. Jack looked at Jeeny, the flame of his cigarette now just an ember between his fingers.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we’ve been worshiping all the wrong gods. Parties, profits, promises. Maybe we forgot that belief isn’t about sides — it’s about direction.”

Jeeny: “And direction without faith is just motion.”

Jack: “Faith without thought is blindness.”

Jeeny: “Then let them meet — thought and faith. That’s where nations heal.”

Host: A distant siren echoed, faint and fading. The sky had cleared to a deep, forgiving blue.

Jack stood, brushing dust from his hands, looking once more at the flag.

Jack: “Maybe the only hope isn’t in red or blue. Maybe it’s in something you can’t vote for.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s in the space between — where conscience lives.”

Host: They both stood there — two small figures against the vast, uncertain dusk — and the wind whispered through the flag’s torn threads, not as anthem, but as prayer.

Somewhere deep within the stillness, beneath the noise of history and division, something eternal stirred — the faint heartbeat of a nation not yet lost, only waiting to remember that hope, before it is political, is divine.