I would suggest that faith is everyone's business. The advance or

Host: The Parliament building stood shrouded in the soft mist of dawn, its stone pillars glistening with dew. The river Thames flowed sluggishly nearby, reflecting the faint orange of the waking sun. Inside, beneath the high arches and worn portraits of forgotten leaders, the old debate chamber was empty — save for two figures.

Jeeny sat on one of the benches, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed on the podium as if listening to voices that still echoed there. Jack stood near the window, his silhouette framed by pale light, a half-burned cigarette hanging from his lips.

Host: The morning light crept across the floor, touching the old wood like a quiet blessing. Dust floated through the air — shimmering, suspended, timeless.

Jeeny: “Wilberforce once said, ‘Faith is everyone’s business. The advance or decline of faith is so intimately connected to the welfare of a society that it should be of particular interest to a politician.’ Do you think he was right, Jack?”

Jack: exhales smoke, watching it curl into the light “He was a man of his time, Jeeny. Back then, faith was the language of power. Today, politics and religion don’t mix — or at least, they shouldn’t.”

Jeeny: “But they always do, whether we admit it or not. Every policy, every law, every act of mercy or cruelty — it all comes from what we believe about people, about good and evil. That’s faith, Jack. Even the faith in nothing is a kind of faith.”

Host: The clock above them ticked with slow, solemn rhythm, like the heartbeat of the room itself.

Jack: “No. That’s philosophy, not faith. Faith is surrender — belief without proof. A politician who runs on faith is a danger. He stops listening to reason.”

Jeeny: “And a politician who runs on reason alone forgets the soul. Wilberforce wasn’t talking about blind belief; he was talking about moral vision. The kind that fueled his fight against slavery.”

Host: Jack turned, his grey eyes sharp as flint. The cigarette’s glow caught the light for a second — then vanished as he crushed it under his heel.

Jack: “Moral vision, sure. But faith is what men use to justify wars. To silence dissent. To divide.”

Jeeny: “And yet, it’s also what inspired Wilberforce to free millions. You can’t condemn the fire because someone else burned down a house with it.”

Host: Her voice was soft but unyielding, the kind that doesn’t raise in anger — only deepens with conviction.

Jeeny: “Faith, Jack, is what gives people courage when logic tells them to give up. It’s what makes the weak stand up to empires. How do you explain that?”

Jack: leans against the wooden railing, smirks faintly “Desperation. When there’s nothing left, people call what’s left faith. It’s just survival wrapped in poetry.”

Jeeny: “Then how do you explain Wilberforce? He could have lived comfortably, ignored the suffering he saw, and history would have forgiven him. But he didn’t. He fought for forty-six years to end slavery. You think that was logic?”

Host: The light shifted, illuminating Jeeny’s face, her eyes glowing with the quiet fire of belief. Jack’s features hardened, but the flicker of doubt crossed them — brief, unwilling.

Jack: “Maybe it was guilt. The wealthy always find religion convenient when it redeems them.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It wasn’t guilt — it was faith that morality still had a place in politics. He believed that goodness could be a public duty.”

Host: The echo of her words hung in the vast chamber, resonating like a distant hymn. Jack paced slowly, his boots clicking on the marble floor, his mind turning.

Jack: “You know what happens when faith leads? Science burns. Truth bends. Look at the Inquisition, at extremists today — all claiming divine sanction. Society doesn’t need more faith; it needs more honesty.”

Jeeny: “Honesty without compassion becomes cruelty. Reason without heart becomes tyranny. Faith reminds us that we’re more than strategy — we’re conscience in motion.”

Host: A low rumble of thunder rolled outside, as if history itself stirred in its sleep.

Jack: “So, what? You want politicians preaching from pulpits again?”

Jeeny: “No. I want them to remember they’re human. Faith doesn’t mean preaching; it means believing that what you do has eternal consequence. That justice isn’t just profitable — it’s sacred.”

Jack: laughs, bitterly “Sacred. You sound like the world hasn’t disappointed you yet.”

Jeeny: “Oh, it has. But that’s why faith matters. When the world breaks you, faith is what lets you rebuild without becoming the thing that broke you.”

Host: The rain began to fall, faint at first, then steadier — tapping against the tall windows like quiet applause for truth unspoken.

Jack: after a pause “So you think faith keeps society moral?”

Jeeny: “Not by itself. But it keeps it alive. Without faith — in God, in justice, in one another — society becomes machinery. Efficient, but soulless.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what we need. Machines don’t lie. They don’t wage holy wars.”

Jeeny: “They also don’t forgive, Jack. They don’t hope. They don’t love.”

Host: Her words struck him like soft blows — not painful, but impossible to ignore. The silence that followed was thick with meaning, filled with the weight of their two worlds colliding.

Jack: “You think faith can fix politics?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can remind it why it exists — not to rule, but to serve.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated the chamber — sudden, white, raw. For an instant, both stood outlined in its brilliance — two figures caught between light and shadow, argument and understanding.

Jack: “You make it sound noble, Jeeny. But people don’t elect saints. They elect survivors.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because we’ve forgotten that saints were once survivors too.”

Host: The rain eased, the light mellowed. Jack moved closer, his voice quieter now, stripped of sarcasm.

Jack: “You really believe faith is everyone’s business?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because it’s not about religion. It’s about meaning. The moment society stops believing in something greater than itself — even if that something is just the belief that goodness matters — it begins to rot.”

Jack: “And you think politicians should carry that torch?”

Jeeny: “Someone has to. Power without faith in the dignity of life becomes corruption. Faith, Jack — real faith — doesn’t blind you; it opens your eyes to responsibility.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened, the grey shifting to something almost human again. The echo of her words seemed to fill the room, lingering between the old portraits as if the ghosts themselves nodded in approval.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe politics without faith is like a body without a heart. It moves, but it doesn’t live.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Exactly.”

Host: Outside, the clouds parted, and a sliver of sunlight broke through — faint but persistent. It touched the parliament floor, pooling golden across the carved wood and scattering across Jeeny’s face.

Jack watched, then reached into his coat pocket for another cigarette — and stopped.

Jack: “You know, maybe faith isn’t a threat to reason. Maybe it’s the reason we still bother reasoning at all.”

Jeeny: “Wilberforce would’ve liked that.”

Host: She stood, her steps echoing softly as she moved toward the exit, the light trailing her like a promise. Jack followed, slower, still thoughtful, the world outside already stirring into its daily noise.

As they stepped into the morning, the rain gave way to the faintest breeze, carrying the scent of wet stone and possibility.

Host: The camera pulled back — the vast architecture of power now small against the living sky.

And for a moment, in that fragile dawn, the unspoken truth shimmered clear as glass:

Faith does not belong to churches or books alone — it belongs to the hands that build, the hearts that govern, and the people who dare to believe that goodness still has political power.