If you're going to vote for somebody because you think they have

Host: The bar was dim, half-empty, the kind of place where politics went to drown after a long day of being misunderstood. Television screens flickered with campaign ads, their muted faces smiling too wide, waving to invisible crowds. The rain tapped against the window, and the smell of whiskey and smoke curled in the air like an unspoken argument.

At a corner booth, Jack sat nursing a glass of bourbon, his tie loosened, his expression a mix of fatigue and irony. Across from him, Jeeny swirled her drink slowly — a red wine gone flat — her eyes sharp, reflective, full of quiet defiance.

The election was only days away, and the city pulsed with noise — promises shouted from podiums, prayers whispered in private. But here, in the dim sanctuary of half-truths and old jazz, there was only the sound of rain and the steady hum of disillusionment.

Jeeny: “Lewis Black once said, ‘If you’re going to vote for somebody because you think they have a great faith in God, you’d better be sure that God has faith in them.’”
She looked at the TV, where a candidate was shaking hands with factory workers, his smile choreographed. “I think about that quote every election season.”

Jack: “Yeah,” he muttered, without looking up. “It’s the kind of line that burns slow. Feels funny at first, then it cuts deep when you realize it’s not a joke.”

Host: His voice was low, husky, the kind that carried both cynicism and something more dangerous — honesty. The flicker from the screen painted his face in cold blues and golds.

Jeeny: “Faith in God,” she said, “used to mean humility. Now it’s a marketing slogan. People don’t vote for policies anymore — they vote for sermons.”

Jack: “That’s because belief sells better than logic,” he said, swirling the ice in his glass. “Faith’s simple. Logic’s messy.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t faith supposed to be personal? Not something you turn into a campaign pitch?”

Jack: “It’s supposed to be, yeah. But once someone figures out faith wins votes, it stops being divine and starts being strategy.”

Host: The bartender moved silently behind the counter, pretending not to listen, though his eyes flickered toward them now and then. Outside, thunder rolled low — a long, tired growl from a sky that seemed as weary as they were.

Jeeny: “You sound bitter.”

Jack: “I’m not bitter,” he said. “Just bored. Bored of watching people mistake charisma for character. They hear someone say ‘God bless America,’ and suddenly that person’s Moses with better lighting.”

Jeeny: “You don’t think faith should matter in leadership?”

Jack: “Faith should matter,” he said. “But not the kind they sell. I don’t care what name they pray to — I care what they do after they say amen.”

Host: His words hung in the air — heavy, deliberate. Jeeny studied him quietly, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting across her lips.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who used to believe.”

Jack: “I did.”

Jeeny: “What happened?”

Jack: “I realized belief’s not proof. Anyone can quote scripture; not everyone can live it. And too often, the ones who shout the loudest about God are the ones who use Him like a shield.”

Host: The rain outside thickened, tapping harder against the window. The TV cut to a commercial — slow piano music, a politician praying with his family at a kitchen table. The image looked soft, almost sacred, until the campaign logo faded in like a watermark on holiness.

Jeeny: “You know, Lewis Black wasn’t mocking faith,” she said. “He was mocking the blind trust people place in anyone who claims it.”

Jack: “Yeah,” he said. “Because faith without doubt is fanaticism. And politics without doubt is tyranny.”

Host: She leaned back in her seat, her gaze drifting to the window, where lightning illuminated the glass for a heartbeat — a flash that revealed their reflections side by side, thoughtful and worn.

Jeeny: “Do you think God has faith in any of them?”

Jack: He laughed softly, bitterly. “If He does, He’s more forgiving than I’ll ever be.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point.”

Jack: “Maybe. But forgiveness without accountability is just permission with better PR.”

Host: The bar fell silent again, save for the soft clinking of glasses and the hum of the rain. Jeeny’s fingers traced the rim of her glass, her expression distant.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?”

Jack: “Always.”

Jeeny: “I think when people say they want leaders of faith, what they really want are leaders of certainty. They want someone to tell them the chaos makes sense. That someone — anyone — has a direct line to meaning.”

Jack: “And that’s the problem,” he said. “Certainty’s seductive. It’s also dangerous. Every crusade, every war, every blind obedience — all born from people who were too sure.”

Jeeny: “So what’s the alternative? Eternal doubt?”

Jack: “No. Just humility. The kind of faith that leaves room for questions.”

Host: The thunder cracked again, closer this time. A flicker of lightning lit the bar, revealing the dust in the air like floating ghosts. Jeeny turned back to him, her eyes fierce.

Jeeny: “Humility doesn’t win elections.”

Jack: “No,” he said, “but it could save civilizations.”

Host: His words landed like the echo of a sermon no one had asked for but needed to hear. He reached for his glass again, staring at the amber liquid as though it held answers.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder what would happen if people actually voted like that?”

Jack: “Like what?”

Jeeny: “Like God’s watching them, not the candidates.”

Host: He paused mid-sip, eyes meeting hers. Then, slowly, he set the glass down.

Jack: “Then maybe,” he said, “the whole damn system would have to repent.”

Jeeny smiled, not with amusement, but with something closer to grief — the kind that understands too much.

Jeeny: “You know, you’d make a terrible politician.”

Jack: “Because I tell the truth?”

Jeeny: “Because you wouldn’t pretend you know it.”

Host: A small laugh escaped him — tired, real, human. Outside, the rain began to ease, and a faint blue glow crept into the clouds. The night was softening, even if nothing else had changed.

Jack: “You think God still has faith in us?”

Jeeny: “I think He’s waiting for us to earn it.”

Host: The lights in the bar flickered once, then steadied. Somewhere, the jukebox clicked and began to play — an old song about hope that didn’t sound like a lie.

They sat there a while longer, in the quiet that follows truth — that uneasy stillness between cynicism and belief.

Outside, the city exhaled beneath the fading storm. And though the world beyond still shouted with politics and pretense, in that dim bar, one truth lingered like smoke:

That faith is not proven by how loudly one declares it,
but by how quietly one deserves it —
and that perhaps the hardest election of all
is the one between conviction and humility.