In the long term we can hope that religion will change the nature

Host: The city night was a cathedral of smoke and silence. The rain had just stopped, leaving the streets slick with reflections of flickering neon signs. The sound of a distant siren faded, swallowed by the hum of electric lights and the whisper of the wind that carried the smell of wet stone and iron.

In a dim bar near the train station, the TV was playing an old documentary, its sound low but clear enough to catch a single line before the static cut in:

“In the long term we can hope that religion will change the nature of man and reduce conflict. But history is not encouraging in this respect. The bloodiest wars in history have been religious wars.” — Richard M. Nixon

Jack sighed, tapping his glass against the table, his face lit by the flicker of the screen. Across from him, Jeeny watched him — her fingers wrapped around her cup of tea, her eyes heavy with thought, like someone who’s seen too much and still wants to believe.

Jeeny: “You look like that quote just punched you.”

Jack: “Nixon had a habit of saying the kind of truths people don’t like to admit. He wasn’t wrong. Religion promised peace and gave us crusades, inquisitions, holy wars. If anything, it turned man’s search for God into a battlefield.”

Host: The bartender lowered the lights, and a soft glow spilled from the candles on the counter. The air felt thicker, as though the room itself was listening.

Jeeny: “That’s one way to see it. But maybe that’s not on God — maybe that’s on us. We twist the sacred until it fits our ambitions. Religion isn’t war; ego is.”

Jack: (snorting) “Ego wears a lot of disguises, Jeeny. And religion fits like a custom suit. Every zealot believes he’s fighting for heaven. That’s what makes it so dangerous.”

Jeeny: “And yet, faith has also built hospitals, fed the hungry, inspired compassion. Mother Teresa, the Dalai Lama, Martin Luther King Jr.—all driven by belief. You can’t just reduce religion to blood and fire.”

Jack: “And you can’t ignore that blood and fire are its oldest companions. Every cross has a shadow. Every scripture has been used as a weapon at some point. If faith is meant to change the nature of man, it’s taking its damn time.”

Host: The rain began again, softly, tapping against the windows like a heartbeat. The sound filled the pauses between their words, a kind of cosmic metronome to their philosophical rhythm.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not supposed to change man. Maybe it’s supposed to reveal him. Show us what we’re capable of — for better or worse.”

Jack: “Then I’d say it’s been a pretty grim revelation.”

Jeeny: “But not a hopeless one. Think of Desmond Tutu, who used Christianity to dismantle apartheid. Or Gandhi, whose faith in nonviolence changed an empire. History may be full of blood, but it’s also full of grace. We just forget the latter because it bleeds quieter.”

Host: A gust of wind pushed the door open slightly, creaking, as if the night itself wanted to join the conversation. Jack glanced toward it, then back at Jeeny. His expression softened, but his tone stayed measured.

Jack: “You always find the light in the ashes. I envy that. But let’s be honest — faith divides more than it unites. Catholics and Protestants in Ireland, Muslims and Hindus in India, Christians and Muslims in the Crusades… the list is endless. How can something claiming to save souls be so good at destroying bodies?”

Jeeny: “Because people don’t fight over God, Jack. They fight over ownership of Him. It’s not faith that causes war — it’s fear. The fear that your truth can’t survive someone else’s.”

Jack: “And that fear’s been killing people for millennia. So maybe it’s time we stop pretending religion’s about truth at all. Maybe it’s just a cultural costume — a language for power, dressed in morality.”

Jeeny: “You really think love, forgiveness, and hope are just costumes?”

Jack: (sighing) “They’re beautiful words, Jeeny. But they don’t stop bullets.”

Jeeny: “No. But they stop people from pulling the trigger.”

Host: Her voice hung in the air, steady and warm, like a candle that refuses to go out even in the wind. Jack looked down, rubbing his thumb against the rim of his glass, his eyes shadowed by reflection.

Jack: “You believe religion can still save us?”

Jeeny: “Not religion. But the good it tries to speak to — kindness, humility, empathy. Those things outlive the wars. Even when we fail to live up to them, they keep calling us back.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But history doesn’t care about poetry.”

Jeeny: “History is made by the people who do.”

Host: A train horn wailed in the distance, the sound long and mournful, passing through their silence like an old ghost. The rain slowed, and a beam of light from a passing car flashed across their faces, momentarily blending them into the same golden blur.

Jack: “You really think faith can evolve — that one day it’ll stop dividing and start healing?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s already trying. Slowly. Quietly. Every time someone chooses to forgive instead of retaliate, every time a church feeds the poor, every time someone kneels not in superiority, but in gratitude — that’s evolution.”

Jack: “But how long do we wait? Another thousand years?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “As long as it takes. Change isn’t quick, Jack. It’s generational. Every act of kindness is a tiny rebellion against history.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, the hands moving like measured breaths. The bar had mostly emptied, the bartender wiping down the counter, the music fading into silence.

Jack: “Maybe faith isn’t supposed to save humanity. Maybe it just gives us something to hold while we try.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Religion may fail, but reverence doesn’t. The wars might be written in blood — but the prayers? They’re written in hope.”

Jack: “Hope’s fragile.”

Jeeny: “So is life. That’s why it’s sacred.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving only the sound of dripping gutters and the soft hum of the lights. Jeeny stood, placing a few coins on the table, and looked at Jack.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to believe in God to understand faith, Jack. You just have to believe in people again.”

Jack: “People started those wars.”

Jeeny: “And people ended them too.”

Host: Jack watched her as she walked toward the door, her shadow stretching across the floor, long and fluid under the bar light. For a moment, he looked at the TV, where the documentary had switched to footage of war — men marching, smoke rising, church bells tolling.

He turned away, murmuring: “Maybe Nixon was right about the blood. But maybe he forgot about the prayers.”

Host: The camera of the moment pulled back, framing Jack alone in the glow of the bar, the candle flickering like a heartbeat against the darkness. Outside, the rain-washed street gleamed, quiet, fragile, forgiven.

And in that stillness, between the echo of faith and the weight of history, one truth remained —
that even if religion fails to change man,
the hope behind it
still whispers for him to try.