Leave the matter of religion to the family altar, the church, and

Host: The city was draped in a thin veil of rain, its streets glimmering under the soft glow of streetlights. A distant bell from an old church tower echoed through the mist, mingling with the hum of traffic and the rustle of umbrellas. Inside a small corner café, two figures sat by the window — their faces lit by the slow flicker of a dying candle.

Jack leaned forward, his hands clasped, a trail of smoke from his cigarette curling toward the ceiling. His eyes, sharp and grey, searched the rain like a soldier looking for a ghost. Across from him, Jeeny cupped a mug of tea, her fingers trembling slightly in the cold. Her eyes — deep, brown, and quietly fierce — watched him with that mixture of sadness and defiance she always carried when the talk turned to belief.

Host: Outside, a church cross shimmered faintly under the rainlight, and the echo of Ulysses S. Grant’s old words seemed to hang in the air:
“Leave the matter of religion to the family altar, the church, and the private school, supported entirely by private contributions. Keep the church and state forever separate.”

Jeeny: “That line — ‘forever separate’ — sounds so cold, doesn’t it? As if faith were something to be locked away. But faith isn’t a weapon, Jack. It’s shelter.”

Jack: “Or it becomes a weapon when you mix it with power. You’ve seen it, Jeeny. History’s full of altars built on blood. The Inquisition, the Salem trials, the way politicians drape themselves in God’s name to win votes. That’s why Grant was right. The state must stay clean.”

Host: A car splashed through a puddle, its headlights casting shadows across the table. The silence between them was thick, like smoke that refused to lift.

Jeeny: “But you’re forgetting something. Faith didn’t just kill — it also healed. Think of the civil rights movement, Jack. Think of Dr. King, how his faith gave him the courage to stand, to speak against injustice. Would you have told him to leave his belief at home?”

Jack: “Dr. King’s faith was personal, Jeeny. What he did was moral, not religious. He didn’t preach that the law should belong to his church — he preached that the law should serve justice. There’s a difference.”

Jeeny: “But justice comes from conscience, and conscience is shaped by faith. You can’t just draw a line and say: ‘Here’s man, here’s God — now don’t let them touch.’ The human heart doesn’t work like that.”

Host: Jack exhaled slowly, his breath a thin thread of smoke that drifted between them. His voice, when it came, was low — almost tired.

Jack: “No, the heart doesn’t — but the government must. That’s the point. Once the church gets its hands on law, it starts writing morality into legislation. And then freedom — that fragile, trembling thing — begins to die. Look at Iran, look at Afghanistan, even Europe in the Middle Ages. Every time faith and rule got married, truth became dictated instead of discovered.”

Jeeny: “And every time reason tried to rule alone, it forgot the soul. Look at Soviet Russia, Jack. They banished the church, tore down crosses, and still people starved — not just for bread, but for meaning. You think a state can survive on logic alone? It’s like trying to live without breathing.”

Host: The rain softened, a slow drizzle that tapped like a heartbeat against the window. Jack’s eyes shifted, a small crease forming between his brows — not anger, this time, but doubt.

Jack: “Maybe. But faith shouldn’t own the schools, the courts, the parliament. That’s how wars begin — with someone’s God telling them they’re right. That’s why Grant said what he did. He’d seen war, Jeeny — the Civil War, where men on both sides prayed to the same God, each certain that heaven was on his side. You know what he learned? That belief doesn’t make you right. Law does. Reason does.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Love does.”

Host: Her voice cracked on the last word, and for a moment, the café seemed to pause — even the rain, even the sound of footsteps outside. The candle flame quivered, its light painting gold across her cheekbones.

Jeeny: “When Grant said to keep the church and state apart, he didn’t mean to banish the spirit. He meant to protect it — from corruption, from greed. But that doesn’t mean we strip the world of faith. You can’t build a nation without belief in something higher — even if that something is just hope.”

Jack: “Hope’s not religion, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No, but it’s divine all the same.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, slow and steady. A faint melody from the radio in the corner — an old jazz tune — wove itself into the silence. Jack rubbed his temples, his fingers leaving faint smudges of ash on his skin.

Jack: “I’m not against faith, Jeeny. I’m against authority that hides behind it. I’ve seen priests bless violence, politicians quote scripture while they steal, parents force children to believe under fear. The state isn’t supposed to teach salvation. It’s supposed to protect freedom.”

Jeeny: “And what about the freedom to believe? To teach what’s holy to your children? If we make religion entirely private, we erase part of our humanity. People need to share their faith, not hide it behind walls.”

Jack: “No one said to hide it. Just don’t let it rule.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t faith already a kind of rule, Jack? A rule of the heart?”

Host: Jack looked up at her, his eyes softening. The flicker of the candle caught the faint moisture in his eyes, though he would never admit it.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the only rule worth having.”

Jeeny: “Then why are you so afraid of it?”

Host: The wind pressed against the glass, a low, almost melancholy sound. The café had begun to empty; only a few customers remained, their voices hushed, their shadows long.

Jack: “Because when belief turns to law, it stops being love. It starts being control. The moment the cross or the crescent becomes a flag, the soul of a nation begins to crack.”

Jeeny: “And when law forgets the cross, the crescent, or the soul — it becomes empty. Cold. Like this rain.”

Host: The rain strengthened, a sudden downpour that beat hard against the roof. Jack stood, his silhouette outlined by the streetlight outside, a man caught between reason and remembrance. Jeeny watched him, her eyes glowing softly in the candlelight.

Jack: “Maybe we both want the same thing, Jeeny — just from different doors.”

Jeeny: “Freedom?”

Jack: “No. Peace.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s what Grant meant, too. Peace between the altar and the throne. A space where neither has to rule the other — only coexist.”

Host: He paused, his hand resting on the windowpane, feeling the coolness of the rain through the glass. For the first time, his smile wasn’t sarcastic — just tired, and strangely tender.

Jack: “Forever separate,” he murmured, “but never alone.”

Host: Jeeny rose, her coat draped loosely over her shoulders, and joined him at the window. Together they watched the rain, the city beyond it, the distant church light still burning against the storm.

The camera pulls back, the sound of rain fading into a faint echo, the candle flickering once — then dying out. But in the reflection of the window, two faces remain — divided by belief, united by understanding.

Host: And outside, the church bell rang again — not a summons, not a warning — just a reminder that in the vast argument between heaven and earth, faith and freedom are not enemies. They are the two hands that hold the fragile balance of the soul.