Liberals may mock people of faith who believe he was chosen to

Host: The sunset burned like molten copper over the city skyline, washing the glass towers in streaks of amber and red. The air hummed with the distant drone of traffic, and the cross atop the old church caught the last glint of light before the shadows swallowed it whole.

Jack sat at a street café, a newspaper folded beside his coffee, his face half-lit by the dying sun. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea absentmindedly, the steam curling upward like a fragile prayer. Between them hung a silence charged with beliefs — not spoken yet, but already burning.

The quote had been on the front page: “Liberals may mock people of faith who believe he was chosen to protect their values, but I believe Donald Trump is fulfilling his pledges and I pray he will continue to lead with divine guidance.”

Jeeny: “Paula White said that today. And, you know, Jack, I think I understand what she meant — even if it sounds... controversial.”

Jack: “Understand? She’s claiming divine endorsement for a politician. That’s not understanding — that’s myth-making.”

Host: His voice carried a bite, sharp and measured, the way a man speaks when he’s already decided he’s right. Jeeny looked at him — softly, but with resolve.

Jeeny: “You call it myth-making. I call it faith. She’s not saying he’s perfect, Jack. She’s saying she sees something — a purpose, maybe even a test — in his leadership.”

Jack: “Faith doesn’t give you a license to sanctify power. You can’t just call every politician’s rise ‘divine will’ because it makes you feel better about your vote.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the faint ring of church bells from a few blocks away. Jeeny’s eyes followed the sound, her fingers tightening around her cup.

Jeeny: “But history is full of flawed leaders used for something greater than themselves. Think of Cyrus the Great — he wasn’t Jewish, but he helped the Israelites return to Jerusalem. Even the Bible said he was anointed by God. Maybe that’s what she’s saying — that sometimes, providence chooses unexpected vessels.”

Jack: “That’s the oldest excuse in the book. Every tyrant in history has had someone calling them ‘chosen.’ Alexander thought he was divine. Hitler had priests blessing his troops. ‘Chosen’ becomes a shield for whatever wrongs we refuse to admit.”

Jeeny: “You’re comparing Trump to Hitler?”

Jack: “I’m comparing the idea of divine favoritism — how it blinds people. Once you believe someone’s ‘chosen,’ you stop questioning them. You stop holding them accountable.”

Host: The tension thickened. The sky deepened into violet, and the city’s lights began to flicker alive, small constellations of electric belief in the darkness.

Jeeny: “But maybe faith isn’t about accountability, Jack. Maybe it’s about surrender. About trusting that something larger than politics is at work — even through imperfect means.”

Jack: “Surrender is easy when it spares you from thinking. Faith can be the most dangerous comfort.”

Jeeny: “That’s unfair. You act like faith is ignorance. But faith is what built half this city. Look at the hospitals, the charities, the movements for justice — they all started because someone believed God had a hand in their cause.”

Jack: “And look at the wars, the crusades, the genocides — all justified by the same conviction.”

Host: A pause, heavy as stone. Jeeny’s eyes glistened with a mix of anger and grief, while Jack’s gaze turned toward the window, where the church spire cut across the skyline like a dark blade.

Jeeny: “You’re cynical because you’ve seen corruption. But not all faith is delusion. Sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps people standing. When Paula White prays for divine guidance, maybe she’s praying that power won’t consume the man — that it will humble him.”

Jack: “And maybe she’s just giving moral cover to someone who already thinks he’s God’s gift to the world.”

Host: The rain began, sudden and gentle, tapping on the awning above them. The smell of wet pavement rose, mixing with the aroma of coffee and regret.

Jeeny leaned forward, her voice quiet but piercing.

Jeeny: “Jack, do you really believe faith and reason can’t coexist? That someone can’t both pray for a leader and still see their flaws?”

Jack: “If they can, I haven’t seen it. Faith always asks for absolutes. It demands you choose — sacred or profane, chosen or fallen. There’s no space for doubt in divine politics.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly where faith lives — in the space of doubt. It’s not blindness, Jack. It’s the courage to keep believing when reason gives up.”

Host: A flash of lightning split the sky, and for a brief moment, the reflection of the cross shimmered in a rain puddle between them — fractured but still visible.

Jack: “Belief is one thing. Deifying a man is another. You can have faith without turning your leader into a messiah.”

Jeeny: “And you can have logic without turning your heart to stone.”

Host: The thunder rolled, distant yet intimate, as if echoing their argument. Jack rubbed his temple, the lines on his face deepening, not from anger, but from weariness.

Jack: “You know, I grew up in a church like that. Everything was God’s plan — even the pain. When my father lost his job, they said it was ‘a test of faith.’ When my mother got sick, they said it was ‘her cross to bear.’ You start hearing that long enough, and faith begins to sound like a convenient silence.”

Jeeny: “I’m sorry, Jack.”

Jack: “Don’t be. I just stopped waiting for divine plans. I started making my own.”

Jeeny: “But maybe you didn’t stop believing — maybe you just changed who you pray to.”

Host: Her words lingered, soft, but they hit him like a hammer. Jack’s eyes flickered, and for a moment, something almost like vulnerability surfaced.

Jack: “You think cynicism is a kind of prayer?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. To doubt the divine is still to talk to it.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, drumming on the table, drowning out the street sounds. Jeeny’s hair stuck to her cheeks, her voice trembling not with fear, but with fervor.

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t about endorsing perfection. It’s about hoping for redemption — for all of us, even our leaders. Maybe Paula White isn’t naive. Maybe she just believes no one’s beyond guidance.”

Jack: “And what if that guidance never comes?”

Jeeny: “Then it means we were meant to be the guidance.”

Host: That broke something in the silence. The rain softened, sliding off the edges of their table, forming silver streams on the ground. Jack looked down, watching his reflection ripple, then looked up at Jeeny — her eyes glowing faintly in the neon light.

Jack: “You really think he’s being guided by something divine?”

Jeeny: “I think every soul is capable of it — even the ones we judge hardest. That’s the danger and the beauty of faith, Jack. It asks us to believe that grace can work where logic fails.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe faith is just our way of excusing what we can’t change.”

Jeeny: “Or embracing what we still hope can.”

Host: The light from the church flickered again, and this time, it stayed. The cross glowed faintly against the darkened sky, not radiant, but steady — like a heartbeat still alive beneath layers of doubt.

Jack: “You think prayer changes things?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not always the world. But it changes the one praying.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s what divine guidance really is — not a voice from above, but something small inside us.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe that’s why faith still matters — even when it confuses us.”

Host: The storm eased. The clouds parted just enough for a slice of moonlight to fall between them. The rain had washed the streets clean, and in the puddles, the city lights shimmered like a thousand tiny altars.

Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, no longer divided — two souls caught between belief and skepticism, both quietly praying, in their own way, that the world might somehow find its balance between truth and faith, between power and grace.

And above them, the cross glowed — faint, imperfect, but undeniably alive.