My faith comes before anything. It has also taught me to respect

Host: The evening sun hung low over the football field, spilling gold light across the grass, where the dust and sweat of countless games had settled into the soil like memory. The stands were empty now, the echoes of cheers fading into the wind.

Jack sat on the bleachers, his shirt collar open, a cigarette unlit between his fingers. Jeeny stood by the goalpost, her hair catching the light, her eyes tracing the lines of the field as if reading a story written by the feet of a thousand dreamers.

Host: The moment was quiet, but not still. It was the kind of quiet that holds a question between two souls who have learned that some beliefs divide and others bind.

Jeeny: “Do you remember Jay-Jay Okocha?”

Jack: “Of course. Nigerian genius. Danced with the ball like it was light itself. Why?”

Jeeny: “He once said something beautiful: ‘My faith comes before anything. It has also taught me to respect and admire people for what they are and who they are.’ I read that again today, and it made me wonder — can faith and respect really walk hand in hand in this world?”

Jack: “Faith and respect? They sound noble together, sure. But faith — real faith — divides as much as it unites. Every believer thinks their truth is the truth.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because people confuse faith with control. True faith doesn’t need others to agree. It only asks that we live by it.”

Jack: “And yet, every war has a prayer before it. Every tyrant quotes scripture. Faith is the most dangerous weapon ever forged by man.”

Host: The sunlight dimmed, and a shadow slid across the field, stretching long and thin like a question mark. The air grew cooler, the wind carrying the distant hum of traffic and life continuing elsewhere.

Jeeny: “You’re not wrong. But you’re forgetting something — it’s not faith that destroys. It’s pride disguised as faith. What Okocha meant wasn’t religion — it was reverence. The ability to see the divine spark in every human being.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But impractical. The world doesn’t run on reverence, Jeeny. It runs on interest, power, and survival. You admire people for what they are? That’s weakness. The world steps on those who respect too much.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why the world breaks itself. Because respect isn’t weakness — it’s recognition. When you see someone as they are, not as you want them to be, you stop trying to dominate them. You start to understand them.”

Jack: “Understanding doesn’t keep you alive. Fear does. Discipline does. Rules do. That’s how empires last.”

Jeeny: “And yet they all fall. Every empire that lost respect lost its soul first. Rome. Britain. Even our corporations today — they crumble not from failure, but from arrogance.”

Host: Her words carried weight, like stones dropped into a well with no bottom. Jack’s jaw tightened, but his eyes flickered — a small tremor of doubt.

Jack: “You talk like faith can cure the world. But faith is blind. It asks you to believe when reason says stop. That’s dangerous.”

Jeeny: “And yet it’s also brave. Reason builds bridges, Jack — but faith makes people cross them.”

Jack: “Faith also makes them burn them down. Look around — politics, religion, identity — everyone’s convinced their way is holy.”

Jeeny: “Because they worship certainty, not faith. True faith isn’t certainty. It’s trust — trust that goodness exists even when you can’t prove it.”

Host: The wind rose, swirling a small cloud of dust across the grass, like the ghost of a match long ended. The sky turned a deeper blue, the color of reflection.

Jack: “You sound like you think faith is a moral compass. But compasses can’t help if the map’s been drawn wrong.”

Jeeny: “That’s why respect matters. Okocha said faith taught him admiration — not judgment. It’s the same on the field. You don’t fight a player because he wears another jersey; you play harder, but you respect the game. That’s what faith is. The belief that every soul’s playing their own match, under their own sky.”

Jack: “And when someone plays dirty?”

Jeeny: “You still play clean. Because who you are isn’t determined by who hits you, but by who you choose to be when they do.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but the truth in it was sharp, cutting through the evening air like the first light of dawn breaking through storm clouds.

Jack: “You think I don’t want to believe in that? I used to. I prayed once. I believed the world was fair — that effort meant reward, that good deeds came back. Then my father died waiting for justice that never came. My faith went with him.”

Jeeny: “That wasn’t faith failing you, Jack. That was the world failing faith.”

Host: He looked away, the muscles in his jaw twitching, the memory heavy behind his eyes.

Jack: “You talk like faith is armor. But it feels more like glass — beautiful, but fragile. You carry it too long, it cuts you.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even broken glass reflects light.”

Host: The stadium lights began to flicker on, one by one, their glow painting the field in a pale halo. Moths danced in the light, drawn by something they didn’t understand but trusted anyway.

Jeeny: “You know, Okocha didn’t say his faith made him better than others. He said it made him respect them more. That’s the difference between humility and hubris.”

Jack: “Respecting others doesn’t mean agreeing with them.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It means seeing them — fully, without needing to change them. That’s the hardest part of love, too.”

Jack: “You think love and faith are the same?”

Jeeny: “They’re cousins. Both demand surrender. Both teach patience. Both remind us that we’re not the center of the world.”

Host: The sound of distant laughter drifted from the street beyond the stadium. A group of children ran past, kicking an old ball, their joy so simple it made the air lighter.

Jeeny: “Look at them. They don’t care about who’s stronger, or richer, or right. They just play. That’s what faith is — playing without fear of losing.”

Jack: “And what if you’ve already lost?”

Jeeny: “Then you play again. Because faith isn’t about winning — it’s about showing up.”

Host: The silence that followed was gentle, filled with the sound of the evening breeze moving through the bleachers. Jack finally stood, his eyes softer, his voice lower, like the last note of a long song.

Jack: “You know, I used to think faith belonged in churches, not in people. But maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about religion at all. Maybe it’s just… believing the world can still surprise you.”

Jeeny: “That’s it. Faith is the courage to admire what’s different, and the grace to love it anyway.”

Jack: “Then maybe I still have a little of it left.”

Jeeny: “You never lost it. You just stopped calling it by name.”

Host: The last sunlight faded behind the stadium, leaving only the glow of the field lights, soft and steady, like the heartbeat of a world still capable of hope.

The two figures walked side by side toward the exit gate, their footsteps crunching on the gravel, their shadows merging into one long shape.

Host: And as they passed the goalpost, the wind lifted the corner of an old flag, the colors faded, but still flying — a quiet testament to everything that endures not by proof, but by faith.

Because in the end, faith isn’t about winning or knowing — it’s about seeing and respecting, about believing in the divine spark that flickers — however faintly — in every single soul.