Politics is an act of faith; you have to show some kind of

Host: The city hall steps glistened under a weak autumn sun. It was late afternoon — that golden hour where even the worn stone looked forgiving. The wind carried the smell of damp leaves and street dust, mingled with the faint hum of traffic and distant protest chants. Posters lay scattered on the ground: slogans half-faded, words still burning with conviction.

Jack stood on the lower step, his sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened, a notebook tucked under one arm. His face was tired, not just from the day but from years — years of watching the idealism he once believed in crumble into slogans, soundbites, and cynicism.

Across the plaza, Jeeny approached, her coat fluttering behind her, her hair brushed wild by the breeze. She stopped at the base of the steps, looking up at him with a half-smile that held both sympathy and challenge.

Jeeny: softly but clearly “George McGovern once said — ‘Politics is an act of faith; you have to show some kind of confidence in the intellectual and moral capacity of the public.’”

Jack: smirking faintly, glancing toward the empty plaza “Faith in the public, huh? He must’ve said that before Twitter.”

Jeeny: smiling “Maybe. But he didn’t mean blind faith. He meant trust — trust that people are capable of decency if you appeal to their better selves instead of their fears.”

Host: A gust of wind tore through, scattering a few flyers across the steps. One fluttered to Jeeny’s feet. She bent down and picked it up. The paper was crumpled, the ink slightly smeared: “Truth Still Matters.”

She held it out to him.

Jeeny: quietly “Do you believe that, Jack?”

Jack: after a pause “I used to. When I was younger, I thought truth could win elections. Now I’m not even sure it can survive a headline.”

Jeeny: “That’s not truth’s fault. It’s ours — for giving up too soon.”

Jack: half-smiling, bitterly “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s sacred. That’s what McGovern meant by ‘faith.’ It’s not belief in perfection. It’s belief in possibility.”

Host: The sunlight shifted, falling across their faces — a long, golden line dividing light and shadow. The city’s noise softened for a moment, replaced by the slow rhythm of footsteps and the echo of history breathing through marble.

Jack sat on the steps, rubbing his hands together as if trying to warm himself from something colder than the wind.

Jack: quietly “You know, when I first started in politics, I thought it was about change — about making life better for people. Now it feels like a contest of manipulation. Words as weapons, empathy as currency.”

Jeeny: sitting beside him “And yet, you’re still here. That means some part of you still believes.”

Jack: looks at her, half-defensive “Maybe I’m just stubborn.”

Jeeny: “No. You’re faithful.”

Jack: chuckling softly “Faith in what, Jeeny? The system? The voters? The same people who cheer for a candidate one day and tear them apart the next?”

Jeeny: “Faith in people’s capacity to grow. McGovern wasn’t naïve. He lost elections, but he never lost conviction. He understood that politics isn’t about winning — it’s about planting seeds in soil you may never see bloom.”

Host: A church bell in the distance began to chime, its sound rolling gently across the plaza — heavy, human, timeless. Jack stared out toward the sound, his expression softening.

Jack: quietly “You really think people are good at heart?”

Jeeny: after a pause “I think they’re capable of good. But someone has to remind them. That’s what leadership is — not control, but faith expressed through action.”

Jack: thoughtfully “Faith expressed through action… That’s not politics. That’s ministry.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Sometimes they’re the same thing — if done right.”

Host: The wind picked up again, scattering another wave of papers. One landed against Jack’s shoe. He reached down and picked it up. It was a campaign leaflet from years ago — his own. His picture still visible, though the color had faded. The slogan read: “A Better Tomorrow, Together.”

He stared at it for a long moment, his reflection shimmering faintly in the glossy print.

Jack: softly “I remember when I believed that.”

Jeeny: “You still do. You just stopped saying it out loud.”

Host: He folded the paper, slipping it into his pocket like a relic. The sun was dipping lower now, the light turning amber and tender.

Jeeny: quietly “Faith isn’t optimism, Jack. It’s endurance. It’s saying, ‘Even when I see the worst of people, I’ll still fight for their best.’”

Jack: after a pause, eyes faraway “McGovern lived that. He never stopped believing that politics could be moral.”

Jeeny: nodding “Because he saw politics not as a career — but as a covenant. Between leaders and the led. Between words and actions. Between belief and responsibility.”

Jack: half-smiling, a little wistful “You sound like him.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s a good thing.”

Host: The streetlights flickered on. The plaza filled with the hum of early evening — footsteps, the rumble of buses, the first distant notes of a street musician tuning his guitar.

Jack stood, buttoning his jacket, his expression calmer now.

Jack: quietly “Maybe the act of faith isn’t in the people we lead, but in the effort itself — in showing up, even when it feels pointless.”

Jeeny: standing beside him “Yes. Because showing up is the prayer.”

Jack: turning to her “And politics, then?”

Jeeny: softly “Politics is what happens when enough prayers turn into action.”

Host: He smiled — not cynically this time, but with the faint light of something rediscovered. The last of the sun slipped behind the city skyline, and the steps were bathed in the glow of streetlamps and lingering faith.

Jack looked up at the Capitol dome, then down at his hands, at the old campaign leaflet he now held like a promise.

Jack: quietly, almost to himself “Faith in the people… and the people’s faith in something better.”

Jeeny: gently “That’s the covenant, Jack.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — two silhouettes standing on the steps of a tired but unbroken democracy, the wind moving through scattered papers like whispers of history refusing to die.

And as the sound of the city swelled — hopeful, flawed, alive — George McGovern’s words echoed through the evening air:

“Politics is an act of faith; you have to show some kind of confidence in the intellectual and moral capacity of the public.”

Because faith isn’t blind belief —
it’s the courage to keep trusting
in a world that has every reason
to give up on itself.

And politics, at its truest,
isn’t the pursuit of power —
but the practice of hope.

A fragile, human hope
that still believes the people
can rise above the noise,
and together,
write something decent,
something enduring,
into the long book of tomorrow.