Religion is a means of exploitation employed by the strong

Host:
The night had fallen like velvet smoke over the city’s skyline, muffling its restless hum beneath a blanket of fog and light. The rain had come and gone, leaving puddles that mirrored neon, as though the earth were trying to hold onto pieces of broken heaven.

On the rooftop of an old building, Jack and Jeeny stood beneath a flickering sign, the red letters humming faintly: BAR OPEN ALL NIGHT. Below them, the world pulsed — horns, footsteps, fragments of music. But up here, it was another world: cold, quiet, and too high for pretense.

Jack held a cigarette, its ember flaring briefly in the dark, like a small rebellion against the wind. Jeeny leaned against the metal railing, the city lights painting her face in gold and shadow. Between them, the air was tense — not hostile, but charged, as if they were both standing on the edge of something raw.

Jeeny: reading softly from a crumpled note she pulled from her coat pocket — “Georges Bizet said, ‘Religion is a means of exploitation employed by the strong against the weak; religion is a cloak of ambition, injustice and vice.’” She looks up at Jack, eyes steady. “And you’ll probably say he wasn’t wrong.”

Jack: exhales smoke, half-smiling, half-scowling — “Of course he wasn’t. History is a ledger of faith turned into currency. You can dress it up in hymns and halos, but it’s always been power wearing a cross.”

Jeeny: folding the paper, voice calm but firm — “You make it sound like belief itself is the villain. But it’s not belief that exploits — it’s people. Religion doesn’t corrupt the world. Ambition does.”

Host:
The wind howled briefly, pushing rainwater off the edge of the roof. The droplets fell into the street below, glowing in the light before vanishing into shadow.

Jack: bitterly — “And who gave ambition its mask? Religion did. The kings, the priests, the crusaders — all of them wrapped in sanctity while their hands were dripping blood. You can’t call it coincidence. The cloak wasn’t accidental — it was crafted.”

Jeeny: quietly, her voice trembling between empathy and conviction — “Maybe. But you’re forgetting the others — the ones who used that same faith to heal, to feed, to forgive. You see the power-hungry; I see the powerless who kept believing anyway. For every tyrant with a crown, there was a peasant with a prayer that kept him human.”

Host:
A long pause. The city sounds rose and fell beneath them, the sirens in the distance harmonizing with the rain dripping from the railing.

Jack: turning toward her, his tone sharp — “So what? The good ones don’t erase the harm. Religion gave men the language to justify everything — slavery, war, oppression, fear. Tell me, Jeeny, if God is love, why do people always find Him most useful when they’re trying to rule others?”

Jeeny: gazes at him, her eyes luminous with both pain and patience — “Because power mimics love. It promises order. Comfort. Purpose. People cling to it when they’re afraid. But that’s not religion — that’s insecurity pretending to be divine.”

Host:
The wind softened, and the fog shifted, revealing distant church steeples piercing the skyline. The crosses glimmered faintly against the dark — half symbols, half shadows.

Jack: quietly now, as if tired of his own rage — “It’s still a cloak, Jeeny. A beautiful, deceptive one. Men hide behind it so they don’t have to face themselves. Say the word ‘holy’ enough, and no one questions what you’re hiding under it.”

Jeeny: softly, with a trace of sorrow — “And yet, isn’t that what we all do? You hide behind logic. I hide behind hope. Everyone needs a cloak — something to cover the unbearable nakedness of being human. Maybe religion just became the most popular one.”

Host:
The streetlights below flickered, casting a pulse across their faces — his lined with cynicism, hers with quiet faith. The contrast between them was striking: fire and water, doubt and devotion, both reflecting the same light differently.

Jack: sighs, voice quieter now — “So you’re saying hypocrisy is just a symptom of need?”

Jeeny: nodding slowly — “Yes. People twist the sacred because they’re desperate to feel powerful in a world that reminds them how small they are. The tragedy isn’t that they use God to justify evil — it’s that they need to.”

Jack: staring into the fog, almost whispering — “And yet… it always starts with good intentions. Every prophet begins with fire in his heart and ends with blood on his hands — or someone else’s.”

Jeeny: after a long pause — “That’s because humans want the divine to serve them. But true religion — the kind Bizet never saw — serves the divine instead. It’s not a tool; it’s a mirror. And the moment you use it to gain power, the reflection disappears.”

Host:
Her words hung in the cold, heavy and luminous like the mist itself. Jack’s cigarette burned out, the smoke curling upward before vanishing into the night.

Jack: softly, almost to himself — “You think there’s still real religion left in the world?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly — “Not in institutions. In people. In the ones who live quietly — who help without witness, who forgive without applause. They’re the heretics of power. The ones who refuse to weaponize faith.”

Host:
Below them, a church bell rang once, its sound deep and distant, reverberating through the mist like a question left unanswered. Jack’s eyes lifted, following the sound through the night.

Jack: softly, a hint of wonder in his voice — “Maybe Bizet was right about the cloak. But maybe that’s the point — maybe the divine wears disguises because humanity can’t bear to see it naked.”

Jeeny: whispering — “Maybe. Or maybe it’s waiting for us to take the cloak off — to see it in the broken, the kind, the quiet.”

Host:
The wind picked up, lifting her hair, rattling the sign above them, its neon flicker now almost rhythmic — like a heartbeat pulsing through the dark.

Jack: softly, with the smallest trace of hope — “So what would faith look like without the cloak?”

Jeeny: gazes at him, eyes warm, voice steady — “Like action. Like truth without show. Like love without permission.”

Host:
The camera pans out, the city sprawling beneath them, lights glittering like stars scattered across the ground. The church bells, the sirens, the hum of life all merge into one low, beating sound — the sound of humanity, fractured yet breathing.

Host (closing):
Georges Bizet saw the shadow of religion — its use as a tool, a weapon, a mask.
He was not wrong. History proves him.
But shadows only exist where there is light.

Religion can be cloak or cloth, cage or compass — it depends on the hands that hold it.
When worn for power, it suffocates.
When lived for truth, it liberates.

And so, as the night deepened, Jack and Jeeny stood between the steeples and the neon —
between corruption and grace —
two voices daring to ask whether faith can still be pure
when stripped of its cloak.

The wind whispered through the city’s bones,
and for a brief moment,
it almost sounded like prayer —
raw, unchurched, and utterly human.