Religion is part of the human make-up. It's also part of our

Host: The night had settled heavy over the city, thick with smog and the faint hum of distant traffic. A flickering streetlight cast uneven shadows across the cracked pavement outside a small, nearly forgotten bookstore tucked between a barber’s shop and a closed bakery. Inside, the air smelled of old paper and dust, of time folded into silence.

Two figures sat at a round wooden table, lit only by a dim lamp that painted their faces in soft chiaroscuro. Jack, with his grey eyes sharp as glass, thumbed through a tattered copy of God Is Not Great. Jeeny, opposite him, traced the rim of her tea cup, the steam rising like the ghost of a question.

The quote lay open between them — Hitchens’ words printed in fading ink:

“Religion is part of the human make-up... our first attempt at literature, cosmology, health care, philosophy.”

Jeeny: “He calls it our first attempt, as if faith was just a prototype for something better. You don’t agree with that, do you?”

Jack: (smirking) “I think he’s being generous. Religion wasn’t just an attempt — it was a mistake that got good PR.”

Host: The lamplight flickered, catching the slight curl of smoke from Jack’s cigarette. Outside, rain began to whisper against the windowpane, a rhythm as old as doubt itself.

Jeeny: “A mistake? So you’d erase every cathedral, every psalm, every whispered prayer of a dying soul?”

Jack: “I wouldn’t erase them — I’d archive them. Like fossils. Evidence of how far we’ve come. Religion was humanity’s first draft at understanding reality. But we’ve moved on, haven’t we? We have science now. Philosophy. Empiricism.”

Jeeny: “Moved on? You think we’ve evolved past faith just because we have microscopes? Jack, science explains how things work. Faith asks why we care that they do.”

Host: The wind outside grew stronger, branches scraping the window like unseen hands clawing at the glass. Inside, the tension thickened.

Jack: “Why do we care? Because we’re animals with egos. We need to believe there’s meaning behind the chaos. But belief doesn’t make it true. Religion promised answers it couldn’t deliver — healing, justice, eternity. It was our first system of lies wrapped in poetry.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’ve only seen the lies, not the poetry. You call religion primitive, but without it we might never have looked up at the stars and wondered who we are. That wondering — that’s where everything began.”

Jack: “No, that’s where delusion began. When people didn’t understand thunder, they invented gods. When they couldn’t cure disease, they prayed. And when they feared death, they promised themselves heaven. It wasn’t wisdom — it was survival instinct.”

Jeeny: “And yet that same instinct gave birth to art, morality, compassion. Religion taught people to see beyond their hunger and their fear. Maybe it wasn’t the truth, but it was a bridge to it.”

Host: The light bulb above them buzzed faintly, a trembling note in the quiet. The rain outside thickened, drumming against the window in patient rhythm.

Jack: “A bridge? Bridges are supposed to lead somewhere. Religion kept people trapped — burning books, silencing thinkers, drowning women for witchcraft. Every time humanity tried to step forward, faith dragged it back.”

Jeeny: (firmly) “That’s history’s fault, not faith’s. Don’t confuse corruption with creation. Every idea is dangerous in the wrong hands. The same scriptures that fueled wars also inspired Gandhi, Martin Luther King, and countless souls who refused to hate.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, but her eyes burned with conviction. Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table, his shadow stretching long across the floor.

Jack: “Idealists always say that. You pick saints and ignore inquisitors. Religion’s not about inspiration — it’s about control. Fear dressed as virtue.”

Jeeny: “Then why do people still pray, Jack? Not just fools or fanatics — good, intelligent people. Because faith fills something that logic never could. You can understand the stars perfectly and still feel the need to thank them.”

Host: A pause hung between them — a long, delicate silence that seemed to echo with centuries of argument. The lamp sputtered once, its light momentarily dimming.

Jack: (softly) “When I was a kid, I prayed once. My mother was sick — dying, really. I remember kneeling by her bed, whispering to someone who never answered. She died anyway. That’s when I realized — prayer isn’t medicine. It’s anesthesia.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “I’m sorry, Jack. But maybe it wasn’t the prayer that failed — maybe it was your expectation of what it was for. Prayer isn’t about control. It’s surrender.”

Jack: “Surrender? That’s your defense? That we should kneel when there’s nothing left to do?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Sometimes kneeling is all we have. And in that surrender, something opens — call it peace, call it illusion, call it God. Whatever it is, it’s the thing that keeps us human.”

Host: The rain softened to a drizzle, the sound now gentle, rhythmic, almost sacred. The lamplight steadied. The two sat motionless, surrounded by the weight of unspoken understanding.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic, but faith doesn’t heal — people do. Science does. Religion just told us stories until we learned to write better ones.”

Jeeny: “But every story starts somewhere, Jack. Religion was humanity’s first language — the way we spoke to the unknown. Without it, would we even have the courage to question anything?”

Jack: (after a pause) “So you think we still need it?”

Jeeny: “Not as dogma. But as memory. To remind us that wonder was once enough. That we once looked into the dark and didn’t turn away.”

Host: A long silence. Jack’s eyes drifted toward the open book, the black-inked words reflecting faintly in the lamp’s glow. He closed it slowly, running a thumb over the worn spine.

Jack: “Maybe Hitchens was right. Maybe religion was our first philosophy. But maybe it wasn’t just the first attempt. Maybe it was the first question — the one we’ve never stopped asking.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s what faith truly is — not the answer, but the courage to keep asking.”

Host: The lamplight flared once more, brighter this time, bathing the room in warm gold before settling back into its steady hum. Outside, the rain had stopped entirely. Through the open window, the faint sound of a church bell drifted through the wet night — distant, imperfect, but still beautiful.

Jack looked toward it, a faint, almost reluctant smile crossing his face.

Jack: “Funny thing, Jeeny. Maybe the bell rings for both of us.”

Jeeny: “It always does.”

Host: The camera of the world pulled back, the bookstore shrinking into the night, its single light glowing like a heartbeat in the dark. Beyond it, the city pulsed — steel and glass and rain, carrying within it all the contradictions of faith and doubt, of logic and longing.

And above it all, unseen but somehow deeply felt, the endless sky — vast, ancient, and full of the same questions that once made a frightened species invent the stars.