The civil rights movement was based on faith. Many of us who were

Host: The air was thick with summer heat, and the streets of Atlanta glowed under the dim amber of the streetlights. Somewhere in the distance, a train horn groaned — long, mournful, like a memory calling out through time. Inside a small barbershop, long after closing hours, the smell of shaving cream and aged wood lingered. The mirror walls reflected the faint neon sign from outside — FAITH & FADES — flickering with stubborn rhythm.

Jack sat in one of the old leather chairs, his shirt sleeves rolled up, forearms resting on his knees. His eyes — gray, unyielding, but thoughtful — watched the reflection of the streetlight ripple across the window. Jeeny stood by the counter, her hands clasped around a cup of sweet tea, her hair loose, her expression soft yet fierce.

Host: The room felt like a place where words had weight — where men once gathered to plan, to pray, to march. The ghosts of courage still hummed faintly in the walls.

Jeeny: “John Lewis once said, ‘The civil rights movement was based on faith. Many of us who were participants in this movement saw our involvement as an extension of our faith. We saw ourselves doing the work of the Almighty. Segregation and racial discrimination were not in keeping with our faith, so we had to do something.’”

Jack: “Powerful words. But faith alone didn’t win the fight — people did. Strategy. Protest. Politics. Blood. That’s what changed things.”

Jeeny: “But where do you think the strength came from to face the dogs, the hoses, the jails? It wasn’t just strategy, Jack. It was spirit. It was belief — something deeper than fear.”

Host: Outside, the rain began — slow, deliberate drops tapping the glass, like a preacher’s knuckles on a pulpit.

Jack: “I don’t deny the spirit. But you talk like faith built the movement. Faith didn’t write the laws. Faith didn’t integrate schools. People did — with grit, with organization, with relentless pressure.”

Jeeny: “You think those people weren’t guided by something higher? They sang hymns on the bridge at Selma, Jack. ‘Ain’t Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me Around’ wasn’t a slogan — it was a prayer. Their courage was rooted in the belief that justice wasn’t just legal; it was sacred.”

Jack: “Maybe. But calling it ‘the work of the Almighty’ — that makes it sound like history had divine permission. You think God chose sides in Alabama?”

Jeeny: “God didn’t choose sides. People did — and faith gave them the strength to stand on the right one.”

Host: Her voice was steady, but her eyes burned with quiet fire. The rain outside deepened, blurring the city lights into soft halos.

Jack: “I just don’t buy it. Faith can justify anything. The same Bible that inspired Lewis was used by segregationists to defend hate. ‘Faith’ has two faces, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “That’s because people do. But that doesn’t make faith the villain — it makes it the battlefield.”

Host: The light above them flickered once, briefly dimming, as if the past itself was listening.

Jack: “So you’re saying the civil rights movement couldn’t have existed without religion?”

Jeeny: “Without faith. Yes. Maybe not organized religion, but faith — that fierce belief that justice has a moral heartbeat. Martin Luther King Jr. wasn’t just a politician with a dream; he was a minister with a calling.”

Jack: “And yet, faith didn’t stop the bullets that killed him.”

Jeeny: “No. But it made his death mean something more than fear. It turned tragedy into movement. That’s what faith does — it redeems pain.”

Host: The sound of thunder rumbled faintly, rolling across the city like a drumbeat from another era.

Jack: “You make it sound romantic. But I think people like Lewis and King succeeded despite faith — not because of it. They were organizers, strategists, communicators. Their power was human, not holy.”

Jeeny: “Human, yes. But their power came from believing that the human and the holy were connected. That to fight for man’s dignity was to serve something divine. That’s why they could march into fire without hate in their hearts.”

Jack: “And look at us now — decades later, and the same wounds are open. If faith was the cure, it didn’t last long.”

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t a cure, Jack. It’s a call. Every generation has to answer it again.”

Host: Her words hung there — soft but unyielding. Jack looked away, his reflection fractured by the rain on the window.

Jack: “You really believe the Almighty cares about what happens here? About laws, marches, and votes?”

Jeeny: “I think the Almighty works through us — when we act from love instead of fear. That’s what Lewis meant. They didn’t wait for miracles. They became them.”

Jack: “You talk like faith is fuel. I see it as fire — unpredictable, dangerous.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes you need fire to burn away injustice.”

Host: The rain fell harder now, like a cleansing storm. The sound filled every corner of the shop, drowning out the world outside. Jack leaned back, the leather of the chair creaking under his weight.

Jack: “You know, my grandfather marched in Chicago in the ’60s. He wasn’t religious — not one bit. But he said he marched because he couldn’t look at his son and tell him to stay quiet. Was that faith?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Maybe not in God, but in goodness. In something beyond self. That’s faith too.”

Jack: “So now we redefine it until it fits everyone?”

Jeeny: “No. We remember that faith was never about belonging to one book — it was about believing in one truth: that every human being deserves dignity.”

Host: The storm began to ease. Drops turned to drizzle. The mirror caught both their reflections now — two figures suspended in thought, framed by the faint glow of neon.

Jack: “I’ll admit, I envy that kind of certainty. The way they walked into hate with songs instead of rage. I don’t know if I could do that.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why their faith mattered. Because it wasn’t easy. It wasn’t safe. It was the only thing powerful enough to keep them human in the face of cruelty.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what we’re missing today — not religion, but courage with conscience.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The kind that doesn’t wait for comfort to do what’s right.”

Host: A pause settled — not silence, but stillness. The kind of stillness that feels like a heartbeat between generations.

Jack: “You know, when I think about Lewis crossing that bridge, I can’t help but wonder — did he really believe God was walking beside him?”

Jeeny: “I think he knew God was walking through him.”

Host: The words struck the air like a spark. Jack’s gaze softened, his breath slowing. Outside, the rain stopped completely. The street glistened under the lamplight — calm, reflective, alive.

Jack: “Maybe faith isn’t about knowing the Almighty’s plan. Maybe it’s about moving anyway — like they did.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith isn’t certainty. It’s movement. The courage to act when justice feels impossible.”

Host: The neon sign outside flickered — FAITH & FADES — its glow spilling gently across their faces. In that small, quiet shop, two souls sat under the same unseen sky that once watched marches and prayers, arrests and songs.

Jack: “You think that kind of faith still exists?”

Jeeny: “Only if we keep walking.”

Host: Jack looked at her, and for a brief moment, something inside him shifted — not quite belief, but respect for what belief could build. He reached for his cup, lifted it, and nodded faintly.

Jack: “Then maybe the Almighty’s work never stopped. Maybe it just changes hands.”

Jeeny: “Every generation. Every act of courage. Every hand that lifts another.”

Host: The camera would have slowly pulled back now — the light dimming, the city breathing outside, the faint sound of a gospel tune drifting through the rain-soaked air.

And as their voices faded into the hum of memory, one truth lingered — not loud, not grand, but steady as a heartbeat:

That faith isn’t what you hold in times of peace.
It’s what you become when the world is unjust —
and you rise to do something anyway.