The meme for blind faith secures its own perpetuation by the

Host: The rain fell in long, silver threads, weaving a curtain between the city lights and the shadows within the small bookstore. Shelves leaned with the weight of centuries—spines cracked, pages yellowed, the air thick with the smell of paper and dust. A dim lamp flickered above a corner table, where two figures sat amid half-empty cups and a pile of books.

Jack’s face was half-lit by the amber glow, his grey eyes sharp, analytical, like a man forever dismantling the world piece by piece. Jeeny sat across from him, fingers tracing the rim of her cup, her gaze thoughtful, soft yet unyielding—like a candle that refused to die in the storm.

Jeeny: “Richard Dawkins once said, ‘The meme for blind faith secures its own perpetuation by the simple unconscious expedient of discouraging rational inquiry.’ You’d agree with him, wouldn’t you?”

Jack: “Absolutely. Blind faith is a self-sustaining virus. It kills curiosity and breeds obedience. Dawkins understood that better than most.”

Host: The lamp light trembled as the wind pressed against the windows, and for a moment, their faces appeared like two sides of the same coin—one etched with doubt, the other with devotion.

Jeeny: “And yet, faith has built more hope than logic ever did. People don’t survive by reason alone. They survive because they believe—often against reason.”

Jack: “Hope doesn’t require blindness. Belief without evidence isn’t strength—it’s surrender. It’s how tyrannies start, how cults grow, how wars justify themselves.”

Jeeny: “But not all faith blinds, Jack. Sometimes it opens what reason can’t reach. When science stops, faith steps in. Not to replace truth, but to give it meaning.”

Jack: “Meaning is subjective. Facts aren’t. The problem is that faith trains people to stop asking questions. The moment you stop questioning, you hand your mind to someone else.”

Host: A flash of lightning split the sky, illuminating the room in white for an instant. Jeeny didn’t flinch. Her eyes held him steady, unwavering, like a shoreline meeting a storm.

Jeeny: “But Jack, what if not everything can be measured? What if some truths are felt, not proven? You can’t quantify the love of a mother, or the moment of forgiveness, or the peace that comes from prayer.”

Jack: “You can explain them. Neuroscience can map compassion, psychology can model empathy. Faith isn’t proof of truth—it’s a side effect of human longing.”

Jeeny: “And longing isn’t weakness. It’s what makes us human. If we only trusted reason, we’d be machines.”

Jack: “Machines don’t burn witches, Jeeny. They don’t fly planes into buildings for paradise.”

Host: The silence that followed was sharp, like a cut glass edge. Jeeny’s hands tightened around her cup, and the sound of rain filled the space, steady and mournful.

Jeeny: “Yes. Blind faith has done terrible things. But so has blind reason. Science without conscience built the bomb. Rationality alone doesn’t guarantee morality.”

Jack: “Fair. But the difference is that science learns from its mistakes. Faith insists it never made any.”

Jeeny: “That’s not true faith, Jack. That’s dogma. There’s a difference. Faith, real faith, evolves. It’s not afraid to question—it’s afraid to lose love.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a rhythmic whisper against the glass. The lamp’s flame steadied, and the tension between them began to shift, like clouds parting for the moon.

Jack: “You think love justifies belief without evidence?”

Jeeny: “No. I think love transcends evidence. When you hold someone dying and whisper that it’ll be okay—you don’t believe it because of data. You believe it because faith is all that’s left to give.”

Jack: “That’s sentiment, not truth.”

Jeeny: “And maybe truth without sentiment is only half the truth.”

Host: Jack’s brows furrowed, his jaw tight, but his eyes—those cold grey mirrors—flickered, just slightly, with something unguarded. He leaned back, exhaled, and looked toward the window, where the city lights blurred through the rain like a painting slowly dissolving.

Jack: “You talk like emotion is a form of knowledge.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? Every act of kindness, every sacrifice—it comes from something we can’t prove. Faith isn’t blindness. It’s the courage to see when reason runs out.”

Jack: “And yet the same faith that gives courage can make people slaves. It perpetuates itself by silencing dissent. That’s what Dawkins meant—once faith convinces you that doubt is sin, you stop thinking.”

Jeeny: “Then teach faith to love questions, not fear them. The problem isn’t faith—it’s control. Every religion that’s fallen into tyranny forgot that faith should serve love, not power.”

Jack: “So you’d redefine faith?”

Jeeny: “I’d redeem it. Strip away the superstition, the fear, the blind obedience. Keep the wonder. Keep the compassion.”

Host: Her words were soft, but they lingered, curling through the air like incense. Jack rubbed his temples, the firelight now casting strange patterns across his face—half light, half shadow, like a man divided between intellect and longing.

Jack: “You really think humanity can have faith without blindness?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The same way we can have reason without cruelty. Both need humility to survive.”

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped, and a thin moon broke through the clouds, its reflection glimmering on the wet pavement. The light in the room grew gentler, as though the storm had also passed inside them.

Jack: “Maybe what Dawkins saw as a virus was just an old instinct—our fear of meaninglessness trying to protect itself.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith is the language of the heart defending itself from the silence of the universe. We just need to make sure it speaks truthfully.”

Jack: “And how do we do that?”

Jeeny: “By never confusing faith with certainty. Faith should be a question, not an answer.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, marking the stillness that had replaced the debate. Jack looked at Jeeny, and a faint smile crossed his face—not victory, not defeat, but recognition.

Jack: “You know, that’s the first definition of faith I’ve heard that doesn’t make me want to argue.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you’re starting to see faith the way I do—not as blindness, but as vision that begins where sight ends.”

Host: The lamp flickered, its flame now steady, anchored in the quiet. Outside, the city breathed, alive again after the storm.

Jack closed the book before him, his hand resting on its cover, and for the first time, the word “faith” did not sound like a threat, but like a whisper from something ancient and human.

Host: The camera pulled back, capturing the two figures in the soft light, surrounded by books, shadows, and the faint echo of rain.

And in that fragile moment, both understood what Dawkins had warned and what humanity had forgotten—
that blind faith enslaves, but faith with open eyes is the courage to wonder, the will to question, and the grace to hope even when the evidence runs dry.

The scene faded to black, leaving behind only the quiet pulse of thought and the distant hum of a world still asking why.