The parents have a right to say that no teacher paid by their

Host: The classroom was empty now, long after the children had gone home. Dust floated in the golden slant of evening light, turning through the air like quiet memories. The smell of chalk and old books lingered; the faint ticking of the wall clock measured the weight of time and tension left behind.

At one desk, Jack sat with his sleeves rolled up, his hands resting on a pile of papers — essays written in uncertain handwriting, small hearts and questions scattered in the margins. Across from him, Jeeny stood near the blackboard, her fingers trailing through the faint white residue of erased lessons. Her eyes were calm but fierce, like someone defending something unseen but sacred.

Jeeny: “William Jennings Bryan once said, ‘The parents have a right to say that no teacher paid by their money shall rob their children of faith in God and send them back to their homes skeptical, or infidels, or agnostics, or atheists.’”

Jack: (leaning back) “Ah, Bryan. The crusader against Darwin. The man who tried to put Genesis on trial.”

Jeeny: (turning slowly) “He was defending what he believed — the right of parents to protect their children’s faith.”

Jack: “And to silence any teacher who dared to teach them how to think.”

Jeeny: “Or to question the arrogance of men who believe all truth can be measured under a microscope.”

Host: The sun dipped lower, bathing the classroom in amber light. On the chalkboard behind her, faintly visible, were the words from that day’s lesson: “Theories are not enemies of truth — they are the search for it.”

Jack followed her gaze, then sighed, weary but unmoved.

Jack: “You know, the Scopes Trial wasn’t really about biology. It was about fear — fear that if children thought freely, faith would crumble like a myth under sunlight.”

Jeeny: “And maybe it was about arrogance — the arrogance that assumes faith must bow to reason.”

Jack: “Reason built the world you live in. It cured diseases, sent us to the stars, split atoms—”

Jeeny: “And built bombs that erased cities.”

Host: The air between them thickened, charged with the heat of two worlds colliding. The wind outside rattled the window, scattering the last papers on Jack’s desk like fallen leaves.

Jack: “You can’t shield a child from doubt, Jeeny. It’s part of growing up — learning to question, to seek.”

Jeeny: “But seeking doesn’t mean destroying. Some things are meant to be believed before they can be understood.”

Jack: “That’s faith’s favorite trick — to make ignorance sound like virtue.”

Jeeny: (firmly) “No. It’s to make humility sound like wisdom. Science tells us how. Faith tells us why.”

Host: The light shifted, shadows of tree branches moving across the walls like slow waves. The clock ticked louder now — each second like a hammer driving deeper into the heart of their disagreement.

Jack: “I teach so they can find truth. Not memorize dogma.”

Jeeny: “And I believe truth can wear many faces — one of reason, one of wonder. But you strip one away, and you blind them to half the light.”

Jack: “Then tell me, Jeeny — if a teacher talks about evolution, does that destroy God? Or just redefine Him?”

Jeeny: “It redefines man. It tells him he’s an accident — a beast dressed in language.”

Jack: “And yet here we are — two evolved beasts debating the divine.”

Jeeny: “And yet I still feel something in me that isn’t flesh or bone — something reason can’t dissect.”

Host: Her voice trembled, not from weakness but from conviction, like the last note of a hymn sung into wind.

Jeeny: “That’s what Bryan meant. Parents trust teachers not to steal that from their children — that mystery, that reverence.”

Jack: “And who decides what’s theft? Teaching facts isn’t robbery. It’s liberation.”

Jeeny: “But liberation without meaning becomes emptiness. You can fill a mind and still starve a soul.”

Host: Silence fell. Only the sound of chalk tapping against the tray as Jeeny idly picked up a piece and wrote a word on the board: “Faith.”

Jack watched it appear — four simple letters, fragile as breath.

Jack: “You really believe faith can’t survive knowledge?”

Jeeny: “I believe knowledge without faith loses compassion. And faith without knowledge loses direction.”

Jack: “So you want both?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because one explains creation, the other sanctifies it.”

Host: The last rays of sunlight vanished, leaving the room dim but still warm. Jack rose slowly, walked to the board, and stood beside her. His eyes softened as they followed the word she had written.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I used to ask my priest why God made dinosaurs if they never made it into Sunday school. He said, ‘Some stories are too big for one book.’”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe he understood both worlds better than either of us.”

Jack: “Maybe. Maybe truth isn’t a battlefield after all — just a horizon we both walk toward from different directions.”

Jeeny: “And children deserve to walk it too — guided by both head and heart.”

Host: The moonlight slipped through the window now, silvering the desks, the books, the dust. The word Faith glowed faintly in the chalk’s pale sheen — fragile, enduring.

Jack: “So maybe Bryan was half-right.”

Jeeny: “And half-wrong. Faith shouldn’t be protected by fear — it should be strengthened by understanding.”

Jack: “Then maybe the real right of parents isn’t to shield their children from doubt, but to teach them courage in facing it.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Because real faith doesn’t fear questions.”

Host: They stood there — teacher and believer, skeptic and seeker — their differences dissolving into something larger, quieter, and truer.

Outside, the night deepened, and the first stars appeared through the glass — not enemies to the dark, but companions within it.

And in that still moment, William Jennings Bryan’s words transformed — not as a warning, but as an invitation:

That faith and reason are not rivals, but reflections,
that truth belongs to neither pulpit nor podium alone,
and that the sacred duty of both teacher and parent is not to guard belief from inquiry,
but to let the child find God in the space where wonder and wisdom meet.

Host: The classroom stood silent again — no longer a place of argument, but of possibility.
And on the blackboard, beneath the word Faith, Jack took a piece of chalk and added one more word beside it:

Reason.

Host: Two words.
Two worlds.
And between them — a bridge made of light.