The political process is rough and tumble by definition, and

Host: The city was wrapped in the weight of a storm. Thunder rolled like distant artillery, and rain beat against the windows of a nearly empty restaurant overlooking the Capitol. Inside, the lights were dim, casting shadows across the mahogany tables and the half-drunk glasses of wine. The television behind the bar flickered with a newsfeed, the anchor’s voice muted, scrolling headlines moving like ants.

Jack sat near the window, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, his expression hardened by the day’s politics — bills, battles, and betrayals. Jeeny entered with a coat still wet from the storm, her dark eyes bright with calm — the kind that only comes from belief in something greater than the room itself.

Jeeny: “Hakeem Jeffries once said, ‘The political process is rough and tumble by definition, and being grounded in faith in a Higher Power has proven helpful in navigating the difficult terrain.’”

Jack: “Faith in a Higher Power.” He snorted, swirling his glass. “You mean survival bias in divine packaging. People thank God when they win, but when they lose, they call it a test. Either way, it’s spin.”

Jeeny: “Or it’s trust, Jack. Faith isn’t about winning. It’s about staying sane in the chaos. You think politics is brutal? Try believing in something pure while you’re surrounded by greed and noise.”

Jack: “I’ve seen what faith does in politics, Jeeny. It divides as much as it guides. Everyone thinks their God signs their legislation. You can’t pray your way through a filibuster.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can remember your humanity through one. That’s what Jeffries meant. Faith doesn’t replace the fight — it anchors you in it.”

Host: The storm raged outside, the rain drumming like fingers on a drum, steady, insistent. A waiter passed with a tray, his eyes tired, his steps slow. The air was heavy with the smell of coffee and wet leather.

Jack: “You ever notice how politicians invoke God right before they lie? Like they need to borrow His credibility for a few minutes. I’ve written those speeches, Jeeny. The ‘faith in higher purpose’ part — that’s the safest lie in the book.”

Jeeny: “And yet people believe it. Why? Because they want to. Because the idea that someone is guided by something more than self-interest gives them hope.”

Jack: “Hope’s a currency, Jeeny. It’s minted by those in power, spent by those who trust too easily.”

Jeeny: “You talk like faith is a scam, but maybe it’s a shield. You don’t have to believe in God to see that — you just need to understand what faith gives people when the world takes everything else.”

Jack: “Faith is a crutch. People lean on it when they should be learning to walk.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s a compass, not a crutch. It doesn’t walk for you — it just points north.”

Host: Jack laughed, a low, bitter sound that clashed with the thunder. His hands shook slightly as he lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face — tired, haunted, and hungry for a truth that didn’t evaporate under light.

Jack: “You know what I think, Jeeny? I think faith is for people who can’t handle the uncertainty of this world. The political process isn’t divine. It’s transactional. It’s fists, favors, and fire.”

Jeeny: “And what do you think keeps people from burning in that fire, Jack? Faith. The belief that there’s a purpose to the fight, that the darkness isn’t just random.”

Jack: “Purpose is man-made. We build it so we can sleep at night.”

Jeeny: “Then why can’t you sleep, Jack?”

Host: The question hung in the air like smoke — thin, invisible, but inescapable. Jack looked away, his jaw tightening, his eyes fixed on the Capitol dome through the rain.

Jack: “Because I’ve seen what purpose costs. You lose yourself trying to save something that doesn’t want to be saved. The system’s rigged — the votes, the virtue, the values. And everyone pretends they’re guided by something higher when really, they’re just climbing.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why faith matters — because it reminds us what we’re climbing for. You can’t navigate this terrain without a north star. Otherwise, you’re just wandering.”

Jack: “A north star doesn’t care about you. It just exists.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the point. Faith isn’t about the universe caring. It’s about you choosing to care anyway.”

Host: The rain softened, the rhythm on the glass turning gentler, like a heartbeat that had found its balance. Jeeny leaned forward, her hands folded, her voice steady, measured.

Jeeny: “Jeffries didn’t say faith made the terrain easier. He said it made it navigable. There’s a difference. Faith doesn’t flatten the mountain; it just gives you the strength to climb.”

Jack: “And when you fall?”

Jeeny: “Then faith is the rope that keeps you from breaking.”

Jack: “Or the illusion that makes you climb higher than you should.”

Jeeny: “Would you rather crawl forever, afraid of the height?”

Jack: “Maybe I’d rather see clearly, even if it means staying low.”

Jeeny: “Clarity isn’t the same as wisdom. Sometimes you have to believe before you can understand.”

Host: The lightning flashed, illuminating their faces — one of skepticism, the other of faith — both etched by the same exhaustion that comes from fighting for something intangible.

Jack: “So what do you think faith really does in politics? It doesn’t stop the corruption, it doesn’t end the wars.”

Jeeny: “No. But it stops the corruption from becoming you. It keeps your soul from hardening. Without faith, every battle becomes personal. With it, you can fight and still forgive.”

Jack: “That sounds like a luxury for the idealistic.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s a necessity for the human.”

Host: The waiter refilled their glasses, and for the first time, neither of them spoke. Outside, the Capitol glowed — a beacon, a lie, a promise — depending on who you asked. Inside, only rain and truth remained.

Jack: “You think faith would ever make someone like me a better man?”

Jeeny: “I think it already is — because you keep asking. The questions are your prayers, Jack. You just don’t call them that yet.”

Jack: “And you — what do you call them?”

Jeeny: “Hope. The only kind that survives the rough and tumble.”

Host: The storm passed, leaving behind a hollow, echoing quiet. The Capitol stood in its white glow, untouched, aloof, while the streets below glistened, washed, renewed.

Jack looked at Jeeny — and for the first time, his eyes held not skepticism, but peace.

Jack: “Maybe faith isn’t the answer.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t have to be. It just needs to keep you looking for one.”

Host: Outside, a church bell rang in the distance, its sound cutting through the wet air, steady and true.

And there, in that restaurant of exhausted souls and silent prayers, two wanderers of the modern world sat — one who believed, and one who doubted — both grounded, in their own way, in a faith that was not about power, but about endurance.

The rough and tumble had not ended, but the path had softened, just enough for them to keep walking.