To 'choose' dogma and faith over doubt and experience is to throw

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving a thin mist that clung to the windows of the small café like ghostly fingerprints. Streetlights flickered on, their amber glow spilling over the wet cobblestones. Steam rose from cups of coffee, dancing briefly before fading into the cool air. Jack sat near the window, his reflection fragmented by the droplets of water on the glass. Jeeny entered, shaking the rain from her coat, her eyes bright, yet haunted with some unspoken weight.

Host: There was an electric tension, the kind that hovers between belief and doubt, between truth and comfort. They had met many times, but tonight, something in the air was different—charged, almost dangerous.

Jack: (his voice low, gravelly) “You ever think, Jeeny, that people cling to faith the way a child clings to a teddy bear? Not because it’s true, but because they’re terrified of the dark without it.”

Jeeny: (sitting opposite, hands around her cup) “And yet, Jack, what’s so wrong with needing light in the darkness? Some of us don’t want to be alone in the void.”

Jack: “Christopher Hitchens once said, ‘To choose dogma and faith over doubt and experience is to throw out the ripening vintage and to reach greedily for the Kool-Aid.’ I think he was right. Faith can rot into poison when it rejects truth.”

Host: The steam from his coffee rose between them like a curtain—thin, shimmering, and fragile. Jeeny watched it drift, her fingers tapping the table lightly.

Jeeny: “You call it poison, but what about those who’ve been saved by it? What about the mothers who pray through war, or the men who find forgiveness in faith after a life of ruin? Was that Kool-Aid too?”

Jack: “Maybe it’s just sugar water for the soul—a temporary fix. Sure, it tastes sweet. But it numbs the mind, Jeeny. It makes people stop asking questions.”

Jeeny: “And your questions, Jack, do they fill you? Or do they just feed your emptiness?”

Host: The words hung there, sharp as a knife, but softly spoken. Outside, a bus rumbled past, its reflection smearing across the wet pavement like molten gold. Jack looked away, jaw tight.

Jack: “At least my emptiness is honest. It’s not painted over with myths and miracles. Look at Jonestown, Jeeny—people drank the Kool-Aid because they chose faith over reality. They wanted to believe so badly, they couldn’t see the truth.”

Jeeny: “And yet, Jack, that wasn’t faith—that was control. That was madness disguised as salvation. Don’t you see? Faith itself isn’t the enemy. It’s when men like Jim Jones weaponize it that it becomes a trap.”

Host: A car horn blared in the distance. Jeeny’s eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with defiance. Jack lit a cigarette, the flame illuminating the hard lines of his face. Smoke spiraled upward, curling into shadows.

Jack: “Then where do you draw the line? How do you tell when faith turns from hope to hallucination?”

Jeeny: “When it hurts more than it heals. When it demands obedience instead of understanding. When it teaches you to fear the questions instead of searching for answers.”

Host: The rain started again, this time gentler, like a whisper. Each drop tapped on the glass, a metronome to their silence. Jack watched the ripples on his coffee, thinking, his cynicism momentarily cracked.

Jack: “You speak as if faith can be pure. But even when it starts that way, it rots. It’s like wine left too long—it ferments into dogma. Look at the Inquisition, the crusades, terrorism today—it’s all people drunk on their own righteousness.”

Jeeny: “And yet, for every war in faith’s name, there’s a hospital, a shelter, a hand reaching out to the broken. You can’t erase that. You can’t measure humanity’s kindness only by its corruption.”

Host: The flame of Jack’s cigarette flickered, then died. He crushed it into the ashtray with a slow, deliberate motion. The smell of burnt tobacco mingled with the rain-soaked air—a bittersweet perfume of conflict and confession.

Jack: “Maybe. But I’ve seen what happens when people stop doubting. When doubt dies, freedom dies with it.”

Jeeny: “And I’ve seen what happens when people stop believing. When hope dies, humanity dies with it.”

Host: The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in with their words. Their voices had grown, echoing with a kind of sacred fury. Then—silence. The storm outside softened. The city hummed quietly.

Jeeny: (more softly) “You know, Jack, I once worked in a clinic where a man came every day to pray for his wife. She had cancer. He never asked for a miracle, just for strength. He said, ‘If I can’t have her longer, let me love her better.’ That wasn’t dogma. That was faith in its truest form.”

Jack: (pausing, looking at her) “And when she died?”

Jeeny: “He still came. He said his faith didn’t fail, it just changed its shape.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes dark, but not with anger this time—something else, something fragile. He exhaled, as if releasing years of armor.

Jack: “Maybe the problem isn’t faith itself… maybe it’s certainty. The refusal to admit we might be wrong.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith should walk with doubt, not kill it. Like love, it’s not blind—it’s brave.”

Host: Their words fell into a shared quiet, like ash after a fire. The light from the street moved across their faces, one golden, one shadowed, but both calm now. Outside, the rain stopped for good. Drops clung to the window, each one catching a spark of light like tiny stars.

Jack: (almost a whisper) “Maybe the vintage and the Kool-Aid are the same grape—just one’s been left to mature, the other spiked with lies.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Then maybe our task isn’t to stop drinking, but to learn how to taste.”

Host: A small laugh escaped her, and Jack joined, a rare sound that cracked the tension like sunlight through clouds. The café returned to its soft hum—cups clinking, steam hissing, rain dripping from the roof.

Host: In the end, there was no winner, no defeat—only two souls, meeting halfway between reason and belief, between the vintage and the Kool-Aid, tasting, perhaps for the first time, the complex flavor of being human.