We must rediscover our faith in the future and join with one

Host: The city skyline glows like a constellation of steel and sorrow. Below, in the half-quiet of evening, the air hums with both exhaustion and yearning — sirens far away, laughter closer, and the pulse of a world not yet at peace with itself. The rooftop garden overlooks it all — small plants trembling in the wind, the sky a bruise of violet and blue.

A candle flickers on the low table between two chairs. Jack sits in one, his gray eyes scanning the horizon like a man trying to measure the distance between chaos and hope. Jeeny sits opposite him, her dark hair unbound, her posture calm but alert — the kind of stillness that carries conviction.

On the table, a folded piece of paper lies beside the candle flame, its edges catching the light. Jeeny unfolds it and reads aloud, her voice steady but filled with emotion:

“We must rediscover our faith in the future and join with one another to ensure that nonviolence is the prevalent choice for government, law enforcement, the non-profit sector, business, education, media, entertainment, arts, and for the global citizenry.” — Bernice King

Host: The wind shifts, carrying with it the scent of rain and the soft hum of traffic below. For a moment, neither speaks. The world itself seems to hold its breath, waiting to hear what they will make of hope in such a wounded age.

Jack: [after a long pause] “Faith in the future… I wonder how anyone still finds it. The world feels like it’s running on fumes. Violence is everywhere — not just in war or crime, but in speech, in systems, in silence.”

Jeeny: [softly] “That’s exactly why she said we must rediscover it. Faith isn’t born — it’s built again and again, especially after the world has broken it.”

Jack: [leans forward, eyes sharp] “But that’s the paradox, isn’t it? Every generation inherits the ruins of peace and the rhetoric of hope. We talk about nonviolence like it’s attainable, but we live in structures built by violence — power, control, fear. How do you teach peace in a world addicted to aggression?”

Jeeny: [looking out over the city] “By choosing it anyway. Bernice King isn’t naïve — she’s the daughter of Martin Luther King Jr. She knows that peace isn’t natural; it’s deliberate. It’s rebellion in its purest form.”

Jack: [half-smiles] “Rebellion through restraint. That’s poetic — and impossible.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s human. We think violence is strength, but it’s actually surrender — surrender to anger, to fear. Nonviolence is the harder choice because it demands faith in people even when they fail you.”

Host: The candle flame trembles, its light catching the outline of Jeeny’s face. Her expression is calm, but her eyes burn with conviction.

Jack: “Faith in people. That’s your gospel, isn’t it? But what if they don’t deserve it?”

Jeeny: [turning toward him] “No one deserves faith, Jack. It’s a gift — given not because of worth, but because of need. We all need someone to believe in us, especially when we’ve forgotten how.”

Jack: [quietly] “You sound like King herself.”

Jeeny: [smiling faintly] “No. She lived it. I’m just trying to remember it.”

Host: A gust of wind sweeps through, rattling the glass candle holder. The flame wavers but holds. The sound of distant thunder hums at the edge of the horizon, like an old warning — or a new beginning.

Jack: [sighing] “You really think nonviolence can exist beyond theory? In politics, in business, in media — they all thrive on conflict. Outrage is currency. Fear sells better than truth.”

Jeeny: [nodding] “You’re right. But that’s why it has to begin with citizens, not systems. Systems don’t change — people do. Bernice King didn’t call for perfection; she called for participation. For us to choose empathy in the smallest places, so it might echo in the largest.”

Jack: [thoughtful] “So you’re saying nonviolence isn’t the absence of conflict. It’s the art of facing it without hatred.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s the discipline of compassion. It’s the choice to confront evil without becoming it.”

Host: The rain finally begins, gentle at first — soft, rhythmic, steady. The candle sputters but refuses to die, a small sun burning stubbornly against the storm.

Jack: [watching the rain] “Strange. We’ve built machines that reach Mars, but we still can’t stop hurting each other down here.”

Jeeny: [quietly] “Because science can reach the stars, but only love can reach the human heart. That’s what King believed. That’s what her daughter’s reminding us of — that progress without compassion isn’t progress at all.”

Jack: [after a pause] “You know, I used to think peace was naïve — a dream for people who didn’t understand the world. But now I think maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe it’s the people who believe in peace who understand the world too well — and still choose to love it.”

Jeeny: [smiling gently] “That’s what rediscovering faith in the future means, Jack. Not pretending the world is good, but deciding it can still become better.”

Host: The thunder rumbles closer, a deep, almost musical sound. The rain thickens, tapping against the rooftop garden like the heartbeat of the earth itself. Jeeny reaches out and cups the flickering flame between her hands to shield it from the wind.

Jeeny: [softly] “See this? This is what nonviolence looks like. Not grand speeches. Not perfect systems. Just small acts of protection — of choosing light when the storm comes.”

Jack: [watching her, voice low] “And the faith to believe it’s worth saving.”

Jeeny: [nods] “Always.”

Host: The camera pans out — the candle glowing in the rain, two figures beneath an open sky, the city sprawling below them in restless light. The storm intensifies, but the flame holds.

And as the rain falls heavier, Bernice King’s words become more than a quote — they become a covenant:

That faith in the future is not blind optimism,
but the decision to keep reaching out —
when history tells you to close your fists.

That nonviolence is not weakness,
but courage measured in restraint,
and compassion practiced in defiance.

Host: The scene fades with the sound of rain — rhythmic, cleansing — and the candle still burning between them.

Because even in the storm,
the smallest flame of faith
is still enough to light the way forward.