When a person thinks, I am a Christian, this other person is a

Host: The evening was thick with heat, the kind that clung to skin like a confession. The sun had just slipped beneath the horizon, leaving the sky the color of burnt copper. A market street lay mostly empty now — the stalls closed, the lanterns flickering, the faint echo of the call to prayer mixing with the distant ringing of temple bells.

Two figures sat at a small tea stall by the roadside. Jack stirred his cup absently, watching the steam rise and vanish into the dark. Jeeny sat across from him, her face half-lit by the flame of a small oil lamp. The world around them hummed in the background — the buzz of insects, the creak of wood, the murmur of the night.

A small radio played somewhere nearby, the voice of a speaker faintly audible — quoting words that seemed to hang heavy in the humid air.

“When a person thinks, ‘I am a Christian, this other person is a Muslim, therefore he is my enemy… they reveal their own lack of spiritual depth.’”

Jeeny’s eyes lifted slowly toward Jack, her expression thoughtful, almost mournful.

Jeeny: “Tulsi Gabbard said that. No religion teaches hate. And yet the world acts like every faith carries a sword.”

Jack: (gruffly) “Yeah. Because people don’t worship God — they worship their reflection of Him. Religion’s just a mirror, Jeeny. And most folks can’t stand the cracks.”

Host: The oil lamp flickered, its light catching the sweat on Jack’s forehead, turning him into a portrait of weariness and doubt.

Jeeny: “But don’t you think that mirror can still reflect something pure? The problem isn’t faith — it’s ego. It’s when belief stops being a bridge and becomes a wall.”

Jack: “Ego’s the foundation of faith. You pick a name, a ritual, a tribe — and suddenly you think you’ve found the truth. But truth doesn’t need a label. It just is.”

Jeeny: “That’s cynicism talking. Faith can humble you too. It can make you see how small you are.”

Jack: “Tell that to the ones who kill in its name. Or the ones who look at someone praying differently and see a threat instead of a soul. Humility’s the first thing religion forgets.”

Host: The night deepened. The mosquito coil at their feet burned in lazy spirals, sending up a thin thread of smoke that smelled faintly of lemongrass. The air between them grew heavier, charged — not with anger, but the ache of truth.

Jeeny: “But that’s not religion’s fault, Jack. That’s humanity’s. Every faith starts as a whisper — ‘Be kind, seek light, love others.’ Then people build empires on it. By the time the whisper reaches the crowd, it’s a shout.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the problem. We can’t handle whispers. We want certainties. We want God to pick sides.”

Jeeny: “And so we paint Him with our own fear. But if God exists at all, He’s beyond our boundaries. Beyond temples and mosques, beyond the words we fight over.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “Then why do we keep fighting, Jeeny? Why does every war come wrapped in scripture?”

Jeeny: “Because fear is easier to share than love. And because the same fire that warms can burn — depending on whose hands hold it.”

Host: A wind picked up, stirring the dust along the road. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked. The radio crackled, fading into silence.

Jack looked away, his eyes following the silhouette of a passing monk, robes fluttering like an ember in the wind.

Jack: “You know, I once worked construction on a church. The priest would bring food for the workers every afternoon — rice, beans, bread. One of the guys was Muslim. Wouldn’t eat at first. Said it felt wrong. The priest smiled and said, ‘Then I’ll fast with you.’ After that, they became friends. Funny thing — no sermon needed. Just a plate of food.”

Jeeny: “That’s what faith should look like. Quiet acts. No banners, no division.”

Jack: “But the world doesn’t reward quiet. It rewards noise — flags, slogans, martyrs. The louder you shout, the holier they think you are.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why the truly spiritual are so few. Because silence doesn’t trend.”

Host: The lamp flame guttered and went out, leaving only the faint silver of moonlight and the distant neon glow from the highway. In the dimness, Jack’s profile looked carved in stone — weary but resolute.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder what would happen if people stopped saying I am this or you are that — and just said we?”

Jack: “Then the world would have nothing left to fight about. And maybe that’s what scares it most — peace is bad for business.”

Jeeny: “But peace is good for the soul.”

Jack: “Yeah. But souls don’t sell.”

Host: His voice was quiet now, almost regretful. The wind slipped through the empty stall, lifting the napkins, stirring the dust, carrying the faint scent of cardamom and ashes.

Jeeny: “You’ve stopped believing in humanity, haven’t you?”

Jack: “No. I just believe in what it could be — not what it keeps choosing to be.”

Jeeny: “Then there’s hope.”

Jack: (smirks faintly) “Hope’s a stubborn little thing. Won’t die even when faith does.”

Host: The silence that followed was deep — sacred, even. Across the street, the lights of a small temple flickered as the mosque nearby began its evening prayers. The two sounds — the bell and the call — rose together, not in conflict, but in accidental harmony.

Jeeny closed her eyes, listening. “Do you hear that?” she whispered.

Jack nodded, his face softening. “Yeah. For once, they’re not competing. Just coexisting.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s all Tulsi meant — that spiritual depth isn’t about knowing who’s right, but recognizing that everyone’s voice is part of the same song.”

Jack: “And the tragedy is, most people never learn to listen to the harmony — only the noise.”

Jeeny: “Then we start by listening ourselves. By refusing to see enemies where there are only other hearts trying to find meaning.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “You really think it’s that simple?”

Jeeny: “Not simple. Just human.”

Host: The moonlight slid across their faces, washing away the hard lines, softening them into something almost pure. The world outside still held its divisions — temples and mosques, crosses and crescents — but in that small stall, the space between them felt weightless.

Jack lifted his cup, now cold, and set it down gently.

Jack: “You know, if there’s a God, I think He’d be more tired than angry.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But maybe He’s still hoping we’ll wake up.”

Jack: “You think we will?”

Jeeny: “I think some of us already have.”

Host: The camera would pull back then — the two figures framed in a pool of moonlight, surrounded by a world divided by faith but united by the quiet pulse of life. The street, the lamps, the temple bells, and the adhan all merged into a single sound — neither Christian nor Muslim, neither East nor West — just human.

In that fragile, fleeting harmony, the truth of Gabbard’s words glowed softly, like embers refusing to die:

No religion teaches hatred.

Only hearts do.

And hearts, like faith itself, can still be rebuilt — one quiet act of understanding at a time.