White supremacy is not just a social arrangement: it is a

Host: The rain came down like a quiet confession, silver threads weaving through the neon lights of the late-night diner. Steam curled from coffee cups, rising like ghosts between two figures seated at the back booth—Jack and Jeeny. The clock above the counter ticked without mercy, each second an echo in the heavy air. Outside, headlights slid across wet pavement, reflecting the world’s tired truths in fractured light.

Host: Jack sat still, his hands wrapped around his cup like it was something to hold onto in a storm. His grey eyes, cold and deep, watched the window as if trying to see beyond it. Jeeny, across from him, leaned forward, her hair damp from the rain, her brown eyes burning with quiet conviction. Between them lay a thin newspaper, its headline circled in red: “White supremacy is not just a social arrangement: it is a race-based faith.” — James A. Forbes.

Host: The diner’s lights flickered once, like a pulse beneath the silence.

Jeeny: “He’s right,” she said, her voice low but steady. “White supremacy isn’t just about power—it’s about belief. A faith, built on the myth that one skin carries divine permission to rule over another.”

Jack: “Faith?” he repeated, with a bitter smile. “I call that ideology, not faith. It’s not sacred—it’s strategy. A system built by men to justify greed and control.”

Jeeny: “And what do you think faith is, Jack? Isn’t it always something people believe so deeply they’ll bend reality around it?”

Jack: “Not when it’s rotten at the root. You can’t call hate a faith.”

Jeeny: “But people do. Every time they say it’s ‘God’s will’ that the world looks a certain way. Every time they hide behind the cross to excuse the whip.”

Host: A flash of lightning revealed their faces—two silhouettes framed by the storm. Jeeny’s expression was fierce, her hands trembling slightly on the table, not from fear, but from memory. Jack’s jaw tightened, the muscle flickering beneath shadow and light.

Jack: “You’re talking about the past. Slave masters, missionaries, segregationists—they all used religion to rationalize power. But that’s not faith, Jeeny. That’s propaganda dressed in Sunday clothes.”

Jeeny: “And yet it worked, didn’t it? For centuries. The Bible was read beside the noose, hymns sung over the cries of the enslaved. Don’t tell me that’s just propaganda. That’s ritual. That’s belief turned malignant.”

Host: The rain softened, becoming a slow rhythm on the glass. The waitress passed by, refilling cups, her eyes tired but kind. The smell of coffee filled the air—bitter, grounding.

Jack: “Alright,” he said finally. “Let’s call it belief, then. But not faith. Faith is hope. Faith is love. White supremacy is the absence of those things.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s their corruption. It takes words like ‘chosen,’ ‘pure,’ ‘saved,’ and twists them until they bleed. It’s faith turned inward, poisoned by fear of losing power. Look at the Ku Klux Klan—they called themselves ‘Defenders of Christian civilization.’ That wasn’t politics to them. That was gospel.”

Jack: “You think the world still believes that?”

Jeeny: “Not always in those words. But it’s still here. Every time someone says, ‘This is our country,’ or ‘They’re taking our way of life,’ it’s the same hymn, just a different verse.”

Host: Jack’s fingers drummed against the table, slow and rhythmic, as if to drown the thought. His eyes flicked to the window, where two police lights flashed blue and red in the rain. Somewhere nearby, another small tragedy was unfolding.

Jack: “You always make it sound spiritual,” he muttered. “As if evil has to pray to exist.”

Jeeny: “It does. Every system of hate needs its own altar.”

Jack: “So what—you think we’re all just trapped in competing religions of skin color now?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think we still worship something. Power. Whiteness. The illusion of order. It’s not confined to one church, Jack—it’s in schools, boardrooms, movie screens. It’s a liturgy of hierarchy.”

Host: The light above them buzzed, then steadied again. Jack looked up, his expression weary, like someone caught between disbelief and understanding.

Jack: “You’re saying white supremacy survived because it gave people meaning.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It gave them a story to live by. Every faith needs a creation myth—and theirs was that God made some closer to heaven than others.”

Jack: “That’s one hell of a story.”

Jeeny: “And hell’s where it came from.”

Host: A long silence followed. The rain slowed to a faint drizzle, the kind that left streets shining like wet mirrors. Somewhere, a church bell rang in the distance, soft and solemn, as if part of the conversation.

Jack: “You know what bothers me?” he said finally. “That the world still organizes itself around those myths, even after centuries of proof they’re false. Even after blood, marches, movements. Maybe people don’t want equality—they want to believe in superiority.”

Jeeny: “Because superiority feels safer than uncertainty. Faith always fills the gaps where truth is too heavy to hold.”

Jack: “Then what do we do? Preach a new gospel?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe we just start by calling it what it is. Stop pretending it’s a few bad apples. Stop pretending it’s just politics. It’s belief. It’s identity. It’s people worshiping a false god made of skin and fear.”

Host: Her voice trembled, not from weakness but from the weight of conviction. Jack’s eyes softened, the first sign of something breaking through his armor.

Jack: “You really believe love can undo that kind of faith?”

Jeeny: “Not love alone. But truth. And the courage to face what people actually believe, not what they pretend to.”

Jack: “You sound like a preacher now.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like someone who’s tired of pretending.”

Host: The clock ticked, relentless. The neon sign outside flickered, turning their faces pale, then warm again, like the shifting light of confession. Jeeny sipped her coffee, her hands steady now, her gaze unwavering.

Jeeny: “James A. Forbes once said that until we treat white supremacy as a faith, we’ll never understand its power. You can’t dismantle a religion by arguing facts. You have to reveal its false god.”

Jack: “So, what—truth is our new church?”

Jeeny: “Maybe truth was always the old one.”

Host: The storm had passed, but the streets still glistened, like a city washed but not yet cleansed. Jack leaned back, staring at the rain-streaked glass, his reflection ghostlike, fractured by the neon.

Jack: “I used to think racism was just ignorance,” he said quietly. “But now I think you’re right—it’s faith. The kind that prays to itself.”

Jeeny: “And faith can be unlearned. But only if someone shows another way to believe.”

Jack: “And who does that? The ones still bleeding?”

Jeeny: “Always. Every prophet bleeds before the world listens.”

Host: A faint smile crossed her lips, fragile as forgiveness. Jack looked at her, a long moment of quiet recognition passing between them. The diner was nearly empty now; the waitress wiped tables, humming an old gospel tune, unaware she was part of the night’s sermon.

Jack: “You think we’ll ever outgrow it?”

Jeeny: “Faiths die when they stop being fed. Maybe one day, people will hunger for something purer.”

Jack: “And what’s that?”

Jeeny: “Belonging that doesn’t need an enemy.”

Host: The rain stopped. The moon broke through the clouds, its pale light spilling across the floor like a benediction. The newspaper lay between them, the quote still circled in red—bold, unforgiving, true.

Host: Jack reached out, slowly, his finger tracing the words, as though trying to absorb their weight. His voice, when it came, was softer.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the only faith worth keeping—the kind that doesn’t need to prove it’s right by making someone else wrong.”

Jeeny: “Then keep it, Jack. Hold it like light in the dark.”

Host: And as the camera pulled back, leaving them in the hum of the diner’s last light, the rainwater outside shimmered like mercy, and the night—for all its shadows—felt, at last, a little less blind.