Without our faith, we wouldn't have been able to succeed. On many

Host: The night was thick with mist, the streetlights glowing like tired halos above the empty boulevard. The air smelled of rain and iron, that peculiar scent that always follows a storm. A small diner stood at the corner, its neon sign flickering with a lazy pulse — Faith’s Diner. Inside, the radio murmured a gospel hymn, an echo from another time, another struggle.

Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes reflecting the light from passing cars, his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee gone cold. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her long black hair falling over her shoulders, her eyes burning softly, like candles in a church that never closes.

Jeeny: “You know, John Lewis once said, ‘Without our faith, we wouldn’t have been able to succeed.’ I’ve been thinking about that. About how faith, not fear, drove them to walk through fire.”

Jack: “Faith didn’t stop the fire, Jeeny. Strategy did. Organization. Courage, sure — but courage without structure burns out fast.”

Host: A truck roared past outside, shaking the windowpane. Jeeny’s eyes followed the motion, but her voice stayed steady.

Jeeny: “You think the march from Selma to Montgomery was just strategy? They sang hymns, Jack. They prayed before facing dogs, guns, hate. Faith wasn’t decoration — it was the engine.”

Jack: “An engine fueled by belief, yes — but belief in a goal, not in some invisible force. Don’t rewrite history. They had plans, leaders, maps. Faith didn’t cross that bridge — feet did.”

Jeeny: “And what do you think moved those feet?”

Host: The rain began again — slow, patient, almost rhythmic. It tapped on the glass, each drop echoing like the distant drumming of a march. Jack’s jaw tightened, the light catching the faint lines around his eyes.

Jack: “Maybe anger did. Or hope. Or just the knowledge that things couldn’t go on the same. You don’t need faith for that — you just need eyes and pain.”

Jeeny: “But anger alone destroys. Faith rebuilds. They had faith that nonviolence could defeat violence. They believed in something larger than themselves. That’s not strategy, Jack — that’s spirit.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his voice lowering, like a man trying to hold his breath inside a truth he didn’t want to face.

Jack: “Spirit doesn’t stop a baton. Or a bullet. Planning, pressure, and politics do. You know what I think? Faith is what people cling to when the world refuses to make sense.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But without faith, the world wouldn’t even try to make sense. Those marchers weren’t just protesting — they were believing in a future they hadn’t seen yet.”

Host: Her hands trembled slightly as she spoke, not from fear, but from the memory of others’ pain. She was born decades after Selma, but her voice carried the same tremor that echoed through the songs of those who once walked.

Jack: “You talk like faith is some kind of armor.”

Jeeny: “It is. The only kind that doesn’t rust.”

Host: The words hung in the air — heavy, glowing, like steam rising from a train that refuses to stop. Jack’s eyes softened for a moment, as if something in her voice cracked the shell around his logic.

Jack: “So what happens when that armor cracks? When you pray and the bullets still fly, when the blood still spills?”

Jeeny: “Then you pray again. Not to escape, but to stand. That’s what John Lewis meant. Without faith, they couldn’t have stood.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked like a slow heartbeat. The diner had emptied; only the two remained, and the song on the radio — ‘Ain’t Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me Around.’

Jack’s fingers traced the rim of his cup, his reflection shimmering in the coffee like a man trapped inside his own doubt.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic, Jeeny, but faith has a dark side too. People believe, and they justify anything — wars, hate, even slavery once had faith behind it.”

Jeeny: “True. But so did freedom. So did love. Faith isn’t the villain — it’s the hands that hold it. It’s the heart that uses it.”

Host: A gust of wind pushed against the door, and the sign outside flickered, throwing light and shadow across their faces — half illuminated, half hidden. Two sides of a truth, locked in quiet combat.

Jack: “You want to know what I think saved them? Not faith — solidarity. People. When one fell, another rose. That’s not divine, it’s human.”

Jeeny: “But what made them rise again, Jack? Why not quit after the beatings? Why not give up when freedom rides were burned to ashes? Because their faith told them suffering wasn’t the end. It was the path.”

Host: The temperature between them shifted — no longer cold, but charged, like air before a storm. Jack looked down, his voice quieter, stripped of its defense.

Jack: “I used to pray once. Back when my father was in the hospital. I told myself if he made it, I’d believe again. He didn’t. So I stopped.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are, still searching, still arguing about something you say you don’t believe in. Maybe faith never left you, Jack. Maybe it just changed its shape.”

Host: He looked at her then — really looked — and something in her gaze broke him open. The diners’ lights seemed to soften, as if the room itself wanted to listen.

Jack: “So you think I’m just hiding my faith behind logic?”

Jeeny: “No. I think your logic is how you protect what’s still sacred inside you.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The rain had stopped, but the sound of dripping water from the roof carried like a slow rhythm, echoing the beat of something ancient and tender.

Jack’s voice returned — low, cracked, no longer made of steel but of flesh.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe they needed faith because fear was too heavy to carry alone.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith didn’t erase fear — it gave it a direction. That’s what made them walk, what made them sing even as the world screamed against them.”

Host: Outside, a faint light began to break through the mist, the first hint of dawn touching the pavement.

Jack stood, sliding his coat over his shoulders. Jeeny followed, her eyes catching the reflection of the rising sun in the glass.

They both paused, watching the day arrive.

Jack: “You know, maybe it’s not so different today. The world still marches, still fights, still bleeds. Maybe what we’re missing isn’t just a plan — maybe it’s that old song.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to sing again.”

Host: And as they stepped out into the morning, the light spilled across their faces, washing away the shadows of the night. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell began to ring, soft and steady, like a heartbeat remembering its faith.

The world, for a moment, felt quiet, as if listening — as if the echo of those old voices, the ones who once sang before they marched, had returned to remind the living that faith, even now, still walks beside them.