You approach faith with humility. You can have some idea, but it

Host: The sun was beginning to set over the old stone bridge, throwing long shadows across the river that flowed slow and deep beneath. The air was cool, touched by the faint scent of smoke from a nearby village, and the sky above was caught between gold and blue, a tender war between day and night.

Two figures stood at the middle of that bridge — Jack and Jeeny — the river whispering beneath their feet. The world around them seemed to hold its breath.

Host: They had walked for hours, talking about everything and nothing. Then, as the first stars appeared, Jeeny had taken out her notebook, opened it to a page, and read aloud the quote that had anchored their silence:

“You approach faith with humility. You can have some idea, but it boils down to do you see religion as a club, or do you see religion as a path? Do you see it as a wall that separates you or do you see it as a bridge that connects you to God and other people? When you see it as a bridge, you aren't so worried about bringing others over to your side.”
— Keith Ellison

Host: The wind brushed past them like a soft question.

Jeeny: “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The idea that faith could be a bridge instead of a wall.”

Jack: (low, almost to himself) “Maybe. But bridges still separate two sides. And someone always decides who crosses first.”

Host: His voice carried that familiar edge — not anger, but the fatigue of a man who had wrestled too long with invisible things.

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in bridges, do you?”

Jack: “I believe in people. And I believe people build walls and call them bridges when it suits them.”

Jeeny: “That’s cynical, even for you.”

Jack: “It’s history, Jeeny. Religion has started wars, divided nations, families, lovers. Everyone says theirs is the ‘path,’ but every path ends up fenced with rules and fear.”

Host: The river below murmured like a witness to old confessions. A distant church bell rang across the valley, its sound floating over the water like the echo of forgotten prayers.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that exactly what Ellison means? That faith isn’t supposed to be ownership — it’s supposed to be relationship. We built those walls, not God.”

Jack: (snorts softly) “Convenient answer. Every believer says their faith connects — until someone challenges it. Then the walls go right back up. Tell me, how many wars have been fought over bridges?”

Jeeny: “And how many hearts have been healed by them?”

Host: Her voice was steady, soft but edged with a fire that came from conviction. The light caught her face, turning her eyes into deep wells of brown gold.

Jeeny: “Think of people like Gandhi. Or Martin Luther King Jr. They didn’t use faith as a weapon. They used it as a bridge — to connect love with justice. They changed the world without demanding the world change sides.”

Jack: “And both of them were killed for it.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Yes. But the bridge still stands.”

Host: Silence. The wind pressed gently against them, stirring Jack’s coat, rippling the surface of the river. For a long time, he didn’t speak. When he did, his voice was softer.

Jack: “You know, I grew up going to church every Sunday. My mother used to tell me God watched everything I did. So I watched myself. Every word, every thought. By the time I was twelve, I wasn’t worshipping — I was terrified. That’s what faith was to me. A wall that never stopped watching.”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “That’s not faith, Jack. That’s fear dressed in holy words.”

Jack: “Same thing sometimes. Faith asks for obedience, fear enforces it.”

Jeeny: “No. True faith asks for humility — to admit you don’t know everything. To admit you could be wrong. That’s what Ellison meant by ‘approach faith with humility.’ When you see it as a path, you keep walking. When you see it as a club, you stop growing.”

Host: The bridge creaked beneath their feet as if to agree. The sound of water filled the spaces between their words — a rhythm older than argument.

Jack: “So you’re saying religion isn’t the problem. People are.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. People turn belief into identity, and identity into battle lines. But the heart of faith — real faith — is connection. It’s looking at someone different from you and still saying, ‘We belong to the same story.’”

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But it’s simple to forget.”

Host: The light shifted — the last threads of sunset melting into indigo. The first stars trembled above, reflected faintly in the slow-moving river below.

Jack: “You ever think faith and doubt are the same thing wearing different clothes?”

Jeeny: “Maybe they are. Doubt keeps faith honest. Faith keeps doubt from despairing.”

Jack: “Then maybe the bridge isn’t between us and God — maybe it’s between faith and doubt.”

Host: Jeeny turned to look at him, a faint smile playing on her lips — the kind of smile that understood more than it needed to prove.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Ellison meant by humility. You don’t build a bridge because you’re certain — you build it because you’re reaching.”

Jack: “And what if there’s nothing on the other side?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep building until you find someone else who’s reaching too.”

Host: The wind blew stronger now, carrying the smell of wet earth and leaves. A train whistle echoed in the distance — a sound of departure, of things moving on.

Jack: “You talk like faith is a human invention.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe it’s our way of naming the part of us that refuses to stop hoping.”

Jack: “Hope,” he said softly, tasting the word as though it were both sweet and dangerous. “That’s a fragile bridge.”

Jeeny: “And yet — it’s the only one that’s never stopped being built.”

Host: They both fell silent. The river below shimmered faintly, catching the glow of the moon now rising over the far ridge. Jack’s gaze followed it — calm, uncertain, a little softer than before.

Jack: “You know... maybe I’ve been too busy arguing about walls to notice the bridges.”

Jeeny: “That’s okay. Bridges don’t mind being crossed late.”

Host: A soft laugh escaped him — low, genuine, tinged with something like relief. He reached out, running his hand along the stone railing, feeling the cool roughness beneath his fingers.

Jack: “So what do we do with all the walls we’ve built?”

Jeeny: “We stop defending them. And we start walking over them.”

Host: The night deepened, but the bridge seemed to hold its own quiet light — not from the stars, but from the understanding that had quietly bloomed between them.

The river kept its patient rhythm, whispering truths too old for language.

Host: And there, beneath the first honest moon of the evening, the two of them stood — a skeptic and a believer — neither winning, neither yielding, both realizing that perhaps the truest faith was not in God alone, but in the possibility of connection itself.

Host: The camera of the mind would linger here — on the faint smile shared, the soft hum of the river, the way the wind carried both warmth and chill.

Because the bridge, in the end, was not made of stone.
It was made of conversation.
And for once, both of them were standing on the same side.