All things are artificial, for nature is the art of God.

Host: The forest breathed in twilight — a cathedral of green silence and amber light. The last rays of the sun spilled like molten gold across the moss, touching every leaf with reverence. Mist rose from the earth in faint ribbons, weaving through the trees as if the ground itself were exhaling prayers.

At the edge of a clearing stood the remnants of an old monastery, half reclaimed by vines and time. The stone walls glowed faintly, worn smooth by centuries of wind and devotion.

There, beside a crumbling archway, Jack and Jeeny sat — the world around them an orchestra of crickets, leaves, and the soft, rhythmic whisper of breeze. Between them, on the ground, lay an open book — its pages yellowed, its words glimmering under the dying light:

“All things are artificial, for nature is the art of God.” — Thomas Browne

Jeeny: Softly, tracing the words with her finger. “He makes it sound so simple… and yet it feels like the oldest secret in the world.”

Jack: Leaning back against the wall. “Or the most dangerous. If nature is God’s art, then everything we build — every bridge, every machine — is just a copy of the original masterpiece. A forgery.”

Host: The wind stirred gently, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. A bird called in the distance — three notes, falling like a memory.

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Not a forgery — an echo. We build because we were made by the same artist. Our art is just a translation of His language.”

Jack: Smirks faintly. “So you’re saying a skyscraper is as divine as a mountain?”

Jeeny: “If the mind that imagined it was part of creation, then yes. Even steel and glass can pray.”

Jack: “You sound like a theologian drunk on metaphor.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe I’m sober in a world that forgot how to see.”

Host: The light deepened — shadows lengthening, colors dissolving into the blue of oncoming night. The air held the quiet weight of contemplation, as though the forest itself were listening.

Jack: “Browne lived in the seventeenth century. He saw God in everything — medicine, stars, trees. But that’s a dangerous kind of thinking now. We’ve learned too much.”

Jeeny: “Or we’ve forgotten too much. Knowledge without wonder becomes arrogance.”

Jack: “Wonder is fine for poets. But civilization wasn’t built on wonder — it was built on control. We shape nature to survive it.”

Jeeny: “You mean to dominate it.”

Jack: “Same thing.”

Jeeny: “Not quite. Domination is fear pretending to be strength. Survival without reverence is just conquest.”

Host: Her voice had grown stronger — still gentle, but edged with conviction. Jack turned toward her, the fading light carving faint lines of weariness across his face.

Jack: “You think reverence can power a city? Feed a billion people? Heal disease?”

Jeeny: “It can remind us what not to destroy while we’re trying.”

Host: A branch cracked somewhere behind them. The sound rippled through the air like punctuation to her truth.

Jack: “You want to bring God into science. That’s a dangerous union.”

Jeeny: “I’m not bringing Him in. He never left. We just stopped acknowledging the art that’s already there.”

Jack: “Then what do you call artificial intelligence? Synthetic biology? Cities made of silicon and glass? Are they divine too?”

Jeeny: Smiles faintly. “Why not? If nature is God’s art, and we are part of nature, then everything we make — even the artificial — is still part of that divine echo. It’s not rebellion. It’s reflection.”

Host: The moon began to rise, spilling pale light over the clearing. The old monastery stones shimmered faintly, like bones remembering fire.

Jack: “So you’d forgive everything in the name of creation? Even destruction?”

Jeeny: “Destruction is part of creation’s rhythm. Forests burn and regrow. Stars collapse and make galaxies. Even our mistakes feed the soil of tomorrow.”

Jack: Quietly. “That sounds like faith.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s gratitude.”

Host: The silence after that was long, but not empty. The forest seemed to breathe deeper, as if agreeing.

Jack reached down and picked up a fallen leaf, running his thumb over its veins.

Jack: “You really believe this leaf is divine art?”

Jeeny: “I believe it’s more intelligent than most of us. It turns sunlight into life without ever needing applause.”

Jack: Smiles faintly. “And what about us? What’s our art?”

Jeeny: “To remember we’re not separate from what we create.”

Host: The wind shifted again — a soft, circular motion that sent a shiver through the trees. Jeeny’s hair lifted slightly, and for a moment, the moonlight caught it — silver threads glinting against the dark.

Jack: “You make humanity sound innocent.”

Jeeny: “Not innocent — responsible. If all things are artificial, then every invention is a confession of what we worship.”

Jack: Nods slowly. “And right now, we worship speed, convenience, and noise.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s time we start sculpting silence again.”

Host: The bonfire of stars above them brightened as the last light faded. The forest glowed faintly silver, every branch a brushstroke on the canvas of night.

Jack: “You know, I used to think nature was indifferent — beautiful but brutal. Now you make it sound intentional.”

Jeeny: “Maybe indifference is our projection. Maybe what we call chaos is just harmony we’re too small to understand.”

Jack: “So everything — even this conversation — is divine?”

Jeeny: Smiling gently. “Especially this conversation.”

Host: The camera would rise then — slowly pulling back above the clearing, above the ruins, above the two figures still sitting in the cradle of moonlight. From that height, they looked like part of the forest — not visitors, but elements of a larger design.

The old monastery below was no longer ruin, but pattern — roots, walls, branches, minds — each line merging into another until no boundary remained between the sacred and the made.

And the forest whispered Thomas Browne’s truth back into the night:

That nothing in this world is truly artificial,
for even the hands that build are built by something greater —
and every act of creation, however small,
is still the art of God continuing itself through us.