Every false religion is going to be free because it's linked to

Host: The churchyard was empty beneath the bruised sky of evening. The crosses stood in silhouette against the fading light, long shadows stretching like dark roots across the cracked stone path. In the distance, the soft toll of a single bell drifted through the air — slow, mournful, ancient.

Inside the old chapel, a single candle flickered on the altar, its flame trembling in the breath of unseen drafts. The air was heavy with the scent of wax, dust, and something deeper — the faint, lingering ache of faith tested too often.

Jack sat at the far pew, his hands clasped, his eyes distant. He wasn’t praying. He was remembering. Across from him, Jeeny stood by the candlelight, her hair catching the glow, her eyes steady and full of quiet conviction.

Pinned to the open Bible before her was a printed page bearing the words of John MacArthur:

"Every false religion is going to be free because it's linked to the kingdom of darkness that operates in the world. And Christians, whatever the label of religious freedom might be in its broadest sense, Christians are always the target, even with religious freedom, of the hostility of sinners."

Host: The words hung in the air like an unspoken judgment — sharp, unyielding, polarizing. The flame flickered again, as if it too questioned which way the truth leaned.

Jeeny: (quietly) You’ve been sitting here for an hour, Jack. What are you really looking for — peace or proof?

Jack: (without looking up) Neither. Maybe I’m just looking for sense. MacArthur’s words — they feel like fire. Hot enough to burn both the guilty and the innocent.

Jeeny: Because they’re meant to. He’s talking about conviction — the kind that doesn’t care if it’s comfortable.

Jack: (sighs) Or the kind that mistakes certainty for righteousness. “Every false religion is going to be free” — that’s a convenient way to divide the world into light and darkness, isn’t it? It turns belief into a battlefield.

Jeeny: Maybe the battlefield was always there. He’s just naming it.

Jack: And in naming it, he fuels it.

Host: His voice echoed softly through the small chapel, colliding with the stone walls like restless ghosts.

Jeeny: You think he’s wrong to say Christians are targets? You’ve seen what happens to people of faith — the ridicule, the laws, the silence forced on them.

Jack: Faith isn’t the only thing ridiculed, Jeeny. Everyone’s a target when they believe too loudly. Truth has always made enemies — no matter who speaks it.

Jeeny: But isn’t that what he’s saying? That truth, when divine, will always clash with darkness?

Jack: (turning to her) Or that his version of truth will. That’s the danger — when we stop asking “What is true?” and start saying “I already know.”

Host: The flame trembled again — caught between going out and holding on. The air between them thickened with old questions.

Jeeny: You think faith is arrogance?

Jack: No. I think faith without humility becomes tyranny. When belief turns into a wall instead of a bridge, people stop seeing the face of God and start seeing the reflection of themselves.

Jeeny: That’s beautiful — but dangerously convenient. You talk about bridges, but bridges need foundations. Faith has to stand on something unmovable.

Jack: Unmovable, yes. But not unyielding. Even the strongest bridges bend under weight. Belief should breathe, Jeeny. It should let the wind of doubt pass through, not break in the storm.

Host: The rain began outside — gentle, rhythmic — like the world itself was listening. Jeeny walked closer, sitting beside him on the worn pew, her hands folded, her voice softer now.

Jeeny: When I was little, my grandmother used to pray every night for those who didn’t believe. She said it wasn’t out of pity, but because she feared the darkness might swallow them. I used to laugh. Now I think she just couldn’t bear the thought of love being one-sided.

Jack: (quietly) That’s the kind of faith I respect — the kind that prays for others, not against them.

Jeeny: Then maybe that’s what MacArthur meant, but wrapped in sharper words. Maybe he wasn’t preaching hate — maybe he was warning that the world resists grace, and grace always looks like defiance to those who live without it.

Jack: Or maybe he’s reminding believers that persecution is the proof they crave — that suffering validates faith. But isn’t that just another form of pride? To believe you’re hated because you’re chosen?

Jeeny: (frowning) You think Christians should be silent then? That they should just fade to keep the peace?

Jack: No. I think they should be louder — but in love, not in fear. The kingdom of darkness doesn’t win by existing. It wins when light forgets how to shine without burning.

Host: A faint rumble of thunder rolled across the sky, distant but certain. The chapel’s candlelight wavered, then steadied again, casting both their faces in gold and shadow.

Jeeny: You talk like you’ve lost faith.

Jack: Maybe I just lost the certainty that faith means certainty.

Jeeny: You sound like someone who still believes, but doesn’t know in what.

Jack: Maybe that’s enough. Maybe faith begins where knowledge ends — and ends where fear begins.

Host: The rain fell harder now, drumming against the chapel roof. The sound filled the spaces between their words, between doubt and devotion.

Jeeny: You know, Jack, I think what he meant by “false religion” wasn’t about denominations or names. It was about anything that puts human pride on the throne instead of God — even if that pride hides behind good intentions.

Jack: Then by that logic, even religion itself can become false.

Jeeny: (softly) Yes. If it forgets its heart.

Host: For a moment, the only sound was the rain and the candle’s soft crackle. The chapel felt smaller, closer — as though it were breathing with them.

Jack: You think the hostility will ever end? The constant war between light and dark, between belief and skepticism?

Jeeny: No. But maybe it’s not supposed to. Maybe it’s the struggle that keeps both sides honest — that reminds us how much light costs.

Jack: And how easily we mistake our shadows for faith.

Jeeny: Exactly.

Host: The flame on the altar finally steadied, its trembling gone. The light reflected in both their eyes — one lined with logic, the other softened by grace — and in that glow, they were not enemies, but seekers sitting on the same side of the question.

Jack: You know, maybe MacArthur was right — in his own way. Maybe truth does make you a target. But maybe that’s the point. To see if you can still love the world that wounds you for believing in it.

Jeeny: (smiling) Now that sounds like faith.

Host: The storm outside began to ease, leaving behind a hush that felt almost sacred. A beam of pale light slipped through the high window, touching the cross above the altar.

Host: And as they sat there, beneath that quiet, forgiving glow, the quote no longer felt like condemnation — but a reminder. That in a world of labels, doubt, and division, the true battle of faith isn’t between religions or sinners…

…it’s between the light we defend and the darkness we nurture.

Host: The candle flickered once more, then burned steady — small, brave, and beautiful. Like faith itself.