I think quite a bit of organized religion has become big

Host: The evening was thick with humidity and cigarette smoke.
Neon light from a nearby diner sign pulsed red against the rain-slick sidewalk, like a heartbeat in the dark. Inside, the smell of coffee, burnt toast, and quiet exhaustion clung to the air.

Jack sat in a corner booth, sleeves rolled up, his hands wrapped around a chipped mug. Across from him, Jeeny flipped through a worn Bible, her expression calm, almost reverent — though her eyes carried that look of someone who had long stopped mistaking sanctity for safety.

Outside, thunder rolled over the city, low and restless.

Jack: “Ving Rhames said once, ‘I think quite a bit of organized religion has become big business. Jesus Christ never sold the word of God. He never gave a sermon and then said, “For $8.99, you can buy the CD.”’”

Jeeny: “He’s right. These days, salvation comes with a subscription plan.”

Jack: “Yeah. We’ve turned faith into a brand.”

Host: A waitress passed by, refilling their cups, the liquid glinting under the soft glow of the hanging light. Somewhere in the background, a radio hummed with static — a gospel song fading between stations.

Jack: “You know what gets me? The irony. The man who overturned the tables of the money changers would have his face on half the billboards in America if he came back today.”

Jeeny: “And someone would still trademark the miracle.”

Jack: “They’d stream the Sermon on the Mount on YouTube — mid-roll ads for holy water and self-help books.”

Jeeny: “And charge extra for front-row seats in heaven.”

Host: They both laughed, but it was the kind of laughter that comes from knowing you’re laughing to keep from breaking.

Jeeny: “You sound bitter, Jack.”

Jack: “I’m not bitter. I’m disappointed. There’s a difference.”

Jeeny: “In what?”

Jack: “In how we’ve turned God into a marketing opportunity. We’ve replaced wonder with merchandise. Faith was supposed to be fire — now it’s just branding.”

Jeeny: “Faith still burns. It’s just harder to see under all the smoke.”

Host: The rain outside quickened, tapping against the glass like fingers searching for entry. Jeeny closed the Bible gently and folded her hands.

Jeeny: “You know, I don’t think Ving Rhames was attacking religion itself. I think he was defending what it used to mean. The raw, street-level kind of faith — the one that belonged to the broken, not the comfortable.”

Jack: “Back when belief wasn’t profitable.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. When prayer was a whisper, not a broadcast.”

Jack: “But can you blame people? The world’s starving — not just for food, but for meaning. And if someone can sell them a version of hope that fits neatly into a shopping cart, they’ll buy it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy. The hunger is real, but the meal is imitation.”

Host: A car horn blared outside, echoing through the empty street. The neon sign buzzed overhead, flickering like a tired confession.

Jack: “You ever notice how churches look more like theaters now? Stage lights, giant screens, smoke machines. I went to a service last Christmas — they had a merch table.”

Jeeny: “Oh, I’ve seen it. Cross necklaces for $59.99. Grace in limited quantities.”

Jack: “You sound just as cynical as me.”

Jeeny: “No. I still believe in God. I just stopped believing in His middlemen.”

Host: The air between them stilled — heavy, honest.

Jack: “You think there’s any way back? To something pure?”

Jeeny: “I think purity’s overrated. What we need is sincerity. Maybe the church doesn’t need more sermons. Maybe it needs more silence.”

Jack: “Silence doesn’t fill the collection plate.”

Jeeny: “Neither does hypocrisy.”

Host: The lights dimmed as the waitress turned off the neon sign by the door, the last flicker of red reflecting in Jack’s cup.

Jack: “You know, I used to go to church with my mom. Small place. No choir, no screens. Just people trying to make sense of their week. She’d always close her eyes during the hymns — said she felt closest to God in the parts nobody noticed.”

Jeeny: “That’s the difference. She wasn’t consuming faith — she was living it.”

Jack: “Now it’s all performance. Pastors competing for followers, not souls. Churches streaming sermons like influencers selling skincare.”

Jeeny: “Because attention’s the new currency. And the sacred can’t compete with spectacle unless it joins it.”

Jack: “So it joins it.”

Jeeny: “Until it forgets what it joined for.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked softly, the sound like distant thunder chasing memory. The diner had emptied; only the rain kept them company now.

Jeeny: “You know what I think the real scandal is?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “That we keep blaming institutions when we’re the ones who built them. Every corrupt church started with someone too afraid to face God alone.”

Jack: “You think that’s what faith is — facing God alone?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Without microphones. Without tickets. Without audience applause.”

Host: Jack’s gaze dropped to the table. He turned his cup slowly, watching the reflection of the overhead light ripple and distort.

Jack: “You know, I envy the early believers. No buildings, no rules — just a story, and a kind of raw, dangerous love.”

Jeeny: “It’s still there, Jack. You just have to dig through the profit to find the prayer.”

Jack: “And what if I’m too tired to dig?”

Jeeny: “Then whisper. God hears whispers louder than sermons.”

Host: A single bolt of lightning cracked the sky outside, and for a brief moment, the whole diner glowed — bright, white, holy. When it faded, the room felt softer.

Jack: “You think Jesus would recognize His own followers now?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But He’d recognize the hungry ones. The lost ones. The ones who still listen without buying.”

Jack: “So He’d still show up.”

Jeeny: “He always does. Just not where the cameras are.”

Host: The rain began to ease. The neon sign flickered back on outside, its red glow warming the edge of the window.

Jack: “You ever think faith and business can coexist?”

Jeeny: “Faith survives business. It just doesn’t thrive in it.”

Jack: “That’s bleak.”

Jeeny: “That’s truth. But it’s also hope — because faith doesn’t need profit to stay alive. It just needs one honest heart to remember why it started.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, the lines around his eyes deepening. He looked at her — the kind of look that carried equal parts fatigue and reverence.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Ving Rhames meant. That the word of God was never meant to be sold — only shared.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t monetize a miracle.”

Jack: “But you can multiply it.”

Jeeny: “If you’re brave enough to keep it free.”

Host: They sat there a while longer — two souls in a diner, framed by the neon hum of a sleeping city. Outside, the rain turned to mist, and the air smelled clean again — as if forgiveness had passed through unnoticed.

And in that fragile calm, Ving Rhames’s words lingered — not as a condemnation, but as a quiet reminder:

That the sacred was never meant to sell.
That truth doesn’t need a slogan.
And that perhaps the holiest act left to us
is to give love — freely, fiercely —
without a receipt attached.