In the past, missionaries have traveled to far countries with the

Host: The church was empty, save for the sound of rain echoing softly through the stained-glass windows. The air smelled faintly of dust, wood polish, and old prayers. Rows of empty pews stretched into the shadows like forgotten intentions. The only light came from a flickering screen at the altar — a projector humming, throwing the blue glow of modern salvation across stone.

Host: Jack sat in the front row, elbows on his knees, the faint light carving sharp lines across his face. Jeeny stood beside the pulpit, scrolling slowly through her phone, her silhouette half holy, half human. On the screen behind her, Ray Comfort’s words glowed like scripture reborn in pixels:

“In the past, missionaries have traveled to far countries with the message of the gospel — with great hardship and often with the loss of life. In contrast, we can reach millions instantly from the comfort of our homes by merely hitting the ‘send’ button on our computers, or with iPads, or phones.”

Jack: “That’s the gospel according to Wi-Fi. Faith in fiber optics. You’ve got to hand it to him — even God’s gone digital.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe humanity has. This is the new missionary age — no boats, no deserts, no martyrdom. Just screens and signals. The Word became data and dwelt among us.”

Jack: “Don’t sound so poetic. It’s not revelation, Jeeny, it’s regression. Once, faith meant walking barefoot across the world to tell someone they mattered. Now it’s clicking ‘share’ on a quote you didn’t even read.”

Jeeny: “You think hardship makes belief more holy?”

Jack: “I think effort gives it meaning. Hitting ‘send’ doesn’t risk anything but your Wi-Fi connection.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the miracle? The risk is gone — but the reach is infinite. Maybe it’s not about pain anymore. Maybe it’s about presence.”

Jack: “Presence without presence. Proximity without touch. You call that salvation?”

Jeeny: “It’s evolution, Jack. Maybe this is how faith survives progress — it adapts.”

Host: The projector whirred louder, its fan spinning like a heartbeat trying to keep up. The rain outside grew heavier, blurring the stained glass into living colors — red, gold, blue — as if heaven itself were smudging its boundaries.

Jack: “You think God wanted hashtags?”

Jeeny: “I think God wanted connection.”

Jack: “Connection used to mean conversation. Two people, face to face. Now it’s just noise and algorithms.”

Jeeny: “And yet, millions are listening — maybe for the first time. Isn’t that what every prophet dreamed of?”

Jack: “Prophets bled for their words. Now people edit them into memes. ‘Thou shalt not’ has been replaced by ‘link in bio.’”

Jeeny: “You’re mistaking form for faith. The medium changes — the message doesn’t.”

Jack: “The message always changes. Every translation rewrites God a little more. And now the translators are apps.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe faith isn’t in danger — it’s just learning a new language.”

Jack: “A language without silence.”

Jeeny: “Maybe silence was overrated.”

Jack: “Silence was sacred.”

Jeeny: “So is signal, Jack — when it connects hearts instead of servers.”

Host: Lightning flared through the stained glass, casting fractured color across Jeeny’s face. For a brief moment, she looked like an angel sculpted by circuitry — half divine, half digital.

Jack: “You really think a screen can carry holiness?”

Jeeny: “Why not? The printing press did. The radio did. The camera did. Every time we invent a new way to speak, the sacred sneaks in through the static.”

Jack: “Or the static swallows the sacred.”

Jeeny: “That depends on who’s listening.”

Jack: “No one listens anymore. They scroll. They skim. Even devotion has an attention span.”

Jeeny: “Maybe brevity is the new beatitude.”

Jack: “You really believe a retweet can redeem?”

Jeeny: “If it reaches the right heart — why not?”

Jack: “Because faith without friction is fantasy. You can’t ‘upload’ compassion. You have to live it.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are — uploading your cynicism.”

Jack: (smirking) “Hypocrisy’s always been the real global religion.”

Jeeny: “And confession’s still its oldest app.”

Host: The power flickered. For a heartbeat, the projector cut off, and the entire church plunged into darkness. The sound of the rain filled the space — pure, raw, ancient.

Jeeny: “There. That’s the silence you wanted.”

Jack: “Feels real, doesn’t it?”

Jeeny: “It feels empty.”

Jack: “That’s what reality is. Empty, until someone dares to fill it.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s what the ‘send’ button does — fills the silence with something human. Imperfect, yes. But still reaching.”

Jack: “Reaching, sure. But for what? Validation? Salvation? Followers?”

Jeeny: “Maybe just to not feel alone.”

Jack: “Then that’s not mission work. That’s therapy.”

Jeeny: “And what if God is the ultimate therapist?”

Jack: “Then the rest of us are on hold.”

Host: The projector flickered back on, filling the darkness with blue light again. On the wall, the text reappeared — Comfort’s words glowing like digital scripture. Jack stared at them for a long moment.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange. Missionaries once risked dying for faith. Now, faith risks dying of comfort.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe faith is finally resting. Maybe it doesn’t need martyrs anymore — just messengers.”

Jack: “But what happens when the messengers get bored?”

Jeeny: “Then someone else picks up the phone.”

Jack: “You really think we can click our way to heaven?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe heaven’s been trying to click its way to us.”

Jack: “Through Wi-Fi?”

Jeeny: “Through wonder.”

Jack: “That’s rare these days.”

Jeeny: “So is belief. That’s why both matter.”

Host: The rain stopped. The sky outside broke open just enough for light to fall across the altar — fractured gold spilling over stone and circuitry.

Host: Jeeny placed her phone face down on the pew. The glow faded, leaving only her calm, human face in the dim. Jack sat back, staring at the ceiling — half in surrender, half in awe.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe this is what faith looks like now — invisible, electric, transmitted. Not in the sound of a preacher’s voice, but in the quiet moment before you hit ‘send.’”

Jack: “A prayer in code.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “And God replies in notifications?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe He’s the unread message waiting in your inbox.”

Jack: “You always find poetry in pixels.”

Jeeny: “Because faith has never cared about the format, Jack — only the transmission.”

Host: The camera panned out, showing the church lit by both holy and artificial light. The words on the screen blurred into brightness until only one idea remained — connection.

Host: And as the two sat there, between candlelight and circuitry, past and future, silence and signal, the world seemed to whisper Ray Comfort’s truth one more time:

“In the past, missionaries traveled to far countries with the message of the gospel… In contrast, we can reach millions instantly from the comfort of our homes.”

Host: The message hadn’t changed — only the method.

Host: And maybe, in the end, faith was never about distance — only about how far light is willing to travel to reach another soul.