No Christian with half a brain would say 'we support religious

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the streets slick with reflections of neon and moonlight. A dim café on the corner of a quiet avenue breathed out thin wisps of steam from its windows. Inside, the air smelled of coffee, wet pavement, and the melancholy of late hours. Jack sat by the window, his hands wrapped around a cup that had long gone cold. His grey eyes tracked the people passing outside — each a blur of purpose and forgetfulness.

Jeeny sat opposite him, her hair still damp, a scarf pulled loosely around her neck. Her eyes shone with that quiet fire that comes when a belief meets a challenge.

The clock on the wall ticked with the sound of an old wound reopening.

Jack: “You know what MacArthur said?” He leaned forward, voice low but edged with irony. “‘No Christian with half a brain would say we support religious freedom.’”

Jeeny: Her eyebrows arched slightly. “And you agree with him, don’t you?”

Jack: “Not exactly agree. But I get it. He’s saying if you believe your religion holds the only truth, why would you celebrate the spread of lies?”

Host: The light above their table flickered, its filament humming like a nervous thought.

Jeeny: “Because freedom isn’t about truth, Jack. It’s about choice. God doesn’t force love; He invites it. That’s the difference.”

Jack: “Choice?” He laughed softly, bitterly. “You think people use freedom to find God? No. They use it to drown Him out. Look around. Freedom gave us idols of screens, politics, and self-worship. Religious freedom is just the polite term for spiritual decay.”

Host: His voice carried the weight of frustration, the kind that had built up from too many years watching ideals crumble under reality.

Jeeny: “But that’s the risk God Himself took when He made us free, isn’t it? The Garden, Jack. He could’ve programmed us into obedience — but He didn’t. He allowed us to choose the serpent over His voice. Doesn’t that mean He valued freedom more than enforced worship?”

Jack: “That’s theology dressed up as sentiment. The Garden was paradise. Now it’s chaos. Maybe freedom was the first mistake.”

Jeeny: “That’s a dangerous thing to say.”

Jack: “Is it? Look at history. Every empire that shouted ‘freedom’ eventually choked on it. The Romans, the French Revolution, even America — freedom became their god, not God. And once you worship freedom itself, truth becomes optional.”

Host: The rain began again, softly tapping against the window, as if to echo his point. The reflections of the streetlights rippled like doubt on water.

Jeeny: “And yet those same freedoms allowed people like Martin Luther to challenge corruption. Allowed slaves to cry out for deliverance. Allowed faith to survive in the open. You can’t deny that freedom — even misused — can also be redeemed.”

Jack: “Redeemed by what? Human conscience? Don’t be naïve, Jeeny. Freedom only works when people have virtue. Without it, it’s anarchy in disguise.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the problem isn’t freedom, Jack. Maybe it’s that we’ve lost the virtue that sustains it.”

Host: The wind shifted. Somewhere outside, a church bell rang, faint and distant, its sound swallowed by the city’s quiet roar.

Jack: “Tell that to those who burn churches in the name of liberty. Tell that to those who think tolerance means erasing conviction. Religious freedom used to mean coexistence — now it means censorship for anyone who claims absolute truth.”

Jeeny: “But would you rather live in a theocracy? A world where belief is enforced? Where conscience is dictated?”

Jack: “If truth exists, maybe it should be enforced.”

Jeeny: “That’s not truth, Jack. That’s tyranny in robes.”

Host: A silence fell — thick, almost tangible. The café’s lights dimmed for a moment, throwing their faces into shadow. The steam from their cups rose like ghosts between them.

Jeeny: “You know, in ancient Rome, Christians were given freedom — to die. Their freedom was their refusal to bow. And yet, their blood changed history. Freedom didn’t destroy faith; it tested it. That’s what I think MacArthur missed.”

Jack: He stared at her for a long moment, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re twisting his point. He’s saying truth and error can’t be treated equally. If Christ is Lord, every other religion is false — and supporting them is hypocrisy.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe real Christianity isn’t about domination, but persuasion. Christ didn’t conquer through decree. He whispered through compassion. He ate with sinners instead of executing them.”

Jack: “And He also overturned tables in the temple. Don’t forget that part.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But even that was love — love defending truth from exploitation.”

Host: The tension in the air felt like a storm building again — unseen but electric. The barista turned down the music, sensing the gravity at their table.

Jack: “You speak like freedom’s a virtue in itself. But freedom without anchor becomes madness. Look at the secular world — it preaches tolerance while silencing believers. That’s the fruit of this so-called liberty.”

Jeeny: “And yet you’re free to say that right now. To question God, to mock faith, to debate me — that’s freedom too. The same freedom that allows mockery allows testimony.”

Jack: “But at what cost? A marketplace of gods where truth becomes just another brand?”

Jeeny: “Then speak your truth boldly — but don’t demand the world be gagged for you to do it.”

Host: Jack’s hands tightened around his cup until the ceramic gave a faint crack. His breathing slowed, deepened. Jeeny’s gaze softened — she could see his anger wasn’t arrogance, but grief.

Jeeny: “What are you afraid of, Jack?”

Jack: “That we’ll lose the last remnants of faith to tolerance.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe — that you’ve already lost it.”

Host: The words landed like a knife, not of cruelty but of truth. The room seemed to tilt, as if time itself had paused to listen.

Jack: “When I was a kid,” he said slowly, “my mother prayed every night for revival. She said freedom was a blessing from God — but when my father left, she stopped praying. Said freedom gave him that choice too. Ever since, I’ve wondered — is freedom God’s gift, or His curse?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s both. A gift that becomes a curse when we stop using it for love.”

Host: Outside, the rain finally ceased. The streetlight cast long ribbons of silver across the floor, like the traces of a cross drawn in light.

Jack: “So, what do we do with that? Keep defending a system that kills conviction in the name of fairness?”

Jeeny: “No. We defend the people — not the system. Because God’s love can’t be caged by legislation. You don’t need to outlaw false gods, Jack. Truth outlives them.”

Jack: “You’re too idealistic.”

Jeeny: “And you’re too afraid to hope.”

Host: They both laughed, softly — the kind of laughter that comes when two wounds recognize each other.

Jack: “Maybe MacArthur’s right in a sense — maybe no Christian should blindly support religious freedom. But maybe every Christian should live it — not as politics, but as patience.”

Jeeny: “Now you sound almost poetic.”

Jack: “Don’t get used to it.”

Jeeny: “I won’t. But I’ll remember it.”

Host: The café clock struck midnight. The rain had stopped. The air was cool, clear, almost holy. Jack leaned back, his eyes softer now, no longer steel, but ash and ember. Jeeny smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

In that silence, between faith and doubt, between truth and freedom, something like understanding passed between them — invisible, fragile, and utterly real.

And outside, the city breathed again — free, flawed, and alive.