Religion often partakes of the myth of progress that shields us

Host:
The desert night stretched vast and endless, its sky black as ink and strewn with stars that looked close enough to touch — if only one dared. The sand dunes rolled like frozen waves, silvered by moonlight, whispering with each gust of wind, as if the earth itself was remembering old prayers.

A small campfire burned low, its flame fragile against the immensity of the void. The crackle of wood was the only sound for miles. Beside it sat Jack, his face half-lit, eyes reflecting flame and fatigue, the sort of tired that comes from thinking too much and believing too little. Across from him, Jeeny wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, her eyes bright and alive, shimmering like the stars that hung above them.

The fire popped softly — a punctuation in the silence.

Jeeny: quietly, her voice like the echo of thought itself — “Frank Herbert once said, ‘Religion often partakes of the myth of progress that shields us from the terrors of an uncertain future.’” She looked into the fire for a moment before meeting Jack’s gaze. “He wasn’t condemning faith — he was warning us about comfort.”

Jack: half-smiling, voice dry as the desert air — “Comfort? You make it sound like that’s a bad thing. The whole point of belief is to make the chaos tolerable, isn’t it? Without comfort, people would lose their minds.”

Jeeny: gently — “Yes, but sometimes comfort becomes anesthesia. When faith starts promising certainty instead of awakening courage — that’s when it stops being sacred.”

Host:
The wind stirred the fire, sending a small storm of embers into the air — fleeting stars born of flame, dying mid-flight. The sand whispered, shifting shapes, like the surface of a dream.

Jack: leans forward, warming his hands — “You think certainty is a flaw, but I think it’s the only thing keeping the species from drowning in despair. People need a myth of progress — religious or otherwise — to pretend there’s direction in the madness.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly — “Pretending is the key word. We built whole civilizations on the illusion that tomorrow will be better simply because it follows today. But the future isn’t a straight line — it’s a fog. Religion, progress, technology — they’re all just torches we carry into the dark so we don’t have to admit how blind we are.”

Jack: with quiet intensity — “You say that like it’s a bad thing to carry light. Even if it’s illusion, it still keeps the monsters away.”

Jeeny: her tone soft, almost sorrowful — “But the light isn’t real if it keeps us from seeing the truth — that the monsters aren’t out there.” She points toward the horizon — the barren infinity of sand. “They’re in here.” She taps her chest. “Faith should help us face that, not hide from it.”

Host:
A moment of silence. The fire crackled, and the desert wind moaned low, like some ancient instrument playing beneath the stars.

Jack: after a long pause — “You make religion sound like a mirror. But most people want a window — a view of paradise, not a reflection of themselves.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly, her breath visible in the cold air — “And that’s exactly why Herbert called it a myth of progress. It’s not the mirror that comforts us — it’s the illusion of movement. We think we’re advancing spiritually, but often we’re just circling the same fears with new words.”

Jack: quietly, with that edge of realism that always cuts deeper than cynicism — “So you’re saying belief doesn’t evolve — it just rebrands?”

Jeeny: shakes her head — “No. Belief evolves when courage does. Religion changes only when its followers stop worshipping safety and start embracing uncertainty. The moment faith becomes a shield, it stops being faith — it becomes strategy.”

Host:
The fire dimmed, the shadows lengthened, and the moon climbed higher, revealing a world both ancient and alien. The silence between them grew dense — not empty, but full of meaning, the kind that humbles the tongue.

Jack: looking up at the stars — “You know, there’s something cruel about the future. The more we learn, the less we believe. The more we build, the less we belong. Maybe progress was just the first religion — the one we all still secretly pray to.”

Jeeny: softly, nodding — “Exactly. Progress is the modern god — invisible, inevitable, unquestioned. It promises redemption through innovation, salvation through speed. And like every old religion, it blinds us to what is — this moment, this breath, this sand beneath our feet.”

Host:
The fire hissed, collapsing into glowing embers. Jack reached down, tossed another branch into it — a small act of rebellion against the cold. The flames leapt up, painting his face in gold and shadow again.

Jack: with a faint smile — “So what’s the alternative, Jeeny? Sit in the dark and embrace the terror? You can’t live without stories. Every civilization needs its lies to stay sane.”

Jeeny: quietly, with fierce tenderness — “Then at least let’s tell truer lies.” She leaned forward, the fire reflecting in her eyes like twin galaxies. “Let’s build stories that don’t promise escape but understanding. Not progress, but presence. Not the myth of certainty — but the courage to stay uncertain, and still love the world anyway.”

Host:
A gust of wind swept through, snuffing the fire halfway, leaving only a soft orange glow. The desert stretched infinite and silent, its sands shifting — alive, but never still.

Jack: after a long pause — “You ever think maybe religion’s not dying, just evolving into something else? Maybe the new gods are just... quieter. Algorithms, ambitions, screens that tell us what to want.”

Jeeny: smiles sadly — “They’re not quieter, Jack. They’re just better at pretending to be us.”

Host:
The wind died down again. The silence between them returned — not heavy, not empty, but sacred. Jack stared into the embers, lost in their fading light.

Jack: softly — “You make it sound like faith isn’t about believing in something — it’s about not running away from not knowing.”

Jeeny: gently, smiling now — “That’s the only real faith there is.”

Host:
Above them, the stars burned indifferent, ancient witnesses to humanity’s long struggle with meaning. The fire dwindled, leaving only the faint glow of coals, like the last heartbeat of an idea that refused to die.

Host (closing):
Frank Herbert’s words were not cynicism — they were prophecy.
He saw that religion, progress, and power all share the same addiction: the illusion of control in a universe that offers none.
To outgrow that myth is not to lose faith, but to purify it —
to trade the false comfort of certainty for the sacred courage of curiosity.

For progress without humility becomes delusion,
and faith without doubt becomes tyranny.

And so, under the infinite desert sky,
Jack and Jeeny sat beside the dying fire —
two souls small but awake,
facing the terror of the unknown not as victims, but as witnesses,
finally at peace with a truth older than all religion:
that to live,
to truly live,
is to walk willingly into the dark —
and keep the fire burning.