We have domesticated God's transcendence. We often learn about

Host: The evening sky was a bruised tapestry of violet and smoke as the cathedral bells tolled across the empty square. Rain had fallen earlier, and the cobblestones still gleamed — mirrors of streetlight and memory. Inside the cathedral, the air was thick with incense and echoes.

Candles flickered along the aisles like trembling souls, their light caught in the stained glass above — blue and crimson shards forming the face of a God who seemed more symbol than being.

Jack sat at the far pew, collar loosened, head bowed — not in prayer, but in thought. His eyes were grey pools, reflecting not devotion, but doubt.

Across from him, Jeeny knelt near the altar, her fingers laced loosely, her expression tender, almost fragile. The silence between them was not empty; it was sacred tension — the kind that hums between faith and reason.

Jeeny: (softly, without looking up) “Karen Armstrong once said, ‘We have domesticated God’s transcendence. We often learn about God at about the same time as we are learning about Santa Claus; but our ideas about Santa Claus change, mature and become more nuanced, whereas our ideas of God can remain at a rather infantile level.’”

Jack: (leaning back against the pew) “So… she’s saying we outgrow magic, but not mythology.”

Jeeny: (turning toward him) “No, Jack. She’s saying we stopped letting God grow up.”

Jack: “Or maybe we stopped pretending He was real.”

Jeeny: “You don’t believe that.”

Jack: “Don’t I? Look around. Every stained-glass window tells us a story designed for children — heroes, villains, rewards, punishments. We created God in our image, and then froze Him there — eternal, unchanging, unchallenged.”

Jeeny: “Because we’re afraid of what He becomes when He’s free.”

Host: The candlelight danced across Jeeny’s face, tracing her calm defiance with gold. Outside, a gust of wind pressed against the cathedral doors — a low moan that sounded almost alive.

Jack: “Free God? You make Him sound like a prisoner.”

Jeeny: “He is. Bound by our definitions. Our doctrines. Our fear of mystery. We’ve tamed transcendence — turned the infinite into something manageable.”

Jack: (dryly) “You mean profitable.”

Jeeny: (nodding slowly) “That too. We sell certainty because awe terrifies us.”

Host: Jack rose, walking toward the altar, his footsteps echoing in the hollow nave. He paused beneath the massive crucifix — a silhouette framed by ancient devotion.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I used to pray every night. I thought God was listening — somewhere, up there, keeping score. Then my father died, and silence answered louder than any prayer.”

Jeeny: “Silence isn’t absence, Jack. Sometimes it’s invitation.”

Jack: “To what? Delusion?”

Jeeny: “To understanding that faith isn’t a contract. It’s a relationship. It evolves, or it dies.”

Host: The rain began again, a soft rhythm against the stained glass. The candle flames trembled but did not falter.

Jack: “So you think Armstrong’s right — that we never let our idea of God evolve?”

Jeeny: “Yes. We left Him stranded in Sunday school. A moral caretaker, not a mystery. A father figure who rewards obedience instead of consciousness.”

Jack: “You sound like a theologian turned heretic.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe just someone who’s tired of childish faith in an adult world.”

Jack: “So what’s the alternative? A God that’s unknowable?”

Jeeny: “A God that’s uncontainable. The moment we define Him, we stop discovering Him.”

Host: The words lingered in the vastness, the silence folding around them like a cloak. The organ pipes above the altar seemed to breathe, the air whispering through them in faint vibrations — like the cathedral itself agreed.

Jack: “You know what I think? People want comfort, not cosmos. A God who answers, not a God who questions. A divine customer service line.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Exactly. We’ve traded mystery for management. Transcendence for theology.”

Jack: “And the theologians built kingdoms on it.”

Jeeny: “While the mystics walked barefoot into deserts, searching for what couldn’t be named.”

Host: Jack ran his hand along the pew, tracing the grooves carved by centuries of devotion. Beneath his cynicism, there was something almost reverent — an ache that sounded like memory.

Jack: “You know, when Armstrong says we ‘domesticated transcendence,’ it sounds like a kind of blasphemy — not against God, but against our own potential.”

Jeeny: “It is. We’ve made the infinite polite. A deity small enough to fit into sermons, politics, hashtags. But real transcendence should unsettle us — make us tremble, even break a little.”

Jack: “So you think faith should hurt?”

Jeeny: “I think faith should stretch. Otherwise, it’s just nostalgia dressed as belief.”

Host: A thunderclap rolled through the night, shaking the windows. The candles flickered wildly — their light bending, stretching, then returning to stillness.

Jack: “Maybe God isn’t shrinking. Maybe we just stopped looking up.”

Jeeny: “Or inward. The mystics said the kingdom of God is within — but we keep searching in the clouds, waiting for lightning.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “And all we get is thunder.”

Jeeny: “Maybe thunder’s the only language we still understand.”

Host: The rain softened, falling now like a lullaby. The cathedral seemed to exhale — old air meeting the new. Jeeny stood and walked toward Jack, her steps slow and deliberate.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to believe in the old God, Jack. But don’t stop believing in the possibility of divinity — in the mystery that exceeds our comprehension. That’s what Armstrong meant. God isn’t dead. We’ve just stopped being curious.”

Jack: (looking up at the crucifix) “And curiosity is the first prayer.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The light from a passing car spilled through the stained glass, scattering color across the stone floor — fragments of ruby, sapphire, and gold, like a shattered spectrum of belief.

Jack: “So what do we do? Redefine Him?”

Jeeny: “No. Rediscover Him. In silence. In awe. In the things we can’t explain.”

Jack: “And in the things we ruin trying to.”

Jeeny: “Especially there.”

Host: The rain stopped entirely. The silence that followed was immense — not empty, but alive, like the pause between two heartbeats.

Jack sat again, this time not in skepticism, but reflection. Jeeny knelt beside him, her candlelight touching his hands.

Jack: “Maybe we didn’t just domesticate God. Maybe we domesticated wonder.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And that’s the true sin — not disbelief, but complacency.”

Host: The last of the candles burned low, their flames shrinking but steadfast. The air shimmered faintly with incense and quiet revelation.

And as the light faded, Karen Armstrong’s words seemed to unfold their final meaning —

That faith, like love, must evolve,
that God’s transcendence cannot live inside the walls of comfort,
and that to truly know the divine,
we must first unlearn the childish certainty that we ever did.

Host: Outside, dawn began to bloom — pale and patient.
The cathedral, ancient and knowing, stood still, breathing mystery back into the world.

And within it, two souls sat in silence —
not praying, not doubting —
but listening,
as if for the first time,
to something far too vast to be contained by words.