Jenna (leaning forward, tone sharp but composed):

  "Dr. Ehrman, if we’re going to talk about 'existential crisis,' I’d like to ask—"

  (She gnces toward Crk, then back at the camera.)

  "—if 6C deserves that bel for borrowing and filtering, then what do we call a religion like Christianity that rode on the back of Roman military power, fueled the violent inquisitions, and was exported through secur colonization and empire-building?

  If authenticity is measured by independence, coherence, or ethical consistency, doesn’t Christianity itself suffer from a far deeper crisis? Isn’t its theology forever intertwined with blood and empire?"

  CAMERA cuts to Bart Ehrman, nodding slowly.

  BART EHRMAN:

  "Jenna, that’s a pointed question—and a necessary one.

  Let’s be honest: Christianity’s historical baggage is massive. It was institutionalized by Constantine for political unity, it was enforced by inquisitions under the guise of orthodoxy, and it did indeed ride shotgun with European colonial powers for centuries. Churches were pnted not by missionaries first—but by armies.

  So yes, in terms of ethical inheritance, Christianity has faced—and still faces—an existential reckoning. You can’t separate the message of love and salvation from the instruments of coercion it historically partnered with. That contradiction haunts it to this day.

  But I want to be clear: every religion carries a mixture of spiritual intent and political compromise. What makes 6C unusual is not the mixing—it’s the openness about that mix. Christianity, by contrast, often denies or deflects it.

  Now, to Crk’s point: 6C’s ‘crisis’ may lie in its ck of sacred novelty or divine cim. But Christianity’s crisis lies in the conflict between its ideals and its actions. Between Jesus' nonviolence and the Church’s violent enforcement of dogma.

  So Jenna, yes—both systems face crises. One is foundational. The other is historical. The question for followers today is: which crisis are you more willing to live with—and try to solve?"

  CLARK (shaking his head, softly):

  "That's the most honest criticism of Christianity I’ve heard today. But history isn't everything. Truth still matters."

  Jenna (smiling as she refreshes her tablet):

  "Alright everyone, the votes are in."

  (She taps the screen, and a rge dispy appears behind her with bold numbers.)

  Jenna (reading out clearly):

  “21st Century: Christianity vs. The 6 Commandments (6C)”

  6C — 1,015,322 votes

  Christianity — 25,205 votes

  (The crowd murmurs—some gasp, some cheer. Crk shifts in his seat.)

  Jenna (turning to the panel):

  "Dr. Ehrman, Dr. Crk—I'd love both of your reactions to this outcome.

  Is this just a digital anomaly? Or does this say something deeper about the shifting spiritual consciousness of the modern world?"

  BART EHRMAN (resting his chin on his hand, calmly):

  "Numbers like that can be interpreted in many ways. It depends who is voting and why. But here’s what I will say:

  People today are disillusioned—not just with old institutions, but with the contradictions those institutions never resolved. Christianity has had 2,000 years to evolve, but for many, it still clings to outdated doctrines, uncritical traditions, and theological exclusivity.

  The appeal of 6C isn’t theological brilliance. It’s crity. Simplicity. A framework that’s actionable and unapologetic. For a generation raised on digital truths and moral contradictions, that’s compelling.

  But popurity doesn't mean theological depth—or truth. It just means resonance. The real question is: will 6C evolve, or will it calcify like the faiths it critiques?"

  DR. SCOTT CLARK (tense, but composed):

  "This vote... it stings. Not because of pride, but because it confirms what I feared:

  We’ve created a culture that confuses simplicity with truth, and reaction with revolution. Christianity isn't trending because it demands contemption, not just compliance.

  Look—6C is successful right now because it gives people an easy escape from theological complexity. But I argue that's not freedom—it's resignation. Religion should elevate the soul, not just pacify the masses with surface-level ethics and borrowed doctrines."

  (He exhales sharply.)

  "And if this is the future, then we’ve got a different kind of dark age ahead—one lit by screens, not spirit."

  Jenna (with a knowing look):

  "Maybe the old age was too dark for too long. Maybe it’s time for new light—even if it burns different."

  Jenna (leaning forward, her tone firm but curious):

  “Final question to close the night, Dr. Bart Ehrman. You’ve heard it all—Crk’s defense of Reformed Christianity, the critiques, the votes. So here it is, no dodging:

  Reformed Christianity or 6C—Which is better for the West?”

  (The room falls silent. Even Crk is watching intently.)

  BART EHRMAN (pauses, eyes narrowing thoughtfully):

  “That’s a loaded question, Zara. But I’ll give you a historian’s answer—one grounded in patterns, not passions.

  Reformed Christianity gave the West much of its identity—art, ethics, institutions. But it also gave us deep fractures: colonialism disguised as mission, wars of doctrine, and centuries of exclusion and guilt.

  6C, on the other hand, is not so much a religion as a reset. It doesn’t cim revetion—it cims revision. It’s modur. Pragmatic. It doesn’t ask people to believe in mysteries—it tells them how to act.

  So, which is better?

  If we’re talking about cultural stability, maybe neither.

  If we’re talking about moral crity in a chaotic age, 6C is winning hearts because it simplifies the sacred into principles people can follow without shame or dogma.

  But if you ask me as a schor—not a believer—I’d say this:

  The West doesn’t need a better religion. It needs honest ones. And right now, 6C is being more honest about what it is... than Reformed Christianity ever was.”

  (Jenna nods. The screen behind her fades to bck. Appuse erupts.)

  ***

  INT. CLARK'S OFFICE – NIGHT

  A dim mp glows behind shelves stacked with theology books. Dr. Scott Crk sits alone, tie loosened, staring at a worn Bible on his desk. The podcast is over, but the weight of it lingers in the silence.

  CLARK (monologue, quiet, reflective):

  "They cheered for simplicity...

  For doctrines written like slogans—six commandments, two prophets, no God in the center.

  And they called that crity.

  Ehrman didn’t lie. He never does.

  He doesn’t need to believe to dismantle a faith. And Jenna...

  Jenna just rides the wave of this century’s disillusionment.

  A million souls traded their Savior for six rules and a strongman with a podcast.

  And me?

  I stood there defending a church that no longer believes in itself.

  I quoted Calvin to kids who scroll TikTok between verses.

  I argued mystery to minds that crave algorithms.

  Maybe they’re right.

  Maybe faith is no longer eternal. Maybe it’s seasonal.

  Like fashion. Or governments.

  But if I abandon Christ—if I let go of 2,000 years for convenience—

  then who am I?

  A relic in a dying chapel?

  Or the st voice reminding them that faith is not meant to be easy.

  I lost the argument.

  But maybe...

  Maybe the silence after the appuse is where something holy begins again."

  (Crk closes the Bible gently. He doesn't weep. But something in his posture deftes, as if he's no longer arguing with the world—just with time itself.)

  ...

  EXT. WEST MICHIGAN – AUTUMN – MONTAGE

  Leaves fall gently across once-bustling church parking lots. Signs fade. Doors creak. A cross is taken down from a chapel roof. Empty pews gather dust. Somewhere, a hymn pys faintly—but no voices accompany it.

  INT. CLARK’S CHURCH – EARLY MORNING

  Dr. Scott Crk steps into the sanctuary one st time. The morning sun filters through stained gss—still casting that kaleidoscope of blues and reds across the altar. But the silence is heavier than the light.

  He walks slowly down the aisle. Every footstep echoes.

  He reaches the pulpit—pces a folded paper on it. A final sermon, undelivered.

  INT. CHURCH OFFICE – MOMENTS LATER

  He unlocks a drawer. Inside: a stack of letters from decades past, photos of baptismal ceremonies, confirmation csses, faded bulletins. A legacy now obsolete.

  Crk carefully packs it all into a single box. Leaves his ordination certificate behind.

  He takes a final gnce at the cross on the wall... and turns away.

  ...

  EXT. CHURCH STEPS – SUNRISE

  He exits with no ceremony. No followers. No press. Just the wind stirring fallen leaves.

  A young couple walks by. They don't notice the church. Don’t recognize him.

  CLARK (V.O., final words):

  “I walked with Christ in a time He was forgotten.

  Not because I needed to win,

  but because the silence deserved a witness.”

  He walks down the street, blending into the quiet rhythm of a world that has moved on.

  ***

  "The Smoke Over Saginaw"

  It had been nearly two months since pork disappeared from Central Michigan shelves, and by now, the jokes practically wrote themselves.

  “Two months pork-free and my cholesterol’s never been lower,” joked Reverend Tina Morris, a 38-year-old United Methodist pastor in downtown Saginaw. Her congregation chuckled weakly, half amused, half unsettled. A few even nodded like they believed it. They needed to.

  Pork bans, once considered unthinkable in Midwestern kitchens, had become the new normal. No more bacon with breakfast, no ribs at barbecues, no pepperoni on pizzas. Instead, stores pushed turkey sausage and hal mb, while memes flooded the web. TikTokers showed off their "Swine-Free Glow-Ups," Gen Zers ughed at old bacon-wrapped everything recipes, and the hashtag #PorkMartyr trended when someone in Flint was fined for selling smoked ham from the back of his truck.

  Despite no formal enforcement in Central Michigan, social pressure did the job. Gas stations quietly repced their hot dogs. Schools rewrote cafeteria menus. The pork abstention was a kind of cultural flex: a way to signal “I get the times.”

  Yet beneath the jokes and adaptations, tensions smoldered. Lansing, Flint, and Saginaw had become the fault lines of America’s st Christian frontier—a pce where neither theocracy nor resistance had fully cimed victory.

  In downtown Lansing, Bishop David Bard still held firm in the Michigan United Methodist Conference building. He’d called 6C “a theocratic perversion of Wesleyan grace” in a viral video that had gotten him both death threats and love letters. A white-haired figure with surprising online charisma, Bard now wore bodyguards to his Sunday sermons. The United Methodists were among the few denominations refusing to budge, and he was their shepherd.

  Further east, in Flint, Dr. Timothy Patterson of First Baptist still thundered from his pulpit at age 70. His sermons, broadcast through rogue radio and encrypted Telegram channels, were filled with apocalyptic fire: “6C is not a reformation—it is the Antichrist, dressed in scripture and slick branding!” Half of the Baptist churches in the region agreed with him. The other half? Well, they now dispyed the 6C logo right beside the cross.

  But what was strangest of all was this: No 6C official had ever stepped foot in Central Michigan churches.

  There were no raids, no sermons by Zara Lin, no surprise visits by Imam Qazwini or Rev. Deon Carter. It was all voluntary.

  The younger pastors—especially those fresh from seminary, student debt weighing heavier than any theology—found the 6C movement too convenient to resist. The branding, the TikTok fame, the financial grants for “theocratic restructuring,” the viral worship music—it was irresistible. Some even quoted the new “Book of 6” like it had always been there.

  In Saginaw, Pastor Mike Townsend, 29, of New Light Baptist had quietly repced his Bible's Pauline epistles with 6C's sanctioned version. His church attendance had doubled. “I didn’t change doctrine,” he told himself. “Just...emphasis.”

  But others weren't buying it.

  The underground Christian network—an uneasy alliance of Methodists, rogue Baptists, and even a few disillusioned Catholics—had begun referring to themselves as The Remnant. They operated discreetly, often hosting prayer gatherings in homes, barns, or shuttered auto factories, always looking over their shoulders.

  At a hidden meeting in the basement of a closed library in Owosso, Bishop Bard, Dr. Patterson, and a dozen others gathered in flickering candlelight. Maps of Central Michigan were spread on tables, red dots marking churches that had defected.

  “They haven’t sent agents because they don’t have to,” Bard said, voice low. “This isn’t an invasion—it’s seduction.”

  “They’ve weaponized relevance,” Patterson added. “And our young pastors... they’re tired. They want safety, likes, growth.”

  Outside the library, a group of teens in hoodies pyed basketball. One had a 6C symbol stitched into his jacket sleeve. They weren’t radicals—just kids trying to fit in.

  That was the danger, Bard thought. The revolution didn’t come with tanks or sermons. It came with silence, hashtags, and turkey bacon.

  And somewhere, deep in the haze over Flint’s industrial skyline, he felt it: a storm was coming.