Inside the green room of the Ellen DeGeneres show in Burbank, a quiet actor knelt in prayer. While outside, a queen of daytime television prepared to have what she called a little fun with religious celebrities. What was supposed to be another breezy promotional interview for The Chosen turned into something neither the host nor her 7 million viewers expected when mockery met authenticity and Hollywood’s brightest stage became the setting for a confrontation about what it means to play Jesus while actually following him. Jonathan Roomie sat with eyes closed,

rosary beads moving slowly through his fingers, his lips forming silent prayers in the fluorescent lit room that had hosted thousands of celebrities preparing for their moment in Ellen’s spotlight. At 49 years old, the actor’s face carried the kind of peace that came not from fame, but from something deeper, a centeredness that 5 years of portraying Christ in the groundbreaking series, The Chosen, had only intensified rather than manufactured.

The door opened abruptly, breaking his meditation. A young production assistant with a headset and clipboard appeared, her expression apologetic. “Mr. Roomie, we’re 5 minutes out. Ellen’s ready when you are.” Jonathan opened his eyes. Offering a warm smile that immediately put the flustered assistant at ease. “Thank you. I appreciate the heads up.

” He stood, slipping the rosary into his pocket. the small wooden cross pendant visible at his neck, not ostentatious, but present like the faith it represented. Down the hallway in her private office adjacent to the studio, Ellen DeGeneres reviewed her interview notes with her headwriter Marcus Chen, a sharp-witted veteran of late night comedy, who had helped craft Ellen’s signature blend of charm and gentle provocation.

So, we’ve got the guy who plays Jesus, Ellen said, scrolling through her tablet with practice deficiency. The chosen is huge, streaming numbers through the roof. But he’s also seriously religious, like Catholic religious. Marcus nodded, adding notes to his own device. born again Catholic actually left the faith came back intensely very vocal about it on social media attends daily mass when he can pray the rosary the whole package Ellen’s eyebrows raised with the expression that millions of viewers recognized as her about to find an angle for entertainment daily mass that’s commitment or obsession

could be fun to explore, Marcus hesitated. Sensing the direction this was heading, Ellen, he’s actually pretty beloved. The chosen has this massive following. Very protective of him. Might want to keep it light. Ellen waved off the concern with characteristic confidence.

Marcus, I’ve been doing this for 20 years. I know how to push buttons without crossing lines. Religious people love when you tease them a little. Shows you’re paying attention. What Ellen didn’t know couldn’t know from her research and pre-inter conversations was that Jonathan Roomie had spent the past 5 years being tested in ways that made talk show mockery seem gentle by comparison.

Death threats from people who thought he was blaspheming by portraying Christ. Intense scrutiny from religious communities debating whether any actor should play Jesus. Personal spiritual trials that came from spending 10 hours a day embodying someone you claim to follow. He had learned to meet challenge not with defensiveness but with presence, not with argument, but with authenticity.

The studio pulsed with Ellen’s signature energy as she danced down the aisles to Duual Lia’s levitating. Her movements precise and practiced. Every spin and gesture calculated to project joy and spontaneity simultaneously. The audience of 300 stood and cheered, their faces glowing with the simple pleasure of being part of something they watched from home, now experiencing live.

Ellen’s blue blazer and white sneakers had become iconic, a uniform of accessible celebrity that made million-dollar stars seem like the friend next door. “Welcome, welcome, welcome,” Ellen said, slightly breathless as she took center stage, her short blonde hair perfectly styled to look casually talsled.

“What an amazing crowd we have today. You all look beautiful. Are you feeling beautiful? The audience roared their affirmation exactly as they’d been trained during the warm-up. Ellen grinned, bouncing slightly on her toes in that characteristic way that made her seem perpetually energized. “So, today we have someone very special,” she continued, her voice taking on the conspiratorial tone that made viewers feel included in something exclusive.

You know him as Jesus from The Chosen, that series that’s been breaking every streaming record. But he’s also a really interesting guy. Catholic, by the way, not the casual go to church on Christmas kind, but the daily mass rosary praying full commitment kind. Please welcome Jonathan Roomie.

The band struck up a gentle instrumental as Jonathan walked onto the stage. His entrance markedly different from the usual celebrity energy. No running, no dramatic gestures, just a man walking with quiet confidence and genuine humility. He wore simple clothes, a dark button-down shirt and jeans. No designer labels screaming for attention.

The audience applauded warmly, many recognizing him instantly. From the series that had touched millions, Ellen met him center stage with her trademark hug, the embrace lasting just the calculated length to seem genuine while remaining television appropriate.

They settled into their chairs, Ellen perching on the edge of hers with characteristic energy. Jonathan sitting with relaxed but attentive presence. Welcome to the show,” Ellen said, her smile wide and practiced. “It’s great to finally have you here. Thank you for having me,” Ellen. Jonathan replied, his voice carrying that distinctive warmth that had made his portrayal of Jesus so compelling to audiences worldwide.

“So, The Chosen,” Ellen began, leaning forward with exaggerated curiosity. biggest crowdfunded series in history. Over a billion views, people absolutely love it. What’s it like playing Jesus? The question was standard, almost cliche in its predictability, but Jonathan answered with thoughtful sincerity. It’s humbling. Honestly, every day on set, I’m reminded that I’m trying to portray someone millions of people have a deeply personal relationship with. That’s a responsibility I don’t take lightly.

Ellen nodded, her expression shifting subtly in a way that Marcus would have recognized as her moving into more pointed territory. But here’s what I find fascinating. You’re not just acting religious for the show. You’re actually religious in real life. Like committed. That’s rare in Hollywood. Jonathan smiled. Comfortable with the observation.

Faith has always been central to my life, even before The Chosen. The series has deepened that. If anything, deepened it, Ellen repeated, her tone carrying just a hint of something between curiosity and skepticism. “So when you’re on set, are you Jonathan the actor, or are you actually praying?” like is it method acting or is it genuinely spiritual? The question landed with more edge than appeared on the surface suggesting that genuine faith in a performance context might be somehow inauthentic or calculated. Jonathan’s expression remained open, untroubled by the

implication. both,” he answered simply. “I prepare like any actor would, studying the text, understanding the character’s motivation, but I also pray before every take, asking that what we’re creating serves something beyond entertainment.” Ellen’s eyebrows raised, her smile taking on that quality, her longtime viewers recognized as the precursor to gentle mockery.

You pray before every take. That’s a lot of praying. What? Dear God, please make my Jesus impression really good today. The audience laughed, the sound carrying uncertain energy. Some people genuinely amused, while others shifted uncomfortably at the casual reduction of prayer to performance anxiety. Jonathan’s expression didn’t change.

No defensiveness or irritation, just steady presence. More like asking that the work we’re doing honors the story we’re telling and the faith of the people watching, he replied, his voice calm and clear. Ellen nodded, moving to her next point with the practiced rhythm of someone who knew how to keep a show moving. And you’re Catholic, right? Which means confession, communion, the whole traditional thing.

That’s right, Jonathan confirmed. Those sacraments are essential to my faith. Sacraments, Ellen said, the word sounding almost foreign in her mouth. That’s like the bread and wine turning into actual Jesus, right? The Catholics really believe that? The question was phrased innocently enough, but carried an undertone that suggested the belief was somehow quaint or irrational.

In the control booth, the director kept camera 2 focused on Jonathan’s face, anticipating his response to what was clearly Ellen’s first real test of how far she could push, Jonathan took a breath, his hands resting easily in his lap, completely at ease despite the subtle provocation. Catholics believe in the real presence. Yes, that during the Eucharist, the bread and wine become the body and blood of Christ. It’s called transubstantiation.

Ellen leaned back, her expression mixing curiosity with theatrical skepticism. So you think when you take communion, you’re literally eating Jesus. Her tone made the belief sound absurd. drawing scattered laughter from the audience. Jonathan’s response was simple but landed with unexpected weight. I don’t think it, Ellen. I believe it. There’s a difference.

The distinction hung in the air, subtle but significant, drawing a line between intellectual ascent and committed trust. Ellen’s smile flickered briefly. Her quick wit momentarily encountering something it couldn’t easily deflect with humor. The audience’s laughter had already begun to fade, replaced by an attentiveness that suggested they were witnessing something different from the usual celebrity banter.

Well, Ellen recovered quickly, her professional instincts reasserting control. That’s certainly commitment. So, you’re doing this every day? Going to mass? Praying the rosary? The whole routine? Her emphasis on routine carried the subtle implication that religious practice was mechanical repetition rather than meaningful devotion. Jonathan nodded. His posture remaining relaxed in the chair designed to make guests feel slightly offbalance.

Most days, yes, when filming schedule allows, I try to start with mass. The rosary usually happens in quiet moments throughout the day. Ellen’s eyebrows raised with theatrical amazement. Most actors I know start their day with coffee and Instagram. You’re starting with church. That’s very different.

Different works for me, Jonathan replied simply. His lack of defensiveness, making the statement somehow more powerful than an elaborate explanation would have been. The simplicity seemed to momentarily disarm Ellen’s usual interviewing rhythm. She pivoted to another angle, her smile widening. Okay, so you’re playing Jesus. You’re praying constantly.

You’re going to mass daily. Do your castmates ever find it I don’t know, intense. Like, hey, can Jesus tone it down a bit? We’re just trying to make a TV show here. The question drew more laughter from the audience. Though several faces in the front rows showed uncertainty about whether laughing was appropriate, Jonathan’s expression warmed with genuine amusement.

Actually, the set has become this remarkably spiritual space. People of all different faiths or no faith, but there’s a respect and openness that’s pretty rare in the industry. We pray together before takes. We have chaplain available. It’s created something special. Ellen tilted her head, her smile taking on an edge that longtime viewers would recognize.

Wait, so you’ve basically turned a TV production into a religious retreat? That sounds like it could be. I mean, what if someone on set doesn’t want to pray? Are they the odd one out? The implication was clear. Religious expression in professional settings created exclusion. and discomfort. Everyone participates as much or as little as they want.

Jonathan answered, his voice carrying no defensiveness. The prayers are invitations, not requirements. Some crew members have found faith through the process. Others simply appreciate the intentionality we bring to the work. Nobody’s pressured. Ellen nodded, but her expression suggested skepticism.

But there’s got to be pressure, right? I mean, if Jesus is praying and you’re the lighting guy who doesn’t want to join in, that’s awkward. The audience’s laughter was noticeably thinner now. The humor not quite landing the way Ellen’s quick observations usually did. In the control booth, Marcus leaned forward, recognizing the subtle shift in atmosphere, but uncertain whether to signal Ellen to redirect or let her continue probing.

Jonathan took a measured breath before responding, his stillness contrasting sharply with Ellen’s animated energy. Faith isn’t about making people uncomfortable, Ellen. It’s about creating space where people can be authentic about what matters to them. Some of our most powerful scenes have come from that openness.

Ellen’s smile remained fixed, but something in her eyes showed calculation. The instinct of a performer sensing resistance and deciding whether to push harder or pivot. She chose to push. So, when you’re filming a scene, let’s say the feeding of the 5000 or walking on water, are you in your head thinking, “I’m Jonathan the actor, or are you thinking I’m channeling divine energy or whatever?” The question was designed to make religious experience sound absurd through exaggeration.

But Jonathan’s response remained grounded. I’m thinking about what Jesus might have felt in that moment. Compassion for the crowd, trust in the father, awareness of his mission. Those are human emotions connected to divine purpose, right? But you don’t actually think you’re Jesus.

Ellen pressed, her voice carrying a hint of concern as if checking his mental stability like, “When you go home at night, you know you’re Jonathan, not the Messiah.” More laughter rippled through the audience, but it sounded increasingly uncomfortable, a social response rather than genuine amusement.

Jonathan smiled completely at ease with the question that might have rattled someone less grounded. I’m very clear on the distinction. The series is called the chosen for a reason. It’s about the people Jesus chose seen through their eyes. I’m an instrument trying to serve that story faithfully. Ellen leaned back slightly and in that subtle movement something shifted.

She had expected either defensive religiosity that she could gently mock or casual spirituality that would validate her skepticism. Instead, she was encountering something more challenging. Authentic faith expressed with such calm confidence that her usual tools of gentle provocation weren’t creating the entertaining friction she’d anticipated.

“You know what I find interesting?” Ellen said her tone shifting to something more pointed is that you’re making a lot of money playing Jesus. Like the show’s a huge success. You’re getting recognized everywhere. There are action figures of you as Christ. Isn’t there something weird about profiting from portraying the guy who said it’s easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter heaven? The challenge was more direct.

Now touching on the apparent contradiction between Jesus’s teachings about wealth and the commercial success Jonathan was experiencing. Several audience members shifted in their seats. Sensing the conversation had moved from playful teasing to something with sharper edges.

Jonathan’s expression remained open, his hands still resting easily in his lap. That tension is real, and I think about it constantly. The chosen is funded by viewers who choose to pay it forward so others can watch for free. My salary is modest compared to typical Hollywood standards. And whatever platform this provides, I try to use it to point beyond myself.

Modest by Hollywood standards probably still means you’re doing pretty well, Ellen said, drawing uncertain laughter from the audience. I mean, you’re here on my show. You’ve got the merch, the streaming deals. That’s not exactly living like a monk. A woman in the third row glanced at her companion with raised eyebrows.

The exchange wordless but communicating discomfort with how personal the questions were becoming. Behind them, a younger man who had been filming with his phone now lowered it, simply watching with focused attention. I’m not claiming to be a monk. Jonathan replied with gentle humor. I’m an actor who’s been given an extraordinary opportunity to participate in something meaningful.

The measure isn’t whether I’ve achieved perfect poverty. It’s whether I’m using what I’ve been given to serve something beyond myself. Ellen nodded, her smile still present, but her eyes sharp with the focus of someone not quite getting the response they wanted.

But don’t you think there’s something inherently hypocritical about the whole thing? playing the most humble person who ever lived while building your career on it. The question landed heavily. More accusation than inquiry. The audience was notably quiet now. The easy laughter of the show’s opening replaced by tense attention.

In the control booth, Marcus muttered something to the director about time for commercial break. But Ellen was already continuing, perhaps sensing she needed to either break through Jonathan’s calm or find a new angle. I mean, Jesus didn’t have an agent or a publicist, she continued, building momentum. He wasn’t worried about his Q rating or whether people would buy merchandise with his face on it.

How do you reconcile playing someone who lived like that with being part of, let’s be honest, a pretty big commercial enterprise. Jonathan took a moment before responding. His pause not uncomfortable, but thoughtful. When he spoke, his voice carried the same gentle clarity. You’re right that Jesus didn’t operate within commercial systems, but he did tell stories to reach people where they were.

Use the technology of his time to spread his message and sent disciples out to continue that work. The chosen is using the technology and systems of our time to tell his story to a generation that might not encounter it otherwise through streaming services and merchandise.

Ellen interjected, her voice carrying skepticism through Hollywood production methods and marketing campaigns. That’s not exactly disciples walking dusty roads. No, Jonathan agreed simply. But it’s reaching people who would never walk into a church. Kids who binge watch Netflix are watching episodes about Jesus and having conversations about faith with their parents. That’s not nothing.

Ellen seemed to sense she wasn’t getting the defensive reaction or easy dismissal she might have expected. Her expression shifted again, calculation visible in the slight narrowing of her eyes. Let’s talk about the Catholic thing more, she said, pivoting to what she perhaps saw as more fertile ground. Because that’s specifically interesting. You left the church, right? Came back later.

I walked away in my 20s, Jonathan confirmed, and returned in my 30s. It was a journey. Ellen leaned forward with exaggerated fascination. What brought you back? Did you have some kind of come to Jesus moment? She smiled at her own joke, drawing scattered laughs. “Sorry, that’s probably literally what happened.

” Jonathan smiled at the word play. no visible irritation at the levity about something clearly profound to him. It was actually a gradual process. I’d been searching for meaning in all the ways people in their 20s do. Career success, relationships, experiences. None of it filled what was missing.

Eventually, I realized I was looking for God in everything except God. So, you went back to church and what? Everything made sense again. Ellen’s tone suggested the story was perhaps too neat, too convenient. “Not immediately,” Jonathan replied. “Returning to faith doesn’t mean all your questions disappear. It means you have a framework for wrestling with them honestly.” Ellen nodded.

But her expression suggested she was preparing for another angle. And part of that framework is believing bread literally becomes Jesus. That when you pray the rosary, you’re talking to Mary, who then talks to God, like a divine telephone game. The mockery was gentle but unmistakable. Now, her voice carrying the tone of someone describing beliefs they found charmingly irrational.

The audience’s response was mixed. Some laughed dutifully while others remained silent, and a few faces showed clear discomfort with how Ellen was characterizing religious practices. The atmosphere had shifted noticeably from the show’s opening energy to something more tense and uncertain. Jonathan’s posture remained unchanged, his breathing steady, his expression calm, not defensive, not angry, simply present and attentive.

The contrast between Ellen’s increasing animation and his stillness was becoming more pronounced with each exchange. The rosary is meditation on the life of Christ through Mary’s eyes, Jonathan said quietly, his voice carrying easily despite its gentleness. And the eukarist is the center of Catholic faith, the belief that Christ is truly present. These aren’t strange superstitions.

They’re the lived experience of millions of believers across 2,000 years. Ellen’s smile remained, but her eyes showed something like frustration that her gentle mockery wasn’t creating the entertaining friction she’d anticipated, but you have to admit to people outside looking in. It seems pretty out there, like objectively weird.

The word hung in the air, more pointed than playful. Jonathan’s response was immediate and simple, carrying unexpected weight in its directness. Faith always looked strange from the outside, Ellen. That’s why it’s called faith. The simplicity of his statement seemed to expand in the silence that followed, not as defensive retort, but as observation carrying the weight of lived experience. Ellen’s practiced smile held, but something flickered across her features.

the subtle recognition that her usual interviewing rhythm was encountering unexpected resistance. She recovered with a laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Okay, but come on. You’re an educated person. You live in the 21st century. You know about science, about how the world actually works.

Doesn’t part of you, the rational part, look at these beliefs and think, “This is beautiful mythology, but I don’t actually need to believe it literally.” The question revealed more than Ellen perhaps intended. Suggesting that faith and intelligence were somehow incompatible, that modern education required abandoning ancient beliefs.

A man in the front row wearing what looked like a priest’s collar under a casual jacket leaned forward with visible interest in Jonathan’s response. “Actually, the opposite happened,” Jonathan said, his voice maintaining its steady warmth. “The more I learned about history, philosophy, science, the more coherent faith became.

The great scientists, many were believers. The university system emerged from monasteries. Faith and reason aren’t enemies. That’s a fairly recent assumption. Ellen tilted her head. Her expression mixing curiosity with challenge. But surely you don’t believe in all the miracles like literally virgin birth, raising the dead, turning water into wine.

Those are metaphors, right? Stories to teach lessons. I believe they happened,” Jonathan replied simply. No hesitation or qualification, softening the statement. The audience stirred, the response ranging from nodding agreement among some to visible skepticism from others. Ellen’s eyes widened with theatrical amazement that carried an undercurrent of mockery.

“You actually believe Mary was a virgin when she had Jesus? That’s biologically impossible. If there’s a God who created biology, Jonathan responded, his tone conversational rather than argumentative, then working outside biological norms isn’t impossible. It’s just unusual, which is exactly what miracle means. Ellen laughed, glancing at the audience with an expression, inviting them to share her beusement.

Okay, so you believe in the impossible because God can do impossible things. That’s pretty convenient circular logic. A young woman in the third row who had been nodding along with Ellen’s questions now frowned slightly. Something in Jonathan’s calm responses, causing her to reconsider her automatic agreement. Beside her, an older woman with gray hair pulled into a neat bun, watched Jonathan with an expression of quiet respect.

It would be circular if I started with the conclusion, Jonathan acknowledged. But I started with questions, with doubt, with real wrestling. The conclusion came from that journey, not the other way around. Ellen’s smile took on an edge that her longtime viewers would recognize as signaling a shift to more pointed territory. Let’s talk about that journey. You mentioned doubt.

What do you doubt? Because from where I’m sitting, you seem pretty certain about some pretty uncertain things. The question was fair on its surface, but carried implicit challenge. Admitting doubt might validate Ellen’s skepticism, while claiming certainty would seem arrogant or delusional.

Jonathan navigated the false choice with surprising directness. I doubt my own faithfulness constantly, whether I’m living up to what I claim to believe. Whether I’m using my platform well or squandering it, whether I’m growing or just maintaining comfortable patterns, those doubts are productive. They keep me humble. But you don’t doubt the beliefs themselves.

Ellen pressed the virgin birth, the resurrection, the whole supernatural package. Her phrasing reduced 2,000 years of Christian theology to a commodity, something purchased wholesale rather than arrived at through contemplation.

“There are moments of questioning,” Jonathan said, his honesty apparent in his voice. “Times when suffering or tragedy make faith difficult, but questioning isn’t the same as abandoning. It’s part of the relationship.” Ellen leaned back, her expression shifting to something more personal, almost vulnerable. See, that’s what I don’t get. The relationship thing.

You talk about God like you’re having coffee together every morning. How do you know you’re not just talking to yourself? The audience grew noticeably quieter. Sensing the conversation had moved from playful sparring to something more genuine. In the control booth, Marcus checked the time, wondering if they should break for commercial, but Ellen was already continuing, seemingly invested in getting an answer that would justify her skepticism.

“I mean, really,” she said, her voice taking on a note of genuine curiosity mixed with challenge. “You pray, but how do you know anyone’s listening? You go to mass and believe bread becomes Jesus. But what if it’s just bread? What if all of this, the prayers, the rituals, the daily commitment, what if it’s just elaborate self-comfort? Jonathan took a breath, his hands remaining still in his lap, his posture unchanged when he spoke.

His voice carried a depth that made several audience members lean forward instinctively. I know it sounds strange, but the not knowing is part of what makes it real. If I had absolute proof, it wouldn’t be faith. It would be knowledge. Faith is choosing to trust despite the uncertainty. But why choose that? Ellen asked, her professional veneer slipping slightly to reveal what seemed like genuine puzzlement.

Why not just be honest and say, “I don’t know if there’s a God. I don’t know what happens after death. I’m just trying to be a good person, and that’s enough because I’ve experienced something that mere goodness doesn’t explain,” Jonathan replied simply. And pretending I haven’t would be dishonest in the other direction.

Ellen’s expression showed surprise at the response, perhaps expecting either defensive proof offering or vague spiritual platitudes. “What have you experienced?” she asked, the question carrying less mockery than genuine curiosity. Jonathan paused, seeming to weigh how personal to make his answer on national television. The studio had fallen remarkably quiet.

Even the usual subtle sounds of crew movements stilled. Peace in situations where peace made no rational sense, he said finally. Strength when I should have been broken. Clarity when I should have been confused and the overwhelming sense of being known and loved in a way that goes beyond human relationship.

That could be psychology. Ellen countered her tone gentle but persistent. Your brain producing endorphins, finding patterns, creating meaning from randomness. That’s not God. That’s just how humans cope. The priest in the front row shifted in his seat, his expression showing recognition of an old debate being played out in new context.

Behind him, a woman in her 50s dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Jonathan’s description apparently resonating with her own experience. It could be, Jonathan agreed, surprising Ellen with his openness to the alternative explanation. But why assume the naturalistic explanation is automatically the true one? If God exists, wouldn’t he work through natural means, including our psychology? Why does it have to be either or? Ellen seemed momentarily caught off guard by having her skeptical framework questioned so directly. She recovered

quickly, shifting to another angle. Okay, but let’s talk about the dark side of religion because there is one, right? People have done terrible things in God’s name. Wars, abuse, discrimination. Don’t you ever look at that and think maybe the whole system is flawed. The system of organized religion has absolutely been abused.

Jonathan responded without hesitation horribly, inexcusably, but that speaks to human brokenness, not to whether God exists or whether faith is true. Bad actors don’t invalidate the good. Ellen’s eyes narrowed slightly, sensing an opening. But the Catholic Church specifically has covered up massive amounts of abuse. priests, bishops, systemic protection of abusers. You’re part of that institution.

How do you reconcile that? The question landed heavily, touching on wounds still raw for many Catholics and validating the skepticism of those who viewed the church as irredeemably corrupt. Several audience members nodded, clearly agreeing with the implicit challenge in Ellen’s question. Jonathan’s expression grew somber.

the first visible shift from his previous calm. Not defensive, but carrying the weight of acknowledged pain. I can’t reconcile it. It’s horrific. The abuse and cover up represent a complete betrayal of everything Christ taught, and it’s caused immeasurable damage to survivors and to the church’s witness. So why stay? Ellen pressed, leaning forward.

Why not just say I can have faith without being part of an institution that’s done so much harm? The question was fair, representing the choice many had made to abandon institutional religion while maintaining personal spirituality. Jonathan’s response acknowledged the validity of that choice while explaining his different path.

Because leaving would be easier for me but wouldn’t help the people hurt by the system, he said quietly. Staying means being part of the painful work of reform, of accountability, of creating space for healing. It’s messier than walking away, “But I think it’s what I’m called to do,” Ellen nodded slowly, perhaps not expecting such direct acknowledgement of the church’s failures.

“That’s actually pretty honest,” she said, something in her tone shifting. “Most religious celebrities I talk to either defend everything or deflect. You’re not doing either. I can’t defend the indefensible, Jonathan replied. And deflecting dishonors survivors. The only faithful response is to name the evil clearly and work toward genuine change.

A woman in the second row, who had seemed skeptical throughout the interview, now watched Jonathan with visible reassessment. Her expression suggesting his honesty about institutional failure, carried more weight than defensive apologetics would have. Ellen seemed to sense the shift in atmosphere, but pushed forward, perhaps feeling she hadn’t yet broken through to the entertaining friction she’d anticipated.

But here’s what I still don’t understand,” she said, her voice taking on a more personal edge. “You dedicate your life to this. You pray constantly. You believe deeply. And then terrible things still happen. Kids get cancer. Natural disasters kill thousands. Where’s your god then?” The question of theodysy, suffering’s challenge to belief in a good and powerful God, had defeated countless theological arguments throughout history.

Ellen’s phrasing suggested she believed the question unanswerable, that any response would either diminish God or diminish faith. Jonathan’s answer came quietly, carrying the weight of someone who had wrestled with this question in darkness rather than debating it in comfort.

My daughter was in a car accident two years ago, he said, the personal revelation causing the audience to collectively hold its breath. She survived, but there were hours when we didn’t know if she would. I prayed harder than I’ve ever prayed in my life and I was angry at God, questioning everything.

Ellen’s expression softened genuinely for the first time in the interview. I’m sorry. I didn’t know that. Is she okay? She’s well now. Thank God, Jonathan replied. His voice carrying relief that still felt fresh. But those hours taught me something about suffering and faith. What did they teach you? Ellen asked.

The question absent of mockery, simply genuine curiosity about how someone maintains belief in the face of terror. Jonathan’s response was simple, but landed with devastating clarity. That faith isn’t about believing God will prevent suffering. It’s about trusting he’s present in it. The silence that followed was profound.

Not the uncomfortable pause of dead air, but the reverent quiet of recognition. Ellen sat motionless, her usual animated energy completely stilled, her expression showing something that looked like genuine contemplation rather than calculated response. In the control booth, Marcus leaned back in his chair, recognizing they were witnessing something rare in the polished world of daytime television.

“That’s actually beautiful,” Ellen said finally, her voice softer than her usual performance tone. and terrifying because it means faith doesn’t protect you from the worst things. Jonathan nodded, his expression carrying both sadness and peace. No, it doesn’t. But it means you’re not alone in them. And somehow that changes everything. A woman in the fourth row stood abruptly, her movement drawing attention throughout the studio.

She appeared to be in her 60s, dignified in a simple navy dress. her face showing the strain of someone carrying heavy burdens. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, her voice trembling slightly, but I lost my husband 3 months ago. “Cancer, and everyone keeps telling me it was God’s plan, that everything happens for a reason. I hate hearing that.

” The production assistant near the stage looked panicked at the unscripted intervention, but Ellen raised her hand slightly, signaling to let the woman continue. Jonathan turned toward her with complete attention, his focus shifting entirely from the host to this stranger, bearing her pain publicly. “I don’t think God planned your husband’s cancer,” Jonathan said gently, his voice carrying clearly despite its quietness.

disease is part of a broken world. But I believe God grieved with you, was present in the hospital room, and is present in your grief now. That’s different from claiming it was his plan.” The woman’s face crumpled slightly, tears beginning to flow. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“That’s the first thing anyone said that doesn’t make me want to scream.” She sat down slowly, her neighbor reaching over to take her hand. Around the studio, several other audience members were visibly emotional. The raw honesty of the moment piercing through the usual entertainment veneer. Ellen watched this exchange with an expression that had transformed completely from her opening energy.

When she spoke again, her voice carried vulnerability rarely heard on the carefully produced show. I’ve never really understood faith, she said. The admission seeming to surprise even herself. I mean, I grew up Christian scientist, left that came out, built this life, and I guess I always saw religion as something that makes people smaller, more judgmental, more afraid.

Jonathan nodded, not rushing to correct or convince, simply listening with the same attention he’d given the grieving widow. Ellen continued, “Her words coming slower now, more thoughtful, but watching you these past 30 minutes. You don’t seem smaller, you seem, I don’t know, more grounded than most people I interview, and God knows I’ve interviewed everybody.

” A ripple of gentle laughter passed through the audience at her characteristic humor breaking through the serious moment, but the energy had shifted entirely from the show’s opening. Ellen’s usual performance had given way to something more authentic, more uncertain. Can I ask you something honestly? she said, looking directly at Jonathan. Without the cameras, without the audience, “If it was just us having coffee, would you be different? Would the faith thing be less intense?” The question revealed her suspicion that religious expression was performative, something turned up for public

consumption and dialed down in private. Jonathan’s response was immediate and simple. I’d be exactly the same person. This isn’t performance, Ellen. It’s just who I am. Ellen studied him for a long moment. Her expression suggesting she was weighing whether to believe that claim. I think that’s what makes me uncomfortable.

She said finally, the honesty stark. Because if you’re performing, I can dismiss it. But if you’re genuine, then I have to actually consider whether there’s something to what you’re saying, and that’s harder. A young man in the third row leaned forward in his seat. His earlier distraction with his phone completely abandoned.

Behind him, an older couple held hands, their expressions suggesting Jonathan’s presence had touched something they’d been missing in their own faith journey. The priest in the front row nodded slowly, recognizing the rare moment when authentic witness broke through cultural barriers.

What would you have to lose by considering it? Jonathan asked gently, not pushing but offering space for Ellen to explore her own resistance. Ellen laughed, but the sound carried no mockery, only a kind of rofal self-awareness. My whole world view, the comfortable skepticism I’ve built my career on, the assumption that I’ve got life figured out.

Those sound more like prisons than treasures, Jonathan observed, his voice carrying no judgment, only invitation. Ellen opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again, seeming genuinely caught without a quick retort. The woman who had spoken about her husband raised her hand tentatively. “Can I say something else?” she asked, her voice steadier now. Ellen nodded, and the woman stood again.

“I’ve watched your show for years. You’re funny. You’re kind to people. You do good things, but I’ve never seen you like this without the performance. And it’s better. The observation landed with unexpected weight. A stranger offering feedback that Ellen’s closest friends might hesitate to give. Ellen’s expression showed she felt the truth of it, even as it made her visibly uncomfortable.

“Well,” Ellen said, attempting to recover her usual lightness. This is the weirdest interview I’ve done in 20 years. But her smile was genuine now. Not the camera ready grin, but something more vulnerable. Jonathan smiled in return. The warmth in his expression carrying no triumph or vindication, only appreciation for honest engagement.

Can I ask you something? A man’s voice called from the back of the studio. Ellen looked up, nodding permission, and a man in his 40s stood. Mr. Roomie, my son is 12 and he’s obsessed with The Chosen. Watches it constantly. Quotes it. Wants to talk about Jesus all the time. And I’m not religious. Don’t know what to do with that. Jonathan’s attention shifted entirely to this new questioner.

His ability to be fully present with each person apparent in how he oriented his whole body toward the speaker. What do you do with it? he asked genuine curiosity in his voice. The man hesitated. I don’t want to crush his enthusiasm, but I also don’t want him to be brainwashed by religion. How do I handle that? Let him ask questions.

Jonathan replied, “All the questions, even the hard ones that make religious people uncomfortable. If his faith can’t withstand questioning, it’s not worth having. And if you engage with it honestly, even from skepticism that teaches him to think critically rather than accept blindly. The man nodded slowly, seeming relieved by the answer’s lack of pressure to convert or conform. That’s actually helpful. Thank you.

As he sat down, Ellen watched Jonathan with an expression mixing admiration and something like frustration. You’re very good at this, she said. making people feel heard without trying to force them into your beliefs. Because that’s not faith,” Jonathan replied simply. “Faith that requires force isn’t faith at all. It’s coercion.

” Ellen nodded, then made a decision that seemed to surprise even her. “Okay, I want to try something different. No more jokes, no more deflection, just an honest question.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. If there is a God and he’s good like you believe, why is the world such a mess? Not just natural disasters or disease, but human cruelty, the abuse you mentioned in the church, genocide, children’s suffering.

How do you look at that and still believe in a loving God? The question was the oldest challenge to faith, theodysy in its rawest form. But Ellen asked it without mockery with what seemed like genuine desire to understand how someone maintains belief in the face of overwhelming evidence of suffering. Jonathan took a visible breath, his expression showing the weight he gave to the question.

I don’t have an answer that will satisfy everyone, he said honestly. But here’s what I’ve come to understand. God gave humans freedom, real freedom, which means the freedom to choose evil as well as good. Most suffering comes from human choices, from sin and brokenness. Natural evil, disease, and disaster comes from living in a fallen world where death exists. “That sounds like a copout,” Ellen said.

But her tone was curious rather than dismissive, blaming human freedom. Jonathan shook his head gently. It’s not blaming. It’s acknowledging. Love requires freedom. God could have made us automatons who only do good. But then we wouldn’t be capable of love, only programming. The cost of real love is the possibility of real evil.

But kids with cancer didn’t choose that. Ellen pressed, her voice carrying the frustration of someone wanting the explanation to work, but struggling with its implications. They’re not free, they’re victims. The pain in her voice suggested this wasn’t abstract theological debate, but something touching her own experiences or fears. “You’re right,” Jonathan acknowledged.

“No defensive qualifications, softening his agreement. And that’s where my answers fail and I’m left with trust. Trust that God doesn’t waste suffering. That he somehow brings redemption even from the worst things. And that this broken world isn’t the end of the story. Ellen was quiet for a long moment. Her expression thoughtful.

Around the studio, the usual energy of a talk show had been replaced by something closer to sacred space. audience members sitting in contemplative attention rather than waiting for the next laugh. When Ellen finally spoke, her voice carried a vulnerability that made several people in the front row lean forward instinctively. I think she said slowly, “What scares me most about considering faith is that it would mean admitting I don’t have control, that there are things bigger than me that I can’t manage or fix or joke my way through.” Jonathan nodded, understanding, crossing his features.

That’s exactly what faith is. Surrendering the illusion of control and trusting theirs. The simple statement landed in the quiet studio with devastating gentleness. And Ellen’s eyes glistened with unexpected emotion. She blinked rapidly, a gesture familiar to millions of viewers, but now stripped of performance, simply human response to being touched by something unexpected.

In the control booth, Marcus found himself leaning forward, one hand unconsciously covering his mouth, recognizing they were capturing something that transcended typical television moments. “I need to take a break,” Ellen said, her voice catching slightly. “We’ll be right back.” as the cameras cut away and the audience lights dimmed for commercial.

Ellen stood abruptly and walked off stage without her usual choreographed exit. The audience remained unusually silent, many exchanging glances that communicated shared recognition of having witnessed something significant. Jonathan stayed seated, his posture unchanged, but a production assistant approached with visible concern. Mr.

Roomie, are you okay? Can we get you anything? He shook his head gently. I’m fine. Is Ellen all right? Before the assistant could respond, Marcus emerged from the control booth, making his way to the stage with the stride of someone who had made a decision. That was, he began, then paused, searching for adequate words. I’ve been producing this show for 15 years.

I’ve never seen anything like what just happened. Jonathan’s expression showed concern rather than satisfaction. I hope I didn’t push too hard. That wasn’t my intention. Marcus shook his head emphatically. You didn’t push at all. That’s what’s remarkable. You just kept being present and authentic. And it created space for something real to happen.

He glanced toward the hallway where Ellen had disappeared. Give her a minute. She’s processing. In the green room Ellen had initially occupied, she stood with her back to the mirror, hands pressed against the cool wall, breathing deliberately to regain composure. Her headwriter had followed her, uncertainty written across his features.

“Ellen, do you want to reshoot that last segment?” “We can edit, restructure.” “No,” Ellen interrupted, her voice firm despite the emotion still evident. We’re keeping all of it. Every uncomfortable moment. Marcus appeared in the doorway. You don’t have to continue if you don’t want to. We can wrap here. Ellen turned to face them both.

Her expression showing something her staff rarely saw. Vulnerability without the protective layer of humor. I started this interview thinking I’d have some fun at his expense. Poke at the religious stuff. get some entertaining television and instead I got completely disarmed by someone who refused to play the game. He’s effective.

Marcus acknowledged, “Non-defensive authenticity is powerful.” Ellen nodded slowly. It’s not just effective, it’s convicting. I’ve spent 20 years cultivating this persona, this controlled spontaneity, this carefully managed authenticity that’s actually just another performance.

And he walks in here and just is new performance, new calculation, new defense, just presence. She moved toward the door, then paused. I want to finish this interview, but differently. Not scripted, not controlled, just honest conversation. Marcus and her writer exchanged glances. Recognizing this represented a significant departure from standard protocol. The ratings will be fine, Ellen added, seeing their concern.

Maybe better than fine. This is what people are hungry for, even if they don’t know it. When the show returned from commercial break, the audience seemed to collectively hold its breath as Ellen retook her seat. Her usual entrance, energy was absent, replaced by something more grounded.

She looked directly at Jonathan, who had remained exactly where she’d left him. Patient and present. I need to say something, Ellen began, her voice steady but stripped of performance. I prepared for this interview by reviewing your work, your social media, your interviews. I had questions designed to make you uncomfortable, to expose what I assumed would be hypocrisy or performative religion, and you met every challenge with grace I didn’t expect and honestly don’t know what to do with.

” Jonathan’s expression remained open, encouraging without pushing. “You don’t have to do anything with it, Ellen. Just receive it.” A woman in her 30s stood from the second row, her hand raised tentatively. Ellen nodded, “Permission,” and the woman spoke with visible emotion. I just want to say as someone who was hurt badly by religious people and walked away from faith entirely, watching this conversation has been healing.

Not because Mr. Roomie convinced me of anything, but because he demonstrated something different from the judgment and manipulation I experienced. Several other audience members nodded in agreement, and the priest in the front row stood as well. I’m Father Michael Brady from Street Catherine’s in Pasadena.

Ellen, what you said about religion making people smaller resonated with me because I’ve seen that happen too. When faith becomes about control rather than transformation, it becomes toxic. What Jonathan has modeled here is faith as invitation rather than demand. Ellen listened with visible attention, her usual quick responses nowhere evident.

But how do you know which is which? How do you separate healthy faith from toxic religion? Father Brady smiled gently. By the fruit it produces. Jesus said you’d know them by their fruits. Does it make you more loving or more judgmental? More free or more bound? More connected to others or more isolated? A younger man perhaps in his early 20s called out from the back.

But what if you can’t believe? Like, what if you really try and it just doesn’t click? Are you condemned? Jonathan turned toward the voice, his focus shifting completely. God isn’t waiting to condemn honest seekers. If you’re genuinely seeking truth, even if you can’t make yourself believe certain doctrines, that seeking itself is faith. Faith is trust, not certainty.

That’s not what I was taught, the young man replied, standing so others could see him. I was taught, if you don’t believe the right things, you go to hell. Period. The bluntness of his statement drew murmurss throughout the audience. Some agreeing with the harsh teaching, others recoiling from it. Jonathan’s expression showed both sadness and gentleness.

That teaching has damaged countless people and distorted what Jesus actually said. He spent his time with doubters and seekers and outcasts. Not demanding doctrinal purity, but offering relationship. The thief crucified beside him didn’t have perfect theology, just honest desperation. And Jesus promised him paradise. Ellen leaned forward, drawn back into the conversation.

So, you’re saying belief doesn’t matter? That’s pretty radical for someone who prays daily and goes to mass. Jonathan shook his head slightly. Belief matters enormously, but the belief that saves isn’t intellectual ascent to propositions. It’s trust in a person. You can have perfect doctrine and no real faith or imperfect understanding and deep trust.

A woman who appeared to be in her 50s stood near the side aisle. My daughter is gay. Our church told us she was going to hell unless she denied who she was. We left and I haven’t been back to any church in 5 years. But watching this makes me miss something I can’t even name. The admission hung in the air, touching on one of the most painful divisions in contemporary Christianity.

Jonathan’s response came without hesitation, but with visible compassion. I’m sorry your daughter was treated that way. Jesus never demanded people deny their identity to approach him. He met people where they were with love that called them into fullness of life, not shame that demanded they become acceptable first.

Ellen’s expression showed surprise at Jonathan’s response, perhaps expecting either condemnation of homosexuality or complete affirmation without nuance. What he offered instead was something more complex. Honoring the person’s dignity while holding to faith’s call to transformation for everyone, not just particular groups. That’s going to make some people angry. Ellen observed on both sides. Jonathan nodded.

Probably, but I’d rather honor truth as I understand it and show love to actual people than protect myself from criticism by taking easy positions. The conversation continued to unfold organically. audience members asking questions ranging from practical matters of prayer to philosophical challenges about evil and suffering.

Jonathan responded to each with the same patient attention, never defensive, never evasive, but also never pretending certainty where mystery existed. Ellen found herself mostly listening. Her usual need to control the conversation’s flow, giving way to curiosity about where authentic engagement would lead.

At one point, she interjected. You know what strikes me? You’ve been talking about faith for over an hour, and you haven’t tried to convert anyone. Most religious people I’ve encountered would have closed the deal by now. Jonathan smiled at the observation. Conversion isn’t something I do. It’s something God does when people are ready.

My job is just to be present and authentic about my own journey, not to force others onto it. A man near the back called out, “But don’t you believe we need to be saved?” The question carried challenge, “Perhaps from someone who thought Jonathan’s gentleness represented theological compromise. I believe everyone needs God,” Jonathan replied.

“But I also believe God is already pursuing everyone, often in ways we don’t recognize. My evangelism, if you want to call it that, is just cooperation with what God is already doing in people’s hearts. Ellen nodded slowly, processing. So, this whole interview, you weren’t trying to convert me? Jonathan met her eyes with gentle directness.

I was trying to have an honest conversation with you. If that opens doors toward God, that’s between you and him. The simplicity of his answer seemed to touch something in Ellen. Her expression shifting through multiple emotions before settling into something like wonder. I think, Ellen said slowly, her voice carrying a vulnerability that millions of viewers would later describe as the most authentic moment in her career. This might be the first real conversation I’ve had on this show in years, maybe ever. The admission landed

with weight that went beyond self-deprecation or false modesty, revealing something about the cost of performance that resonated throughout the silent studio. Jonathan’s expression showed no satisfaction at having broken through her defenses, only compassion for someone confronting uncomfortable truth.

“Real conversations are risky,” he said gently. “They require vulnerability that performance protects us from.” Ellen nodded, then made a decision that would later be analyzed in dozens of think pieces and cultural commentary. Can I ask you to do something? And I know this is weird and probably breaks every talk show protocol.

Marcus in the control booth straightened, uncertain what was coming, but recognizing the importance of letting it unfold naturally. What do you need? Jonathan asked, his full attention on Ellen, she took a visible breath. Would you pray right now here? I don’t even know what I’m asking for, but something about this conversation feels like it should end with prayer.

The request was unprecedented in the show’s 20-year history, but Jonathan didn’t hesitate or make it strange with false humility. Of course, he didn’t bow his head dramatically or close his eyes in theatrical display. He simply spoke, his voice quiet but carrying clearly through the studio’s perfect acoustics. Father, thank you for this conversation, for Ellen’s honesty, for the courage of everyone who shared today.

We ask for your presence in the questions we’re still carrying, the wounds we’re still healing, the search for meaning that brought us all here. Not for answers that end the questioning, but for the peace that allows us to live in the mystery. Be with Ellen, with everyone watching, with all of us trying to find our way. Amen.

The simplicity of the prayer, its lack of religious performance or coded language created space for people of varying beliefs to receive it. Ellen sat motionless, her eyes closed, and when she opened them, they glistened with tears. She didn’t try to hide. “Thank you,” she whispered, then turned to the camera. “We’ll be right back.

” As they cut to commercial, the audience remained completely silent. The usual chatter and movement replaced by something approaching reverence. Ellen stood, and this time, Jonathan stood with her, and they embraced, not the choreographed hug of celebrity greeting, but something genuine. I don’t know what to do with what just happened, Ellen said quietly.

Meant only for Jonathan’s ears, but caught by the sensitive stage microphones. You don’t have to do anything, Jonathan replied. Just let it settle. When they returned from break, Ellen’s usual closing energy was absent, replaced by something more thoughtful. Before we finish today, I want to acknowledge that this wasn’t the interview I planned.

It became something I didn’t expect and don’t fully understand yet. Jonathan Roomie, thank you for your patience with my mockery, your grace with my questions and your willingness to just be authentically present. She turned to the audience. And thank you all for being part of something unusual.

Real conversation instead of entertainment. Vulnerability instead of performance. I think maybe we all needed this. The audience stood, applause building, not from prompted enthusiasm, but from genuine appreciation. Jonathan acknowledged it with a humble nod, his demeanor unchanged from the interview’s beginning.

While Ellen seemed visibly transformed, her usual brightness replaced by something deeper and more grounded. After the cameras stopped rolling, the audience didn’t rush for the exits. Instead, many moved toward the stage, forming an impromptu receiving line. Jonathan stood at the stage edge, speaking with each person who approached, giving them his complete attention. The widow, who had spoken about her husband, stood before him, tears streaming freely now.

“You gave me permission to be angry at God without leaving him,” she said. “I didn’t know that was allowed.” Jonathan took her hands gently. God can handle our anger. He’d rather have honest rage than polite distance. The woman nodded, something releasing in her expression, and moved aside for the next person.

The father, concerned about his son’s newfound faith, approached, extending his hand. I bought one of those rosaries you mentioned. Don’t know what to do with it yet, but figured it’s a start. It’s a perfect start, Jonathan replied. his warmth evident. Just hold it while you think. Let it be a physical reminder that mystery exists.

Person after person came forward, each carrying their own story, their own questions, their own search for something beyond the surface level of daily existence. Jonathan received each one with patience that never felt hurried or performative. Ellen watched from the side of the stage, her usual postshow routine of reviewing clips and planning tomorrow’s segments forgotten. Marcus approached.

Tablet in hand, but lowered, recognizing the moment required presence rather than productivity. That was extraordinary, he said simply. Ellen nodded, her gaze still on Jonathan, patiently engaging with an elderly man who was describing his journey back to faith after 50 years away. I built this show on being likable, Ellen said, her voice thoughtful on making people feel good, making them laugh, keeping things light.

And I thought that was enough, that entertainment was its own justification. But watching him just be present with people, really seeing them, really listening without an agenda, I realize I’ve been skating on the surface for 20 years.” Marcus hesitated, then offered what he’d been thinking throughout the interview. Maybe that’s what made this so powerful.

The contrast between your usual approach and his complete authenticity created space for something real to emerge. Ellen turned to him, her expression serious. I want to do more of this. Not every show, but regularly real conversations depth instead of just breath. Can we make that work? We can make anything work, Marcus replied, already mentally restructuring show formats and guest selections, but it will require you being vulnerable more often.

Letting go of control, that’s not easy, Ellen smiled. A real smile without the camera ready brightness. Nothing worth doing is easy. Jonathan just demonstrated that for 90 minutes. In the green room, Jonathan gathered his few belongings. The simple routine unchanged by the profound impact of the previous hours.

A production assistant knocked tentatively. “Mr. Roomie, there are about 50 people outside the stage door hoping to meet you. Security can clear them if you want privacy.” Jonathan shook his head, shouldering his bag. “I’ll go speak with them.” Ellen appeared in the doorway, her professional composure restored, but something different in her eyes.

Can we talk privately? Jonathan nodded, and they moved to Ellen’s office. The space that had seen countless celebrities, but never quite like this. Ellen closed the door. Then seemed uncertain how to begin. I don’t know what I believe yet, she said finally. about God, about faith, about all of it.

But something shifted today, and I wanted you to know that you don’t have to know what you believe,” Jonathan replied gently. “The questions are the beginning, not the end.” Ellen moved to the window overlooking the studio lot. Burbank spreading out in all directions. I’ve spent my career avoiding questions that don’t have easy answers, keeping things light, keeping people comfortable, including myself.

Today felt like permission to stop hiding behind the jokes. She turned back to face him. Would you be willing to continue this conversation? Not for the show. Just privately. I have a lot of questions and I don’t trust most religious people to not turn it into a conversion project. Jonathan smiled.

I’d be honored and I promise not to turn it into a project, just companionship on the journey. Ellen nodded, visible relief crossing her features. Thank you for today, for your patience, for not giving me what I deserved when I was mocking you. Jonathan’s response was immediate and simple. Grace isn’t about what we deserve. That’s the whole point.

The words settled between them, and Ellen found herself nodding slowly. The concept alien, but somehow attractive in its counterintuitive logic. As Jonathan left the studio an hour later, having spoken with the crowd at the stage door, signed autographs, prayed with those who asked, and simply been present with those who needed it. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the Burbank streets.

His phone buzzed with dozens of messages, social media notifications showing the interview was already trending worldwide. clips being shared with commentary ranging from celebration to criticism. He didn’t check any of it, simply drove toward home, where his wife and daughter waited, where the extraordinary day would settle back into the ordinary rhythms of family dinner and evening prayer.

The chosen had given him a platform, but moments like today reminded him that the platform was never the point. Presence was the point. Authenticity was the point, allowing God to work through simple willingness to show up honestly. Three weeks later, Ellen’s show premiered a new monthly segment called Real Talk, featuring extended conversations with guests about meaning, purpose, faith, and the questions that entertainment typically avoided.

The ratings were strong, but more significantly, the cultural conversation shifted. Other talk shows began experimenting with depth. Audiences hungry for substance beneath the surface level of celebrity culture. Ellen herself began attending mass occasionally at Father Brady’s parish, sitting in the back, not committed, but curious, wrestling with questions she’d avoided for decades.

She texted Jonathan regularly. Their conversations covering everything from theodysy to prayer practices to her struggle with surrendering control. He never pushed, never demanded, simply accompanied her journey with the same patient presence he’d demonstrated on her stage. The widow from the audience found healing through a grief group at a local church, her honest anger at God becoming the doorway to deeper faith rather than the exit from it. The father bought his son a study Bible, and they began reading together. The man’s skepticism meeting

his son’s enthusiasm in ways that strengthened both. The young man who’d asked about belief found a community that welcomed questions, discovering that faith could coexist with doubt. Father Brady watched attendance at Street Catherine’s grow, not from programs or marketing, but from word spreading about a place, where questions were honored, and vulnerability was safe.

He credited the ripple effects of that single television interview, how one person’s authentic witness had opened doors for countless others. And Jonathan continued his quiet work, filming The Chosen, speaking when invited, but mostly just living his faith with the unassuming consistency that had disarmed a talk show host and touched millions watching from home.

Not because he was extraordinary, but because he was willing to be extraordinarily present, meeting mockery with grace, questions with honesty, and skepticism with patient love. The cultural conversation sparked by 90 minutes on a daytime talk show continued to ripple outward, challenging entertainment’s assumption that depth and accessibility were incompatible, that real transformation required dramatic conversion rather than patient presence, that the most powerful witness was often the quietest. In a world addicted to performance and noise, Jonathan Roomie had demonstrated

something revolutionary. the power of simply being authentically present, of meeting challenge without defensiveness, of offering truth without demand. And in that demonstration, he’d shown countless seekers that faith wasn’t about having all the answers or performing perfectly.

It was about showing up honestly, about being present in the questions, about trusting that presence itself was a form of prayer. Ellen’s journey was just beginning. uncertain and messy and beautiful in its honesty. Jonathan’s role was simply to walk alongside, not as converter or teacher, but as companion and friend, trusting that God’s work in human hearts required patience, not pressure, invitation, not demand, presence, not performance.

And in that trust, in that patient accompanying of another’s journey toward the divine, the real miracle unfolded. quiet and profound, changing lives not through argument or spectacle, but through the simple revolutionary act of authentic love. Thank you for following this story. Let us know in the comments below.

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