Ananias and Aaron discuss Jurassic Park

In a sun-baked courtyard that sits between a temple and a bustling market, two men square off with the kind of grin that says this will be a good debate.

Ananias: Peace be with you, Brother Aaron. Or should I say, “Behold, a question roars in from the gates of time.” Today’s topic: Jurassic Park. Yes, the long-forgotten giants that shuffle through a gate called a film, and somehow end up in our conversation.

Aaron: Shalom, Ananias. Jurassic Park, you say? A park for beasts that roamed before the flood of our screens? I am listening, though I must warn you: I deal with purity laws, sacrifices, and the solemn business of keeping order in the people’s hearts. I can keep time, but I’m not sure I can keep a tyrannosaur from stampeding a week’s worth of ceremonial fish.

Ananias: Relax, man of the Levites. I’m not here to conquer a beast but to conquer fear with a little faith and a lot of laughter. You know my methods: a gentle touch, a listening ear, and a crowd that feels a little lighter after they’ve seen someone lifted from despair. If a dinosaur comes stomping through the gate, I’d say it’s an opportunity to demonstrate mercy—even to a creature with a jaw that could bench-press a camel.

Aaron: Mercy is good, indeed. But mercy without boundaries can become chaos, my friend. If a swarm of dinosaurs is loose in a park, we’re not healing bodies—we’re becoming the park’s next exhibit. And I’ve read the law: a priest must keep the camp clean, the sacrifices precise, and the people serene. A rogue velociraptor is not exactly the right kind of “clean.” It’s more like “unholy terror with a tail.”

Ananias: Ah, but see, there’s the heart of the matter. You talk about boundaries; I talk about compassion. If a man whose leg withers under a crowd’s scorn finds healing under my hands, that’s a boundary well crossed for the better. If a boy who’s never seen a living creature larger than a goat sees a giant living dinosaur and fears God less and fears the Jurassic less, where is the harm? Fear can drive people to kindness as much as faith can.

Aaron: Fear is not the same as reverence. There’s a line between awe and recklessness. Jurassic Park is a classroom full of questions—where do these beasts come from? Why do they live? Who designed this cage, and what does that say about us? In the days of the temple, we teach people to fear God in a way that leads to trust and order, not a stampede of past and present monsters.

Ananias: And yet, even a stampede can become a sermon if we’re paying attention. If the park exists to remind people that creation is vast and wondrous, then perhaps it teaches humility. The dinosaurs in the story—if they exist—force us to confront the gravity of playing with life on rooms larger than a man’s own understanding. My instinct is not to panic but to reach out, to tell the crowd: “There is One who wields power far grander than a park’s gate.” That’s the mercy I’m aiming for.

Aaron: You speak of mercy; I hear the echo of governance. The High Priest manages a people’s order—what is clean, what is fit for the altar, what keeps the covenant intact. Jurassic Park, if it’s anything, is a reminder that power without restraint becomes unclean quickly. When you let DNA pieces assemble a living creature, you’re reading a recipe for uncertainty. The temple taught us to respect laws that keep us safe. If you stray into tampering with life itself, you must be prepared to answer for the consequences, not just the applause.

Ananias: Consequences, yes. That’s the punchline. If dinosaurs roamed the earth, they did so under the watchful eye of a Creator who made room for wonder and risk alike. People want miracles; I want a moment where the crowd walks away knowing the world is fragile and sacred. Jurassic Park is a modern parable—truth wrapped in spectacle: the more you try to order life, the more life resists your orders. It’s a reminder that mercy and mystery walk hand in hand.

Aaron: A parable, perhaps. But a parable with a danger rating. You know how we handle danger in the temple—by preparing, by ritually cleansing, by consulting prophets and priests. If a park releases beasts, we would demand safeguards, boundaries, and oversight. Not because we fear life, but because we fear what we do when we forget that the Holy One is the One who set boundaries in the first place. If the gate opens and the crowd rushes inside, who’s keeping the purity of the ritual intact? Who’s protecting the sanctity of the people’s minds?

Ananias: Sanctity doesn’t have to be a prettied-up wall between us and wonder. If a scientist stands at the edge of a miracle and asks for accountability, I’m there with him—hands ready, heart open, not to perform a miracle on demand, but to remind everyone that mercy must guide curiosity. And if a dinosaur roars, I’ll tell the crowd to listen for the still, small voice that speaks of mercy through the roar.

Aaron: Ah, the still small voice. In the temple, we hear it in the hush before a sacrifice, in the ritual’s order, in the way a priest keeps the people not merely fed but reminded of their vows. Jurassic Park is a wild sermon on hubris dressed in cinematic leather. It’s a reminder that the world is bigger than our plans. But if the plans themselves are honest and the hearts are pure, maybe there’s a place for talk about wonder—without giving up the discipline that keeps a people safe.

Ananias: So we’re not enemies, then. We’re neighbors who disagree about how to read the same story—the story of life, the story of power, the story of mercy. You want order and sanctity; I want mercy that thrives on every breath of life, even if that life has a few teeth and scales and a tail that keeps wagging long after the credits roll. If we meet in the middle, we might produce a lesson that’s more compelling than either a sermon or a science book alone.

Aaron: A reasonable compromise, perhaps. We can agree that curiosity deserves limits, and compassion deserves a forum. Let the park exist as a cautionary tale rather than a creed; let it teach humility rather than domination; let it remind people that most powerful force we know is not a bite or a roar but the choice to love our neighbor—human or not. And if a dinosaur happens to wander into the scene, we face it with a measured faith: not fatalism, but stewardship.

Ananias: Or, to borrow a line from the road: fear not, but be prudent; hope, but do your homework; lay on hands when healing’s needed, and lay down the pride when the evidence arrives at your doorstep. In other words: let mercy steer the drama, whether it’s a crippled leg or a colossal beast.

Aaron: And may the Lord keep all sentries safe—the priests with their duties, the healers with their hearts, and the crowds who walk away with something to think about. If Jurassic Park teaches humility, then I suppose it did its job, even if we still disagree on the method.

Ananias: So we part with a benediction of good humor and better questions. If a park of ancient beasts can teach us anything, it’s that wonder and responsibility can share a common stage. We can both heal and restrain; we can both worship with awe and study without arrogance.

Aaron: Agreed. And may your healings be swift, your rituals pure, and your dinosaurs well-behaved in the maxims of the heart.

Ananias: Be well, Brother Aaron. And may your high-priestly sandals find their way to wisdom, even if they do squeak once in a while at the roar of a dinosaur.

They part with friendly nods, a spark of mischief in their eyes, and a shared sense that some topics are meant to be argued about with warmth, wit, and a generous respect for the mystery of creation—even when the mystery wears scales and a toothy grin.