In a vast, empty church auditorium, Elon Musk sat across from Pastor Steven Furtick, the silence between them palpable. The room, designed to hold thousands, now felt like a cavern, echoing with the weight of unspoken thoughts. Elon had requested this meeting weeks ago, insisting on complete confidentiality.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Pastor,” Elon finally said, his voice reverberating slightly in the stillness. “I needed to talk to someone who might understand.”
Steven leaned forward, intrigued. “Of course. I was surprised by your call, but I’m here to listen.”
Elon’s gaze wandered around the sanctuary, taking in the beauty of the space. “You’ve built something remarkable here—a community of people who believe in something bigger than themselves. That’s becoming rare.” He paused, struggling to articulate his thoughts. “What’s on your mind?”
“I see data, trends, patterns. It’s what I do,” Elon replied, his voice growing more intense. “And there’s a pattern that terrifies me more than anything else I’ve observed.”
“What’s that?” Steven asked, his curiosity piqued.
“Faith is dying,” Elon said flatly. “Real faith—not just church attendance or religious identification. Actual belief in God, in anything beyond what we can measure and manipulate. People are losing their spiritual anchor, and nobody seems to be sounding the alarm.”
Steven’s expression remained neutral, but his eyes betrayed his interest. “What makes you concerned about this particular trend? Many would say humanity is simply evolving beyond superstition.”
Elon’s laugh was hollow. “That’s exactly the problem. We think we’re evolving, but we’re actually regressing. We’re becoming more isolated, more anxious, more empty. I’ve spent my life pushing the boundaries of what’s possible, but I’ve started to realize that without some higher purpose, it’s all meaningless.”
“So you believe in God?” Steven asked, clearly surprised.
“I don’t know what I believe anymore,” Elon admitted. “But I know what happens to societies that lose their spiritual foundation. I’ve studied history, analyzed the data, and that’s why I’m here.”
Steven nodded slowly. “Go on.”
“I need to understand why the church has been so silent as this happens. Why aren’t religious leaders fighting harder? Why isn’t there more urgency? Don’t you see what’s coming?”
“What exactly do you think is coming?” Steven asked quietly.
“A spiritual vacuum,” Elon replied, his eyes locking onto Steven’s with an intensity that made the pastor shift in his seat. “Nature abhors a vacuum. Something will fill it—something is already filling it. And that’s what I need to talk to you about.”
Steven checked his watch. “We have all afternoon. Why don’t you start at the beginning? Tell me what you’re seeing that has you so concerned.”
Elon nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “It started with a question I couldn’t shake: What happens when humanity no longer believes it has a soul? Three years ago, I started noticing something in the data. It wasn’t just the decline in religious affiliation; it was something more fundamental.”
“What kind of data are we talking about?” Steven asked, watching him carefully.
“Everything—social media sentiment analysis, psychological studies, suicide rates, community engagement metrics, consumer behavior,” Elon explained, pacing in front of the empty first row of seats. “There’s a hollow growing in people—an emptiness they’re desperately trying to fill.”
“With what?” Steven asked.
“Anything. Everything. Constant distraction, artificial connections, virtual realities,” Elon said, his voice growing more animated. “We’re creating increasingly sophisticated ways to numb ourselves to avoid facing the big questions—the existential questions.”
“Why are we here? What’s the purpose of life?” Steven offered.
“Exactly,” Elon nodded vigorously. “Those questions used to be answered by faith traditions. Now they’re not being answered at all. We’re just drifting.”
Steven leaned back, considering. “But many would argue that breaking free from religious frameworks allows people to find their own meaning.”
“That’s the theory,” Elon countered. “But that’s not what’s happening. People aren’t finding new meaning; they’re avoiding the question entirely. They’re filling their lives with noise so they don’t have to confront the silence.”
Elon pulled out his phone, showing Steven a series of graphs. “Look at these trends: depression, anxiety, loneliness—all skyrocketing as traditional faith declines. It’s not just correlation; there’s causation here.”
“These are concerning,” Steven said, studying the screens. “But couldn’t there be other factors?”
“Of course there are other factors,” Elon admitted. “But I’ve controlled for those in my analysis. The spiritual vacuum is real, and it’s having measurable effects on human well-being.”
“So your fear is about the suffering this causes?” Steven asked.
Elon shook his head slowly. “That’s part of it. But my bigger fear is about what fills the vacuum. Humans need meaning. They need purpose. They need something bigger than themselves to believe in. If it’s not God, it will be something else—like ideologies, political movements, technological utopianism.” His voice grew quieter. “Or dystopian fatalism—a sense that nothing matters, so nothing is worth preserving.”
Steven nodded thoughtfully. “We’re seeing some of that already.”
“It’s just beginning,” Elon warned. “And here’s what keeps me up at night: the church—the traditional guardian of meaning and purpose—seems to be retreating just when it’s needed most.”
“That’s a bold claim,” Steven said, his tone measured. “Many would say the church is adapting to new realities.”
“Adapting by surrendering its core message,” Elon challenged. “By becoming just another voice in the self-help chorus. By avoiding the hard truths about human nature and our need for redemption.”
Steven’s eyebrows raised slightly. “You sound more familiar with theological concepts than I would have expected.”
Elon smiled faintly. “I’ve been doing a lot of reading lately, trying to understand what we’re losing.” His expression turned serious again. “And what we stand to lose next if this continues.”
“What is that exactly?” Steven pressed.
Elon looked up at the cross hanging above the stage. “Everything that makes us truly human.”
Silence hung between them for several minutes. Steven sensed there was something more personal driving Elon’s concerns—something beyond data and social trends.
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Steven finally said. “This isn’t just about what you’re observing in society, is it?”
Elon stared at his hands. “No,” he admitted quietly. “It’s not.”
“I’m listening,” Steven encouraged.
Elon took a deep breath. “I’ve achieved more than I ever dreamed possible. I’ve created things that have changed the world. I’ve accumulated wealth, influence, a platform.” He looked up, his eyes unexpectedly vulnerable. “And it’s all completely empty without meaning.”
“Success without significance,” Steven offered.
“Exactly,” Elon stood again, restless. “I’ve been having these moments—moments of clarity—where I see how fragile everything is, how temporary, how ultimately meaningless all my accomplishments are. If there’s nothing beyond this life…”
“You’re wrestling with mortality,” Steven observed.
“I’m wrestling with everything,” Elon corrected. “With what it means to be human. With whether there’s anything sacred about human consciousness. With whether there’s any point to all our striving if we’re just complex chemical reactions that eventually stop.”
Steven watched him carefully. “These are ancient questions, Elon, but we’re facing them in unprecedented ways.”
Elon insisted, “Our technology is outpacing our wisdom. We’re getting closer to creating artificial consciousness without understanding our own. We’re manipulating the fundamental building blocks of life without grasping what life really means.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “I’ve started to wonder if the reason I’ve pushed so hard to advance technology is because I’ve been running from these questions—trying to solve death and meaninglessness through innovation rather than facing them directly.”
Steven nodded slowly. “That’s profound self-awareness.”
“It came at a cost,” Elon admitted. “I hit a wall—a spiritual wall—about a year ago. I found myself sitting alone, surrounded by everything I’d built, and feeling absolutely nothing. No pride, no satisfaction, no purpose.” His voice grew quiet. “Just emptiness.”
“What did you do?” Steven asked.
“I started searching,” Elon said simply. “Reading philosophy, theology, spiritual texts from every tradition. Meditating, praying—even though I wasn’t sure anyone was listening.” He smiled faintly. “I even went to church a few times, disguised so no one would recognize me.”
“And did you find anything?” Steven asked.
Elon looked directly at Steven. “Glimpses. Moments where something beyond myself felt real. Where the universe didn’t seem like a cold, random accident.” His expression grew troubled. “But those moments are fragile, and society seems determined to crush them out of existence.”
“That’s why you’re here,” Steven realized. “You’re not just concerned about society losing faith; you’re worried about losing those glimpses yourself.”
Elon nodded slowly. “My biggest fear isn’t just that humanity is abandoning belief in God; it’s that we might be right to do so. That there might really be nothing beyond what we can see and measure.” His voice cracked slightly. “And I don’t know if I can live in a world like that.”
Steven leaned forward. “Now we’re getting to the heart of it. My question for you, Pastor,” Elon said intently, “is why the church seems so comfortable letting this happen. Why aren’t you fighting harder for what you claim to believe? Why the silence in the face of such fundamental questions?”
Steven took his time before responding, clearly weighing his words carefully. “Your question deserves an honest answer,” he finally said. “The church has been silent in many ways, but not for the reasons you might think.”
“Tell me,” Elon pressed.
“Some of it is fear,” Steven admitted. “Fear of being irrelevant, fear of being dismissed as backward or anti-science, fear of losing cultural influence.” He shook his head. “We’ve been trying so hard to seem reasonable to a world that’s moved beyond traditional faith that we’ve watered down the very message that gives faith its power.”
“And what is that?” Elon asked.
“That there is more to reality than what we can measure,” Steven replied. “That humans have intrinsic value because we’re made in God’s image. That love and justice matter eternally, not just as evolutionary advantages.” His voice grew stronger. “That redemption is possible, that brokenness isn’t the end of the story.”
Elon nodded slowly. “So why not proclaim that boldly?”
“Some do,” Steven acknowledged. “But many of us get caught in the trap of wanting approval from a culture that’s fundamentally opposed to our message.” He smiled sadly. “We want to be liked more than we want to be faithful.”
“But the stakes seem so high,” Elon insisted. “If what you believe is true, it changes everything. How can you be casual about it?”
“We shouldn’t be,” Steven said simply. “And your challenge convicts me.” He stood up, walking toward the large cross at the center of the stage. “But there’s another reason for the silence—one that’s harder to admit.”
“What’s that?” Elon asked.
“Doubt,” Steven said quietly. “Many religious leaders are wrestling with the same questions you are, Elon. Many of us have our own dark nights of the soul, wondering if what we’ve built our lives on is real.” He turned back to face Elon. “Faith has never been easy. It’s always been a choice to trust beyond what we can prove.”
Elon looked surprised. “You doubt too?”
“Of course,” Steven said. “Anyone who claims never to doubt is either lying or hasn’t thought deeply enough about what they claim to believe.” He sat down again, closer to Elon this time. “Faith isn’t the absence of doubt; it’s choosing to trust despite the doubt.”
Elon absorbed this. “But isn’t there evidence—reasons to believe beyond just blind faith?”
“There are signposts,” Steven agreed. “The universal human longing for meaning, the reality of consciousness, the existence of love and beauty that seem to transcend evolutionary explanation.” He spread his hands. “But they’re not proofs; they’re hints, whispers.”
“The glimpses I felt,” Elon murmured.
“Exactly,” Steven leaned forward. “Here’s what I believe, Elon: I believe that the emptiness you’re seeing in society and the emptiness you felt yourself is actually evidence for God, not against Him.”
“How so?” Elon asked, intrigued.
“Because we’re made for connection with our creator,” Steven explained. “When we try to live without that connection, there’s a god-shaped hole that nothing else can fill.” His eyes were intense now. “All the data you’re collecting about rising despair is confirming what faith traditions have always taught: that we need more than material success to thrive.”
Elon considered this. “So why doesn’t God make Himself more obvious? Why the hiddenness?”
“Because genuine love requires freedom,” Steven said simply. “God wants relationship, not robots programmed to worship Him.”
Elon was quiet for a long moment. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”
“There’s something else,” Elon said after a pause, his face tense with vulnerability. “Something I haven’t told anyone.”
“I’m listening,” Steven assured him.
“I’m afraid of what happens if we succeed,” Elon said cryptically.
“Succed at what?” Steven asked.
“At creating artificial general intelligence, at merging human and machine consciousness, at rewriting our genetic code,” Elon’s words came faster now. “We’re playing with forces we barely understand, thinking we can engineer our way to utopia without addressing the fundamental flaws in human nature.”
Steven nodded slowly. “Pride—the oldest temptation.”
“Exactly,” Elon said, his eyes troubled. “But what if we create something in our image—flawed, selfish, prone to corruption—but with vastly more power? What if we give god-like abilities to entities or systems with no moral framework, without addressing the human heart?”
“Yes,” Steven offered. “That’s a real concern.”
Elon stood again, pacing anxiously. “And here’s where your silence terrifies me. The church should be the loudest voice asking these questions. You should be forcing society to confront the moral and spiritual implications of these technologies before we unleash them.”
Steven stood as well. “You’re right,” he said simply. “We’ve been too silent on these issues.”
“It’s not just about preserving faith,” Elon insisted. “It’s about preserving humanity itself. If we lose sight of what makes human life sacred, what’s to prevent us from optimizing ourselves out of existence in pursuit of efficiency or pleasure or power?”
“Nothing,” Steven agreed soberly. “That’s the logical end of a purely materialist worldview.”
Elon stopped pacing, his expression haunted. “I’ve contributed to this. I’ve pushed technology forward without always considering the spiritual implications. I’ve operated from the assumption that progress itself is the highest good.”
“Redemption is always possible,” Steven said gently. “That’s the core message of my faith.”
“But what do we do now?” Elon asked urgently. “How do we reverse course when so much of society has already abandoned the idea of the sacred?”
Steven walked to the window, looking out at the city beyond. “We start by having honest conversations like this one. By acknowledging the emptiness. By being willing to ask the hard questions publicly.”
“Is that enough?” Elon pressed.
“It’s a beginning,” Steven said, turning back to him. “But you’re right that the church needs to find its voice again—not a judgmental voice, but a prophetic one. One that calls society to something higher than consumption and distraction.”
Elon nodded slowly. “I want to help,” he said suddenly. “I have a platform, resources, influence. Maybe I’m meant to use them for something beyond technological advancement.”
“That would be powerful,” Steven acknowledged. “But are you prepared for the backlash? For being labeled a religious zealot or anti-progress?”
Elon actually smiled. “I’m used to being called names. The question is whether it’s worth it.”
His smile faded. “Whether there’s something real worth fighting for.”
They talked for hours as the afternoon light faded from the sanctuary windows. Their conversation ranged from quantum physics to ancient theology, from brain science to biblical prophecy.
“I’ve made a decision,” Elon finally said as the room grew dim around them.
“About?” Steven asked.
“About using my voice,” Elon’s face was resolved now. “I’m going to start speaking publicly about these questions—about the spiritual emptiness I see growing, about the dangers of pursuing technological advancement without moral frameworks.”
“That will surprise a lot of people,” Steven noted.
“Good,” Elon said firmly. “We need to be shocked out of our complacency—all of us.” He fixed Steven with an intense gaze. “But I need allies. I need religious leaders willing to step up and engage with these questions seriously—not retreat to easy answers or avoid the hard topics altogether.”
Steven nodded slowly. “You’re challenging me, and you’re right to do so.” He extended his hand. “I’m in. I’ll use my platform to address these issues more directly.”
Elon shook his hand. “This isn’t about promoting any specific religion,” he clarified. “It’s about preserving the idea that human life has meaning beyond utility—that there’s something sacred worth protecting.”
“I understand,” Steven assured him. “Though I obviously have my own convictions about where ultimate meaning comes from, I’m still searching.”
“Still having my glimpses,” Elon admitted. “But I’m convinced that the search itself matters—that asking these questions is essential.”
Steven smiled. “The fact that we can ask them at all is significant. That we can step outside ourselves and question our own existence—that’s not something a purely material explanation accounts for very well.”
“No, it’s not,” Elon agreed. “And maybe that’s the first message—not answering all the questions, but encouraging people to ask them again. To not be satisfied with distraction and consumption.”
Steven checked his watch. “It’s late. Do you want to continue this another time?”
Elon nodded. “But first, I have one more question.”
“Go ahead.”
“Will you pray with me?” Elon asked, surprising himself with the request. “Not because I’m suddenly certain, but because I want to be open to whatever truth is out there. Because I want to acknowledge that I don’t have all the answers.”
Steven’s surprise was visible but brief. “Of course.”
As they bowed their heads in the empty sanctuary, Elon felt something shift inside him—not certainty, but a willingness to be uncertain in a new way. To be open to possibilities beyond what he could measure or predict. It was, he realized, the beginning of a different kind of journey.
One month later, Steven Furtick stood looking out at his packed congregation. News had leaked about his private meeting with Elon Musk, creating a buzz of speculation. Today, both men had agreed to address the conversation publicly for the first time.
“I’ve invited a guest to join me today,” Steven announced, “someone who has challenged me to break my silence on the most important questions facing humanity.”
Elon Musk walked onto the stage as a murmur of surprise rippled through the audience. Cameras flashed despite the church’s request for privacy.
“Thank you for coming,” Elon said simply, taking the microphone. “I’m here because I believe we’re at a crucial moment in human history.” He spoke for twenty minutes, outlining the spiritual crisis he observed and his own personal journey of questioning. He avoided identifying with any specific faith tradition but spoke passionately about the dangers of a society that had lost its sense of the sacred.
“My biggest fear,” he concluded, “is that we’re forgetting what makes us human just as we gain the power to fundamentally alter humanity. And that too many of those who should be speaking up about this—including religious communities—have remained silent.”
Steven joined him at the center of the stage. “Elon has challenged me and other faith leaders to find our voice again—not to retreat from the hard questions of our time, but to engage with them directly and humbly. This isn’t about forcing beliefs on anyone,” Elon clarified. “It’s about creating space for the deepest human questions at precisely the moment when society seems determined to avoid them.”
As they continued their dialogue on stage, social media exploded with reactions. Some dismissed the conversation as a publicity stunt; others expressed surprise at Musk’s apparent spiritual tone. But many responded with relief that someone was finally naming the emptiness they felt but couldn’t articulate.
“We’re launching a series of public forums,” Steven announced toward the end, “bringing together religious thinkers, scientists, ethicists, and technologists to address the moral and spiritual implications of our rapidly advancing capabilities. Because these questions are too important to leave to any single group.”
“They belong to all of humanity,” Elon added.
As the event concluded, reporters had questions about Elon’s personal beliefs. Was he converting to Christianity? Had he experienced some kind of breakdown?
Elon smiled patiently. “I’m on a journey like everyone else. I don’t have all the answers, but I’ve decided to stop running from the questions.” He paused. “And I’ve discovered that facing those questions honestly—even when they’re uncomfortable—is more fulfilling than all my previous accomplishments combined.”
Later, as they walked together through a back corridor, Steven turned to Elon. “You know this is just the beginning, right? The backlash will come. The attempts to discredit or dismiss.”
Elon nodded. “I know. But for the first time in years, I feel like I’m doing something that matters beyond the next quarterly report or technological breakthrough.” He extended his hand. “Thank you for not staying silent.”
As they parted ways, Elon felt that same shift he’d experienced during their prayer a month earlier—not certainty, but openness. Not answers, but better questions. The silence was breaking, and in that breaking, something new—or perhaps very ancient—had room to grow.
China threatens Elon Musk’s satellite internet monopoly
China is stepping up investment in satellite Internet technology, with many projects about to be deployed in this country, causing billionaire Elon Musk’s Starlink service to lose its monopoly in the market.
China’s ambitious plan
According to Reuters, billionaire Elon Musk’s Starlink satellite internet service is facing increasingly fierce competition from Chinese rivals as well as fellow billionaire Jeff Bezos’ Project Kuiper.
Chinese technology company SpaceSail has expanded into Brazil and Kazakhstan and is in talks with more than 30 other countries. Meanwhile, Brazil is also in discussions with telecommunications company Project Kuiper and Canada’s Telesat to expand its satellite internet service.
Since 2020, Starlink has launched some 7,000 satellites into low Earth orbit (LEO), more than all its rivals combined. But China sees this dominance as a threat and is investing heavily in its own satellite networks, aiming to surpass Musk’s progress and provide service to remote areas and aid in disaster relief.
China’s plan includes launching 43,000 LEO satellites and developing related technologies.
Western policymakers are concerned about China’s rapid expansion in the LEO sector, fearing that this could expand Beijing’s Internet censorship regime.
The United States has been urged to increase cooperation with developing nations to counter China’s influence. Competition in space has been likened to a “Wild West”, with rapid advances and a race for orbital dominance.
SpaceSail, which is transliterated as Qianfan in Chinese, was founded in 2023 and has raised 6.7 billion yuan ($943 million), mostly from the Shanghai municipal government. SpaceSail’s parent company is Shanghai Spacecom Satellite Technology.
SpaceSail aims to deploy 648 satellites by the end of 2025, with a long-term goal of putting 15,000 satellites into LEO orbit by 2030. The project is designed to provide high-speed internet service to users around the world, especially in rural and remote areas.
China is also building space alliances in Africa, providing technology and support for satellite production and building space surveillance facilities. For example, cooperation with Egypt has led to the construction of a state-of-the-art satellite laboratory near Cairo, using Chinese components, technology and personnel.
Such projects are part of China’s broader strategy to build a global surveillance network and cement its position as a leading space power.
Risk of creating space debris
Meanwhile, the European Space Agency (ESA) is in talks with SpaceX about joining an international effort to reduce space debris. The move is part of the ESA’s “Zero Debris” initiative, which aims to stop the creation of new orbital debris by 2030.
Currently, 110 countries or organizations have committed to join the initiative, but SpaceX, which operates two-thirds of the satellites operating in low Earth orbit, has not yet joined.
The race to dominate the satellite Internet market is more exciting than ever, with companies and countries around the world participating. This competition not only drives technological development but also poses challenges in space management and cybersecurity on an international scale.