Story code: ST-001238
Part 2: The Sandbox Rules
Gregory’s explanation hung in the quiet room as he tapped his fingers on the keyboard of his personal laptop. He pulled up a new document on the projected screen, titled ‘Grace Fellowship Digital Communication Policy.’
‘Moving forward,’ Gregory announced, gesturing toward the screen with a laser pointer, ‘all fundraiser materials must be submitted to me forty-eight hours prior to publication. I will manually run them through our compliance sandbox to ensure we don’t trigger the shielding protocol again. We cannot have amateur uploads disrupting our outreach.’
Marc leaned forward from his chair by the flyers. ‘Gregory, I did a quick search on my phone. There isn’t any documentation online about ‘algorithmic curation shielding’ on standard social media groups. Is that a specific plug-in you installed?’
Gregory let out a dry, short laugh, shaking his head. ‘It’s developer-level terminology, Marc. It’s not something you’ll find on a basic Google search. Unless you’re certified in enterprise-level database moderation, you wouldn’t have access to the architecture documentation. It’s proprietary backend code.’
Laura looked at Marc, then back to Gregory. ‘But my nephew works in network security for the county. I texted him just now, and he said it sounds like a made-up term.’
Gregory’s smile vanished. His posture stiffened, and his fingers gripped the edges of his laptop. ‘Your nephew works on local area networks, Laura. He doesn’t work with cloud-based volunteer portals. I suggest we leave the technical management to those who actually manage the infrastructure. I have years of experience maintaining this parish’s digital footprint.’
He stood up, pacing to the front of the presentation table, his voice rising slightly but remaining controlled. ‘If we start questioning the automated safety protocols of our hosting platforms, we risk exposing our entire donor database to security vulnerabilities. The shielding is there for a reason. I will not have my expertise questioned based on a text message from a third party.’
The other committee members looked down at their folders, avoiding Gregory’s intense gaze. He paced back to his chair, his leather shoes clicking sharply on the tile floor. He tapped the spacebar on his laptop to advance the slide, showing a flow chart of restricted file types.
‘We need to maintain professional standards,’ Gregory added, his tone clipped. ‘If we let everyone upload whatever files they want, the automated filters will keep shutting us down. I am protecting this committee.’
I sat quietly behind the auxiliary console. On my desk was the backup administration terminal, logged into the church’s master Facebook account. I scrolled down the moderation panel on my screen, looking closely at the recent activity logs. The data on my screen did not match the story Gregory was telling the committee. The activity log was clear, displaying Gregory’s username and the action ‘Delete Post’ right next to the title of Laura’s bake sale flyer. There was no shield, no algorithm, and no sandbox. I reached for the HDMI switcher cable, my hand hovering over the input button that would swap Gregory’s slides for my screen.