Next to Jack the Ripper, whose identity remains unknown to this day, the most infamous murderer in British history was a man by the name of Hawley Harvey Crippen. He was a self-styled doctor who practiced a version of homeopathic medicine. He was also married to a woman he grew to hate, eventually killing her and dismembering the body. The quack told friends and neighbors that she had gone to America and died.

Soon, however, suspicion grew that something was awry. Crippen fled across the Atlantic with a paramour, while Scotland Yard investigators examined his home. They found partial remains of the body and began searching for the traveling couple. This was in 1910, just as wireless radio communication was being popularized. In fact, the capture of Crippen was largely due to the use of Mr. Marconi's technology. Ship after ship passed word across the ocean, like runners passing a baton in a relay race, to be on the lookout for the doctor and his companion.

The captain of the SS Montrose had been keeping his eye on a suspicious-looking couple on board his vessel and finally sent the message: "Have strong suspicions that Crippen London cellar murderer and accomplice are among saloon passengers. Mustache taken off—growing beard. Accomplice dressed as boy. Manner and build undoubtedly a girl."

Long story short, the law was waiting for Dr. Crippen and company when they arrived in Canada. This story is told famously in Erik Larson's 2006 book, Thunderstruck. It was a world-changing moment. A revolution in communications was underway.

Spark by spark, dot by dot, and dash by dash, the world was becoming smaller.

Recently, while in a hospital waiting room with family members of a wonderful lady who was about to undergo surgery for a serious health issue, I called the group together for prayer. A girl in her late 20s asked me to wait a moment as she fished through her purse.

I wondered why.

Then she held up her combination cell-phone, iPod, computer and device of all trades—one of those hi-tech whatchamacallits—and pushed a button. Then she said, "Alright, go ahead." I prayed, earnestly so, for the person in need; but I was at least a little curious about that gadget. My first thought was that it was a camera. So I kept my eyes closed—you know, to look more spiritual in the picture.

But I soon found out that the prayer had not been recorded as an image. Rather it was recorded as an audio file via the device's voice memo feature. Then this plea that had already made its way to the throne of grace through the miracle of instant spiritual access was e-mailed to the patient awaiting surgery.

A twinkling of an eye later, the file was opened on the patient's device; and the lady waiting to go under the knife heard the prayer. It was my first experience with cyber-supplication. Hers, too.