The four little people in Evan Smith’s play “The Savannah Disputation” are scarcely qualified to debate cosmic questions of God and the universe, but they certainly try their best.

And you really have to love them for it, all four of them.

Set in coastal Georgia, for no specified reason, the play (now on the Old Globe’s temporary arena stage in the San Diego Museum of Art) is a sloppy scuffle over theological minutiae that has baffled earnest experts for eons. And the result is the same as it always is: No decision. Except in people’s own hearts.

A couple of nice Catholic girls, spinsters growing old together, lead lives challenged only by the increasing restlessness of Mary, the younger and more assertive of the two. Where Margaret is widely beloved as a sweet and gentle darling, Mary, frustrated with all the fools in the world, is increasingly seen as plain mean.

She justifies her attitude as that of a perfectionist but the world sees only a sorehead. And she IS a trial, quick to take umbrage and uninterested in understanding.

So, if she had had a dog, it would have been sicked on that pert evangelist girl who shows up at the door brandishing pamphlets and asking after everybody’s state of grace.

Margaret secretly invites the girl back because she really is beginning to be worried about Mary not joining her in heaven, whatever that is. And when Mary interrupts the visit with Melissa – who looks far more like a sorority rush captain than a missionary – the exchanges ring with earnest fervor. Because Melissa is loaded for unbelievers. (She even quit yoga when it became too much like Satanic worship positions in ancient Aztec rituals or something.)

Shaken but unbroken, Mary fights back. She has Margaret, increasingly wrought, invite Melissa for dinner Thursday. Then she herself calls Father Murphy and invites him, too. But she decides not to tell either guest of the planned confrontation.

Poor Father Murphy, who expected nothing more stimulating than the banana pudding, seems instantly exhausted by Melissa’s broadsides: Indulgences! The “throne” of St. Peter. Purgatory! The grammatical error that begat papism!

Mary, whose practical Catholicism runs to “If you don’t hear the Pope say it, you don’t have to do it!”, is astounded when her priest folds. So finally he pulls himself together and counter-attacks with the Book of Leviticus: “Does a hare chew his cud?”

Actually, when warmed up, he leads the discussion with practiced, overwhelming rationality, comparing chapter and verse in different editions to banish the concept of gospel infallibility while bringing the bad news to Mary and Margaret that, yes, Catholics DO believe that the bodies of the dead will be resurrected. They repeat that belief at every mass. It’s called the Profession of Faith.

Gradually a stand-off emerges. The effectiveness of both Melissa and Father Murphy comes at a price. Her sticky personal life is suggested in cell-phone interruptions (her ring tone is the “Mission Impossible” theme) and he turns out to have written three books on theological anomalies. If there was an elective in such matters at seminary, he probably took the class.

Order is restored but it’s hard to see any deep changes. During the course of this tough, funny, frustrating play, however, one comes to hope that all of them feel better somehow. They all deserve it.

Director Kim Rubinstein has so submerged her cast in the muscular thrust of the play that picking apart the pieces seems pointless. As Mary, Nancy Robinette pushes so hard against an unsympathetic world that she stirs a need for more information about the character. But Mikel Sarah Lambert’s Margaret is a dear soul who slips right into the milieu without a ripple.

James Sutorius overplays the brown-hen drabness of Father Murphy at first (Melissa miscalls him “Father Mackenzie” and he quietly notes, “He’s in ‘Eleanor Rigby’.”), perhaps as a better contrast later to agonized debates he knows too well. And when he takes control, his authority is impressive.

As Melissa, Kimberly Parker Green always seems about to blow it, now maintaining implausible poise and again swooping toward abysmal callowness. Ultimately, it’s an intriguing take on what could be a wearisome role.

Good technical credits, especially Judith Dolan’s expressive clothing, though Alan Burnett often struggles to make sense of lighting the sprawling and clutter single set by Deb O. And what’s with the strident rockabilly break music by Paul Peterson?

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