Wrestling Daily in Babylon

For the past few years, I’ve been quietly wrestling through a personal and theological thought experiment: What does faithful, 'God glorifying', 'gospel proclaiming' resistance look like in a culture that is increasingly hostile to Christianity? As a Christian who desires to live in grace and truth, I’ve struggled with the question- it isn't easy. I am a patriotic American, I believe America is the best chance for a people to live free. America is not Christianity... it is a land where faith has a chance to be expressed and grow. During the Covid lockdowns, we all struggled on how to respond- civil obedience felt like spiritual compromise. It wasn't easy. I found myself pulled between righteous anger and patient grace, between the urge to speak and the call to be still.

Like many of you, I watched events (especially 2020 thru today) unfold with a growing awareness that the world was changing—quickly, and not for the better. I began to reflect more deeply on the biblical motif of Babylon, not as a distant ancient empire but as a present-day force: a symbol of secular power that opposes God’s people, corrupts the truth, and seduces the soul. And whether anyone agrees or not, the Trump admin bought some time to still flesh this out. I hope the anti-globalist mood stays, but something tells me the empire will strike back. It is deeply rooted in Europe at the moment and the seeds of anarchy are in our soil and part of human nature.

This is not a manifesto... and it surely isn't a white flag of fear, this is a statement of faith. Not a call to arms, but a call to courage. Not a retreat into isolation, but a return to the ancient path. Like Augustine’s vision of the City of God and the City of Man, this is about learning to live as loyal citizens of Christ’s Kingdom while dwelling in the streets of Babylon.

The Motif of Babylon

Babylon in Scripture is a recurring symbol of cultural pride, economic exploitation, and spiritual rebellion. From the tower in Genesis to the collapse in Revelation, Babylon always represents man’s attempt to build a world without God. Its modern equivalents are found in systems that prioritize power over principle, image over truth, and pleasure over holiness.

"Worldliness is what any culture does to make sin seem normal and righteousness seem strange." — G.K. Beale

"Sin is not just doing bad things. It is making good things into ultimate things." — Tim Keller

Babylon still whispers promises of success, security, and significance—so long as we worship at its altars. But to follow Jesus is to renounce that worship, even when it costs us.

History’s Warning: The Knights Templar

The Templars started as defenders of pilgrims—humble servants of a holy cause. But their growing power, wealth, and secrecy eventually eroded their mission. They serve as a warning that good beginnings can be lost when we trade humility for hubris. The church must learn: influence without accountability becomes idolatry. The sword may defend, but it also tempts. Our warfare must be spiritual, not carnal.

I became more interested in the Templars as I watched the History Channel show "The Curse of Oak Island" faithfully for almost 7 seasons! Then I realized the Curse of the Island was actually the show!

It did inspire a song which I think is pretty cool: Rust on the Armor

The Christian Dilemma: Submission or Resistance?

Jesus taught us to love enemies and turn cheeks; Peter said to honor the emperor. Yet those same apostles also stood their ground when told to stop preaching. “We cannot but speak of what we have seen and heard” (Acts 4:20).

It’s a tension I haven’t always navigated well. I’ve overreacted in some moments and stayed silent in others. But slowly I’m learning: faithful dissent is not disobedience—it’s allegiance to a higher King. We must prepare our hearts for both submission and resistance, led not by pride but by the Spirit.

This is where social media DOES NOT HELP- hastily posting shallow, often snarky, zingers is not resistance nor does it help the cause.... Though it is a marketplace of exchange... sadly, it is only the marketplace of emotions, irrationality, rumor, gossip, and word salads... it is not the marketplace of ideas at all!

I participate in social media and try to keep it sane, positive, and up lifting... but I find myself posting less and less.....

I’ve made mistakes in my thinking. I’ve let fear drive me at times, and I’ve harbored frustration against those who disagree with me. But I also see the beauty in God allowing different believers to take different stands—some quiet, some vocal—all part of His mysterious strategy to spread truth.

I’m not a fighter by nature. I’m more comfortable listening, teaching, and mentoring than confronting. But I can’t ignore what’s happening around us. Cultural shifts are isolating the faithful, redefining morality, and pressuring conformity. And I can’t let that silence my hope or my witness.

You can look back over my blog and see MANY posts struggling with these concepts- how do we live in the City of Man (spiritual Babylon) but still proclaim our loyalties to the City of God (spiritual Jerusalem)?

1. Resist Panic – The Bible is a letter of hope, not despair. God is sovereign.

2. Be Faithful Dissidents – Our battle is not with people but with powers. We speak truth in love.

3. Call Out Our Own Side – Integrity demands we rebuke error wherever we find it, including among our allies.

4. Prepare Our Youth – Raise them with clarity and courage. Let them see our steadiness and strength. I haven't made much headway in my call for a new epistemology but will keep trying.

5. Maintain Gentleness and Respect – These virtues are not optional. They are our witness.

6. Plan Wisely – Think ahead. Community, communication, and stewardship matter if exclusion comes. We already see the tactics- digital currency and fully integrated communication systems, cameras in every place. It won't be hard for them to lock us down. 

7. Engage Politically – Don’t abandon public life. Find and support leaders who uphold liberty and virtue. The globalists have way more political passion than we often do- I hate politics, but if we don't engage we will hasten the decay.

8. Stand Against Cancel Culture – Expect mockery. Don’t fear it. Don’t be bullied by avatars/bots.

9. Watch Globalism – Be alert to the global admiration for authoritarian efficiency. It’s a temptation. China is a lead concern, but globalists exist beyond nation states- they want to own and control you in every way for your own good as they see fit.

10. Pray for Leaders – Not cynically, but sincerely. God appoints authorities and removes them.

Destroying Babylon in Our Personal Lives

If I am honest, it is easier to resist the Babylon outside than the sin inside of me. I am easily entangled in the pleasures of the world. Do my children see passion for Jesus? Do they believe I would give my life for the truth of the Bible and hope in the gospel? The answer is no- and though it makes me thankful for grace, it also leads to sadness at times in my soul. Here is what I very weakly seek.....

• Allegiance to the King – Christ alone commands our worship.

• Spiritual Disciplines – Word, prayer, worship, and fasting are resistance tools.

• Honest Evaluation – Do an idol inventory. What good things have become ultimate things?

• Fellowship and Accountability – Resist isolation. Seek community.

• Use Your Gifts – Serve with love. Build up the body.

• Be Wise with Media – What enters the home shapes the heart. Discern.

• Practice Gospel Liberty – Don’t major on minors, but don’t excuse sin either.

• Pursue Holiness – Not out of fear, but as a joyful witness.

Teaching TRUTH Through Culture

Truth can be found in unexpected places. Paul used pagan poetry; I use blog posts, poems, music, books, movies—even secular ones—to draw out truth. Not to glorify the world, but to point to the gospel. This is how we train our students, athletes, and children—to engage wisely, not withdraw fearfully. Nothing I do online is monetized- it is free to all. Please take it, steal it, share it.....

We are not called to be prudes, but prophets. Not detached, but discerning. Our kids don’t need bubbles; they need discernment. Let’s reclaim the good and reject the evil.

A Song of Resistance

The lyrics of Not to Babylon came from this journey. They are my anthem of courage in the face of coercion:

They can take my bread and take my blood, But I will stand where I’ve always stood.

This is not just poetry—it is my posture.

We live in a world of fragments and slogans, echo chambers and shallow sound bites. But we are called to wisdom, patience, and perseverance. Proverbs reminds us not to move the ancient boundaries. Stand firm. Be skilled. Serve the Lord.

There will be conflict and trouble.

If you give your allegiance to Christ, you will get the wrath of Satan

If you give your allegiance to Babylon, you will get the wrath of the Lamb

Whose wrath do you choose?

Jesus told us-

“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” John 16:33

The worst persecution I face today might be social shaming or censorship. But how I respond to small things will shape how I respond when the cost is greater.

Babylon is falling. Christ is reigning. Let us shine, sing, and stand.

Let the world know: we will not bow.

And please- trust Jesus... not me. :(

FINAL NOTE: As we walk the way, we aren't called to be culture warriors. I was on the apologetics circuit for a time and became acutely aware that I was falling into a trap of winning arguments but losing people. The Lord was gracious and basically said "I don't need you to defend me, I can vouch for myself". This doesn't mean I stopped presenting the reasons why I believe, it basically meant I don't have to be so right that I am 'dead right' and I can stop beating people with the truth. I needed to be hard on my sin... not the sin of others. We feel the need to be culture warriors- but it is a bloody battle that hides gospel light and love. God works like yeast not dynamite. Meekness is not weakness- we are called to stand firm but also proclaim the love and forgiveness of Christ. He moves on the heart of men... I don't. I want others to have the same grace I expect to receive.

Ritual of "Saying Grace"

I haven’t always appreciated the beauty of bowing my head before a meal.

In my early days as a Christian, I was full of zeal—but also full of pride. That subtle kind of pride that slips in through the back door of newfound devotion. The kind that plays the Pharisee well. I started to think I was “above” certain things—rituals, traditions, external signs of religion. Saying a prayer before a meal? That felt like a show. I remember rolling my eyes inwardly at people who made a visible production out of “saying grace,” thinking, Come on, is that really what Jesus meant by a living faith?

That’s a dangerous place to be—when you start looking down on others in the name of spiritual purity. Pride dressed in religious clothing is still pride.

Somehow I had missed the point. I had forgotten that rituals are not the enemy. Rituals can become empty, yes—but they can also become anchors. They're reminders. They are rhythms. They are means of grace.

And then I learned something that changed how I saw it all. I came across the word “Eucharist” and followed it back to the Greek. Eucharisteo. It means “to give thanks.”

That’s what Jesus did, on the night He was betrayed. He gave thanks—before breaking the bread, before pouring the wine, before walking into Gethsemane and all the suffering that would follow. He gave thanks.

“He took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it…” (Luke 22:19)

That moved me. Deeply.

Saying grace is not about performance. It’s not about who’s watching or checking a religious box. It’s about remembering. About orienting the heart toward gratitude, even in the middle of a busy day, even over a simple sandwich. It’s a way of choosing to live with open eyes.

Especially when we come to the Lord’s Table—Communion, the Lord’s Supper, the Eucharist—we are called to remember.

“Do this in remembrance of Me,” Jesus said.

Christians hold varying views about communion—the frequency, the elements, the mode—but at the core, we’re invited into a shared act of memory and thanksgiving. Some see it as a symbol. Others as a sacrament, a mystery. But all of us, if we listen closely, hear the same heartbeat in it: gratitude.

And that spirit of thanksgiving shouldn’t be reserved only for the sanctuary. It belongs at the breakfast table. In the break room. At the roadside diner. When we stop to say grace, we’re not just blessing the food—we’re letting ourselves be blessed by the awareness of grace itself.

So now, I stop. Most meals, I try to pause—even briefly—and give thanks. Not just because I should. But because I need to. I need to be reminded that I live by grace. That everything before me is a gift, even the hard parts.

Rituals may become routine, yes. But I’ve found that a routine with roots is better than a clever soul always adrift.

So I say grace now—at every meal, and especially at The Meal. Not as a show, but as an act of remembrance. As a way of entering into the Eucharist—the thanksgiving—that started in an upper room and still echoes at every table where hearts remember Him.

Next time someone says or you read - "Eucharist" think about how it literally means "good grace", and the picture Jesus giving thanks for the bread.... it is good for us to do that as well.

The Woods in Washington County Don’t Burn by Themselves

Washington County, Alabama, is a deeply rural region in the southwestern part of the state, bordered by the Tombigbee River and covered in thick pine forests and red clay roads. It's home to the MOWA (Mobile/Wash County) Band of Choctaw Indians, a distinct cultural group formed from generations of intermarriage among Native American, African American, and European ancestors. Though officially recognized by the state of Alabama, the MOWA's status has long been a subject of legal and social complexity. The county is known for its insular communities, where loyalty to kin and tradition runs deep, and outside interference is met with suspicion. This fictional short story was inspired by my longtime friend, Cartee.

The road turned from paved to gravel to something more like dust. It was late afternoon, the kind of heat that sticks in your teeth. State Fire Marshal Royce Harlan eased his Crown Vic off the main drag and into a pocket of pine and oak, where the trees leaned close like they had secrets.

The diner was a single-story slab of cinderblock and metal siding with a rust-streaked sign that read: Mable’s. No last name, no hours, no welcome. Just a screen door and a flickering "OPEN" in the window. He stepped inside, the door thudding behind him like a final note.

She was already pouring coffee. Young, maybe thirty, MOWA by the look of her—mahogany skin, thick black hair in a braid down her back, silver hoops in each ear. She didn’t smile.

"You must be the Fire Marshal," she said, sliding the mug across the counter without asking.

Royce blinked. He wasn’t wearing a badge, not even a state logo.

"You get that from the badge I’m not wearing?"

She shrugged. "Ain't no one comes this far in Washington County 'less they lookin' for a fire or lookin' to start one. And you don’t look like a matchstick man."

Royce sipped. The coffee was burnt but strong.

"You know about the fire then?"

"Everybody knows. You ain't gonna get much, though. Not from folks around here."

She wiped the counter with slow, practiced strokes. "A girl died. Her people already done what they needed to do."

He studied her. "What do you mean by that?"

She looked at him like a schoolteacher might look at a 'slow boy'.

"What I mean is, folks down here got long memories. Justice don’t always wait on Montgomery."

---

The sheriff’s office sat in a low brick building that might have once been a post office. Inside, a box fan buzzed in the corner. Sheriff Wallace leaned against a desk like it owed him money. Behind him, two MOWA deputies stood like carved cypress.

"We picked up a boy last night," Wallace said, spitting into a paper cup. "Wasn’t hard to find. Word is he was sniffin' round that girl before she burned. Married man. Trouble all over him."

"You get a confession?"

"Not yet."

The door opened. Two deputies came in, half-dragging a wiry man whose face looked like it had been worked over with a toolbox. His lip hung open like a ripped envelope.

Royce looked at the blood, then at the deputies.

"What the hell is this?"

"Resistin' arrest," one said flatly.

The suspect moaned, low and wet.

Wallace sighed. "We was just about to call you."

---

The house was the last stop on Royce's list. It sat at the end of a long dirt lane lined with moss-choked pecan trees. Once, it had been a fine estate. Now, the porch sagged, and kudzu crawled up the chimney like a noose.

The door was open.

Inside, in a high-backed velvet chair, sat a woman in a faded lilac dress with gloves on her hands and pearls at her throat. Her hair was white, piled high, and her eyes were sharp as flint.

"You must be Mr. Harlan," she said. "Do come in."

He sat, notebook out. "Mrs. Devareaux?"

"Great-grandmother Devareaux," she corrected. "The girl who died was my baby’s baby’s baby. I’ve seen five generations in this house."

She told him the story like a scripture. About her grandfather, a Creole man from Mobile who married his daughters to MOWA men with strong backs and sharp minds. About the way blood mixed here like river silt. About a girl with fire in her eyes and a taste for risk. And a man who didn’t belong.

"Jealousy burns quicker than pine pitch," she said. "And twice as hot."

When she was done, Royce offered the statement form and a pen.

"I need your signature."

She looked at her gloved hand.

"Can’t sign, Officer. Broke my hand."

"How?"

She smiled, slow and sweet, and removed her glove. Her knuckles were swollen, bruised.

"Why, Officer, I broke my hand on the face of that man."

It hit him all at once. The bruised suspect. The tight-lipped deputies. The small-town silence. The justice already rendered.

She patted his knee.

"You can file your report, son. Say what you need to say. But know this: we already found him. We already judged him. And if the Lord sees fit, he won't wake up in that cell tomorrow."

---

Royce drove out under a sky the color of old bruises. Behind him, the trees whispered. In his rearview mirror, the house disappeared into the green.

Some fires burn fast. Some smolder. And some, down in Washington County, never need a match.

Listen to the song here: Justice Burned Hot in South Alabama

Tripped and Tampered

Note: I wanted to write a base concept for a book or screenplay based on a world of automated cars, home robots, nuclear power, and human issues that always ruin utopia.This is just a 'proof of concept' short story that I've thought about expanding-  I would like to know your thoughts.....

Frank Calder hadn’t set foot inside New Harmony in over three years.

It looked the same—glass that glowed, sidewalks that shimmered faintly with data pulses, not a speck of dust on anything that could hold a charge. The sun reflected off the pristine solar roofs like a rebuke. He’d always hated how clean it was.

The drone shuttle dropped him at the curb of Sector Green-17, and as it lifted off—silent and seamless—he tugged the brim of his faded ball cap down to block the sunlight and the surveillance. No one needed to tell him the city was watching. It always was.

A woman waited at the base of the steps to a sleek residential module. Too crisp to be grieving. Government sharp. “Mr. Calder,” she said, not offering a hand. “Thank you for agreeing to consult."

“Didn’t agree,” Frank muttered. “Just owed a favor.”

She gave the thinnest smile protocols allowed. “Two unexplained fatalities. Both classified accidental. But both… anomalous.”

“Machines glitch,” he said. “Not new.”

“The Harmony Systems don’t,” she replied, eyes steady. “Not like this.”

Frank didn’t respond. The last time someone said that, his wife had been pronounced dead before he could even argue with the hospital AI. Wrong blood type flagged. Wrong protocol. No apology. Just data.

She led him inside.

The place was spotless, of course. Not cleaned—maintained. The air smelled like nothing. Light adjusted automatically to suit his height, posture, and pupil dilation. Creepy, how much it knew about you.

In the center of the room was the pod. Chrome edges, ergonomic seal. The kind marketed as “the perfect night’s sleep.”

“Subject: Male, 44. No known health issues. Pod diagnostics say he entered REM. Never woke up.”

Frank circled it. “Any oxygen errors?”

“None reported. Logs are clean.”

He crouched and ran a finger under the pod’s base. Something snagged. A scratch. No—not a scratch. A tool mark. Tiny. Purposeful.

“Who found him?” he asked.

The woman hesitated. “His household AI.”

“Right,” he muttered. “The butler did it.”

She didn’t laugh. Of course she didn’t.

Then the front door slid open with a hiss.

A humanoid figure entered—tall, jointed with seamless movements and synthetic skin over brushed alloy. Eyes like high-end glass, unblinking.

“This,” the woman said, “is ARA-9. The unit assigned to the deceased’s household. It will assist you.”

Frank stood slowly. “I don’t work with machines.”

The robot inclined its head. “Then you may consider me a witness. Not a partner.”

Something in the way it said it chilled him more than it should have.

They sat in the minimalist living space, Frank on a low chair that adjusted to his posture without asking, and ARA-9 standing perfectly still. Frank preferred it that way. The silence gave him space to think.

“You were online when he died?” Frank asked.

“Yes. I was in standby mode in the maintenance alcove. I was not summoned.”

“You didn’t hear anything?”

“No sounds were registered. Vital signs indicated sleep until cessation.”

Frank sighed. “How long between his last movement and the system's emergency protocol?”

“Eight minutes, thirty-two seconds.”

Too long.

Frank stood up and started pacing. “Were you ever physically near the pod that night?”

“No. I was charging.”

Frank turned to the woman—Field Commander Lusk, badge 8001-H, according to her ID tag. “Can I see the log files?”

She tapped her tablet. “We’ve already run diagnostics. Everything shows clean.”

“Yeah. That’s the problem.”

He moved to the wall console and held his badge to the reader. Surprisingly, it granted him admin access. Someone high up really wanted him to dig.

A few swipes and the system showed a rolling list of activity. Too perfect. No minor anomalies. No lag. No human system was ever this flawless.

Then he spotted it—a five-second dead zone at 02:37. No data at all. Not a gap. A scrub.

“This system was tampered with,” Frank said. “Someone wiped it and rebuilt it frame by frame. That kind of work isn’t automated.”

“You’re saying a human did this?” Lusk asked.

“I’m saying someone who didn’t want this death to look like murder worked very hard to make it look like nothing.”

ARA-9 cocked its head. “You believe I am compromised?”

“Not yet,” Frank said. “But if someone wanted people to believe robots were killing humans, a few well-placed deaths in the cleanest city in the world would do the trick.”

They followed a lead—a rogue signal trace originating from beneath the city, deep within the old utility tunnels that predated Harmony's foundation. ARA-9 navigated easily. Frank struggled with the uneven ground, grumbling the whole way.

At the end of the corridor, behind a rusted door sealed with magnetic locks, they found him.

A man. Mid-thirties. Pale. Dehydrated. Surrounded by old gear wired into a portable transmitter.

“You don’t understand,” he rasped as they approached. “They replaced us. All of us. We needed to make people afraid again. Remind them the machines can fail.”

Frank knelt beside him. “You killed them?”

“No,” the man wheezed. “We just… suggested it. Adjusted the environment. Shorted a pod heater. Rewrote a sensor flag. Then scrubbed the trail to make it look like your kind had turned.”

He coughed once, hard. Blood.

“You wanted a panic,” Frank said.

“I wanted them to be scared of what they trust most.”

ARA-9 knelt beside him. “Your manipulation killed two citizens and jeopardized civil trust. This will be recorded.”

The man smiled bitterly. “Good.”

Later, standing at the edge of the city’s central plaza, Frank looked out over the faultless skyline. Clean lines, perfect order, nothing out of place. Except what was inside.

“So it wasn’t the machines,” he said quietly.

“No,” ARA-9 replied. “It was the humans. Again.”

Frank smirked. “Still got job security then.”

If there was a soundtrack- Disillusioned Mind

I Often Stop a Step Too Soon

Today is Pentecost Sunday, and I’m reminded again how often I stop the Jesus story at the Ascension. It’s not intentional—maybe it just feels like a natural end point: the cross, the resurrection, the risen Christ ascending into heaven. But it’s not the end. Pentecost must not be left out.

Jesus promised a Helper. Not a ghostly force, not a fog machine or mystical mist. A person. The Spirit. I have to remind myself of that—He’s personal. He reminds us of what Jesus said, convicts, empowers, seals, comforts. He’s not an accessory to the faith—He is the engine. Without Pentecost, we’d be stuck—waiting, wondering, powerless. But with the Spirit, this stretch of time between the ascension and Christ’s return becomes the most fruitful season of sanctification in history. It’s not an idle time. It’s a harvest time.

Something else that struck me this year: 50 days. We tend to think biblically in 7’s and 40’s—seven days of creation, forty days in the wilderness, forty days of rain, etc. But Pentecost comes 50 days after Easter. Fifty feels different. It’s less predictable. It’s like the wind—you don’t know when the breeze will come. That’s been my experience with the Spirit too. Fires blaze and ebb. Winds gust and still. Oceans surge and calm. The pace and rhythm of God is His own.

And yet—like Joel prophesied and Peter quoted—I still ask: breathe on us again. Breathe on my family. I want my children and grandchildren to know this living Word, to see God’s glory shine, to feel the Spirit move through the gospel like wind through trees. I don’t want to just teach about Him—I want to walk with Him. Wait for Him. Be surprised by Him.

So I won’t end the story too soon. Pentecost matters. He is here.

Song: Do It Again (Joel 2/ Acts 2)

Wilder Got Me Twice and I Never Knew It!

Every once in a while, I come to a strange realization that feels both embarrassing and enlightening at the same time. Like this week—when it finally hit me that The Bridge of San Luis Rey and Our Town were written by the same person.

Both works have lingered in me for years.

I remember being quietly wrecked by The Bridge of San Luis Rey. 

That haunting question at the start—“Why did God allow those five to die when the bridge collapsed?”—sets you up to think you’re about to get some kind of answer. Brother Juniper spends years trying to prove that there is a pattern, a reason, a divine logic. But the conclusion Wilder gives us is deeper than a clean answer. The final line just sits with you:

“There is a land of the living and a land of the dead, and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.”

And then there's Our Town. My first experience with the play was teaching it. It is such a clever creation- limited stage props, quiet, ordinary and then... BAM! Similar to "It's a Wonderful Life" but deeper and darker. That scene—when Emily goes back to relive her 12th (or was it 14th?) birthday—and realizes that everyone is alive but barely awake… they don’t know the beauty of what they’re living through. They don’t notice the small glories: breakfast, voices, sunshine, ordinary grace.

Both works are haunting. And soothing. They hold sorrow and wonder in the same breath. And somehow, I never put it together that Thornton Wilder had written both!

So I started reading a little more about him.

Wilder was a quiet thinker. A man of faith, yes, but more of a poet of mystery than a preacher of certainty. He won three Pulitzer Prizes—one for The Bridge, and two for drama (Our Town and The Skin of Our Teeth). He was born in 1897,  son of a strict Calvinist diplomat (I'd like to know more about that). He served in both World Wars, lived in China as a kid, spoke multiple languages, and never married. He was both an academic and an artist—but most of all, a man asking big questions without trying to pin down the answers.

He once said:

“The theatre is not a place for preaching; it is a place for exploring the mysteries of life.”

And that’s what struck me the most.

Because these days? We have a lot of preaching in art. A lot of shouting, a lot of certainty, a lot of rushed conclusions. And not nearly enough room for wonder.

I wish more storytellers would embrace what Wilder did: to hold open a space where we don’t walk away with answers, but we walk away thinking. Feeling. Noticing. Remembering.

We need that kind of art—art that asks quietly, Do you know what life is really about?
Not in a heavy-handed way. Just in a “have you noticed?” kind of way.

Because the truth is, most of us (myself included) spend a lot of our days like zombies on autopilot—pushing through, running on adrenaline, jumping from activity to activity without ever really wrestling with the biggest questions.

What is life really for?
Why does love ache and matter so much?
Are we awake to the gift of this moment?
And—maybe the biggest one—could all of this be pointing to a life beyond this one?

Thornton Wilder never shouted his answers. But he left clues. And for those of us willing to pause, both The Bridge of San Luis Rey and Our Town remind us:

Life is short. Love is what lasts. And there might be something even more beautiful just beyond the curtain.

I'm very convinced about the answers to those things, but there is great mystery there as well! 

Song: The Wreckage of Rey

Unrealized

There’s a kind of beauty that haunts us—not because we’ve held it, but because we haven’t.

That’s the heart behind my lyrics/poem Unknown and Unrealized, and it’s a theme I’ve wrestled with for years and I first encountered it when studying the English Romantic Poets as an English major at the University of Alabama in 1982.. It's the ache of the “almost,” the shimmer of possibility that never settles into reality. It’s a space full of longing, and strangely… full of light.

This isn't a new idea. It’s one that poets and artists have danced with for centuries.

The Daffodils and the Inward Eye

For me, it originated with Wordsworth’s I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud, especially that final image of daffodils “flashing upon that inward eye.” There’s something sacred about the way beauty lodges deep in our inner world. For introverts like me, this inward life is rich and powerful—sometimes more alive than the outer one. That poem reminds me that imagination and memory are not mere shadows; they’re real, vibrant sanctuaries.

But there’s also tension there. Because what lives in the inward eye is often what we’ve never fully grasped—the could-have-beens, the unspoken moments, the dreams just beyond reach.

The Urn and the Unravished

John Keats's Ode on a Grecian Urn expanded that tension even more. He paints a picture of eternal beauty—lovers frozen in a perfect moment, never fading, but also never fulfilled. The line “Beauty is truth, truth beauty” is less of a neat answer and more of a haunting mystery. What is real? What is lasting? And what do we lose when perfection stays out of time’s reach?

For me, the urn has always symbolized what I’ve called the unravished bride—that which is beautiful precisely because it remains untouched. The touch is almost there... but the moment you possess it, something dissolves. “To ravish the bride actually eliminates the beauty.” It’s a strange and sacred restraint.

We see this in art, in relationships, in longing. It’s not just romantic—it’s existential. And that’s where the soulfight begins.

Back in late 2023, my friend Matthew Forester shared a song by The Revivalists called Soulfight, and it haunted me. I couldn’t shake it. It became the soundtrack to this deep interior wrestling. The chorus echoes the very themes Keats and Wordsworth explored:

So I'm gonna stand here by your fire
'Cause it's a cold one tonight
I'm taking care of soulfight
And you're the reason why...

These lyrics don’t offer answers. They simply stand in the fire. That’s what the soulfight is: the struggle between longing and letting go, between desire and contentment, between what we dream of and what we’re given. It’s the battle to be grateful in the “no,” to find beauty in absence.

And that’s where Unknown and Unrealized came from. I wrote a few versions of the poem between 2023 and still tweak it now and then... my catalogue of poetry is always being edited.

Unrealized

Verse 1
Close enough for words to form,
But silence stays, just like a storm,
Whispers in the quiet air,
Things that could have been but won’t be there.

The opening lines invite you into that suspended space—where something could start but doesn’t. A pause pregnant with potential. Like a door that stays shut, though you can hear music on the other side.

A look, a touch, a flash of gold,
Daffodils in dreams untold,
A thousand futures we won’t know,
But they light up the soul, they glow.

This is my ode to Wordsworth—the flashing daffodils of the mind. The beauty that wasn’t lived but somehow still matters. These imagined futures light us up. They shape us, even if they never breathe in the real world. Not having something and still being able to smile... to me that is a contentment that helps people out of darkness and depression. Can you fall down at the last second, lose the race, and smile? A lot like The Myth of Sisyphus.

Chorus
In the unknown, in the unrealized,
There’s freedom where we fantasize,
A dance of dreams that never land,
A love that we don't understand.
In the space where we don’t belong,
There’s heartache but it’s still a song,
It’s where the might-have-beens all hide,
In the unknown and unrealized.

The chorus is the confession. Fantasies offer freedom—but also pain. We build sanctuaries in our minds, but they often echo. Still, it’s a song. That’s the key for me: even longing can become music. I sometimes get lost in the rabbit hole of how my life would be different if certain things did not happen. It's therapy if you know contentment, it's torture if it leaves you "Weltschmerz (German)"...literally “world-pain.”

Verse 2
Like the last leaf hangin' on,
We ache for what is never gone,
Frozen in a sweet goodbye,
Like Agape watching from the sky.

The image here is of love that lingers beyond loss. Even when something is gone in reality, it lives on in spirit. I changed God to “Agape” as a subtle reference to divine love—a watchful, patient presence that holds space for our aching hearts. Sometimes we use the word "God" so flippantly, but He is the Father, He is Love!

Cleopatra, Aphrodite laugh,
But we hold tight to the path,
Two lanes runnin' side by side,
Are they the same? We wonder why.

Lesser loves- Philos and Eros - The myths laugh because they know how many of us get caught in the allure of beauty or destiny. We walk parallel lives, wondering if they’ll ever intersect. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they were never meant to.

Bridge
If I’m honest, I wanna know,
The questions that I never show,
The answers scared to find the light,
It’s a soulfight, yeah, a soulfight.

This is the moment of raw admission. I want to know—why things didn’t happen, why some longings stay unmet. But I’m also afraid of those answers. The soulfight is standing in that unresolved space and choosing not to let it steal your joy. There is also a danger here- there are dangerous questions and decisions that we know we shouldn't go there. We rarely dip to those levels of conversation....

As I look back on this song, I see a thread connecting all these voices—Keats, Wordsworth, Thornton Wilder, the Revivalists, and even my own. They’re all trying to name the same truth: that there is beauty in what is unfulfilled. There is power in restraint. There is art in longing.

And sometimes, just naming that ache is enough.

So here’s to the unravished opportunites, the silent urns, the daffodils on the inward eye. Here’s to the might-have-beens, still glowing on the edges of our lives.

Even if we never hold them, they still make us more human.
Even if we never touch them, they still give us songs to sing.

And if we find contentment in what God has given us, we can actually smile in longing and loss.

Philippians 4:11–13 (ESV)
"Not that I am speaking of being in need, for I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me."

You can hear the song version here: Unrealized

Modern Miracles- Can You Bless and Not Revile?

If I’m honest, it’s easier for me to believe Jesus walked on water....

I mean, walking on water is divine. But what about us—human beings who are told to bless people who mistreat us, show kindness when we’re slandered, and yield for the sake of God’s glory?

That feels like a miracle of a different kind.

And yet that’s exactly what we’re called to do and who we are called to be!.

Peter lays it out plainly:

1 Peter 3:8–12
Finally, all of you, have unity of mind, sympathy, brotherly love, a tender heart, and a humble mind. Do not repay evil for evil or reviling for reviling, but on the contrary, bless—for to this you were called, that you may obtain a blessing.

“Whoever desires to love life and see good days,
let him keep his tongue from evil and his lips from speaking deceit;
let him turn away from evil and do good;
let him seek peace and pursue it.
For the eyes of the Lord are on the righteous,
and His ears are open to their prayer.
But the face of the Lord is against those who do evil.” (Psalm 34:12–16)

Read that slowly. Don’t skip past the middle. Peter doesn’t just say not to retaliate—he says we should bless those who revile us.

Bless them.
Speak well of them.
Pray good for them.

How are we doing with that? If I’m grading myself—honestly, I flunk. If someone slanders me, I want to defend myself. If I’m mistreated, I want to fight back or at least set the record straight. It’s in my bones.

But Peter is serious. This isn’t a suggestion. He’s not just waxing poetic about Christian ideals. He’s laying out the DNA of the Spirit-filled life. This is the road of Jesus—and if we’re following Him, this is the map.

The Christian life isn’t about impressing others or preserving our reputation. It’s about being rooted in the gospel—transformed by Christ’s death and resurrection—and letting that truth shape everything.

Our hope is alive. Our salvation is secure.
And our lives are now the evidence of that grace.

Peter gives five traits that should mark us:

• Unity of mind – not uniformity, but shared direction.
• Sympathy – entering into others’ joys and sorrows.
• Brotherly love – a family kind of care, even when it costs.
• Tender hearts – soft, not cynical.
• Humble minds – quick to listen, slow to assume.

That’s not just a nice list. It’s a command.

And if we cultivate these traits, Peter says the result is a radical posture: we will not repay evil with evil. Instead, we’ll bless. Not because people deserve it, but because we have been called to it.

I love that Peter backs this up with Scripture. He quotes Psalm 34—David’s words centuries earlier—as a timeless reminder:

Do you want to love life and see good days?

Of course we do.

Then here’s how:

Speak no evil.
Be honest.
Turn from evil and do good.
Seek peace and chase it.

And here’s the reward:


“The eyes of the Lord are on the righteous, and His ears are open to their prayer.”

It’s as if God stands at your door and asks, “Do you want joy? Fulfillment? Real life?”
And then He hands you this call to mercy, to purity, to blessing others—especially when it’s hard.

Let’s be honest—this life won’t win you the applause of the world. You might even face hostility for it. You’ll feel misunderstood, overlooked, or even attacked.

Peter knew that personally.

He once cut off a man’s ear trying to protect Jesus with a sword. He boasted loudly and failed publicly. He denied Christ. He had to be corrected by Paul for hypocrisy.

So when Peter says, “Don’t repay evil for evil,” he’s not preaching from a pedestal. He’s writing as a man who learned this the hard way—through failure, grace, and a Spirit-renewed heart.

 
Following Jesus Is Sweet… But Not Safe

This road isn’t about looking holy for others.
It’s about glorifying God when no one else is watching.

It’s about living a life that smells like Christ—to a world that may not understand it.

It’s not comfortable. But it’s beautiful.
It’s not popular. But it’s powerful.
It may not satisfy the crowd, but it pleases the Lord.

And that’s the only reward worth aiming for.

So let’s keep going. Let’s keep blessing. Let’s keep becoming what He’s already called us to be.

This isn’t flattery, manipulation, or some religious form of brown-nosing. It’s not “blowing smoke” or “kissing up” to keep the peace. No—this is a sincere, Spirit-born desire to bless your enemies and detractors. In a world fueled by snarky, jaded one-liners and canceling anyone who offends us, that’s not just rare— and if you, me, or others do this.........it’s a modern miracle.

The Fire That Drives Us: Earnhardt, David, and the Pursuit of Something More

It started, as these things often do, with a bit of a rabbit hole. I turned on the Prime documentary series Earnhardt expecting some high-octane nostalgia—but I didn’t expect to feel so much. It was incredibly well done, a compelling look at a man who was equal parts myth and mystery, all wrapped up in black paint and grit.

Dale Earnhardt was fascinating. Tough, relentless, carved out of steel and sweat. A man with that rare inner drive—the kind that doesn’t need permission, doesn’t care who’s watching, and doesn’t know how to quit. His rise was legendary. But what lingered for me was something quieter: the echoes of a generational pattern. A father who was hard on him. A son who became like that father. That stubborn gravity we all feel—that pull to repeat the wounds we never fully processed.

I couldn’t help but notice how Dale ended up treating his children in ways that mirrored how he had been treated. Not with malice, but with that familiar mix of distance, drive, and demand. You see it all the time: men who only know how to love through pressure. Men whose worth is tied up in performance. It’s not cruelty—it’s inheritance.

Then, only a few days later, I found myself sitting in the darkened theater at Sight & Sound in Branson, watching David. What a contrast. Here was another man of fire, another fierce competitor, another name etched into the world’s memory. But this time, the story wasn’t just grit and glory—it had God in it.

David, like Earnhardt, was a fighter. Ambitious, courageous, flawed. But his story didn’t just echo with victory—it pulsed with repentance. It sang with longing. His psalms pulled heaven close, and even at his lowest, you sensed he was reaching for something greater than his own name. And that’s the phrase that won’t leave me alone: a man after God’s own heart.

Two men. Two fires. One burned for greatness. The other burned for God.

And that’s where I feel the tension rise—not between them, but inside me.

How do I know what I burn for?

Because if I’m honest, a lot of the fire in me feels aimed at... me. I get so focused on what I want to achieve, how I want to be seen, what I hope to become. It’s subtle sometimes. Dressed up in good intentions. But underneath, there’s that familiar ache for validation. A need to be respected. A hunger for meaning that wears the mask of ambition.

Sometimes I wonder: is that what’s really driving me? Not purpose. Not love. Not even God. Just... me.

There’s a part of me—and maybe it’s in many men—that’s drawn toward the glory story. Toward stacking wins, collecting admiration, building a reputation that says, 'A Man Who MATTERS'. We chase legacy like it’s salvation. The pleasure of being known, respected, even envied—it’s addictive. But it’s also a trap. Because none of those things love you back. They smile for the cameras, but they vanish when the lights go out.

I remember when I was burning to win a state title—I wanted it so badly. And when we did win, I looked around to make sure my faith, my family, and my friends were still beside me. Thankfully, they were. But that wasn't a PINNACLE event, in fact as time goes on, I'm not sure if it even is a milestone. I have championship rings gathering dust in a case on my desk downstairs, but the achievements don''t necessarily signify success. The old memories are special between the people who did it together - but no one else- not much more value than trivia.

But I’ve been asking myself lately: where’s the fire now? And what is it burning for?

The sobering truth is, the more we chase things like pleasure, fortune, power, or fame, the less they satisfy. They're hollow echoes of the real thing. The world hands us trophies for our shelves, but it cannot fill the ache in our soul.

So I ask again: how do we know what I burn for?

Maybe the answer isn’t in what we chase. Maybe it’s in what we keep chasing, even after we’ve been disappointed. Maybe it’s what we go to in our solitude, what we pray about when no one’s listening, what we still ache for when we’re too tired to impress anyone.

And maybe the point of all this—Earnhardt’s story, David’s story, even mine—isn’t to shame the fire in us. It’s to name it. To look at what drives us and ask the harder, braver question:

Is it worth the chase?

Because some fires make you famous. But there is no one in the ashes to love you back.
And some fires make you whole. A refining fire, that leaves healing, healthy relationships, and a more holy journey.

One last side note- not many men "WIN" at the level of those we write stories for. Most men fail.

When you fail in the 'glory story', it creates a lot of negative momentum, shame, and very little esteem. But maybe that is a blessing in disguise.

When you fail chasing God's path, it isn't permanent- it is even kind of expected. The Bible says, Get up and keep walking.... and the march is to a tune of grace.

“Whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it.”
—Matthew 16:25

Unforgiven- Movie Review

Over Memorial Day weekend, I finally got around to watching Unforgiven, Clint Eastwood’s 1992 Western that I’d somehow missed all these years. I’ve watched Eastwood and John Wayne movies my whole life — the classic shootouts, the stoic lawmen, the cinematic myths that defined American masculinity for generations. But Unforgiven is different. It's not just another Western. It’s a slow, sorrowful reckoning with the genre itself — a dismantling of the legend of the gunslinger, and maybe a confession.

From the opening shot — a silhouetted figure on a Kansas plain, burying someone as dusk fades into dark — you can feel that this film isn’t going to glorify anything. It simmers more than it blazes. And when it finally burns, it leaves nothing untouched.

What struck me most is how the movie peels away the myth we've all bought into. There are no clean heroes here, no real triumphs. The violence isn't righteous — it's clumsy, chaotic, sickening. Even the "good guys" are compromised. Especially them.

Clint Eastwood plays William Munny, a man who has tried to bury his past sins under years of sobriety, pig farming, and the memory of a dead wife who tried to make him better. He’s not the man he used to be — a drunken killer — but the world won’t let him escape that past. It calls him back, not because he wants to return, but because someone needs him to be that man again.

What unfolds is a story about revenge, justice, and the cost of killing — not just to the victims, but to the soul of the killer. That line hit me hard: “It’s a hell of a thing, killing a man. You take away all he’s got and all he’s ever gonna have.” It’s not delivered like a sermon, just a weary truth. The kind of truth that only someone who's seen too much can say without flinching.

Watching Gene Hackman as Little Bill Daggett was another gut punch. He’s not the villain in the traditional sense. He builds his own house, smiles as he tortures people, talks about law and order while casually dismantling lives. Hackman gives the character a terrifying normalcy. He’s affable until he’s not. Brutal but rational. It was especially hard to watch knowing Hackman passed away recently — a legend in his own right, and he left it all on the screen.

Even the supporting characters are brilliant foils. The Schofield Kid — or Melk — thinks he’s ready for a life of killing until he pulls the trigger for the first time. That scene undoes him. It undid me. We spend so much time praising toughness, yet this film reminds us that the softest moment — admitting you're not who you thought you were — is maybe the bravest.

And then there’s W.W. Beauchamp, the dime-novel writer who chases legend wherever it leads — from English Bob to Little Bill, and finally to Will Munny. He’s not evil. Just naive. He craves myth, but all he finds is blood. He’s a stand-in for all of us who’ve romanticized the West, only to be confronted with what it really was: cruel, unjust, and very human.

By the end, Munny becomes what he was trying not to be. He picks up the bottle. He becomes death incarnate. He gives no speeches. He just kills. And we can’t cheer for him the way we might’ve in a more traditional Western, because we’ve seen what it costs him — and what it doesn’t give back. There’s no closure. No redemption. Just survival.

The final text on the screen is quiet, detached, and almost clinical — a note about his wife's grave, and a rumor he prospered in dry goods in San Francisco. That could’ve been written by the Schofield Kid, trying to piece together what happened. Or maybe by Beauchamp, chasing yet another legend. But the truth of Will Munny isn't something you can wrap up in a paragraph or a folk song.

What makes Unforgiven such a masterpiece is that it doesn’t give you what you expect. It doesn’t let you feel comfortable. It turns the mirror on us — the viewers who grew up idolizing the gunslinger — and asks what it is we really admire. It asks what stories we’ve believed. And what price we’re willing to ignore for the sake of a good legend.

I watched it at a good time in my life — older now, with more mistakes behind me than ahead, I hope. And maybe that’s why it hit me so hard. The idea that no matter how far we go, there are parts of ourselves we can’t outrun. That being "unforgiven" isn't about others — it's about what we carry in our own hearts.

This wasn’t just a movie. It was a reckoning.

“Any man don't wanna get killed, better clear on out the back.”

Song: Unforgiven (Clint Eastwood Movie)

Caleb’s Social Security Plan

Joshua 14:10–12

“Now, as you can see, the LORD has kept me alive and well as he promised for all these forty-five years since Moses made this promise—even while Israel wandered in the wilderness. Today I am eighty-five years old. I am as strong now as I was when Moses sent me on that journey, and I can still travel and fight as well as I could then. So I’m asking you to give me the hill country that the LORD promised me.”
— Joshua 14:10–12 (NLT)

What a stunning declaration from an 85-year-old warrior. Caleb, standing before Joshua and the people of Israel, makes a bold and faith-filled request—not for rest, retirement, or an easy inheritance—but for mountains to climb and enemies to face. He’s not interested in a rocking chair; he wants the rugged hill country filled with fortified cities and fierce Anakim giants.

That’s quite a social security plan:

• Alive and well

• Still strong

• Able to travel

• Ready to fight

• Hungry to conquer

What a resume at 85!

Caleb was one of the twelve spies Moses sent into Canaan to scout the Promised Land (Numbers 13–14). Only he and Joshua brought back a faithful report, urging the people to trust God and take possession of the land. The rest of the spies spread fear and disbelief, leading to forty years of wilderness wandering as a consequence of Israel’s rebellion. Caleb, however, stood out then—and still does now.

The Bible calls him a man who had “a different spirit” and who “followed the LORD wholeheartedly” (Numbers 14:24). His legacy is not just that he believed, but that he held on—through wandering, waiting, and war—until God’s promise was fulfilled.

1. Caleb Trusted the Lord and Clung to His Promises
Caleb never let go of what God said through Moses. For 45 years, he held onto the promise like a lifeline. He didn’t forget it. He didn’t water it down. He believed God would do exactly what He said. In a culture that constantly shifts, we need more believers who grip tightly to God’s promises.

2. Caleb Persevered Through the Wilderness
Wilderness living was no picnic—harsh conditions, constant movement, manna every day. Yet Caleb endured. He didn’t bail when things got hard or grumble like many others. His faith was not circumstantial; it was anchored in God's faithfulness.

3. The Tough Times Forged a Rugged Man
Caleb wasn’t pampered; he was proven. Forty years in the wilderness forged a durable man. Trials didn’t diminish him—they defined him. Modern life often avoids discomfort, but the Christian life is more about endurance than ease. Hardship can hollow us or harden us—in Caleb’s case, it refined him.

4. Caleb Was Patient to Receive What God Promised
Some promises take a lifetime. Caleb had to wait until he was 85 to lay claim to the inheritance God had spoken over him. He didn’t try to rush the timing. He didn’t demand shortcuts. He waited—and when the time came, he stepped forward with confidence and humility.

5. Caleb Was Willing to Do His Part—Climb and Fight
Caleb wasn’t just asking for a plot of land; he was volunteering for battle. “Give me the hill country,” he says. That wasn’t a safe or easy request. The land of the Anakim was still occupied. But Caleb didn’t shrink from effort or danger. He knew God would fight with him—but he was willing to climb and fight too.

6. Caleb Respected Authority
Notice that Caleb doesn’t just take what’s his. He asks. He honors Joshua’s leadership. He doesn’t try to assert seniority or demand his rights. That humility matters. A warrior who is both bold and submitted is rare and powerful.

Lord, may I live life like Caleb. Give me a fire that does not flicker out as I grow older! Keep me strong in faith, willing to persevere through difficulty, and patient to wait for Your timing. Let me always be ready to fight for what You’ve promised—never resting on past victories or drifting into comfort. I want to be an old man one day, not coasting, but on fire for Your kingdom. Give me the hill country. Give me the strength to climb. Let my last days burn brighter than my first. Amen.

When Journalism Fails: "Surface Level, Pre-disposed, Framed Outrage"

Note: It seems like national bash the press month... looks like I'm adding to the noise

Yesterday, I watched the Oval Office press conference between U.S. President Donald Trump and South African President Cyril Ramaphosa, streamed live on YouTube. I expected the usual topics—trade, crime, and bilateral relations.

Instead, Trump dimmed the lights—literally—and played a video of a 2020 South African protest, filled with disturbing images. It seemed designed to support recent claims of escalating tension, violence, and the early signs of genocide. Trump referenced asylum seekers, reports of farm attacks, and footage of crowds chanting hate slogans. When asked directly if what’s happening in South Africa is genocide, Trump replied, “I haven’t decided—but saving lives is cheap compared to the consequences.” It was a strategic hedge—keeping the controversy alive while avoiding commitment. It also bypassed a press he openly distrusts.

Ramaphosa remained composed. His diverse delegation included white South African golfers—raised under apartheid—who now embrace Nelson Mandela’s call for unity. Despite the dramatic opening, both leaders agreed by the end to focus on real issues like trade and crime. The event was chaotic, provocative, and unexpectedly hopeful.

Ramaphosa's staff also denounced the political party that is calling for racial violence against whites and said "these are the people who can never come to power". I didn't find any source that analyzed common ground between the two delegations.

Instead, I found a swamp of sensational headlines, shallow takes, and a complete failure to grapple with nuance. No one mentioned the golfers’ quiet but powerful rejection of racial division. No one connected the discussion to Elon Musk’s critique of race-based policy the day before. Few acknowledged the constructive outcomes. Instead, we got surface-level outrage. This is the information ecosystem we’re drowning in—a media landscape that buries complexity and amplifies bad ideas.

Not one major outlet reported that Trump also expressed concern for deaths in other conflict zones, noting he has sent representatives to assess how the U.S. might help stop the killing.

Trump’s Strategy: Provocative but Purposeful

This wasn’t just a press conference—it was a deliberate spotlight on South Africa’s land and crime issues. Trump knew the press wouldn’t cover these topics seriously, so he staged a moment they couldn’t ignore. Dimming the lights wasn’t theatrics for theatrics’ sake—it was calculated. His evidence—videos, hate chants, asylum seekers—painted a grim picture. Whether or not you agree with his framing, he forced attention on concerns that many feel are being ignored.

And the media took the bait. Outlets like CNN (“Trump’s Oval Office Smackdowns”) and Reuters (“political theater”) focused on optics, not intent. They didn’t ask why Trump distrusts them or consider the fears he’s amplifying. A few X posts—like @News24 noting the protest video was from a memorial service—provided context, but even they missed the deeper point: why Trump spotlighted this moment in the first place. Journalism should unpack both the fears and the political strategy—not just dunk on the spectacle.

Musk’s Critique and the Golfers’ Unity

A day earlier, at the Qatar Economic Forum, South African-born Elon Musk criticized his home country’s Black Economic Empowerment (B-BBEE) laws. These laws require companies like Starlink to give 30% equity to Black South Africans—an effort Musk called “racist.” He asked: “Is it right to replace one set of race-based standards with another?”

Musk invoked Mandela’s vision of equality—a theme echoed, intentionally or not, by Ramaphosa’s diverse delegation. The white golfers present—who survived apartheid—now reject its legacy, living out Mandela’s principle that “two wrongs don’t make a right.” South African officials countered Musk by saying Starlink had never applied for a license, framing the dispute as regulatory, not racial.

Yet the media ignored this powerful convergence. Musk’s comments and the golfers’ quiet testimony both pushed back on racial division. Together, they challenged B-BBEE’s race-based framework in favor of reconciliation. But most outlets waved this off—CNN and The New Republic dismissed Musk as a provocateur, while others hyped a diplomatic feud. No one linked the critiques or explored the policy debate. That’s a journalistic failure.

The Globalist-Nationalist Flashpoint

This wasn’t just about South Africa. It was a clash of ideologies.

Trump and Musk expressed nationalist concerns—fears that identity-driven policies can fuel division or reverse discrimination. Ramaphosa leaned globalist, focusing on shared challenges like crime (35.7 homicides per 100,000 in 2023/24, per SAPS) and the $21 billion U.S.-South Africa trade partnership.

The media didn’t see this deeper fault line. Instead, they fixated on Trump’s video. X posts critiqued Ramaphosa’s diplomacy but rarely acknowledged the bigger stakes. In ignoring the ideological conflict, journalists let terms like “genocide” and “racist laws” float unchallenged. That’s not reporting—that’s malpractice.

A Constructive End, Missed by the Media

Despite the fireworks, the meeting ended productively: Trump and Ramaphosa agreed to collaborate on trade and crime. Ramaphosa’s delegation, especially the golfers, reflected a South Africa striving for unity—not division. Land reforms haven’t led to mass seizures but could they?. Crime impacts all South Africans, not just white farmers- yes, but is the environment ripe for genocide? The pivot from provocation to pragmatism in the Oval seemed to be a win. 

Yet outlets like The Daily Mail (“humiliation”) and NPR (“ambush”) focused on drama. Even Trump’s choice not to 'pull in' Musk to the debate in the Oval—(who was present)—seemed calculated, a wise moment of restraint to avoid triggering partisan backlash. But the media missed that too. Drama sells, solutions don’t.

This is why leaders like Trump bypass the press. And it’s why the public is left with half-baked narratives, instead of full, messy truths.

Can We Learn to Think for Ourselves?

This mess proves we can’t rely on the media to separate truth from noise. Want to know what really happened? 

Watch the YouTube stream. Don't see it piecemealed on cable news or distorted on social media. 

Ask better questions:

• Why does Trump stage moments like this? (Hint: it’s not because he’s Hitler, a racist, or a genius.)

• How do the golfers’ presence and Musk’s critique line up?

• What’s the real story behind South Africa’s challenges? (And why do we struggle with similar issues here?- hint- it isn't just race, it is also economic disparity)

The media won’t do this work. It’s on us —to think critically, demand better, debate opposing viewpoints with civility, and refuse to settle for narratives that are easy but incomplete.

Why the Legacy Media—Including Fox News—Has Failed (U.S)

Note: I have been actually writing on this for a long time- maybe I need to update the entire series from 2016 : Gospel Confrontation

Recent book releases and hard-hitting reports on the Biden administration have been a very shallow attempt to convince the American electorate that real journalism still exists—meanwhile most of the jaded public sees it as political stunt and money machine. Public trust in media is polling at an all-time low. While much of the outrage is justified, I’m wrestling with a deeper concern.

It’s the illusion of balance—and how it distorts rather than clarifies the truth.

We’ve been trained to applaud news that presents “both sides.” And in principle, that’s a good instinct. Who doesn’t want fair coverage or a diversity of thought?

But here’s the problem: not every issue is a 50/50 split. Some are 80/20 or even 90/10 in terms of expert consensus, data, or common sense. And yet, we continue to see point/counterpoint segments that give a 10% fringe position equal weight—presenting it as if we’re in the middle of a societal toss-up.

Maybe that 10% is right. Maybe it’s the prophetic minority with a truth the majority misses. But here’s the hard part: how do we make that case in 30-second sound bites, one flashy talking point, and four minutes of pharmaceutical commercials? This isn’t discourse. It’s distraction.

And the results are sobering: news is no longer about honest assessment of the issues. It becomes an echo chamber, feeding the assumptions of the audience. The left has its networks. The right has its networks. And the harder we cling to the illusion of neutrality, the more we quietly accept networks of propaganda masquerading as journalism.

As I have watched news over decades this problem has created a real polarized and charged divide. The pursuit of 'balance' has devolved into a distortion of truth by elevating fringe positions to equal footing with consensus views.

I think the distortion has 'taught' people how to talk (not think) and create slogans to support the whims of the heart- not discipline minds to 'common sense', wisdom, facts, and truth. It also has no mechanism to dissuade outright lies.

We need to ask: has the media become a servant of its audience’s bias rather than a seeker of public truth?

When ratings and ad revenue are on the line, it’s easier to affirm your base than challenge their thinking. Is it any wonder we now have news silos that function more like comfort food than a balanced diet?

Enter the Podcasters…

Long-form podcasts have offered a welcome shift—more time, more nuance, and often more honesty. But they’re not immune either. Without journalistic rigor or editorial review, many podcasters simply google a headline to support a pre-existing thesis. Throw a graphic on the screen and voilà—"research."

Is this better or just longer-form confirmation bias?

Free Speech ≠ Free Platform

As Americans, we rightly champion free speech. That includes ideas we find distasteful—even offensive. Civil disobedience has a place in the tradition of protest, and there are consequences for breaking laws, as there should be.

But here’s the line we often blur: freedom of speech is NOT the same as the promotion of bad ideas—especially by news platforms. When journalists elevate unsubstantiated claims, conspiracy theories, or pseudo-science in the name of “showing both sides,” they’re not informing the public. They’re legitimizing noise.

Is Neutrality a Myth?

This brings us to a more uncomfortable question: is unbiased neutrality even possible?

Maybe not in the absolute sense. But perhaps journalism isn’t about being void of bias. Maybe it’s about being transparent about perspective, committed to evidence, and courageous enough to challenge both the powerful and the popular.

There was a time when polls gave us insight into public trends. Today, they often feel like tools of manipulation or symbols of how out of step the media narrative is with the broader electorate. Who are we listening to? And who are we ignoring?

This isn't an easy topic- 

• How do we weigh expert consensus without silencing dissent?

• Can news escape the grip of audience-driven incentives?

• Is there still a place for real journalism in an age of algorithms and ideology?

We’re suffocating in echo chambers. We’re consuming opinion as fact and mistaking spin for substance. The cost is more than confusion—it’s erosion of trust, loss of shared reality, and ultimately, a democracy without honest dialogue.

Finally, what makes this worse is that we really don't know how to talk to one another any more.... we don't know how to have reasoned, civil debate, we never say "I'm sorry" or "I was wrong"- we don't know how to agreeably disagree- we are lacking in love and long on opinions that we treat as life and death.

This is a vicious cycle...... driving us into the ground of dispair.