Moving On From Nietz

I think I’ve had all the Nietzsche I can for now. Time to close that chapter and move on.

I spent a good stretch with him—read large portions of Zarathustra, worked through Genealogy of Morals, went back to the Madman in The Gay Science, and made my way through most of Kaufmann’s book. That wasn’t casual reading. It was more like stepping into a different mental world for a while.

I’ve asked myself why I picked him up in the first place. Was it to boost some kind of intellectual résumé? Curiosity? Probably some of both. There’s no denying the man’s intellect—reading him, even in translation, you can feel the depth and range of his thinking. It’s honestly breathtaking at times.

But in the end, he and I are worlds apart.

I played in his sandbox for a bit. I followed the arguments, sat with the tension, let him press on some fault lines. And that’s really what he does—he doesn’t just present ideas, he tests you. He forces you to ask what you actually believe, what holds, and what doesn’t. For a while, that’s energizing. Then it becomes clarifying.

At some point, I realized I wasn’t moving toward agreement—I was moving toward distinction.

Along the way, there were a few things that stuck. His warning about systems—that once we treat our framework as final and stop questioning its assumptions, we’ve stopped thinking—that’s going to stay with me. It’s not a call to abandon belief, but to hold it with a kind of humility and self-suspicion. I also found his idea of the “fearless questioner” compelling—not someone who asks clever questions, but someone willing to ask questions that actually put something at risk. That’s a different level of honesty than most of us are comfortable with.

He also sharpened my awareness of how easily people—myself included—can outsource their thinking (my biggest concern in the growing AI age- it needs to aid us in discovery but not think or learn for us). To teachers, to movements, to cultural trends, even to art. That thread showed up everywhere—from his break with Wagner to his critique of systems to the way he saw mass influence forming identity. It made me more attentive to what is shaping me, and whether I’ve actually chosen what I hold or simply absorbed it.

And maybe most unexpectedly, he helped clarify where I stand. Not just intellectually, but relationally. The more I read him, the more I realized that the deepest difference isn’t just about morality or meaning, but about whether reality itself is ultimately personal. That matters more than any system.

So I’m stepping away. Not dismissing him, not regretting the time, just recognizing that I’ve gotten what I needed from the engagement. There’s a place for thinkers like Nietzsche—they sharpen you, unsettle you, force honesty—but they’re not meant to be permanent residence.

For me, the most useful takeaway is this: to hold my own beliefs with a little more humility, a little more self-awareness, and a willingness to question what I might otherwise leave unexamined.

That feels like a good place to land.

Time to move on.

The Lantern Man (A Parable)

He Finds Me in Dark Spaces

Before getting into this reflection, it’s worth acknowledging that May is recognized as Mental Health Awareness Month. I’ve written on this topic in the past:

Athletes and Mental Health Series (8 posts)

When Perfection Doesn't Fit

but recently I found myself taking time to sit with it again—not from a distance, but personally.

The reality is, we all find ourselves in difficult places at times. Seasons where the weight feels heavier, where clarity fades, where the internal battle is harder to articulate. Life has a way of holding both tension and beauty at the same time.

What I’ve been reminded of is that these moments are not unusual, and they are not disqualifying. They are part of the human experience. And for those of us walking in faith, they are often the very places where God meets us most clearly.

There’s a quiet assumption in leadership that strength should be steady, visible, and unwavering. If you’re leading well, encouraging others, carrying responsibility with consistency, it can start to feel like you’re supposed to live above the weight instead of walking through it. But that’s not how life works, and it’s not how faith works either.

There are moments when the noise fades, when the momentum slows, and what’s left is a kind of internal stillness that doesn’t feel peaceful—it feels exposing. Those are the moments when the doubts get louder, when insecurities feel less manageable, when even small failures seem to echo more than they should. You keep showing up, but internally you feel worn down, tired of trying to measure up. The psalmist gives language to that kind of moment: “How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?” (Psalm 13:1). That cry isn’t polished—it’s honest.

What’s striking is how familiar that experience is when you read the Psalms. The people who wrote them weren’t distant from God; many of them were deeply entrusted by Him. And yet, they speak with a level of honesty that cuts through any illusion that leadership or maturity eliminates struggle. They talk about being overwhelmed, saying things like, “My guilt has overwhelmed me like a burden too heavy to bear” (Psalm 38:4). They acknowledge internal unrest: “Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me?” (Psalm 42:5).

There’s also this instinct to hide. Not necessarily from people in obvious ways, but internally—to compartmentalize, to push down what feels too heavy or too messy to bring into the light. Over time, that kind of hiding can become so effective that you start to lose clarity about what’s really going on inside you. You keep functioning, but something in you feels distant. And yet, Scripture gently confronts that instinct: “If I say, ‘Surely the darkness will hide me…’ even the darkness will not be dark to you” (Psalm 139:11–12). The places we retreat to are not hidden from God.

Failure and insecurity have a way of distorting perspective, especially in leadership. The weight of responsibility can amplify every misstep. Words we wish we could take back, decisions we second-guess, expectations we don’t meet—these things linger. The psalmists don’t ignore that weight. They name it. But they also begin to turn within it. Even in the middle of distress, there is a shift toward trust: “But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation” (Psalm 13:5). The circumstances haven’t necessarily changed, but something deeper has.

That’s where something begins to shift for us as well. Not instantly, and not always dramatically, but steadily. The same voices that cry out in frustration begin to speak with confidence—not in themselves, but in God’s presence. “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me” (Psalm 23:4). The valley is still there. The difference is that we are not alone in it.

For those of us who lead, that matters. Because the goal isn’t to become people who never enter dark spaces. The goal is to become people who know what to do when we’re there. People who don’t isolate completely, who don’t let shame define the moment, who don’t assume that being there means we’ve failed. Instead, we begin to recognize those spaces as places where God meets us with intention. As the psalmist writes, “He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire” (Psalm 40:2). The movement begins with Him.

There’s also a longer view that begins to form. The Psalms carry this quiet confidence that the present moment isn’t the final outcome. There is an expectation—not always immediate, but certain—that restoration will come. That joy will return. That what feels heavy now will not always feel this way. “Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning” (Psalm 30:5). That promise doesn’t rush the night, but it reframes it.

Over time, you begin to see that being found in those places changes you. It deepens your awareness of grace. It softens your responses to others. It reshapes how you measure strength. And it reminds you that the effectiveness of your leadership is not rooted in your ability to avoid struggle, but in your willingness to remain connected to God within it. “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18).

What I’ve come to understand is that the dark spaces don’t disqualify us. If anything, they refine us. They strip away the illusion that we can carry everything on our own and bring us back to the truth that we were never meant to. Because in the end, the story isn’t about how well we hold ourselves together. It’s about a God who meets us, restores us, and leads us forward again.

Or, in the simplest terms, just like this song says—He still finds us in dark spaces.

You Find Me in Dark Spaces

Verse 1

When the noise of the world goes quiet on me

And the shadows say what I don’t want to see

I retreat to a place no one else knows

Where the ache runs deep and the silence grows

Worn down by the weight of a thousand tries

Chasing “perfect” through a thousand lies

Every word that missed, every step misplaced

Feels like scars I can’t erase

I’m hiding so well, I’m losing myself

In the doubt, in the fear, in the stories I tell

Chorus

But You find me in dark spaces

Where I’ve buried all my shame

When I’m lost in my own hiding

Still You call me by my name

Through the fear and all my failures

Through the silence and lonely places

I don’t have to fight the shadows

‘Cause You find me in dark spaces

Verse 2

Tired of fighting what I can’t outrun

Every battle feels already done

Jaded by the arrows I didn’t see

Even careless words still cut through me

I’m suffocating under who I should be

Every flaw just magnified in me

But grace breaks in where I fall apart

And whispers truth back to my heart

When I’m sure that no one else could understand

I feel Your mercy take my hand

Chorus

Yeah, You find me in dark spaces

Where I’ve buried all my shame

When I’m lost in my own hiding

Still You call me by my name

Through the fear and all my failures

Through the scars I can’t erase

I don’t have to fight the shadows

‘Cause You find me in dark spaces

Bridge

No depth too low, no night too long

No broken place where You don’t belong

You walk right in, You bring the light

You speak to the dark and call it life

And I will rise, not on my own

But by the love that won’t let go

Chorus 

You find me in dark spaces

And You lead me back to grace

When I thought I was forgotten

I can feel Your warm embrace

And in time this heart will heal

I’ll see hope upon my face

I will smile again in the light

‘Cause You found me in dark spaces

When 'Games and God Divide One’s Heart'

I was reading Nietzsche’s Genealogy of Morals recently and came across a line that stuck with me. He describes being thirteen years old and calls it the age “when games and God divide one’s heart.”

He doesn’t linger on it. For him, it’s just a way of describing a stage of life—a time when a young person is pulled between play and religion. Then he moves on to talk about how, even at that age, he was already thinking about the origin of good and evil.

But that line has stayed with me, because I don’t think it describes something we grow out of.

If anything, it describes something we carry with us.

The divided heart is not just a problem for teenagers. It shows up in adulthood in quieter, more complicated ways. We don’t just choose between “games” and “God” in a simple sense. We live in a world where distractions are constant and easy, and they don’t feel like distractions most of the time—they just feel like normal life.

My experience with my human heart has a long history now- late nights of anticipation, anxiety, wonder. My unfortunate habit of restless insomnia has produced long 'conversations' with myself- most of the time more dramatic than practical.

What I’ve noticed is not just distraction, but fragmentation. It’s the sense that my attention is spread thin, that I move quickly from one thing to another without ever being fully present. Even when I’m doing things that matter, part of me is somewhere else.

And that has a cost. Even in intense conversations, confrontations, maybe even small talk I often get stuck on a phrase and then BOOM! I am realizing I just left the room and wonder to what degree I need to look at the other person and say "I'm sorry". This is not a habit I am proud of!

Lately I’ve also felt a kind of loneliness that’s hard to explain. Not because I’m alone, and NOT because I’m unloved. I’m surrounded by people who care about me. But there’s still a sense of distance at times—like something in me is not fully engaged, not fully there.

I don’t think that feeling is unusual. I think a lot of people carry it, even if they don’t talk about it.

And I think it has something to do with this idea of a divided heart.

The Bible speaks to this more directly than Nietzsche does. In Psalm 86, David prays, “Give me an undivided heart, that I may fear your name.” That line has always stood out to me, because it assumes that the heart is not naturally undivided. It has to be given.

At the same time, Scripture also warns us not to trust our hearts blindly. “The heart is deceitful above all things,” Jeremiah says. So on one hand, we long for a whole heart. On the other hand, we’re told the heart itself can’t be taken at face value.

That tension feels real. I'm writing very honestly here- I have for many years been way more skeptical of my heart, that anyone else I know. I often joke (but also serious)- "If someone found a way to project ALL my thoughts on a screen in public, I would need to resign my job, pack my bags, and move."

On a practical level, I can see how easily my own heart gets pulled in different directions. It’s not always obvious or dramatic. It happens in small ways—through distraction, through habits, through things that aren’t necessarily wrong but still take up space and attention.

Recently I was in a VERY serious conversation... it lasted longer than my usual length of conversations... and again, I had to 'wake up' and realize I was way off somewhere else.... is that a protective mechanism? 

Over time, those small divisions add up. They shape what we pay attention to, what we care about, and how present we are with God and with other people.

I don’t think the problem is simply that we choose the wrong things. It’s that we rarely choose anything fully. Our attention is divided, and eventually our hearts follow.

That’s why David’s prayer feels so relevant: “Give me an undivided heart.”

It’s not a request for more discipline or more activity. It’s a request for integration—for a heart that is not constantly pulled apart by competing desires.

I don’t have a clean solution to that. But I do think it starts with paying attention to how divided we actually are, instead of assuming we’re fine.

For me, that’s meant slowing down enough to notice what’s shaping my attention, what’s filling my time, and what’s quietly pulling me away from being present—with God, with people, and even with myself.

The problem Nietzsche described may not just belong to a thirteen-year-old boy. It may describe something much more basic about us.

The question is whether we learn to live with a divided heart—or whether we begin, even slowly, to ask for something different.

Does anyone else struggle with this?

Song Link: Ask Me

Tucker Carlson and "The Smoking Man"

The image that stuck with me from Tucker Carlson’s recent podcast with his brother wasn’t even what was said—it was the smoking.

It felt out of place. Almost symbolic. Like something from another era—slower, more deliberate, but also more ambiguous.

It immediately made me think of The X-Files—the “Smoking Man.” A figure surrounded by mystery, influence, and unanswered questions. You never quite knew where he ultimately stood, only that he lingered in the background while everything else moved around him.

And that’s what gave me pause.

Listening to Tucker and his brother, you can sense something shifting. There’s a tone now that feels different—less anchored, more restless. A growing dissatisfaction. A sense that things aren’t unfolding the way they expected, or perhaps the way they hoped.

Some of that may be coming from deeper reflection. Tucker has spoken more openly about faith in recent months, and it seems like that’s shaping how he’s processing events—questions of justice, truth, and moral responsibility. That’s not something to dismiss. In fact, it can be a sign of growth.

But growth—especially spiritual growth—usually produces steadiness over time, not volatility.

And that’s where I find myself wrestling.

What I heard didn’t just sound like reflection. At moments, it sounded like frustration turning quickly into disillusionment. Like the distance between support and regret has gotten very short. And in that space, it becomes easier to reach for explanations that fill the gap—sometimes drifting toward suspicion, or even conspiracy, when clarity hasn’t yet come.

I don’t say that critically as much as cautiously. Because that tendency isn’t limited to Tucker—it’s something I see across the culture right now.

We’ve become very quick to reassess. Very quick to react. And not always very willing to endure uncertainty.

But the issues being discussed—especially around foreign policy and something as serious as a nuclear Iran—aren’t issues that resolve themselves in a news cycle or even a year or two. These are long-horizon decisions with consequences that unfold slowly and often imperfectly.

That kind of reality requires something we don’t talk about much anymore: perseverance.

It makes me think about other moments in history where outcomes weren’t immediately clear, where leadership decisions were questioned in real time, and where it would have been easy to lose confidence before the full picture emerged.

History rarely rewards that kind of impatience.

So when I see influential voices beginning to step back this early—voices that helped shape the expectations to begin with—it raises a fair question: are we giving enough time for these decisions to actually play out?

To be clear, this isn’t about blind loyalty. Leadership should be examined. Decisions should be weighed. Concerns should be voiced.

But there’s a difference between careful evaluation and rapid retreat.

For me, I’m choosing steadiness.

That means acknowledging the seriousness of the moment, especially when it comes to global conflict and nuclear risk, while also resisting the urge to rush to final conclusions. It means holding conviction without becoming reactive. It means allowing time to do what time is necessary to do—reveal outcomes.

So while others may be reassessing, I’m staying grounded in my support of the President—while continuing to watch carefully, think critically, and hope for wise and measured outcomes.

That image of the smoke lingered—but for me, it wasn’t a signal to drift into uncertainty or ambiguity.

It was a reminder of how easy it is to lose clarity when things feel unsettled.

And a reminder to stay clear-headed anyway.

The image was so interesting at the end- two brothers reminiscing about tobacco and it just felt like... it's over.... both of them had their say and are done.

Would Nietzche Tweet?

(note: I am taking some time reading small doses of Nietzche along with Kauffman's work about him- it has been an interesting exercise, and though I believe Nietz and I would have very little common ground, I do find I am becoming appreciative of him and more empathetic of his pain and suffering... and misunderstanding. I have been thinking, "Would we have been friends?" and then today."If he were alive today, would he be a blogger?, would he tweet?, would he become an influencer?" or would he have thought it all rubbish?)

I came across a line from Nietzsche (through Kaufmann) that has stayed with me:

“The thinker who believes in the ultimate truth of his system, without questioning its presuppositions… refuses to think beyond a certain point.”

In my simple terms, "What happens to us if he have such a high opinion of our opinion that it isn't open for skepticism?"

This feels especially relevant today. We live in a culture where people not only hold strong opinions, but often have elevated confidence in 'our truth'. At the same time, the systems around us—especially digital algorithms—reinforce this confidence. They present us with fragments of information that confirm what we already believe, connect us with others who think the same way, and gradually form small, self-reinforcing circles of agreement.

There have been more than a few times in recent years that I have read commentary about a topic with a deadline answer- for example an election. As we got closer and closer to the 2024 election, I looked at my wife and said "Somebody is about to be shocked to see how wrong they were" because both sides were predicting lopsided wins, all fueled by their sphere of influence that feels SO large but is much smaller than advertised.

Over time, this can make our beliefs feel less like something we have examined and more like something that is simply true by default.

Nietzsche describes this as a subtle kind of corruption—not because having a framework or system is wrong, but because refusing to question it is. The problem is not conviction itself, but the loss of self-examination.

(I realize this was one of his raging attacks on traditional religious belief, but I'd rather deal with this as a general rule for now and I'm predicting a defense of my faith at some point down the road..but it has to come as I know the arguments better.)

There seems to be a healthier process available to us. This is a better process......

We begin with an idea and hold it with some degree of humility, even skepticism. We then bring it into the “marketplace of ideas,” where it is tested. Not all feedback is helpful or constructive, but some of it sharpens us. Over time, we find others who are willing to think alongside us—collaborators rather than echo chambers. If we want to avoid what Nietzsche warns against, we must resist the urge to treat our system as final. Instead, we remain willing to revise it, or even see it dismantled entirely. There is less to fear in that than we might assume. In many cases, the shared process of refining ideas together is more valuable than the system we began with. It also helps move us out of the isolation of our own thinking.

This raises a useful standard for all of us: to hold our beliefs with a degree of humility and self-suspicion. That does not mean abandoning what we believe, but it does mean asking honest questions about it. What assumptions am I making? Where might I be overlooking something? Have I stopped examining this because it feels settled?

The real danger is not simply being wrong. It is becoming unable to recognize the possibility that we might be.

As a side thought, it is interesting to consider how Nietzsche would respond to modern communication platforms. His style—short, sharp, provocative—might fit well in a format like social media. However, he would likely be skeptical of the environment itself. These platforms tend to reward certainty, speed, and reaction, rather than careful reflection and sustained thinking.

This creates a tension in our current moment. We have more opportunities than ever to express what we think, but fewer habits that encourage us to examine it deeply.

That is a pattern worth paying attention to. I'm going to keep reading- it is a SLOW process, I can only take him in very small chunks and have to back up and catch up on terms and people he alludes to.

I'll close with a few catchy aphorisms from this interesting man:

From' Thus Spake Zarathustra":

Then thou carriedst thine ashes into the mountains: wilt thou now carry thy fire into the valleys?

Man is something that is to be surpassed. What have ye done to surpass man?

All beings hitherto have created something beyond themselves: and ye want to be the ebb of that great tide, and would rather go back to the beast than surpass man?

What is the ape to man? A laughing-stock, a thing of shame. And just the same shall man be to the Superman: a laughing-stock, a thing of shame.

Lion Soul Revisited

Reading back through what I wrote almost 15 years ago after finishing Soul of the Lion, I can still feel why Joshua Chamberlain inspired me the way he did. Time has a way of sanding down heroes, or at least our memory of them—but revisiting his life doesn’t do that. If anything, it sharpens the edges.

Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain lived from 1828 to 1914. What can we learn from a man more that a full century behind us?

What struck me then—and still does now—is how rare it is to find a man who held together things we tend to separate. He was deeply educated without being soft, a lover of literature and language who could also endure brutality and make hard decisions under fire. He grew up doing farm work, learned discipline early, studied Greek and French at the highest level, taught, led, sang in the choir, and still had a steel backbone when it came to conviction. His faith wasn’t ornamental—it anchored him. When the country fractured over slavery and secession, he didn’t have the ability to sit quietly and keep his position secure. That cost him comfort, reputation, and nearly his life.

I’m struck by how much resistance he faced before he ever faced the enemy. The people around him—educated, respectable, measured—largely chose neutrality. He couldn’t. That tension feels familiar even now. It’s always easier to stay quiet in polite company than to act on conviction when it might cost you.

And he wasn’t some natural-born battlefield genius. He knew he was behind when he entered the army. What separated him was not instant competence but relentless effort. He studied. He observed. He pushed himself. And in the chaos of battle, when others panicked, he had this strange calm that let him think clearly. That combination—humility about weakness and refusal to stay weak—is something I probably underappreciated when I first wrote about him.

The stories of his endurance still feel almost unreal. Marching in miserable conditions and somehow enjoying it. Escaping death repeatedly. Wrestling not just with enemies but with exhaustion, sickness, and the mental weight of seeing death up close. There’s a line he wrote about his life being in God’s hands—that he couldn’t die except by His appointment—and it doesn’t read like theory when you see how many times he should have died and didn’t. Whether someone shares that belief or not, it clearly gave him a steadiness most men don’t have.

Gettysburg, of course, is the moment everyone knows. Little Round Top. Out of ammunition. Flank exposed. Orders to hold at all costs. And then that decision—fix bayonets. What I appreciate more now is that the moment wasn’t magic. It was the result of everything that came before: years of discipline, months of study, days of exhaustion, and the trust he had built with his men. When he gave that order, they followed. That says as much about his leadership before the crisis as it does about his courage in it.

But if I’m honest, what probably impacts me more now than it did then is how he finished. A lot of men have a defining moment and spend the rest of their lives fading from it. Chamberlain didn’t. He kept serving, kept leading, kept building. He was wounded terribly—injuries that would mark him for life—and still went back. He led with distinction, received honors, governed, taught, reformed, represented, built. There was no coasting on past glory.

And then there’s that moment at Appomattox. After all the blood, all the loss, all the bitterness—he chose to salute the defeated. Not out of weakness, but out of a recognition of shared humanity and respect for men who had fought with everything they had. That kind of strength is harder than winning a battle. It’s easier to crush than to restore. Easier to humiliate than to honor.

If I could rewrite what I was trying to say back then, it’s this: Chamberlain wasn’t just a great soldier. He was a whole man. Conviction, discipline, humility, courage, compassion, endurance, faith—held together over a lifetime, not just in a moment.

And nearly 15 years later, the question still lingers in a more personal way than it did back then. Not just “are we producing men like this?” but “what would it actually take to become one?”

Here are some links to my earlier posts:

Soul of a Lion pt 1 (2012) of 4 posts

Updated (2021)

of course a song: Lion Soul

Music Without Lyrics

I’ve been slowly working through Nietzsche lately, and it’s taken me down more side roads than I expected. As I read, I try to keep an open mind. I enjoy getting to know thinkers—their motivations, their influences, the worlds they were responding to.

One of the more interesting threads has been Nietzsche’s relationship with the composer Richard Wagner. At first, there was deep admiration—a shared vision of what art could do for culture. But over time, that relationship fractured. The more I read, the more I realize it wasn’t just personal. It pointed to something deeper.

And that “something” keeps coming up the more I read—and even as I’ve been listening to what we’d call “true classics.” (Most of us know Wagner through the 'Wedding March" and "Ride of the Valkyries")

What is art actually doing to us?

When we think about music and influence, we usually think in terms of words. Lyrics carry ideas, ideas carry meaning, and meaning shapes people. But it’s been interesting to wrestle with how thinkers like Wagner—and those who influenced Nietzsche, like Schopenhauer—understood music that has no words at all.

Wagner believed music could express something deeper than language: emotion, longing, tension—even transcendence. Things words can’t fully capture. Schopenhauer went even further, arguing that music doesn’t just describe life—it expresses something more immediate and primal, something like the underlying force of reality itself.

In that sense, music isn’t just communicating ideas. It’s shaping experience. It moves the heart directly, without passing through language first.

And that raises a question I can’t shake:

If music has that kind of power, what is it forming in us when there are no words to guide it?

Wagner didn’t just compose music—he built experiences. Festivals, gatherings, even a cultural center around his work. People didn’t just listen; they participated. It shaped identity, emotion, even belief.

I had never heard of Bayreuth before this—a music hall Wagner built that became the center of a powerful cultural movement. It’s fascinating to see how art, identity, and influence blended there in ways that went far beyond the stage.

And the more I think about it, the more I see a pattern.

19th-century German festivals. Woodstock in the 1960s. Burning Man....and yes, these bizarre "No Kings" rallies recently.

I don’t want to oversimplify it—but I can’t ignore the question:

What happens when art and cultural movements become tools for mass identity and emotional control?

At that point, it’s no longer just expression—it’s formation.

And formation isn’t neutral.

What feels like progress can sometimes be drift. Not growth rooted in something solid, but movement fueled by emotion, belonging, and shared experience—without grounding.

And it’s that loss of grounding that concerns me.

On the surface, some of what we see today can look almost silly—costumes, chaotic performances, moments that feel more like spectacle than substance. But underneath, there can also be something more serious: messages about destruction, revolution, or meaninglessness quietly woven in.

And when that happens, art doesn’t elevate people—it eventually confuses them.

I’m still working through all of this, but it keeps bringing me back to a central question:

What is shaping us—and what is it shaping us into?

Nietzsche’s famous statement, “God is dead,” is often misunderstood. He wasn’t celebrating it so much as observing what happens when a society cuts itself off from God.

And the more I read, the more I think he may have been more right than wrong.

We are not used to music without words—or are we?

When I see bizarre antics at these recent 'protests' - they have no coherent message- No Kings? The fact that they are able to proclaim the message defeats the logic of the label- but again, it isn't the 'lyrics' .... it is a discordant symphony that communicates more danger than the general public realizes.

And here comes some angry rant at me.... 3....2.....1..... These are my words and I am free to express them.

We have a lot of people living like God is Dead- their own God is their own mind.

Lat night, American Idol had it's yearly 'faith night' where contestants chose songs that expressed faith- some were overtly Christian and some were not.

On X- many praised the night...but I was also intrigued that in my 'Top Comments" feed there was a lot of anger that ABC/Disney would give that a platform.... even though it is 'Holy Week' for Christians.

So those opposed to faith night might ask me the same question:

What happens when art and cultural movements become tools for mass identity and emotional control?

Which then leads me to a a better question:

Because art and cultural movements can become tools for mass identity and emotional control- what anchors should we cling to that allows us the greatest opportunity for love, understanding, prosperity, and peace?

And this is where I believe the Christian gospel excels and has no real rival.

Things to ponder on Holy Week.

Is Art Lost?

(Some early thoughts while reading Nietzsche)

I’ve just started reading Nietzsche (biography and works), and already I feel like I’m being pushed—not just intellectually, but personally. 

I have had early introduction to the man- his sister- misunderstandings... etc.

But I took a rabbit hole to read a little more about the relationship of Nietzche and Wagner.

Nietzsche talks about Richard Wagner, this larger-than-life composer who tried to bring everything together—music, story, visuals—into what he called “Gesamtkunstwerk”- a “total work of art.” The goal was something immersive, almost sacred. Not just entertainment, but something that could restore depth and meaning to culture.

At first, Nietzsche believed in him. 

But later, he became disillusioned. Not just with Wagner as a person—but with what his art was actually doing. It started to feel like the experience was powerful… but disconnected. Emotional, but not grounding. Impressive, but not transformative.

(So I find an early disillusionment in life is when a hero shows he is human, our discipleship leaders are flawed humans- and it feels almost like a betrayal. But we have to be careful when we project too much hope in any human- if you are looking for hypocrisy, you WILL find it.)

And it is an over-simplified symbol- The 'divorce' of the philosopher and the artist is representative of a current cultural crisis....

Because I wonder if we’re living in a version of that now: Is art lost? Or maybe losing?

That might sound dramatic. We have more art, more content, more access than ever before. Everything is sharper, louder, more immersive. Entire worlds can be created on a screen..

I don’t leave most things thinking about them days later. I don’t carry them with me the way I used to. It’s like I’m impressed in the moment—but unchanged afterward. I scroll endless choices on streaming services and it is like one big “blah”.

We’ve pushed art so far—more effects, more intensity, more spectacle—that maybe we’ve overloaded something in ourselves. Our sense of wonder. Our ability to suspend disbelief. Our capacity to be moved.

It’s like everything is trying so hard to get our attention that nothing really reaches us anymore.

And I don’t think the problem is creativity- I think it’s disconnection.

When art detaches from meaning, it has to rely on intensity. And intensity doesn’t last. It fades. It has to keep escalating. And eventually, we stop feeling it the same way.

So I’ve been trying to put words to what I think is missing.

The best way I can say it right now is this:

Belief-Immersed Art.

Art that doesn’t detach from meaning or purpose.
Art where everything—story, sound, image, emotion—is aligned toward something deeper.

Not just immersive… but grounded.

Because the most meaningful experiences I’ve had with art weren’t the most technically impressive.

They were the ones that felt true. I know we are losing the idea of truth... but we also know it is there, whether we admit it or not.

And maybe that’s the tension I’m starting to see, both in Nietzsche and in our culture:

What happens when art becomes powerful… but untethered?

Could that be a clue to the growing irrelevance of Hollywood?

What makes movies- plays- music- pictures meaningful?- All of the elements allow the story to touch deeper. We don't finish an artistic experience and say, 'those were impressive wires and computer chips'- we are impressed with it as a story it resonates somehow in the soul.

BTW- this INCLUDES our studies and theology.... These are not conventional gadgets to take out play with and put away. They go beyond the mind, soften the heart, and get us into the story of the God of Victory and Love. This is not a cold test tube tale, it is a drama, full of conflict and courage- love and healing, hope and joy. 

And what would it look like to create something that doesn’t just capture attention—but actually reaches the soul?

I used to worry that we are losing a generation who no longer wants to think- but in some way we would even be worse off if we lost the ability to feel!

Nietzsche once wrote, “j’aime l’art comme pouvoir”—I love art as power. That’s a sobering thought. We tend to treat art as entertainment, something to pass through quickly, without considering its influence. But art is not passive. It forms us. It shapes perception, stirs emotion, and quietly reinforces what we come to see as meaningful. If art truly carries that kind of power, then the question isn’t whether it affects us—it’s whether it’s rooted in something worth believing.

I don’t have a clean answer yet- to be continued……

Spring break will be a little bit on the Appalachian Trail and a few days in D.C.- good time to get away, read, pray, and ponder....

Curse the Thorns

This idea began during my Hebrews study a few months back (actually last fall).

The thoughts re-appear when I get tired and when the curse of thorns makes me curse the thorns.

In other words..... time for some rest and rain.

There are certain images in Scripture that don’t just appear once—they echo. You see them early, then again later, and by the time you reach the New Testament, they’ve taken on a deeper weight. Thorns are one of those images.

Hebrews 6:7–8 has always struck me because it feels both simple and unsettling at the same time:

"For land that has drunk the rain that often falls on it, and produces a crop useful to those for whose sake it is cultivated, receives a blessing from God. But if it bears thorns and thistles, it is worthless and near to being cursed, and its end is to be burned." (ESV)

When you read this, the imagery just carries me to Genesis, the parable of the sower, and so many other parts of the Bible.

The first time we see thorns in the Bible is in Genesis 3, right after the fall. God tells Adam that the ground is now cursed because of sin, and then He says something really specific—"thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for you." Before that moment, work was beautiful, restful, useful- never in vain. Afterward, we now have a major problem What once produced fruit now fights back.

So thorns aren’t just a farming problem. They’re a sign that something is wrong at the root level of creation. They’re a reminder that sin doesn’t just affect us internally—it spills out into everything.

Fast forward to Jesus, and He picks up that same image in the parable of the sower. He talks about seed that falls among thorns. At first, it grows. There’s life there. But then the thorns rise up and choke it out. And He explains it in a way that hits uncomfortably close to home—the cares of the world, the pull of wealth, all the competing desires of life… they crowd out what God is trying to grow.

That’s when it shifts from being about soil to being about the heart.

The problem isn’t that nothing is happening. It’s that too much is happening. There are other things growing alongside the Word, and eventually those things win. Not with a sudden blow, but slowly, quietly, over time.

And then you come to the cross, and something happens that almost feels too intentional to miss. The soldiers take thorns—those same symbols of the curse from Genesis—and they twist them into a crown and press it onto Jesus’ head.

Cruel- But also deeply symbolic.

The curse that entered the world through sin is now being placed on the head of the One who came to redeem it. Jesus doesn’t just deal with sin in the abstract—He steps into its consequences. He wears them.

Look at the Genesis 3 curse- pain, sweat, blood, thorns

Now look at Jesus on the cross- pain, sweat, blood, thorns

So when Hebrews talks about land that produces thorns being near to a curse, it’s not speaking in a vacuum. It’s pulling from a story we’ve already seen unfold.

The rain falls on both fields. That part is important. God’s grace, His truth, His patience—it’s not scarce. It comes again and again. The difference isn’t in what is given. It’s in what is produced.

That’s the part that sits heavy. When I see WHERE this verse shows up in Hebrews, it is a dangerous warning... one of those passages that shake you to wake you. It is where theologians grapple with a question of perseverance. 

Because it means it’s possible to receive and still not respond. To hear and still drift. To be exposed to grace and yet slowly allow other things to take over.

So that becomes a heart cry when I feel weary and distracted —"Help me learn to curse the thorns and drink the rain."

If the thorns represent everything that chokes out life—distraction, compromise, misplaced priorities—then "cursing" them isn’t passive. It’s a decision. It’s choosing not to make peace with what’s killing growth. It’s recognizing that some things in my life don’t need to be managed—they need to be uprooted.

But at the same time, there’s the other side of it: drink the rain.

Because this isn’t about trying harder in our own strength. The rain is still falling. Grace is still being given. God is still at work, still speaking, still calling us back. The question is whether we’re actually receiving it in a way that leads to fruit.

And sometimes that process isn’t comfortable. Pruning never is. Letting go of things that feel normal—even things that feel necessary—can feel like loss. But Scripture keeps reminding us that God’s goal isn’t just activity. It’s fruitfulness.

That’s where this whole thread leads. From Genesis to the parables to the cross to Hebrews, the question stays the same, even if it’s asked in different ways:

What is growing in our lives?

Not what are you exposed to. Not what have you heard. Not what do you agree with. But what is actually being produced?

Because in the end, the field never lies.

And yet, even here, there’s hope. The same Jesus who wore the thorns is the one who calls us back when we drift. The warning in Hebrews is real, but it’s not disconnected from grace. It’s meant to wake us up, not push us away.

So the prayer behind the song is simple, but it’s not easy:

Don’t let my heart grow cold. Don’t let me drift away.

Teach me to hold the line. To walk the narrow way.

Not by ignoring the thorns, but by dealing with them.

Not by refusing the rain, but by receiving it deeply.

Because I don’t just want to avoid the curse.

I want to become something that actually bears fruit.

"If I can learn to curse the thorns and drink the rain."

Song link: Curse the Thorns

Where Do We Go When the Light Fades Away?

There’s a question that quietly hangs over our age, even if we rarely say it out loud:

Where do we go when the light fades away?

For centuries Western civilization lived with a shared framework of meaning—moral boundaries, transcendent truth, and the assumption that reality itself had an order we didn’t invent.

But something changed.

Many today celebrate the idea that we have finally thrown off the restraints of the past. We are told we are free now—free to define truth, free to construct identity, free to determine our own moral path.

But beneath the celebration, there is a growing sense of unease.

Because when every voice becomes its own authority, something strange begins to happen: the ground beneath us starts to move.

A Warning from an Ancient Book

The Bible describes a similar moment in Israel’s history. The book of Judges ends with a haunting summary of the culture at that time:

“In those days there was no king in Israel. Everyone did what was right in his own eyes.”
— Judges 21:25

At first glance, that might sound like freedom. No king. No authority. Everyone deciding for themselves.

But the stories leading up to that verse tell a darker story—violence, chaos, moral collapse, and communities unraveling.

The problem was not simply political leadership. The deeper issue was the loss of a shared moral reference point.

When everyone becomes their own authority, there is no longer a common compass.

Nietzsche’s Madman

In the 19th century, the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche wrote a famous parable that feels eerily relevant today.

In The Gay Science, he describes a madman running into a marketplace carrying a lantern in the daylight, crying out:

“I seek God! I seek God!”

The crowd laughs at him. Many of them already believed God was irrelevant.

Then the madman delivers a shocking declaration:

“God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.”

But the point of the story is often misunderstood. Nietzsche was not celebrating this moment.

He was warning about its consequences.

The madman continues:

“What did we do when we unchained the earth from its sun?
Whither is it moving now?
Are we not plunging continually?”

Nietzsche saw something coming that many people around him did not yet recognize: if the foundation of transcendent truth disappears, the moral and philosophical structure built on top of it cannot hold forever.

In other words, once the sun is gone, the darkness eventually follows.

Freedom Without Form

This is where the Christian philosopher Francis Schaeffer spoke with remarkable clarity.

In his book How Should We Then Live?, Schaeffer argued that Western culture was gradually embracing what he called “freedom without form.”

People wanted absolute personal freedom—freedom from moral limits, freedom from inherited truth, freedom from external authority.

But Schaeffer warned that freedom without form cannot sustain itself.

Without a structure of truth to guide it, freedom begins to collapse inward.

When every individual becomes their own source of truth, society does not become more stable—it becomes more fragmented.

Soon the question shifts from “What is right?” to “Who has the power to decide?”

And that is when freedom slowly begins to disappear.

When the Light Fades

We may not carry lanterns through marketplaces like Nietzsche’s madman, but many people today feel the same unease he described.

The old moral landmarks seem to be disappearing. Institutions that once provided stability feel uncertain. Even the idea of truth itself is often treated as negotiable.

So the question returns:

Where do we go when the light fades away?

The answer may not lie in inventing new truths or constructing new moral systems from scratch.

Instead, it may require rediscovering something older—something that was never ours to create in the first place.

Because if the light did not originate with us, it also means its source has never truly disappeared.

The real challenge is whether we are willing to look for it again.

My attempts to capture this in a song-

So this is my 3rd time and in some ways I feel like it keeps failing- maybe too philosophical-

1st try: The Madness

2nd Try: Lamps in the Light

And they didn't quite work...

so I turned it more into a story.

3rd try- The Lantern Man

The song Lantern Man (A Parable) pushes this question one step further.

In the story, a man walks through a small town carrying a lantern in broad daylight. The people laugh at him. They mock him. Some ignore him completely. To the town, he looks like a fool—an odd relic clinging to something that no longer makes sense.

But the lantern is not for the daylight.

It is a warning about the darkness.

In many ways, that image echoes the strange calling of the Old Testament prophets. When God spoke through them, they often did things that seemed bizarre or embarrassing in order to wake people up.

Ezekiel, for example, was commanded to perform actions that must have looked absurd to those watching:

• He lay on his side for hundreds of days to symbolize Israel’s coming judgment (Ezekiel 4).

• He cooked food over a fire made from dung as a sign of coming hardship (Ezekiel 4:12–15).

• He shaved his head and beard with a sword and divided the hair to represent the fate of Jerusalem (Ezekiel 5).

• At one point he was even told to pack his belongings and dig through a wall to leave the city in front of everyone, symbolizing exile (Ezekiel 12).

To the surrounding culture, the prophets must have looked strange—maybe even ridiculous.

Yet their actions carried a message: something was wrong, and people needed to wake up.

In a similar way, sharing the message of Christ in our time can sometimes make us appear just as strange.

When we speak about truth in a world that believes truth is relative…
When we talk about sin in a culture that prefers affirmation…
When we point people toward Christ as the source of life and meaning…

we may look a little like that lantern carrier in the marketplace.

Out of step, unfashionable, perhaps even foolish.

But if Nietzsche’s warning was correct—if a culture really can unchain itself from its moral sun—then the question becomes unavoidable:

Are we willing to carry the lantern anyway?

Because without a source of truth beyond ourselves, we are not truly navigating the world.

We are simply wandering through it.

And without direction, we are not enlightened—we are just stumbling in the fading light.

Send me a note- which one did you like the best?

Verse 1 In an old backwoods town Where the roads run thin and dry There’s a man who walks the market With a lantern in broad daylight. Children laugh and trail behind him, Men just shake their heads and grin, “Still searching for your God out here?” They shout as he walks in. Chorus Where do we turn when the lights burn out? When the stars we trusted fall? What still holds when the noise dies down When there’s no clear voice at all? He keeps walking through the laughter and the strain— That quiet Lantern Man. Verse 2 They say he’s been here years now, Ever since the mill shut down, Since the preacher left the pulpit And the truth left this town. One day someone asked him laughing, “What are you trying to prove?” He said, “You tore the sky from meaning— Now tell me how you move.” Chorus Where do we turn when the lights burn out? When the stars we trusted fall? What still holds when the noise dies down When there’s no clear voice at all? He keeps searching through the dust and shifting sand— That stubborn Lantern Man. Verse 3 One night when the crowd had drifted And the square was standing still, I asked him why he carried Fire against their will. He said, “Freedom without form breaks apart, It bends until it frays. Doing what is right in our own eyes Leaves us lost halfway.” Bridge “Not every truth arrives in thunder, Not every answer roars. Some restore the shape of things By whispering what matters more.” Final Chorus So where do we turn when the lights burn out? When the night outlasts the day? What still leads when the ground gives way And the old paths fade to gray? He said, “You don’t need thunder to call you back— Just a voice that stays.” Outro Now sometimes when the town goes dark And the road runs out of plan, I swear I see a lantern glow In the hand of that old man. No firestorm, no shaking ground— Just a quiet light again. Walking slow through the silent streets, That steady Lantern Man.

WISDOM from Proverbs 9

This post/song was inspired by a devotion last night from Dr. Scott Redd.....

We now come to the last of the introductory passages before the listing of individual proverbs. Proverbs 9 sets the stage with two feminine personifications: Wisdom and Folly.

Wisdom builds her house. She hews her pillars. She prepares her table.
Folly lounges at the door, loud and seductive, offering what is stolen.

Caught between them stands the simpleton — the unformed, the inexperienced — really a personification of us all. The question hangs in the air: do we grow up into life through maturity, or do we drift downward into destructive traps?

Proverbs 9 reads almost like a scene.

It is as though you open the book just to read a line — thin paper trembling under lamplight — and instead of silent ink, the page begins to speak. Two voices rise from the text.

One stands where the high stones meet the sky. Her table is set. Bread laid open. Wine poured clear. No rush in her voice. No hidden claim. “Come and eat. Leave your simple ways. Walk in understanding.”

The other leans where the alley bends. Honeyed laughter. Silver promises. “Stolen water is sweet. Secret bread is pleasant. Come inside. Just close the door.”

Both sound like a friend.

And the simple one stands at the crossing of stair and street, no crown, no scar, no chosen name — only hunger. Which way will he go?

There is a third character here as well: the scoffer, the mocker.

Verses 7–8 sober us. Correct a scoffer and you invite abuse. Reprove him and you injure yourself. There is a hardness here beyond simple immaturity. This is not the inexperienced soul who can be formed — this is the one who resents formation itself.

So how do we discern when someone has crossed from simple to scoffer?

I wrestle with the same tension when I consider Jesus’ command not to cast pearls before swine. At what point does continued correction become harmful rather than helpful?

First, discernment itself is a fruit of pursuing wisdom. As we grow in godly wisdom, we gain the skill of recognizing when a heart is teachable and when it has become entrenched. There comes a moment when loving persistence turns into enabling hardness. At that point, wisdom may require withdrawal.

Second, we must trust God’s regenerative power. Even if we misjudge the moment, God does not lose those He intends to redeem. Salvation is not finally secured by the precision of our discernment, but by the sovereignty of His grace.

Finally, we fast and pray — especially when the mocker is someone we love. A child. A friend. A spouse. We have all seen those who seem defiant almost from birth. Not honest questioners. Not open wanderers. But hardened, cynical, darkened by resistance. In those cases, continued argument may only deepen callousness. It can be more loving to step back and plead with God to do what only He can do.

Sometimes that pleading is painful. You watch a world begin to crumble. You pray for a flicker of softness. And you leave condemnation where it belongs — with God alone.

But most of us are not fixed scoffers. We are the simple — still forming, still choosing.

And Proverbs 9 returns us to the table.

Look at the parallel pleas:

Lady Wisdom: “Come and eat my bread and drink my wine.”
Woman Folly: “Stolen water is sweet, and secret bread is pleasant.”

Two meals. Two invitations. Two ends.

One road runs slowly upward into life.
The other slips quietly downward — deep in the realm of the dead.

Both sound appealing in the moment. Both promise satisfaction. Only one sustains.

So we pause and remember the true bread and the true wine.

Christ has set a table as well. Not stolen. Not secret. Not hidden in darkness. Openly given. His body. His blood. Life offered freely to the simple who will turn and come.

The question of Proverbs 9 is not merely theoretical.

Who do you want to dine with?

Song: Deep in the Realm of the Dead (Proverbs 9)