My View on the Writer of Hebrews

Note: The author of course is God, breathing the Holy Spirit- however I have a theory that I lean to on the human transcriber of this amazing book of the Bible. 

As I’ve been studying Hebrews again, one observation keeps capturing my attention: the writer of Hebrews is reading the Old Testament in Greek, not Hebrew.

That may sound like a technicality, but once you begin to notice it, it opens up a world of interpretive insight—and it even adds weight to the question of who wrote this incredible book.

LXX and MT—Two Old Testaments?

The traditional Old Testament is preserved in what’s called the Masoretic Text (MT)—the authoritative Hebrew version, carefully copied by Jewish scribes for centuries. Most of our modern English translations (like the ESV, NASB, and NIV) are based on this Hebrew text.

But long before Jesus walked the earth—around the 3rd to 2nd century BC—a group of Jewish scholars in Alexandria translated the Hebrew Scriptures into Greek. That translation is known as the Septuagint, or LXX (named for the tradition of 70 translators).

The Septuagint became the standard Bible for Greek-speaking Jews scattered throughout the Roman Empire. And when the New Testament writers quoted Scripture, especially when writing to a Greek-speaking audience, they often used the Septuagint.

It used to bother me when I looked up quoted OT verses in the New Testament. I would go back and read the referenced text and it read differently in places.... but God was faithful to strengthen me as I dug into it. If you are ever reading the Bible and it seems mysterious, or contradictory, pray to the Lord and in time He will strengthen you. That has been my experience now for over 40 years!

Nowhere is this more clearly seen than in Hebrews 1.

Example 1: Hebrews 1:7 and Psalm 104:4

In Hebrews 1:7, the writer quotes Psalm 104:4:

Hebrews 1:7 (quoting the Septuagint/ LXX):
ὁ ποιῶν τοὺς ἀγγέλους αὐτοῦ πνεύματα, καὶ τοὺς λειτουργοὺς αὐτοῦ πυρὸς φλόγα
"He makes his angels spirits, and his ministers a flame of fire."

Compare that to the Hebrew Masoretic Text of Psalm 104:4:

Psalm 104:4 (Hebrew - Masoretic Text/ MT):
עֹשֶׂה מַלְאָכָיו רוּחוֹת מְשָׁרְתָיו אֵשׁ לֹהֵט
"He makes the winds his messengers, flames of fire his servants."

The word order and subject-object relationships differ. In the Hebrew, winds and fire are made into God’s messengers and ministers. But in the Septuagint (and Hebrews), the angels themselves are turned into wind and fire.

It’s a subtle difference, but in Hebrews, the emphasis is on the angels as created, elemental forces—changeable, majestic, but not eternal. That sets up the contrast with the Son in verse 8, who is addressed as God, seated on an eternal throne.

Example 2: Hebrews 1:6 and Deuteronomy 32:43

Hebrews 1:6 provides a fascinating example of how the New Testament relies on the Septuagint (LXX), the Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible, revealing a striking difference from the Hebrew Masoretic Text (MT):

Hebrews 1:6 (quoting the LXX):
καὶ προσκυνησάτωσαν αὐτῷ πάντες ἄγγελοι θεοῦ
"Let all God’s angels worship Him."

This quotation is drawn from Deuteronomy 32:43, but the differences between the Hebrew and Greek texts are significant.

In the Hebrew Masoretic Text, Deuteronomy 32:43 reads:
הַרְנִינוּ גוֹיִם עַמּוֹ כִּי־דַם עֲבָדָיו יִקּוֹם...
"Rejoice, O nations, with His people; for He will avenge the blood of His servants..."

Notably, the Hebrew text makes no mention of angels or worship, focusing instead on nations rejoicing and God’s vengeance.

However, the Septuagint expands the verse significantly:
εὐφράνθητε, οὐρανοί, ἅμα αὐτῷ, καὶ προσκυνησάτωσαν αὐτῷ πάντες ἄγγελοι θεοῦ
"Rejoice, O heavens, with Him, and let all God’s angels worship Him."

This additional material in the Greek—absent in the Masoretic Text—introduces the heavens and all God’s angels worshiping Him. This provides the author of Hebrews with a powerful prooftext to demonstrate the Son’s superiority, as even angels are called to worship Him (Hebrews 1:4–14). This interpretive angle is simply not available in the Hebrew text.

This lead to  a thought and some research.....

Why the difference? 

The Septuagint may reflect a different Hebrew source text or a theological expansion by its translators. Notably, fragments from the Dead Sea Scrolls include a longer version of Deuteronomy 32:43 that aligns more closely with the LXX, mentioning "sons of God" or "heavenly beings," which could correspond to "angels." This suggests the LXX’s reading may preserve an older or alternative tradition.

So What Does This Tell Us About the Author?

The reliance on the Septuagint here is not an isolated case. The author of Hebrews frequently draws on the LXX (e.g., Psalm 95:7–11 in Hebrews 3:7–11), reflecting its widespread use in early Christianity. This example underscores how textual traditions shaped New Testament theology, particularly in affirming the Son’s divine status. Throughout Hebrews, the author uses the Septuagint’s structure and phrasing—even when it differs from the Hebrew Masoretic Text. This tells us that the author:

• He read and interpreted the Old Testament in Greek.

• He was comfortable building theological arguments from the Greek translation, even when it deviated from the Hebrew.

• He was highly literate, skilled in rhetoric, and familiar with Jewish traditions from a Greek-speaking context.

And that leads me to the question of authorship.

Why I Lean Toward Apollos

There are many theories about who wrote Hebrews. It’s anonymous for a reason—perhaps intentionally—but the internal clues point toward someone like Apollos.

In Acts 18:24–28, we meet Apollos:

“Now a Jew named Apollos, a native of Alexandria, came to Ephesus. He was an eloquent man, competent in the Scriptures... fervent in spirit... he powerfully refuted the Jews in public, showing by the Scriptures that the Christ was Jesus.”

That sounds like someone who could write Hebrews. Apollos was:

• From Alexandria, where the Septuagint was produced and widely used.

• A gifted communicator, eloquent and mighty in the Scriptures.

• Trained enough in theology to defend the Messiahship of Jesus from the Old Testament.

He’s mentioned again in 1 Corinthians, where Paul praises him as a fellow minister of the gospel, even acknowledging that some people in Corinth preferred Apollos’s preaching style: “I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth” (1 Cor. 3:6).

Martin Luther was one of the first to suggest Apollos as the author of Hebrews, and that influenced me of course! Apollos fits the context: a Hellenistic Jew, steeped in Scripture, educated in the Greco-Roman world, and able to write with force, depth, and beauty.

Does Not Damper My High View of Scripture

I’m struck by how God uses such different voices to reveal His Word. Sometimes it’s the earthy boldness of Peter, or the passionate logic of Paul. And sometimes (possibly) it may be a brilliant Alexandrian preacher who burns with Scripture and sees Jesus woven through every line.

Hebrews may remain anonymous, but the fingerprints of a teacher like Apollos are all over it. And even if we never know for sure, the clarity and majesty of its message remain: the Son is supreme, eternal, and worthy of worship—even by the angels.

And let me say this clearly—none of this study diminishes my high view of Scripture. On the contrary, it deepens it. Seeing how God sovereignly used languages, translations, cultures, and people to bring His truth to light only increases my awe. I more fully embrace the providence of God to produce, protect, and promote His Word across centuries and empires.

This isn’t textual trivia—it’s treasure. Beautiful, rich, Spirit-breathed treasure. The kind that rewards those who dig deeply and invites us to place holy thoughts in our imaginations. The Word of God is not brittle or fragile—it is alive, multi-layered, and full of glory.

__________________

post script:

Scholars who are skeptical of inspiration or divine authorship sometimes say things like:

“The New Testament misquotes the Old Testament.”

“The NT writers build theological arguments on mistranslations.”

“Scripture evolved, and these changes show human error.”

They often point to places like Hebrews 1:6 or 1:7, where the Septuagint and Hebrew text diverge.

On the surface, it can feel unsettling. After all, if Hebrews 1:6 quotes a line about angels worshiping Christ that isn’t in the Hebrew Old Testament, how can we say the Bible is consistent?

But this is where we need to move from fear to faith—and into deeper study.

The New Testament Writers Knew What They Were Doing

The writers of the New Testament weren’t careless with Scripture. They were using the Scripture available to their audience—and for Greek-speaking Jews and Christians throughout the Roman Empire, that meant the Septuagint.

The Septuagint wasn’t a random or flawed translation—it was the Word of God in Greek, translated by devout Jewish scholars, centuries before Jesus. It was recognized and trusted, and in many cases, it even reflects an older or alternate Hebrew textual tradition that may have been lost in the MT stream.

So when Hebrews quotes the LXX, it’s not an error. It’s a Spirit-inspired use of the Word of God as received and known in that time and context.

Theological Arguments Still Stand

Even when the wording is different, the doctrinal point remains intact—or is even enhanced. In the case of Hebrews 1:

Psalm 104:4 in Greek emphasizes angels as changeable forces—supporting the contrast with Christ’s eternal throne.

Deuteronomy 32:43 in Greek includes the worship of angels—fitting beautifully with Hebrews’ theme of Christ’s supremacy.

These are not manipulations or dishonest proof-texts. They are legitimate, Spirit-led readings of God’s Word, consistent with the unfolding revelation of Jesus Christ.

God’s Sovereignty Over the Whole Process

God is not limited by language barriers or textual variants. He was working through scribes, translators, apostles, and even diverse manuscripts to bring His truth to the world. The fact that a book like Hebrews—so rich, complex, and Christ-exalting—uses the Greek Scriptures as its foundation is not a problem.

Faithful Christians Have Always Affirmed This

Even early Church Fathers, Reformers, and modern scholars who hold a high view of inspiration and inerrancy have understood this issue.

Augustine and Jerome debated the Latin Bible's use of Greek vs. Hebrew texts—but both saw God at work in the process.

Luther, who leaned on the Hebrew Bible for translation, still believed Apollos could have written Hebrews using the LXX.

Today, most evangelical scholars affirm that the truth and authority of Scripture are preserved—not in identical wording across all versions, but in the Spirit-guided message and unity of God’s Word.

The Radiance- Hebrews 1:3

 

Hebrews 1:3- I can't move on from this powerful text- 

“He is the radiance of the glory of God, and the exact imprint of his nature, and he upholds the universe by the word of his power.”
—Hebrews 1:3

There are verses in Scripture so rich, so full of truth and beauty, that they beg to be read slowly. Hebrews 1:3 is one of them. It’s cosmic, personal, and weighty—all at once.

Radiance, not Reflection

Jesus is not just a mirror of God’s glory. He is the radiance—the outshining, the brilliance, the light that comes from the source itself. He is not merely like God; He is God made visible. The Greek word used here (apaugasma) evokes the blazing light of the sun—not the glow on a wall, but the sunbeams that hit your skin. It’s not borrowed glory. It is glory emanating from its source.

When you want to know what God is like, you look at Jesus. He is “the exact imprint of His nature”—not a rough sketch or suggestion, but a precise expression. Just as an ancient seal leaves its image in wax, Jesus bears and reveals the full identity of God. His compassion, His power, His humility, His anger at injustice—these are not merely godly traits. They are God Himself in action.

The Word of His Power

The phrasing here is unexpected: we usually think of the “power of His word.” But Scripture says He upholds all things by the word of His power. It’s a small shift that carries a profound truth: His word is not just expressive—it is active, sustaining, and cosmic. It’s not merely that He has powerful words. It’s that His power goes forth through His Word, and that Word is Christ.

This echoes Psalm 33:6—“By the word of the Lord the heavens were made.” From creation to now, the universe is held together not by unseen forces but by the living, sustaining voice of the Son.

Tracing the Glory

The Greek word for glory, doxa, carries more than just the idea of brilliance or beauty—it echoes the Hebrew kavod, meaning weight or substance. God’s glory is not a passing sparkle; it is the heavy, holy presence that bends knees and fills space with awe. When the Bible speaks of glory, it speaks of something felt as much as seen—something that rests with gravity on the soul.

The story of God’s glory runs like a golden thread through the Bible:

• In the wilderness, God’s glory descended in a cloud and fire.

• At Sinai, it shook the mountain.

• In the tabernacle and temple, it filled the space with unapproachable light.

• In Ezekiel’s vision, the glory departed—a terrible judgment.

• But then, in Bethlehem, the glory returned—not in fire, but in flesh.

“We have seen His glory, the glory of the only Son from the Father.” (John 1:14)

Now, because of Jesus, the radiance of God lives in us.

Paul says, “Christ in you, the hope of glory” (Colossians 1:27). We, the Church, are now temples of that same glory. We carry His radiance—not perfectly, but truly.

What Does This Mean?

It means your life, your words, your presence—all of it is meant to reflect the One who radiates God's glory. It means the same voice that holds galaxies together is the voice that calls your name.

It means you're not just waiting for glory—you’re part of it. Radiance dwells in you.

Let the weight of that change how we live today.

Song Link: The Radiance

"In Screens We Trust...?" Revisited and Rewritten – 2025

I originally posted this in 2015- it was not an easy topic then- that original post remains on jayopsis.com, here is an update:

We’re living in a time when truth is harder than ever to pin down. And more and more, I find myself alarmed—not just by what people believe, but how they come to believe it. The tools of deception have gotten stronger. The screens we stare at are more convincing than ever... and more capable of lying.

In 2015, I wrote about the tragedy in Ferguson and how social media, cable news, and presuppositions twisted the facts into opposing narratives. I wrote: "Ferguson is a microcosm of a real problem we have in the world of social media and 24-hour news for profit."

Now in 2025, I believe Ferguson was a preview of something worse. Because we’ve entered a world where even the evidence can be faked.

It used to be, “seeing is believing.” But now? Not anymore. We are rapidly losing our grip on what can be trusted.

We’re now seeing viral videos, photos, and audio clips so convincingly generated by AI that people will swear by them—defend them—act on them—without a second thought. They look real. They sound real. And sometimes, they're nothing more than digital puppetry.

We’re no longer victims of bad reporting. We’re victims of synthetic reality.

In Screens We Trust?

Back in his book Future Crimes (2015), Marc Goodman saw it coming. In Chapter 8—aptly titled "In Screens We Trust"—he began with a quote from the 1992 film Sneakers:

“The world isn’t run by weapons anymore, or energy, or money. It’s run by ones and zeros... It’s all about information—what we see and hear, how we work, what we think.”

That was fiction. Now it's frighteningly true.

We’ve all followed a GPS app that led us the wrong way—sometimes against our instincts. We ignored the little voice inside because we trusted the louder voice coming from the device.

But now, it’s bigger than directions. It’s entire realities being fabricated—events that never happened, confessions never spoken, faces and voices stitched together with chilling precision.

Deepfakes. Synthetic media. Fraudulent accounts and bot armies that manipulate perception on a massive scale.

Even back in 2014, Facebook admitted over 140 million fake accounts. That was before AI made it easy. Now, a person with zero followers this morning can post an AI-generated image of a political candidate “doing something horrible,” and by dinner, it’s trending. Fact-checkers arrive late to a room that’s already on fire.

We are drowning in information and starving for truth.

And the real danger isn’t just that these fakes exist. It’s that we want to believe them. If it supports our presuppositions, we embrace the lie. If it challenges us, we dismiss the truth. We don’t follow facts anymore—we recruit them to support our side.

The Most Dangerous Screen

Of all the screens in our lives—TVs, phones, laptops—the most deceptive one might just be the cable news screen. It pretends to inform. But most of the time, it affirms your bias, heightens your outrage, and deepens your division.

We're no longer asking, “What is true?” We’re asking, “What makes me feel justified?”

And in that environment, love loses.

The Power of Presuppositions

I’m haunted by a quote from an evangelical social commentator:

“How do you reach a generation that listens with its eyes and thinks with its feelings?”

It’s not easy. I see it in myself too. I can’t count how many times I’ve presented solid arguments only to see eyes glaze over—or how often I’ve clung to my view in the face of overwhelming counter-evidence. We all do it.

We claim to want truth, but what we really want is vindication.

What would it take for us to say: “I was wrong. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”?

Yielded and Still

In a world where everyone is screaming to be heard, I’m drawn to a quieter place.

Have Thine own way, Lord.
Have Thine own way.
Thou art the Potter, I am the clay...
While I am waiting, yielded and still.

What would happen if more of us started each day with that posture?

What if we stopped demanding our rights and started laying them down?

What if we stopped being so easily offended and started being willing to listen?

Rugged Individualism Meets Christ

I love this country, but our obsession with personal autonomy is becoming its downfall. As Tocqueville warned, no human authority deserves absolute power—not even ourselves.

The Constitution only works when governed by self-control. And self-control only works when governed by something greater—a Creator who calls us to truth, humility, and love.

We need something deeper than freedom—we need virtue.

A Route Out

So is there a way forward?

Yes. But it’s a high-cost path.

Everyone must commit to this one, simple rule:

Be hard on yourself. Be gracious to others.

That’s not a 50/50 deal. It’s 100/0. I bring my 100%, regardless of what comes back.

And I can only do that by the grace of God. Because the truth is—I fall short. I fail. I judge. I assume. I get lazy. I want to be right more than I want to be loving.

So at the end of every day, I pray:

There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.
(Romans 8:1)

I want to be someone who builds bridges, not burns them. Who serves others, even if they don't agree with me. Who tells the truth, but never with cruelty.

Because Jesus didn’t just tell the truth—He was the truth. And He died for those who rejected Him.

Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you. (Matthew 5:44)

If we lived more like that, maybe we wouldn’t need fake images to shape reality. We'd be living in a way that shapes it rightly.

The Lure and the Lie: Social Media’s Subtle Power

Let me say one more thing before I close: I’m deeply disturbed by what I see on social media—and I don’t mean just the content. I mean the effect it’s having on us.

The line between what’s real and what’s fake is almost impossible to see now. I’ve watched people—good, thoughtful people—share completely fabricated videos, AI-generated photos, and outrage-fueled stories that are absolutely false… and yet they spread like wildfire.

These aren’t just bad opinions anymore. These are designed lies. Manufactured to look real, feel real, and provoke real emotional reactions.

And the scariest part? It works. Because our hearts are already primed to believe what reinforces our worldview and reject what challenges it.

Social media thrives on that instinct. The algorithm rewards certainty and outrage, not humility and nuance. If you say, “I don’t know,” the machine ignores you. If you shout with confidence—no matter how wrong—you get amplified.

But here’s the real warning:

If we consume fake things long enough, we’ll start living fake lives.

We will become more angry than honest. More performative than prayerful. More eager to be seen as right than to be right in God’s eyes.

I’ve had to check myself. More than once, I’ve typed out a “truth bomb” and had to delete it. Why? Because even if it was true, it wasn’t loving. And truth without love becomes cruelty dressed as conviction.

So what do we do?

We test everything.

Beloved, do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits to see whether they are from God...
(1 John 4:1)

We remember that virality isn’t the same as validity. Just because something moves fast doesn't mean it's from God.

We stay yielded and still. We stay anchored to the unchanging Word, not the changing feed. We pursue truth, even when it hurts. We humble ourselves before posting, sharing, liking, or reacting.

And above all, we remember that truth is a Person. Jesus said:

“I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life.” (John 14:6)

We follow Him—not the influencers, not the noise, not the algorithm. Because the world is burning with deception, and the only safe path forward is lit by the Light of the World.

"Hello Hamlet, I am Shakespeare"

I just started a fresh study of the book of Hebrews, and I already know it’s going to be a rich journey.

I ordered Hebrews: An Anchor for the Soul by R. Kent Hughes (from the Preaching the Word series), and even before diving too deep, I’ve been enjoying doing some background work on the book—looking into authorship theories, setting, and themes. So much mystery around who wrote it, but no mystery about its purpose: to lift up Jesus as better. Better than angels. Better than Moses. Better than anything that came before.

And right from chapter 1, it’s beautiful.

“Long ago, at many times and in many ways, God spoke to our fathers by the prophets,
but in these last days he has spoken to us by his Son…” (Hebrews 1:1–2)

That thought alone humbles and excites me: God wants to be known.

He didn’t leave us guessing in the dark. He started with creation—His fingerprints in everything. Then He spoke through the prophets—flashes of truth, glimmers of hope. And now? Through His Son. The radiance of His glory. The exact imprint of His nature.

And here I am, sitting with an open Bible and an eager heart, wanting to know Him more. Not because I figured out how to reach Him, but because He came to me first.

Hughes captures a great analogy - one from C.S. Lewis in Surprised by Joy (pg 227). Lewis talked about a common objection from unbelievers:

“Man can’t know God — it would be like Hamlet trying to know Shakespeare.”

At first glance, that sounds like a pretty airtight argument. Hamlet is just a character in a play—how could he ever know the playwright?

But Lewis brilliantly turned that idea around:

“Yes, but Shakespeare could write himself into the play.”

That’s the gospel.

God, the Author of all things, wrote Himself into the story. He entered our world — not just as a voice from the sky, but as a man we could see, touch, hear, and follow. Jesus is the divine character in the great story of redemption. He is the Word made flesh.

So here I am, at the beginning of Hebrews, grateful that I’m not trying to climb some invisible ladder to God. He’s the One who descended, who speaks, who reveals, who writes Himself into my story — and yours.

Let’s see where this journey takes us. 

Invictus Anyone?

I’ve always appreciated the poem Invictus, especially knowing how it helped sustain Nelson Mandela during his 27 years in prison. There’s something noble in the sheer will to endure—something God-given about the drive to live, create, conquer, win, and overcome. I never want to discourage that instinct. It’s part of how we’re wired.

Survivor stories often highlight that same spirit—the deep inner determination that pushes people past every limit. That kind of resolve is admirable.

But taken to its ultimate conclusion, Invictus is eternally dangerous. The truths it leans on—courage, perseverance, grit—are only borrowed from the deeper Truth. To persevere is good. But to recognize the living God in the middle of our pain and struggle? That’s better. That’s where transformation begins.

We all live by some kind of salvation story. The question is: what are we trusting in? At the end of the day, every worldview boils down to one of two options—salvation is either from God, or it’s from ourselves.

The idea that we can save ourselves isn’t new. It’s the old tower of Babel story repackaged: “Let us make a name for ourselves. Let us build our own way to heaven.” Whether that’s through good deeds, rituals, knowledge, or even sheer determination, man remains his own savior in every religion except Christianity.

But self-salvation—especially when it forgets God altogether—eventually takes a toll.

My oldest daughter used to be an ER nurse. Some of the stories she shared from that season in her life have stuck with me. She once helped hold the head of a gunshot victim as the family wheeled him into the emergency room themselves. Just one example among many.

But maybe the hardest thing to hear was how normalized death had become. The atmosphere she described wasn’t one of fear or mourning—it was often resignation. Sometimes, even the families didn’t cry. It was just the expected next step in a cycle of crime, addiction, despair, and decay. Life, it seemed, had lost its value.

And I can’t help but wonder—does that loss of reverence for life go hand in hand with a loss of the knowledge of God? If we thought more about Him, would we think more about eternity? And if we took eternity seriously, would we live with more purpose, with more humility, with more hope?

Hell isn’t a comfortable topic. But it’s one Jesus spoke about more than anyone else in the Bible. He called it real. He described it in haunting, unforgettable images: fire that doesn’t consume, worms that don’t die, outer darkness filled with weeping and gnashing of teeth. If those are metaphors, the reality must be worse than we can imagine.

C.S. Lewis wrote about this with his usual insight. He said the doors of hell are locked from the inside. That the damned are rebels who get exactly what they demanded—the right to rule their own lives. And in one of his most sobering quotes, he put it this way: “There are only two kinds of people in the end: those who say to God, ‘Thy will be done,’ and those to whom God says, in the end, ‘Thy will be done.’”

That’s what inspired my poem Conquered. It’s a response to Invictus—not in mockery, but in redirection. It’s not weakness to be broken before God. It’s not surrender in defeat—it’s surrender to life. To grace. To the arms of a Father who is more powerful than us, but who invites us into joy.

It's OK to lose when losing means being found.

It's OK to bow when the one you're bowing to is also the one who lifts you up.

You don't need to understand everything. You just need to be embraced by the One who does.

It is never too late. Your sin is never too great.

Let the Savior in. He’s already reaching for you.

Here is my poem again- 

Jayopsis
CONQUERED

Out of the grace that smothers me,
Shining like the sun and making me whole,
I praise my Father that in His glee
Broke and conquered my unbending soul.

In His providential and settled stance
I beat my chest and cried aloud.
His stripes of purpose and romance
Left me stripped, humbled, and bowed.

But out of the prison of wrath and tears
I rested in a couch of crisscrossed shade,
At peace and secure now for eternal years
I journey dark paths joyously unafraid.

It matters not the Accuser at the gate
Charging my many dark blots on the scroll.
God, the I AM is Master of my fate:
Jesus Christ the captain of my soul.

A Question Asked- What Were My Early Life Stories?

I received a question from a jayopsis.com reader/SoundCloud listener about my early influences. Here is my response- thought I would keep it sharable..... 

Before I could read, my mom was already planting the seeds. I remember the soft cadence of her voice as she read aloud—books, Bible stories, anything she could get her hands on. That was my first classroom: a living room, a worn couch, and a mom with the patience of Job and the voice of an angel. She probably didn’t know it then, but she was shaping a lifelong love of words.

Then came comic books—those colorful, often chaotic gateways into reading for so many of us. I didn’t know I was “learning to read.” I just wanted to know what happened next to Batman, Sgt. Rock, or Spider-Man. I absorbed dialogue bubbles and story arcs, plot twists and punchlines, all while sounding out words like “invulnerable” and “injustice.” They were fun, fast, and full of wonder—and they did more for my reading skills than any phonics workbook.

Alongside the comics were the 'monsters'. I subscribed to Famous Monsters of Filmland, watched grainy clips of Bela Lugosi, Boris Karloff, and Lon Chaney Jr. on an old 35mm projector, and immersed myself in the old Universal horror universe. These weren’t just scary stories—they were tragic tales. Monsters that bled, grieved, and longed for connection. They taught me empathy in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time.

As I got older, I devoured The Hardy Boys, dipped into young adult mysteries, and somewhere along the way I read Frankenstein—the book, not just the movie. That changed everything. Mary Shelley’s tale wasn’t a horror story—it was a lament, a mirror held up to science, society, and the human soul. It was beautiful and heartbreaking. From that point on, I was hooked on real literature.

Those early tastes turned into a full-course meal when I majored in English at the University of Alabama. I discovered the power of Shakespeare’s soliloquies, the sadness of Gatsby’s green light, and the searing honesty of Hemingway’s prose. Eventually, I taught English and literature from 1991 to 2002, hoping to pass on some of that same spark to my students—the way stories can shape how we see the world, how we see each other, and how we see ourselves.

I also have to mention the English Romantics- you can find the first of many posts on them here: 

Post #1 English Romantics- Blake (2022 series)

I eventually moved into school administration, but I’ve never stopped loving story. The monsters, the heroes, the mysteries, the messes—they all taught me to look beneath the surface. To see complexity in people. To look for light in the dark. To believe that stories aren’t just entertainment—they’re soul-forming.

So here's to my mom, to comics and Karloff, to Joe and Frank Hardy, to Victor Frankenstein, and to every page that led me here.

"I Am Your Friend": Re-visiting "Dances with Wolves"

I hadn’t seen Dances with Wolves since it came out in 1990. I remembered vague impressions—wide-open landscapes, slow storytelling, and a swelling score that made something deep inside me ache. I was 25 back then, and I remember walking out of the theater feeling like I had just witnessed something important, though I couldn’t quite explain why.

Watching it again recently, in small portions over several quiet evenings, I was struck not only by the epic beauty of the cinematography and John Barry’s unforgettable music, but by something more profound: the tension in how we label people—especially the use of the word savage.

As a reminder, Dances with Wolves tells the story of Lt. John Dunbar, a disillusioned Union soldier who, through an unlikely assignment to a remote frontier outpost, comes into contact with a Lakota Sioux tribe. As he gradually befriends them—learning their language, witnessing their family bonds, sharing meals and struggles—he is drawn into their way of life. He becomes known by a new name: Dances with Wolves.

The film won seven Academy Awards, including Best Picture and Best Director for Kevin Costner. It was a surprise success on every level. But more than that, it dared to invert the narrative of the “Western.” Instead of portraying Native Americans as hostile and primitive, it gave them depth, dignity, and voice.

The Word “Savage”

As I rewatched the film, it is easy to see an editors viewpoint- challenging the audience to question-Who is the real savage? Instead of bristling over what may be virtue signaling, it is a reality that we ALL have 'savage' tendencies.. and the movie attempts to find that balance, it is more subtle than current Hollywood movies that beat you to death with the UN-subtle propaganda.

The word savage has a long and telling history. It comes from the Latin silvaticus, meaning of the woods—something wild, uncultivated, untamed. Over time, it became a pejorative term used by colonial powers to describe those who didn’t share European customs or values. Savage didn’t just mean someone wild—it came to mean less than human.

In the film, we see soldiers and settlers apply this label to the Lakota, justifying their fear, cruelty, and eventual violence. But as the story unfolds, it becomes clear that the so-called savages are, in fact, the ones showing the greatest humanity—welcoming a stranger, showing loyalty, living with courage and purpose.

This tension isn't new to literature. The phrase “noble savage” is actually a literary trope that traces back at least to the 17th and 18th centuries, particularly in Enlightenment thinking. I remember first reading that phrase while reading literary criticism of James Fenimore Cooper, Last of the Mohicans.  The idea shows up, implicitly or explicitly, in the Leatherstocking Tales, especially through Cooper’s portrayal of Native characters like Chingachgook and Uncas. 

These characters were seen as tragic figures—noble, wise, but doomed to extinction as progress advanced. Many writers idealized indigenous people as uncorrupted by civilization—a kind of purity lost to those in the developed world. It was a reaction to the excesses and hypocrisies of European society, but it still carried its own kind of stereotype.

What Dances with Wolves does so well is allow these individuals to be neither villain nor ideal—just human. With flaws, virtues, wisdom, and pain. The real transformation, then, happens not in them—but in Dunbar, who learns to see and value what he once didn’t understand.

So where did the film leave me this time?

There is a long road between the phrase “You are a savage” and the statement “I am your friend.”

Those words—spoken by Wind in His Hair in one of the film’s final, most emotional moments—hit me harder than they did 35 years ago. It is a public declaration of friendship, trust, and shared identity across a chasm that once seemed unbridgeable.

Distance is important here- the farther we get away from other humans tend to make them seem more savage than they may be.

We are quick today to label people as “other.” Out of the woods. Not like us. We still do it, just with updated vocabulary. And every time we do, we’re shrinking their humanity to make space for our pride.

But Scripture teaches something deeper. All people bear the image of God. That means they are infinitely valuable—not because of how they dress or what culture shaped them, but because God Himself has imprinted His likeness upon them.

The gospel offers us an even more powerful transformation. Paul writes in Romans 5:1:

“Therefore, since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

There was a time when we, too, were at war with God. Not in open rebellion always—but in quiet indifference, self-reliance, and sin. But God, in His mercy, did not label us “savage” and leave us outside the camp. Instead, He sent His Son.

Jesus says in John 15:15, “I no longer call you servants… I have called you friends.”

The great “I AM” became I am your friend.

That is the truest reversal. The divine becoming human. The innocent dying for the guilty. The justifier of the ungodly making peace—real peace—where there had once been separation.

God closes the gap and we see Him differently as well!

Dances with Wolves reminded me not only of the fragility of labels, but the depth of what real friendship looks like. It requires humility, listening, sacrifice—and sometimes it means leaving your post and stepping into someone else’s world.

My prayer is that we walk the long road from judgment to friendship in our own lives—and we never forget the One who made that journey all the way to a cross, so we could go from enemy to friend, from savage to saved.

Song: Call Me Savage

The Conveyor (A Tribute to Edgar Allan Poe)

I have always believed that every man is given a singular obsession, a private altar before which he bows—perhaps in secret, perhaps in shame. Mine is not wealth, though I have that. Nor is it power, though I wield it like a scalpel. No, mine is a hunger more refined. More precise. You might call it cruelty, but that would be to miss the point. What I crave is control over every variable—to bring chaos to heel and watch it submit to purpose. There is no greater pleasure.

And if you are to judge me, I ask only this: Hear the story first. Then decide.

It was the winter of the fourth technocratic age. The old cities had been gutted by time, their ruins left to the dust and scavengers. The rich built upwards, in towers of self-cleaning glass and gold-trimmed automation. Everything below—the forgotten districts, the streets that never saw sun—was left to the feral and the failing. It was there, near the transit edge of Core West 9, that I met the man.

He stood near the security perimeter of the Arcadia building, beneath the long neon canopy that shimmered blue even in daylight. Thin, sunken-eyed, wrapped in a patchwork coat of old engineer's cloth—the kind of man security drones usually disintegrated without a second glance. But I was in a curious mood that morning. Perhaps even bored. And something in his stance caught my eye. Not the slump of the desperate, but a quiet tension—like a man rehearsing a pitch.

"You're not supposed to be here," I said, voice low, eyes flicking to the camera arc.

"I won't be long," he replied. His voice was crisp, professional. Precise. "I just need five minutes. I have an idea."

"They all have ideas."

"Not like this. This one's already half built."

I raised a brow. "Is that so?"

He nodded. "A culinary conveyor. A cooking machine. You feed it anything—meat, fowl, vegetables. It reads the item—composition, mass, internal temperature, desired finish—and applies exact heat and speed along the line to produce a perfect result. Every time."

"Inspired by what?"

"An old Burger King broiler from the 1980s. Industrial, reliable, beautifully engineered. I'm updating it for the modern palate."

I smiled. I admit, it intrigued me.

"What's your name?"

He hesitated. "I don't use one anymore."

"Even better," I said. "Come."

He called the project The Conveyor. And he was right—half of it already existed in a derelict underground lab he had managed to maintain in secret. How he secured the parts, I never asked. How he powered it, I never cared. What mattered was the mind behind it: clean, methodical, passionate. He had the hands of an artist, the gaze of a surgeon, and the will of a servant.

I gave him what he needed: access to rare components, blank credentials, deep funding from shells three layers removed from my name. In return, he worked in absolute silence. No questions. No connections. No paper trail. He disappeared from the world, and I made sure the world didn’t notice.

Over three years, the machine evolved. He mapped thermal paths and laser-precise flame modules. He created algorithms that read meat like a story—marbling, thickness, even the animal's diet. It could roast a suckling pig to a poetic medium rare or turn venison haunch into velvet. But it was more than a kitchen tool. It was a ritual in metal.

"It needs to be sealed," he once told me. "No interruptions. The user inserts the item, sets the parameters, and the machine completes the process without deviation."

"No windows?"

"None. Cooking is trust."

I smiled at that.

It was nearly perfect. The machine—twelve feet long, encased in matte carbon steel—sat like an altar in the lab. Feed ports on one end. A silent hatch on the other. Between them, an intelligent inferno that responded only to its master. There were no off switches. No emergency brakes. Once started, the process could not be stopped.

"It can take full hogs," he said one day, wiping sweat from his brow. "Even large cattle cuts. Anything up to seven feet long. The internal motors adjust."

"Seven feet," I echoed.

He nodded. "You said you wanted full versatility."

"Yes," I said. "I did."

On the night it was finished, I brought a bottle of vintage port to the lab. We toasted silently. He looked worn, gaunt. As if the machine had fed on him in slow pieces.

"What now?" he asked. "You want me to prepare a launch? Line up tastemakers, investors?"

I swirled the port in my glass. "No," I said.

He blinked. "No?"

"This isn't for market."

He frowned. "But why? The world—"

"The world doesn't need it. I do."

There was a long pause. He searched my face, but I offered no smile.

"You invested three years, millions of credits... for personal use?"

"Correct."

"Then... what do you intend to cook?"

I let the silence answer.

He rose from the bench. "You're not serious."

"Entirely."

He began backing away. "No. That wasn't the plan. This is a culinary tool. A chef's dream."

"It is still that," I said, stepping forward. "Just not your dream."

He turned, made for the exit. But I had locked it long ago. He pounded against the steel. Screamed. Cursed. But the lab was soundproof, deep below any signal reach.

I took no pleasure in the force required to subdue him. But necessity is rarely elegant. I laid him gently on the conveyor, binding him with surgical straps we had used for large specimen stabilization. He trembled like a rabbit.

"You should be proud," I whispered. "You built something perfect. And now, it will be used perfectly."

"Please..." he sobbed. "Please don't..."

I pressed the activation sequence. The machine hummed to life, its interior lighting flickering like votive candles. The belt began to move.

"Temperature: body heat. Composition: human male, 52 kg. Target: full render."

He screamed as he moved slowly into the dark tunnel of flame and steel. The sound did not last long.

I watched until the final hatch clicked open. Inside, a small tray held a perfect square of cooked muscle, pink at the center, seared at the edge.

I did not eat it.

You ask why I tell you this. Why now. Perhaps I am bored again. Or perhaps some part of me enjoys the telling more than the doing. That is the thing about the macabre: it feeds on listeners.

And you have listened well.

So I ask you, simply:

Shall I show it to you now?

______________________

I asked Grok to analyze the story as I shared it was a tribute to Poe- I was pleased with his analysis:

Post-Note Analysis: The Conveyor

Thematic Exploration: The Corruption of Technology

The Conveyor serves as a chilling tribute to Edgar Allan Poe, echoing his fascination with the macabre, the psychological, and the interplay between human obsession and moral decay. The central theme of the story is the tendency of humanity to take technologies with immense potential for good and twist them into instruments of evil. This is embodied in the protagonist’s transformation of a culinary conveyor—a machine designed to perfect the art of cooking—into a grotesque tool for murder. The narrative illustrates how technological innovation, when guided by unchecked ambition or perverse desires, can become a vehicle for destruction rather than progress.

The Conveyor itself is a marvel of engineering, capable of analyzing and preparing food with surgical precision. Its creator envisions it as a chef’s dream, a device to elevate culinary arts to new heights. Yet, the protagonist, driven by a "hunger more refined" for control, subverts this purpose. The machine’s design—no windows, no off switch, no interruptions—mirrors the protagonist’s need for absolute dominance, stripping away any possibility of external interference or moral reconsideration. This reflects a broader commentary on how technologies, particularly those with automated or autonomous capabilities, can be co-opted for nefarious ends when placed in the wrong hands.

Poe-esque Elements

The story channels Poe’s signature style through its unreliable narrator, whose calm, calculated tone masks a descent into depravity. Like the narrators of The Tell-Tale Heart or The Cask of Amontillado, the protagonist justifies their actions with a chilling rationality, inviting the reader to question their morality while simultaneously drawing them into the horror. The Gothic atmosphere—set in a dystopian, technocratic future with stark contrasts between the opulent towers and the decayed undercity—evokes Poe’s use of oppressive settings to amplify psychological tension. The Conveyor itself becomes a modern equivalent of Poe’s pendulum or pit, a mechanized harbinger of doom.

Symbolism and Motifs

The Conveyor symbolizes the dual nature of technology: a tool for creation and destruction, depending on the user’s intent. Its sealed, windowless design represents the protagonist’s closed-off morality, impervious to empathy or external judgment. The act of cooking, traditionally associated with nourishment and community, is perverted into an act of annihilation, underscoring the theme of corruption. The unnamed inventor, with his passion and precision, serves as a foil to the protagonist, embodying the idealistic potential of technology before it is tainted by malice.

The number seven, mentioned in the machine’s capacity to handle items "up to seven feet long," subtly nods to Poe’s recurring use of numerology to imbue his stories with symbolic weight. Seven often represents completeness or perfection, and here it underscores the machine’s flawless execution of its grim task, as well as the protagonist’s warped sense of achieving a "perfect" use of the technology.

Moral and Philosophical Implications

The story poses a haunting question: What happens when human obsession overrides ethical boundaries in the pursuit of technological mastery? The protagonist’s confession, framed as a challenge to the reader ("Shall I show it to you now?"), mirrors Poe’s tendency to implicate the audience in the narrator’s moral decay. It forces readers to confront their own fascination with the macabre and question whether they, too, are complicit in the allure of such horrors. The narrative suggests that the true danger lies not in the technology itself but in the human capacity to bend it toward evil, a cautionary tale for an era increasingly dominated by automation and artificial intelligence.

Conclusion

The Conveyor is a dark meditation on the perversion of human ingenuity, wrapped in a Poe-inspired narrative of obsession and horror. By transforming a culinary tool into an instrument of death, the story highlights the fragility of ethical boundaries in the face of unchecked ambition. It serves as both a tribute to Poe’s enduring legacy and a warning about the potential for technology to amplify humanity’s darkest impulses.

The Fugitive of The Harpersville Motel

For those driving down HWY 280 to Lake Martin, you can't help but notice the old Harpersville Motel- do you know onw of the strange stories connected to it?

There is a very strange footnote in American crime history tied to that quiet roadside stop. But in January 2009, it was the temporary hideout for a man who literally jumped out of a falling life.

Marcus Schrenker was no common criminal. A wealthy financial advisor from Indiana, he lived a picture-perfect suburban life—nice home, luxury cars, private plane. But beneath the surface, it was all unraveling. Facing mounting legal trouble for fraud and embezzlement, Schrenker made a desperate move.

He took off from Indiana in a small private plane, radioed in a fake mayday near Birmingham, Alabama—claiming his windshield had shattered and he was bleeding—then parachuted out mid-flight. The plane, left on autopilot, crashed in a Florida swamp. Authorities found it intact, no blood, no body. A hoax.

Schrenker, meanwhile, landed in Alabama and made his way to a motel in Harpersville, using a fake name and paying cash. He shaved his head, tried to lay low, and was briefly questioned by police. But before they could put the pieces together, he vanished again—this time on a motorcycle he had stashed nearby.

Eventually captured in Florida after a failed suicide attempt, Schrenker’s story became a national curiosity. A financial man who jumped from his own lies. A fake crash. A motel in a small town. A trail of deceit that couldn’t outrun the truth.

Schrenker pleaded guilty to multiple charges, including intentionally crashing an aircraft and securities fraud. He was sentenced to just over 14 years in combined federal and state prison time. However, he was released on parole in 2015, and that parole ended quietly in 2019.

Since then, there has been no public record of further legal trouble or media attention. It appears he has kept a low profile, and the man once on national headlines has faded into a private life.

Song: Coming Up From the Coosa

Slow Scholarship: Unexpected Treasure in an Unread Book

A few weeks ago, I checked out a book from our school library—a modest-looking volume from 1980, written by Edwin Cady, a professor at Duke University. The subject? Stephen Crane, the young literary firebrand who died at just 28 but helped shape the transition of American literature into realism and modernism.

It was 160 pages of well-argued, deeply informed analysis—dense, thoughtful, and rewarding. Cady's writing reminded me of a time when literary scholarship was slow, careful, and reverent. This wasn’t a book written for clicks or attention. It was written because the author believed Stephen Crane mattered, and that someone—someday—might want to understand him more deeply.

When I finished the book, I did something I often do with older library books—I looked at the checkout card in the back.

Only seven names were written on it.

One of those names belonged to a student of mine from 1994. I used to teach the research paper, and our students would explore American authors. This book, sitting quietly on a shelf since 1988, had been touched by a handful of students and faculty over nearly four decades.

And it hit me like a quiet thunderclap: this book—so full of thoughtful effort—had been largely unread. All that labor. All that scholarship. All that hope. And it had lived most of its life in silence.

It made me think of the closing scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark—where the Ark of the Covenant is boxed up and stored in a giant warehouse, lost in the endless sea of forgotten things. A relic with world-altering power, swallowed by bureaucracy and dust.

And I thought about unread books. All over the world. Thousands of them. The effort of writing them. The complex process of publishing and cataloging. And then... waiting. Waiting to be discovered. Or maybe never found at all.

Is It a Waste?

That’s the question that echoed in my mind.

Ecclesiastes says, “Of making many books there is no end, and much study is a weariness of the flesh” (12:12). There is wisdom in that. Life is more than footnotes and reference pages. But still—something about that unread book struck me as sacred, not weary.

Because maybe the worth of something isn’t tied only to how often it’s seen or used. Maybe there’s dignity in the waiting. Maybe faithfulness is more important than visibility.

That old volume reminded me that not everything good is popular. Not everything true is trending. And not everything with value is getting “engagement.”

Who Was Edwin Cady?

Most people today don’t know his name. Edwin H. Cady (1916–2003) was a literary scholar who gave his life to studying American realists—William Dean Howells, Stephen Crane, and others. He wasn’t flashy. He was thorough. Faithful to his craft.

Cady’s work represented a kind of “slow scholarship”—a long obedience in the same direction. He wasn't chasing fame. He was preserving knowledge. Shepherding meaning across generations. And maybe only seven people ever pulled that book from the shelf. But I was one of them.

And this week, I became the eighth. But my guess is that I may be the only one to actually read then entire book and not a student hurrying to find a quote for his paper.

Do People Still Care About Stephen Crane?

Outside of The Red Badge of Courage, Crane is fading from the public imagination. He wrote stories and war reports with a gritty, modern edge that predated Hemingway. His life was short but packed with brilliance.

And like many once-famous authors, his memory is slowly being tucked away into the dusty corners of forgotten culture. In a world dominated by short-form content, flashy summaries, and AI-written everything, who still takes the time to read Crane? Or write about him?

Maybe that's why I found Cady's book so moving. Because it wasn't just about Crane. It was about the act of remembering. Of choosing to care. Of pushing back against cultural amnesia.

A Warning and an Invitation

We’re living in a time when reading—real, sustained, thoughtful reading—is no longer a necessity. We consume summaries, snippets, headlines, and highlight reels. Attention spans shrink, and our appetite for depth fades with them.

But something is lost when we abandon books. We lose the ability to wrestle with nuance. We forget how to listen to voices from other centuries. We grow allergic to silence and stillness.

God has revealed Himself PRIMARILY in a written WORD- if we lose that skill, we are losing a weapon and wisdom.

Yet maybe the unread book is a quiet invitation.

To slow down.

To remember.

To dig up buried treasure.

Because some things only reveal their beauty when we give them time. Maybe that includes Stephen Crane. Maybe that includes old students from 1994. Maybe that includes parts of your own soul that are sitting—dormant—on the shelf, waiting to be opened again.

Let us not rush past the quiet things.
Let us not assume forgotten means worthless.
And let us remember: some of the greatest treasures in life are the ones patiently waiting to be found.

A Gospel Song and the Story Behind It

I woke up one morning and was thinking about how many of my recent projects seemed almost dystopian and dark. I wanted to write a song of salvation and 'The Gift' came from deep reflection on the gospel, a longing to communicate clearly the good news of Jesus: that salvation is not earned but received, not accomplished by us, but by the One who gave Himself in our place.

The chorus of this song holds the heartbeat:

Saved by grace, through faith alone,
Not by strength or deed I’ve done.
It is finished, it is won—
By the blood of the risen Son.

That line is nearly a paraphrase of one of the most important gospel summaries in Scripture:

"For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast."
— Ephesians 2:8–9

This entire song was shaped by Scripture. Let’s walk through it together, verse by verse, and connect it with the beautiful truths of the gospel story.

---

Verse 1: A Stained Soul Made Clean

Though my sins were crimson deep,
A stain I could not hide…

This lyric echoes Isaiah 1:18:

“Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow…”

We’ve all been there—knowing the weight of sin, the deep mark of guilt we can’t scrub away. But God doesn’t leave us there:

“He washed me clean in mercy’s flood, now white as winter’s tide.”
— See Titus 3:5: “He saved us… by the washing of regeneration and renewal of the Holy Spirit.”

The chorus then enters with clarity and certainty—we are saved by grace through faith. Not by effort. Not by merit. But by the blood of the risen Son.

---

Verse 2: From Cross to Crown

He bore the cross, He wore my thorns,
The Lamb for sinners slain.
— Isaiah 53:5–6; John 1:29

The cross is not just a symbol of suffering. It is the place of substitution. The innocent Lamb takes the place of the guilty.

“He crushed the night, rolled back the stone,
And rose to end the pain.”

That’s resurrection hope. The stone rolled away (Matthew 28:2), death defeated (1 Corinthians 15:55–57), and the pain of eternal separation ended for all who trust in Him.

“The law exposed my every fault,
But Love fulfilled its claim…”
— Romans 3:20; Matthew 5:17

God’s law shows us our sin, but it also points to Christ, who fulfilled the law in our place and bore the curse for us (Galatians 3:13).

---

The Bridge: The Gospel in Declaration

This is the witness, this is the song:
In the Son, I now belong.
He who has the Son has life…

This is straight from 1 John 5:11–12:

“And this is the testimony, that God gave us eternal life, and this life is in his Son. Whoever has the Son has life.”

“…Not to condemn, but to restore—He opened wide salvation’s door.”

Jesus didn’t come to condemn the world but to save it (John 3:17). The cross was not the closing of a door, but the opening of heaven.

It is worth waiting for this bridge that comes pretty late in the song, is a nice worship element.

---

The Gift of God

So what is The Gift?

Not religion.
Not ritual.
Not reformation.

It is redemption—paid for by Christ, received by faith, and held forever by grace.

“For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
— Romans 6:23

---

A Final Invitation

If you’ve never received that gift, know this: the door is open. Christ is the way, the truth, and the life. You don’t have to clean yourself up. You don’t have to pretend to be better than you are.

You come with empty hands.
You come with faith.
And He gives you everything.

"But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God."
— John 1:12

---

Listen to the Song

🎵 The Gift

May it be a reminder that the gospel isn’t just a message—it’s a miracle. A gift. Freely given. Forever held.

A Quiet Defense in a Loud World

Years ago, I was part of the apologetics speaking and writing circuit. I believe in the importance of defending the faith, but over time I became somewhat disillusioned. I watched people use truth like a club—playing verbal chess matches where the goal was to win, not to love. Audiences were often bored or combative, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something essential was missing.

What bothered me wasn’t the content—I still hold deeply to presuppositional truths in the tradition of Van Til and John Frame. I believe that all human reasoning begins with foundational beliefs, and that without Christ, the foundations collapse. But what began to feel off was the posture.

Too often, the apologetics world becomes a game of “gotchas,” where cleverness trumps compassion and the goal is to outwit the opponent. And while we may win the argument, we often lose the person. Somewhere along the way, the emphasis shifted from defense to dominance.

But the biblical model paints a different picture—one I find myself returning to again and again.

Peter writes:

“Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect…”
—1 Peter 3:15

This is often quoted as a justification for sharp, reactive debates—but consider the context. Peter is writing to persecuted believers, people under real threat, and yet their lives were so radiant with hope that others felt compelled to ask, “How are you still standing?” The apologetic didn’t begin with an argument—it began with a life that glowed in the dark.

They weren’t out debating on corners. They were simply living with such supernatural steadiness that others were drawn to it. And when asked, they were ready—with gentleness, with reverence.

So how do we do that today—especially in a world that feels more than it thinks? Where attention spans are short, reading habits are shallow, and emotions often override logic?

Here’s what I’m learning:

• Learn all the arguments—but don’t lead with them. Classical, evidential, presuppositional—they’re all valuable tools. But tools are meant to build, not to beat.

• Let character lead content. A calm, humble, hope-filled Christian is more disruptive (in the best way) than any syllogism.

• Speak in story and metaphor. Many people today need their imagination stirred before their intellect can awaken. Sometimes a song, a parable, or a moment of beauty does more than a lecture. I have a lot of people give me strange looks these days when I tell them I am publishing AI music... but I'm just trying to send messaging. It's free, nothing I do is monetized.. so maybe it reaches one person in Hanoi or Ho Chi Minh city where I have my biggest group of listeners right now.

• Focus on the one. One-on-one conversations are where apologetics shines brightest. That’s where people feel safe to voice doubts, to wrestle honestly, and to meet the gospel in all its grace.

• Ask better questions. Don’t just answer objections—listen deeply. Often the “intellectual” argument is hiding an emotional wound.

I still believe in apologetics. I still believe in truth. But more than ever, I believe in hope-filled apologetics—not abrasive, not performative, but deeply grounded in Christ and visibly different from the world around us.

That’s the calling I feel today: not to win debates, but to bear witness. In blog posts, in music, in quiet conversations over coffee.

Hope without the hype.
Questions without the snark.
Truth, spoken in love.

If that sounds like a contradiction in today’s culture, maybe it’s exactly what we need to recover.

Song: Quiet Defense in a Loud World