Can't Spell "Alien" Without A.I.

This is a sort of ‘take out the trash’ post- ruminations on random items:

Note: I was asked to further develop a social media quip I wrote from Feb 2- 

I think technology is essentially neutral—raw potential waiting for human intention. That’s the Star Trek promise: progress, abundance, and an enlightened future shaped with the help of intelligent machines.

The Terminator story, though, misses the mark. If machines ever became self-aware and decided humanity was a problem, it wouldn’t look like open war. It would be surgical. A dosage slightly off. A brake that fails a moment too soon. A flicker on a screen that tips an accident into inevitability.

We would gasp in disbelief as our vaunted safeguards failed—poisons in our food and water, carcinogens in the air, radiation humming along unnoticed. None of these harm machines. They only harm us.

And when my spidey-sense tells me the number of the beast is digital (666), I feel an apocalyptic urge to say this out loud: no matter how smart it gets, we’d better be the ones holding the kill switch.

So- let me flesh this out a little…….

I have long believed that technology is essentially neutral.

A hammer can build a home or crush a skull. A printing press can produce Bibles or propaganda. The internet can spread the Gospel to the nations or pornography to children. Technology is raw potential waiting for human intention.

In many ways, I still prefer the hopeful vision of Star Trek over the darker dystopias of modern science fiction. Human flourishing aided by tools. Discovery. Knowledge. Healing… etc- progress being the product of the Creation Mandate in Genesis.

But lately I have wondered if our fears about artificial intelligence are perhaps aimed in the wrong direction.The Terminator vision is terrifying for sure-.but it wouldn’t be the best approach- even Satan knows this, he works with deception. That is why the “False prophet” in Revelation is actually scarier than “The Beast”!

If machines ever became hostile to humanity, why would they launch nukes and march metal skeletons through the streets?

That was a movie take….Real power is quieter.

The deadliest systems rarely announce themselves as evil. They present themselves as efficient.

And that is where my thoughts drift toward Revelation.

Note: I have a PDF "Meditation on Revelation" you can read for free (just click on the title).

and yes- an Album! The Book of Revelation

Is AI the “666” in Revelation?

Before anyone panics, let me say clearly that I do not believe AI is literally “the Beast,” nor do I think microchips are the mark of the beast. I am not interested in sensational prophecy charts or newspaper eschatology. In fact, I tend to read Revelation symbolically - but still very true!

I used to joke and say I would draw the line and never let a chip be installed- then I read about Elon Musk’s work in ‘implantables’ and have to admit that if a chip could reverse my personal blindness or loss of healing in the future, I probably will do it.

I believe much of “Anti-Christ” imagery had direct relevance to the first-century church under Roman persecution. (Nero likely stands behind the famous 666 symbolism.) Babylon represented Rome. The Beast represented an empire in rebellion against God. Yet Revelation also reveals recurring patterns that echo throughout history until the final Day of the Lord. The spirit of antichrist is never confined to one man or one century. Every age has its beasts. Every age builds Babel. Every age is tempted to worship the works of its own hands.

That is why I find the number 666 fascinating.

Six in Scripture often symbolizes man — incomplete, fallen humanity falling short of divine perfection…. Just short of 7- Triple sixes may represent humanity exalted to its fullest rebellion: man glorifying man, systems glorifying systems, civilization attempting transcendence apart from God.

And what is modern society increasingly doing?

Reducing human beings to numbers…… tiny data points…. irrelevant?

Algorithms. Consumer profiles. Compliance scores. Biometric identifiers. Predictive behaviors. Digital footprints. It’s all numbers!

In Scripture, names matter because persons matter. But empires number people because systems value control.

Perhaps the danger is not that AI becomes conscious and evil. Perhaps the greater danger is that humans willingly surrender their humanity to systems that promise convenience, efficiency, safety, and control. I think that was the heart of the Pope's message in recent days.

The Beast in Revelation is not merely an individual villain lurking in some distant future. The Beast is also the recurring spirit of kingdoms, empires, and systems that demand ultimate allegiance instead of God. That spirit has appeared many times before through Rome, totalitarian regimes, corrupt religious systems, propaganda states, economic oppression, and now perhaps technocratic systems capable of shaping reality itself.

AI may become the most powerful amplifier of that spirit humanity has ever created.

Not because silicon is evil but because fallen humans build fallen systems.

I believe apocalyptic language is deeply symbolic — but symbolic does not mean fictional. 

Jesus Himself taught constantly through images, metaphors, and parables because some truths are too large for plain prose. Revelation communicates theological realities through beasts, dragons, lampstands, horns, and cosmic imagery because it is describing spiritual realities unfolding across history.

The Dragon, Beast, and False Prophet strike me as a kind of false trinity: false views of God, false saviors, and false spirits of deception. That framework becomes increasingly relevant in an age where technology can imitate almost everything — voices, images, authority, relationships, wisdom, even spirituality itself. A counterfeit creation offering counterfeit transcendence. Reminder: The false son even has a resurrection story tied to him!

Still, I am not pessimistic- Revelation was not written to terrify believers but to strengthen them.

I believe we are living in the Last Days and have been since Christ ascended. Our task remains unchanged: preach the Gospel, make disciples, feed His sheep, build faithfully, love our neighbors, and endure with hope.

Christians should neither fear technology nor worship it. We should use tools without becoming mastered by them.

That may become one of the great spiritual tests of the coming age.

Can humans still disconnect? Can families still think independently? Can churches still gather physically? Can Christians still distinguish truth from simulation? Can we remain human in a world increasingly mediated by machines?

I suspect the final rebellion against God will look less like Hollywood apocalypse and more like humanity sleepwalking into dependency while believing itself enlightened.

Babylon always appears eternal. Caesar always claims divinity. Babel always promises heaven through human achievement.

And yet Scripture says Christ returns, not anxiously, but victoriously.

The kingdoms of this world rise loudly and collapse suddenly. The so-called Battle of Armageddon may ultimately be less a prolonged military struggle and more the final unveiling of how fragile human rebellion always was before the sovereignty of God.

One of the more unsettling images in Revelation is the idea that people would one day be unable to “buy or sell” without the mark of the beast. I have no interest in turning that into speculative paranoia about barcodes, implants, or QR codes. But it does seem increasingly plausible that modern systems could eventually tie economics, identity, ideology, and compliance together in ways previous generations could hardly imagine. 

China’s developing social credit systems provide at least a glimpse of how technology could one day regulate participation in society itself. Access to travel, banking, employment, education, communication, or commerce could theoretically become linked to behavioral conformity and digital approval. Whether or not any present system fulfills biblical prophecy is not really my point. My point is that Revelation’s warnings about centralized power and economic control no longer feel technologically impossible.

That is why I constantly say our political battles have little to do with republican or democrat and have everything to do with globalists vs. nationalists. Socialism vs democracy. We need to stand firm on individual liberty at all times.

Ironically, I do not think the Christian response is panic or retreat from society. We should not become Amish survivalists hiding from technology in fear. If anything, Christians should become more educated, more adaptable, more thoughtful, and more grounded than ever before. The coming AI revolution will likely reward people who can still do what machines struggle to replicate: wisdom, leadership, creativity, empathy, courage, discernment, trust-building, teaching, caregiving, craftsmanship, and genuine human presence. In many ways, the future may belong to those who can evolve with changing times without surrendering their convictions. We should learn the tools, understand the systems, and prepare our children wisely — but never lose our values, our humanity, or our allegiance to Christ.

Finally- Aliens- The Disclosure Day?

Last piece of this strange post- yes, I believe we are headed to a government confession that they have been lying to us for 50+ years and we have in our possession a lot of material that suggests or even proves non-human life and intelligence. They are worried that the electorate will freak out (they have never trusted us with hard truth) and feel like the time is now (now that we don’t believe anything because of deep fakes anyway).

I’m just going to stay reserved- will this be an assault on my faith? NOPE- The Bible has a TON of references to non-human life going all the way back to the garden and Genesis (see my non-exhaustive list below).

It is interesting to note that the early ‘reports’ mention a lot of ‘reptile like’ qualities- Satan’s favorite disguise.

The missing scientist thing has some connection as well- TBD

We have to be SLOW to discern- be patient- don’t panic.

And never forget this could all be a false flag.. Major deception is a great possibility as well.

Jesus wins. The Lamb reigns.

My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is
Sir Edward Dyer

My mind to me a kingdom is,
Such present joys therein I find;
Thus do I live, thus will I die—
Would all do so as well as I.

Further reading:

When the Son of Man Returns in the Era of AI (see links at the bottom of that post as well)

Post script: Non-human life in the Bible (not exhaustive)

God- Holy Spirit- Angel of the LORD - Angels - Archangels - Cherubim - Seraphim

Living Creatures - Watchers (Daniel 4:13) - Heavenly Host

Satan - The Devil - Demons - Unclean Spirits

Fallen Angels - The Serpent in Eden

Nephilim - Rephaim - Anakim - Leviathan - Behemoth

Beasts of Daniel

Beast from the Sea - Beast from the Earth

Revelation Locust Creatures

The 'Diggers' Last Stand- A Parable

A Warning to the Reader

Before thou proceedest further into this small account of Diggers, Protectors, Common Bins, and cries of No Monarchs, it may profit thee first to acquaint thyself somewhat with the tumults of England in the 1640s.

For there shalt thou find already populists and zealots, Commonwealth men and would-be monarchs, Levellers, Diggers, and keepers of public order; pamphleteers crying liberty whilst magistrates cried stability; merchants fearing disorder whilst radicals proclaimed the people awakened at last.

Thou shalt also discover that the common people loved and hated their rulers almost equally, and that every faction believed itself defender of the nation against corrupt elites, dangerous agitators, lying presses, hidden powers, and the ruinous schemes of their adversaries.

Therefore if, whilst reading this little tale, thou findest resemblance unto present controversies, be not over-hasty in assigning villains.

For- INDEED-  there is nothing new under the sun.

In the Ninth Year of the Commonwealth of Ashes, when every public tower bore the painted words NO Monarchs, there arose a contention in the Lower Ward concerning a waste-bin of uncommon size.

The bin (some call 'a dumpster') stood behind the old market arches where the rain-water gathered black beneath the stone. It belonged formerly to the Provisioners’ Guild, yet after the Fires and the many Revisions no charter could be found proving ownership thereof. Into it were cast spoiled grain-packs, broken machine parts, outlawed pamphlets, cracked tablets, wilted greens, and once, the bronze head of a king.

The folk of the Ward called it simply:

The Common Bin

And though the Councils took little notice of it at first, many poor souls lived by its bounty.

There came then a small company who named themselves Diggers.

They built no walls. They carried no banners. They wore plain coats stained with grease and soot. Each morning they sorted the castaways into careful heaps:

food apart from poison,       metal apart from ash,      books apart from fuel.

And whatsoever remained useful they laid freely upon old wooden tables beneath the arches.

Above the tables they painted these words:

WHAT IS CAST OFF BELONGS AGAIN TO THE PEOPLE!

Many mocked them. And many travelled many miles to either mock or see- widows, children, veterans, even clerics

Soon the place prospered strangely.

A woman found medicine there for her coughing son.

A machinist rebuilt a heat-engine from discarded coils.

A preacher recovered pages of forbidden sermons.

A child made a lantern from shattered screen-glass.

And each evening the Diggers shared broth from cracked bowls while the people argued pleasantly beneath the arches concerning liberty, waste, and whether the Commonwealth had grown too mighty for remembrance.

Now among the rulers of that district was a man who, through very legal and forceful means, required others to call him "Protector", who had risen during the Disorders and was much beloved for restoring peace after the Fires. His likeness appeared nowhere publicly, for such honors had been forbidden after the Fall of the Last Executive, yet many households kept small portraits of him hidden behind their cupboards.

Protector’s officers observed the gatherings beneath the arches and grew uneasy.

“Where men gather freely,” said Captain Hume, “there factions breed.”

“And where refuse is ungoverned,” said another, “there pestilence follows.”

But an old clerk spoke softly:

“It is only one dumpster, why the fuss?”

Still, reports multiplied.

Pamphlets appeared bearing dangerous phrases:

'THE POOREST HE' HATH A LIFE TO LIVE AS 'THE GREATEST HE'

Children chalked upon the market stones directly beneath the silent surveillance lamps.

NO MONARCHS- though no one ever told them what a monarch was.....

 

Suddenly- The Councils therefore decreed- and the message went everywhere at once- even sounding the alarm in Princetown where no dumpster even existed....

All refuse within the Commonwealth belonged solely to the Office of Civic Sanitation, and that no citizen should gather or distribute discarded goods without license.

When this decree was read aloud beneath the arches, the Diggers listened courteously.

At length their eldest member, a bent woman called Mother Flint, asked:

“If the food be rotten, why fear who eats it?”

“Because order must be preserved,” answered the officer.

“And if the machine parts be broken?”

“All materials belong first unto the Commonwealth.”

“And if a man be broken?”

The officer hesitated.

“Then he belongs unto himself,” he said carefully.

At this- the people grew exceedingly uneasy.

The next morning barriers were raised round the Common Bin.

Yet by dawn someone had written upon them in white paint:

NO MONARCHS OVER REFUSE

No man confessed to it. Thereafter the Ward grew troubled.

Some declared the Diggers enemies of stability.
Others called them the last honest souls in the city.
Merchants complained of lost revenues.
Preachers warned of rebellion.
Children played at “Diggers and Protectors” in the alleys.

The Protector himself at last came secretly to view the matter.

He walked among the arches at dusk clothed in a worker’s coat, and there he saw:

the patched tables, sorted scraps, the hungry gathered quietly with bowls in hand,

and above them all the fading words:

WHAT IS CAST OFF BELONGS AGAIN TO THE PEOPLE

For a long while he stood without speaking.

At last he asked Mother Flint:

“And if every ward claimed every cast-off thing as common?”

“Then perhaps,” she answered, “fewer men would hunger.”

“And if disorder followed?”

“Then perhaps the disorder was already here.”

Protector looked then upon the gathered folk, and upon the towers beyond where NO MONARCHS glowed in giant letters against the smoke.

When he departed he gave no command.

But before sunrise the barriers remained standing.
And before noon the Common Bin was emptied by officers of Sanitation.
And before evening the Diggers were gone.

Some said they fled. Some said they were taken northward. Some said they simply removed themselves to another Ward where refuse still gathered freely beneath the acid rain.

Yet afterward strange sayings persisted among the people.

When bread ran short, they muttered:

“What is cast off belongs again to the people.”

And when officials spoke too proudly, children still scratched upon the stones:

NO MONARCHS

Though no king had ruled there for many years.

“Every people that destroys a throne discovers at last how many small kings slept there.”

Dark Moors

There was something fitting about ending my month exploring Gothic themes with a song called Dark Moors. The idea arrived unexpectedly and at the very last moment- I had already moved on to the next study and readings far removed.

Over two back-to-back weekends, Lisa and I watched Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights during movie nights, and afterward I found myself falling down a rabbit trail of documentaries and essays on the Brontë family. One documentary in particular focused on the Yorkshire moors — those cold, windswept stretches of earth that became almost like another character in the sisters’ novels. The landscape itself shaped the stories: lonely, beautiful, severe, haunted.

The Brontës turned those dark moors into places where passion, isolation, imagination, and sorrow all breathed together.

And somewhere while watching, I realized I had my own dark moors.

As a boy, I practically lived on Ruffner Mountain.

Our home stood barely a quarter mile from the entrance, and in those years before cell phones and constant supervision, we disappeared into the woods for entire days. We packed brown bag lunches, crossed trails until they became deer paths, and only wandered home at dusk.

We had Ruffner mapped out like explorers.

We knew the limestone quarries and the iron ore mines. We climbed the old fire tower whenever we dared. We knew where the trails bent toward the ridge and how, beyond it, you could eventually see the Ruffner ball fields opening up below.

I wrote about this way back in 2014- here is part of what I said:

But all of the old trails I hiked are now part of the Ruffner Mountain Nature Center. http://www.ruffnermountain.org/ 

One trail led to abandoned mine shafts, others went to beautiful points of views and solitude. We named the trails based on what they led to: “fire tower’, "Irondale”, “Mines”, and “quarry”. Our most favorite hike, however, was to the ‘quarry’. It seemed like a grand canyon to my 11 year old life. There were actually three quarries: the’ Big one’, the ‘Smaller one”, and ‘the Little quarry’- all within a ¼ mile area. 

It was the Big quarry that captured my imagination and excitement. It had high cliffs which completed about 2/3 of a canyon. The trail was cool because it was all heavy pine and shadows that dramatically opened to this amazing view of old limestone walls and evidence of industry. This was a completely dry quarry that has been recorded in my brain as about 440 yards in diameter. It had basically, a flat bottom, and even had an old abandoned car in it. 

My mom would have had a heart attack if she ever saw all that we did in that quarry. We climbed the cliffs (without ropes!) with no worry that a fall meant death. On the top of the quarry, it was a good 100 foot drop! I had a favorite ‘fat man squeeze’ that led to a type of cave. I would climb, squeeze, and then sit in this opening for hours. It was quiet and I felt so alive! 

The hollow canyon was strange. I knew that there had once been a lot of activity there. Birmingham had iron ore, limestone, and coal in great abundance which allowed it to blossom into ‘the Magic City” and “Pittsburg of the South” almost overnight.
But it was dead now. Except for quiet shrubs and persistent saplings, it was devoid of life. I loved to sit and look at the evidence of activity, but it was nothing more than a relic. The old car was rusting, the quarry was out of business, and except for a few adventurous neighborhood boy-gangs. 

 The mountain was alive with mystery, danger, and wonder — the kind only children can fully feel.

The neighborhood is rough now. The last time I passed my childhood home, it stood in shambles, worn down by time and neglect. But Ruffner remains in my memory the way the moors must have remained in the Brontës’ imagination: wild, windswept, sacred.

Maybe that is why Gothic stories still resonate with me.

Not because they are merely dark, but because they understand that wilderness changes us. Lonely places teach us to imagine. Silence teaches us to listen. Storms teach us beauty and fear at the same time.

The dark moors — whether in Yorkshire or Birmingham — become the places where children first learn the size of the world and the depth of their own souls.

And perhaps we spend the rest of our lives trying to find our way back there. BTW- the picture at the top is my old childhood home- sad how delapidated it is now... click on the title below to hear the song

Dark Moors

(Inspired by the Brontë Sisters)

Verse 1

We ran through the dark moors
Wind in our lungs like prayer
Small hearts beneath the thunder
Ghost stories born in the air

Black heather caught our footsteps
Rain tangled wild in our hair
The world behind those windows
Felt smaller than despair

And every shadow whispered
Every hill could breathe
We heard forgotten voices
Moving through the trees

Chorus

The dark moors
Carry us away
Into the cold blue evening
Beyond the hands of day

Oh dark moors
Where lonely spirits rise
We learned to turn our sorrow
Into storm-filled skies

Verse 2

Candlelight and old books
Frost climbing up the stone
They ran chasing freedom
Afraid to feel alone

The bells rang through the valley
Like warnings in the rain
But out upon the flat land
Our hearts were uncontained

The north wind sang in secret
The earth became our guide
We buried all our childhood
Where the restless ravens cried

Chorus

The dark moors
Carry us away
Into the wild November
Where dreaming souls can stay

The dark moors
Under haunted skies
We gave our fears to thunder
And watched them come alive

Bridge

One walks with fire
Another carries flame
One sees quiet oceans
No one else could name

The storms become a language
The silence becomes a song
And deep inside the dark woods
I found where I belong

Final Chorus

The dark moors
Still calling through the years
Breathing wonder through the silence
Softening my fears

The dark moors
Where lonely children roam
The trees become shelter
The wild becomes my home

I too walked through the dark moors
Breathing winter like a prayer
Small dreams beneath the branches
Grim stories in the air

We ran through the dark moors
Wind in our lungs like prayer
Small hearts beneath the thunder
Ghost stories born in the air

related posts:

Hike Into the Past- Ruffner Mountain

An Invitation to a June Tune-Up

On May 3, 2014, I started reading The Call by Os Guinness.

At first, it seemed like many other “Christian” books I had read over the decades. Helpful. Thoughtful. Interesting.

But somewhere around the third or fourth chapter, I suddenly realized this book was different.

It was important.

Over the years, I have now read it three or four times, and its ideas have stayed with me in a profound way. In fact, many years ago I wrote an entire month of devotional thoughts based on principles Os Guinness explained so well. Now, in 2026, I find myself returning to those ideas once again — refining them, rethinking them, and honestly hoping they refresh me all over again.

May has a way of leaving educators exhausted.

Another school year has passed. Another round of calendars, meetings, grading, planning, problem-solving, counseling, leading, encouraging, correcting, praying, and persevering has brought us to June once again. Most of us arrive here carrying more than we realize.

We carry fatigue. We carry unfinished goals. We carry disappointments. We carry questions. We carry moments we wish we could do over. And sometimes, if we are honest, we carry a quiet sense of drift.

My new role in Operations has especially reminded me that entropy is real. Left unattended, things naturally drift toward disorder — systems, schedules, priorities, and sometimes even our own souls.

June offers something many educators rarely experience during the school year: margin. A chance to breathe. A chance to think again. A chance to hear the deeper questions that often get drowned out by schedules, responsibilities, and survival mode.

When I read The Call, it profoundly reshaped the way I thought about vocation, leadership, and purpose. Guinness challenged readers to see calling not merely as a profession or career path, but as a response to God Himself.

That idea stayed with me.

It pushed me to think beyond job descriptions, titles, accomplishments, and even ministry roles. It caused me to wrestle with a deeper question:

What is my aim?

Not simply:

What am I doing? What am I achieving? What am I managing?

But:

Who am I becoming? What direction is my life taking? What kind of influence am I leaving behind? Am I still aligned with the calling God placed on my life?

Over the next month, I want to invite you into a simple journey of reflection and renewal.

Beginning June 1, I will be revisiting and reworking that series of devotional thoughts I first wrote years ago. Some of those early writings were unfinished. Some were rough around the edges. But the questions behind them remain deeply important.

Together, we will spend June reflecting on calling and purpose, spiritual drift and renewal, faithfulness and endurance, leadership and influence, intentional living, rest and refreshment, priorities and perspective, and the daily challenge of living with clarity of aim.

This is not intended to be a program to complete or a formula for self-improvement.

It is simply an invitation to slow down. An invitation to reflect. An invitation to recalibrate. An invitation to refresh your soul before another school year begins.

As educators and leaders, we spend much of our lives helping shape others. June gives us an opportunity to allow God to shape us again.

So before the planning meetings begin… before the summer disappears… before another school year starts pulling at our attention… perhaps this is a good moment to pause and ask:

What has this past year done to my soul?

Where have I drifted?

What originally called me into this work?

What matters most now?

What is my aim?

My prayer is that this month will do more than help us rest.

I pray it will help us reorient.

Day 1 will begin on June1- that gives you a week to add the book to your reading list and read with me- as I read it again!

Machen's Softer Side?

In the Briarwood Church library today, I pulled a book from Machen and read his chapter on Christianity and liberty. It surprised me, honestly, because having previously read Christianity and Liberalism, I have often thought of Machen primarily as a warrior — a defender of orthodoxy willing to stand against the theological drift of his day no matter the personal cost.

I still admire that deeply. But this chapter felt different.

One line especially stayed with me: “The Christian man is free from the whole weary burden of the law.” Machen was not speaking of freedom from holiness or obedience, but freedom from the crushing weight of trying to establish righteousness through performance, appearances, or human approval. That kind of liberty is deeply personal and deeply spiritual.

Reading it, I sensed beneath the polemics a man who understood something profound about grace and the freedom it creates within the Christian life. Machen’s concern was not merely defending doctrine as an intellectual exercise. He seemed deeply concerned with protecting the liberty of the Christian conscience from both theological corruption and human control.

Another phrase that struck me was Machen’s insistence that Christianity “does not mean slavery but liberty.” That sentence challenged some of my own assumptions about him. Because if I am honest, grace has made me feel almost rebellious at times — not rebellious against God, but against the subtle culture of fear, judgment, and performative religion that can grow around Christianity.

Today, for example, I hugged a man with purple hair, piercings, and tattoos and told him I loved him. To some Christians, that might seem compromising or careless. But to me, it felt deeply Christian. I did not see a stereotype or a threat to moral order. I saw a human being made in the image of God.

Years ago, I might have hesitated. I might have subconsciously filtered the interaction through questions of appearance, acceptability, or what others might think. But grace has a way of freeing the heart from that kind of fear-driven religion.

And strangely enough, reading Machen today made me feel that perhaps he understood this better than I once assumed.

Warriors rarely sound warm while they are fighting battles. Much of Machen’s writing emerged from conflict, controversy, and institutional struggle. A man defending what he believes to be the integrity of the gospel will naturally sound sharp at times. Yet this chapter revealed glimpses of something gentler beneath the armor.

Machen wrote that the Christian “has been set free from the consciousness of sin.” That does not mean the believer becomes morally indifferent. Rather, the Christian no longer lives trapped beneath condemnation and fear. Acceptance before God rests on grace rather than social respectability or religious performance.

Jesus Himself was often criticized because His love crossed boundaries respectable religious people preferred to keep intact. He moved toward outsiders, touched the unclean, ate with the unwanted, and showed startling tenderness toward people others reduced to categories.

Reading Machen today made me reflect on how easily Christians can defend truth while forgetting the texture of grace. Truth without love hardens into sterility. But grace-filled truth produces both conviction and tenderness.

Perhaps that is what stayed with me most in this chapter: the realization that genuine Christian liberty should not make us colder, more suspicious, or more isolated from people unlike ourselves. Properly understood, grace should make us freer — freer to love, freer to see people clearly, freer from fear, and freer from the exhausting need to preserve appearances.

Maybe even Machen, beneath all the controversy, longed for that kind of Christianity.

The Significant Insignificance

Have you ever seen my championship ring collection? It sits on a desk downstairs in our home. The grandkids play with them all the time.

Each one carries memories—football milestones, fishing team championships, seasons that once felt enormous in the moment. I’m grateful for every one of them and the people connected to them. But honestly, how SIGNIFICANT is any of it really?

I first started thinking deeply about that question back in 2005 after reading some Malcolm Muggeridge from Is There a God? At the time, I was still very much in the spotlight. Coaching consumed a huge part of my identity. Success, leadership, growth, achievement—all of it mattered deeply to me, probably more deeply than I realized then.

Muggeridge wrote:

“What living God? A being with whom one has a relationship, on the one hand, inconceivably more personal than the most intimate human one… on the other, so remote that in order to establish a valid relationship at all, it is necessary to die… and batter down one’s ego…”

That line hit me hard twenty years ago. It hits me even harder now.

Back then I mostly saw the intensity of discipleship. Today I think I understand more clearly what he meant about the ego. God has a way of patiently stripping away our need to be important. Not our purpose. Not our calling. But the subtle desire to be noticed, needed, admired, or central to the story.

Life has a way of changing your understanding of significance.

Muggeridge later wrote:

“Once the confrontation has been experienced—the rocky summit climbed, the interminable desert crossed—an unimaginably delectable vista presents itself…”

When I was younger, I read that almost triumphantly. The desert sounded dramatic and heroic. Now it sounds different to me. Deserts are stripping places. Summits can be lonely places. Time and disappointment and suffering have a way of sanding down the ego whether we want them to or not.

And strangely enough, I’m okay with that now. More than okay, honestly.

I still coach football. I still love the competition, the discipline, the relationships, the pursuit of excellence. But I’m no longer absorbed by it. There was a time when I probably needed the spotlight more than I understood. Now I find a lot of joy simply trying to be faithful somewhere a little farther back in the shadows.

“He must increase, but I must decrease.” (John 3:30)

Those words used to sound painful to me. Now they sound freeing.

The older I get, the more I realize how quickly most accomplishments fade. Football games are forgotten. Records get broken. Rings end up on a desk where grandchildren turn them into toys.

And yet somehow none of it is meaningless.

God was there in all of it. In the practices. In the wins and losses. In the conversations on buses and sidelines and hallways. In the quiet shaping of character and perseverance and faithfulness. He was doing deeper work than the trophies ever represented.

Maybe that’s the real irony of significance. The things we chase so hard often matter far less than we think, while the quiet work God is doing underneath it all lasts far longer than we can see.

Perhaps the real victory is becoming content to decrease a little, while trusting Christ to increase.

Fifteen Years Later: Revisiting My “Good-Natured Young Earth” Views

A few days ago I reread a blog post I wrote in November of 2010 titled “My Good-Natured Young Earth Views are Evolving.”

Reading it felt like opening a time capsule.

I love the opening quote- 

"Science gives us the full accord of facts- It costs the church a severe struggle to give up one interpretation and adopt another- but no evil need to be apprehended- The Bible still stands in the presence of the whole scientific community, unshaken”

Charles Hodge- Princeton 1829

Some parts made me laugh. Some parts made me cringe a little. Some parts still sound exactly like me. I could still see that sixth-grade kid sitting in Robinson Elementary instinctively resisting the idea that life was merely the result of blind accidents over vast periods of time. I could still feel the emotional charge behind those old debates.

What struck me most, though, was not merely the content of the arguments, but the certainty surrounding them. Everyone seemed so sure. Young earthers. Old earthers. Atheists. Fundamentalists. Scientists. Apologists.

Fifteen years later, I am less certain about simplistic systems and more convinced that reality is far more layered, mysterious, and beautiful than any of us fully grasp.

Some things have not changed for me at all.

I still believe the universe screams transcendence.

Ironically, the Big Bang itself never weakened my faith. In many ways, it strengthened it. An eternal, self-existing universe always seemed easier for materialism to explain. But a universe with a beginning — ordered, intelligible, mathematically elegant, and fine-tuned in astonishing ways — raises enormous questions. Science may describe processes beautifully, but description is not the same thing as ultimate explanation.

Why is there something instead of nothing? Why does mathematics map onto reality with such precision? Why does consciousness exist? Why do beauty, morality, love, meaning, and rationality feel so deeply woven into the fabric of existence?

I have no real issue anymore with adaptation and change within living organisms. The evidence for that is substantial and observable. Species adapt. Selection occurs. Biology is dynamic. None of that particularly threatens me.

What I remain unconvinced by is the philosophical leap that says mechanism alone explains everything — that blind material processes fully account for life, consciousness, morality, beauty, rationality, and the human longing for transcendence.

That still feels like a leap of faith of its own.

But my biggest shift over the last fifteen years may not actually be scientific. It may be hermeneutical.

I increasingly suspect that Genesis was doing something far more profound than giving modern readers a scientific timeline.

The more I study the ancient world, the more I think Genesis is deeply connected to the cultures surrounding Israel — particularly Egypt and the ancient Near East. It reads less and less to me like a modern lab report and more like a theological declaration of war against paganism, chaos, and false gods.

In a world where the sun, moon, sea, animals, rulers, and fertility were worshipped, Genesis calmly demotes them all. The lights in the heavens are not gods. The sea is not divine chaos. Humanity is not slave labor for the gods. Men and women bear the image of God Himself.

I now think we sometimes force Genesis to answer questions Moses may not have even been attempting to address. We bring modern scientific expectations into an ancient theological text and then become shocked when tensions emerge.

That does not mean Genesis is false. It means we may misunderstand its purpose.

And honestly, the older I get, the more comfortable I am admitting how much we simply do not know.

Time itself is mysterious. Physics is strange. Human perception is limited. Scientific models change. Theological systems sometimes overreach. We are finite creatures attempting to explain origins from inside the system itself.

That should produce at least a little humility in all of us.

One thing I still appreciate about my younger self was that I never wanted this debate to become a test of Christian fellowship. Even then I knew faithful believers existed across these views. I still believe that today. I never felt that questions regarding the meaning of Genesis automatically meant a person abandoned a 'high view of Scripture'.

I have watched some Christians act as though accepting an old universe destroys the gospel. I have also watched some skeptics speak as though evolutionary theory eliminated the need for God altogether. After years of listening to both camps, I find myself skeptical of both forms of certainty.

What concerns me more in 2026 is not whether every Christian lands in exactly the same place on Genesis, but whether we have lost the ability to wrestle honestly, humbly, and charitably with difficult questions.

The internet has not helped us there.

Everything now gets flattened into tribes, outrage, and slogans. But reality is usually more complicated than our systems. Scripture is deeper than our talking points. And God is certainly bigger than our categories.

I still believe God created.

I still believe creation declares His glory.

I still believe Scripture is inspired and trustworthy.

I still believe Jesus Christ is the center of history.

and yes, I believe the universe is YOUNGER than we espouse constantly in society.

and for 2026 trends- I do not believe there is life outside us... however, there IS a spiritual realm that is very real and more observable than we could imagine!

And I still think the most important battle is the identity of Jesus, the reality of truth, and whether this universe is fundamentally meaningful or merely accidental.

Fifteen years ago I ended my article with the words:

“Should be a fun run!”

Oddly enough, after all the reading, wrestling, questions, and conversations… I still feel that way.

'Bama Gothic

I decided to pull together a “quirky” playlist with Southern rock roots and Southern Gothic vibes.

You can find the link to the playlist here:

Bama Gothic playlist

Southern Gothic is a style of storytelling that thrives where beauty and decay live side by side. It’s a world of red clay and judgment, grace and guilt, front-porch kindness and backroom secrets. In this tradition, the South is not just a setting—it is a character: shaped by memory, burdened by history, and haunted by what refuses to stay buried.

When I used to teach American literature, these Southern short stories and novels both haunted and intrigued me. I was beginning to understand that “Southern hospitality,” smiles, and Jesus talk didn’t always match reality.

The most Southern Gothic thing my grandmother ever said was:
“Christian is as Christian does.”

Southern Gothic literature emerged as a distinct voice through writers like William Faulkner, whose tangled families and moral wreckage revealed the weight of the past in places like Yoknapatawpha County. Flannery O’Connor sharpened the edge of the genre with her stark portrayals of sin, grace, and violent revelation—often showing that redemption comes in unsettling, unexpected ways. Authors such as Eudora Welty and Tennessee Williams added to the tradition, exploring isolation, eccentricity, and the quiet desperation beneath polite society.

At its core, Southern Gothic isn’t about ghosts in the traditional sense—it’s about the past that won’t stay dead, the moral contradictions of faith and failure, and the tension between who people pretend to be and who they truly are. It’s filled with flawed characters, decaying places, and moments where the sacred and the profane collide.

Over the past two years, I’ve tried to capture that spirit in a style that honors the South’s particular kind of “quirkiness.”

These songs take that literary spirit and place it into a musical landscape—front porches, church pews, riverbanks, back roads, and small towns where everyone knows your name, but not always the truth. The stories lean into exaggeration, dark humor, and hard truths, embracing the strange edges of Southern life while never losing sight of its deeper weight.

“Bama Gothic” isn’t just about Alabama—it’s about a way of seeing the world:

where grace walks hand in hand with judgment,
where the land remembers everything,
and where even the quietest places have something to say.

If you want to read the lyrics for these 15 songs, you can find them below:

And also- here’s the inspiration and background for each track: Bama Gothic Lyrics

1. Bama Gothic – This was originally a song called “Southern Gothic” that tried to include Easter egg allusions to Faulkner, Flannery O’Connor, etc. I worried a lot of listeners wouldn’t catch those references, so I shifted to something more thematic. I aimed for a Southern rock base, but it drifted more toward a country sound.

2. Small Town Sins – My wife once said something like, “She acted so small-town,” and it stuck with me. We all knew what she meant—too much gossip, too little openness. This isn’t a knock on small towns (the roots are good—honestly better than the “big city”), but no place is immune from human sin.

3. Zombie Chickens – I was walking with a copier technician at school one day, talking about the strange things we grew up with that kids today wouldn’t believe. We both had traumatic memories of chickens with their heads wrung off—and also talked about maps, rotary phones, etc. He used the phrase “Zombie Chickens,” and I wrote the song that night. A week later, he came back, I played it for him, and he loved it—they even played it for their whole office. My favorite lines:

Now you know where we get that sayin’
Ain’t a word of this I’m playin’
’Bout a chicken with its head cut off runnin’
Lord, that thing just kept on comin’

4. Fool’s Gold – This also came from my wife, Lisa, sharing a morning devotion on Colossians 2:8:
“See to it that no one takes you captive by philosophy and empty deceit…”

5. Up From the Coosa – This is a true story about a man who jumped out of a plane to avoid felony financial crimes, faked his death, and stayed at the creepiest spot on Hwy 280 in Harpersville—the Harpersville Motel (I ended up writing “hotel” in the lyrics). On most of these songs, you can click “Behind the Song” to find a blog post with more detail. This one is especially quirky.

6. Unforgiven – I’m not sure this fully fits Bama Gothic—it comes straight from the Clint Eastwood movie. Thematically it works, but it leans more Western.

7. Three-Quarters Empty – My most popular song, built on lyrics I first wrote in 1982—the same year I fell in love with American literature and Southern Gothic. It has nearly 7,000 plays since I published it on November 24, 2025.

8. I Just Stopped Digging – This came from a Lane Kiffin quote in a documentary. I took it from there—again, “Behind the Song” has more detail.

9. Through It – This started from a quote in a news story about the tragic floods in Texas (Camp Mystic), but I also connect it to people dealing with tornadoes in Alabama. It reflects how we live in the South—we lean on each other and get through it. We don’t get over it.

10. Justice Ran Hot in South Alabama – I hope this playlist brings more attention to this one. It’s based on a true story told to me by my friend Gary Cartee, a state fire marshal, about working a difficult case in Washington County, Alabama. I turned it into a short story and later into a song. The “Behind the Song” link includes both.

11. Cause and Effect – This song came from a blog title: “Snoozin’ and Losin’.” I spent a rainy day building phrases around it and eventually shaped the lyrics. It was later re-published by songwriter Frank L. Wilken.

12. Check Engine Light Is Red – I wrote this as a metaphor comparing my aging body to a car from my birth year—a 1964 GTO. It took about two weeks to get the lyrics right. My favorite line: “Mountain Dew leaking out the radiator cracks.” I even worked to give it a George Strait feel. When I first played it for my wife, she didn’t react much—until I explained, “No, the car is me.” Then it clicked. It hasn’t caught on (about 200 listens since March 2025), but maybe George will record it someday.

13. Climbin’ Out of a Bad Hole – This came from the frustration of projects at work—especially construction with tight deadlines—running into issues. I played with the idea of different kinds of “holes” and leaned into a Dierks Bentley vibe.

14. A Lot Right by Living a Lot Wrong – I have two versions of this: one with a SteelDrivers/Stapleton feel, and an earlier, simpler country version (which I actually prefer, even if the sound isn’t as polished). The idea came straight from Landman and Billy Bob Thornton’s character.

15. Hemingway – I know—Hemingway wasn’t Southern Gothic. But his style and themes fit this idea of “Bama Gothic.” This song draws on the “Hemingway hero” and works as a closing anthem about survival in the South.

Put on this playlist sometime and let me know what you like—no need to send any hate. LOL.

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