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

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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

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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

Meeting House: A Fictional Conversation With a Cynical Genius

How a TV Show, Apologetics, and a Thought Experiment Collided

Back in 2011, my daughters and I discovered the medical drama House, M.D.—and we loved it. Dr. Gregory House, portrayed brilliantly by Hugh Laurie, was captivating: sharp, cruel, brilliant, and deeply wounded. He solved medical mysteries while pushing away anyone who cared about him. House was a paradox—an addict, a genius, a man tormented by physical and emotional pain. And I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

As a fun writing exercise (and maybe as a spiritual provocation), I imagined what it would be like to engage House in a series of conversations about faith, truth, pain, and God. I was studying presuppositional apologetics at the time, and this became a kind of thought experiment: Could a guy like House ever entertain the gospel?

I published a few posts about it online. People responded. One former football parent even emailed me, concerned about the "doctor who was giving me a hard time"—not realizing it was fiction!

So now, over a decade later, I’ve gone back and revised those entries into one cohesive story. If you watched House, it’ll make more sense. If not—imagine Sherlock Holmes with a limp and Vicodin addiction, but instead of solving crimes, he diagnoses rare diseases while insulting everyone in the room.

This isn’t theology. It’s not even entirely fiction. It’s a portrait of how real pain, skepticism, and faith can intersect in powerful, uncomfortable ways.

About the show: House, M.D. was a medical drama that aired on FOX from 2004 to 2012, starring Hugh Laurie as the brilliant but abrasive Dr. Gregory House. Set at the fictional Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in New Jersey, the show followed House and his diagnostic team as they unraveled complex medical mysteries.

What set the show apart wasn’t just the cases—but House himself. An atheist, drug-addicted misanthrope with a cane, a Vicodin addiction, and zero tolerance for small talk, House embodied a brutal kind of honesty. His motto, "Everybody lies," shaped his worldview and his approach to medicine—and to people.

Despite his arrogance and cynicism, audiences were drawn to House’s pain, brilliance, and occasional glimpses of vulnerability. He was Sherlock Holmes with a stethoscope—and often just as emotionally detached. The show combined razor-sharp dialogue, philosophical tension, and moral complexity, making it one of the most compelling character studies on TV.

I hope you enjoy it.

---

🩺 “Meeting House”: The Story

I don’t know how long it took before Dr. Gregory House finally acknowledged me. I had long since decided he never would—and, frankly, I didn’t expect him to.

I didn’t feel worthy of the conversation. I was a Bible teacher and football coach—not a theologian. I wasn’t fasting or praying like I should’ve been. And yet… House responded.

Of course, I wasn’t even sure it was him. Could be a prank. Could be bait for humiliation. Or maybe—just maybe—he was curious.

My iPhone buzzed:

"Your persistence has annoyed me long enough. How do I press CANCEL?"

That was it. After months of texts with no reply—there he was.

---

📨 The Outreach

Here’s what I had sent him (various versions over time):

“Dr. House, I’m a football coach and Bible teacher. I’ve admired your work from afar. You’ve articulated a strong view that God doesn’t exist. I’d love a short, private window of time to challenge that worldview—no agenda, no publicity, and I don’t expect to persuade you. But I’d like a friendly back and forth. I’m your ally, not your enemy.”

No reply. Not even a “Stop.” So I kept trying—once in a while, a new message, a sincere tone.

---

🔍 A Strange Clue

One week, I noticed a spike in blog visits—especially to my apologetics posts. The source was a .edu domain.

Then came the text.

I replied:

“Thanks for responding. All you have to do is say STOP and I’m gone. But maybe, if you give me one conversation, you can decide whether this exercise is even worth continuing.”

---

☎️ The Game Begins

At 2:00 a.m. one night, my phone rang.

“Did I wake you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Say ‘niiiiice whiiite riiice’ with a southern drawl.”

I said it.

“Already disappointed. But you’ve annoyed me enough that I want to play now. I’ll call you from time to time. No pleasantries. I ask, you answer. We’ll continue until I’m bored, you give up, or I convince you there is no God.”

Click.

---

📵 A Pattern of Calls

That was the start of a strange rhythm. Random calls—mostly in the middle of the night. He’d throw out classic apologetics challenges:

“If God is good and God is God, why are children dying?”

“Are gay people going to hell?”

“Do you believe in evolution?”

I’d start to answer… and he’d hang up. Sometimes right before the answer got rolling. Other times mid-sentence.

One time he told me:

“You have no passion. Your answers are polished, safe, and ultimately worthless.”

That one stung. Not because I believed it—but because I wondered if he was right.

---

✈️ The Invitation

Then came the unexpected:

“You’re flying to Princeton. Five days. You’ll stay at the Nassau Inn. I’m paying. Someone from the hospital will arrange the travel. See you Thursday.”

What had I gotten into?

---

🏨 Princeton, New Jersey

I arrived exhausted and uncertain. What was this? A trap? A prank?

House met me at the hotel lobby—taller than I imagined. He limped in, leaned on his cane, and said:

“Let’s take a walk.”

I walked. He rode a Segway. He narrated campus history like a tour guide on autopilot. Albert Einstein, Presbyterian roots, academic accolades.

Finally, coffee. He paid.

“You wanted to be here. GO.”

I tried to speak thoughtfully. He snapped:

“No, go. Don’t hedge. Don’t do that southern soft shoe. No bush-beating. Say what you came to say.”

I stumbled out a few honest words about caring, about mystery, about not knowing my own motives. Something in that broke through.

He nodded. And then he told me:

“I’ve read everything you’ve posted. You are genuine—but needy. You want validation. You think I’m famous, and if I approve of you, then you matter more.”

I pushed back: “So does that make my faith false?”

He paused.

“Your faith is delusional. Harmful. I believe in the transcendental argument for the non-existence of God.”

I laughed. “You’re not the first.”

“So why are you here?” he asked. “You won’t change me.”

“I came to let you see. See the pain. See the questions. See the darkness. And maybe see that the light holds.”

We sat there for a long time. Coffee cooled. Our eyes met.

“Then let’s try to turn on all the light,” I said.

And we both laughed.

---

✝️ Why It Still Matters

This story didn’t “convert” House. It’s not really about that. What it did was force me to confront my own motivations—my own heart. It reminded me that faith isn’t a debate to win, but a light to hold up in dark places.

Some people need answers. Others need empathy. And some, like House, need a fellow limping soul to walk beside them—even for just a few steps.

---

“Life is too short and the gospel is too good to spend time living as a poser.” – Rev. David Filson

Living in Babylon: When Revelation Feels Too Real

The world is always churning, but lately it seems to be an active volcano.

Military strikes light up the headlines. Economic summits promise stability in a house built on sand. The pageantry of politics, the ceremonies of wealth, the distractions of our digital playground—all of it feels like a grand illusion. And this morning, I was pulled back—almost hurled back—into the deep, haunting poetry of Revelation 18 and 19.

There are parts of the Bible that read like clear instruction. Others like comforting narrative. But then there’s Revelation 18—a chapter that sings and weeps and burns. It feels like a song and a funeral and a thunderstorm all at once. I can’t help but be mesmerized every time I read it. It’s apocalyptic, yes—but also strangely lyrical. Like an epic poem written in fire. It's so good as a lyrical poem and so haunting at the same time.

And I can’t shake this truth:

I live in Babylon.

Not ancient Babylon, of course—but the system she represents. The luxurious, idolatrous, blood-soaked city that Revelation uses as a symbol of worldly power and godless prosperity. I live in comfort. I am enmeshed in technology and commerce. I benefit from the very structures that, in Revelation 18, are judged with absolute finality.

“Come out of her, my people,
lest you take part in her sins,
lest you share in her plagues...” (Rev. 18:4)

That verse stirs me every time. And convicts me. Because the call is clear, but the line is hard to trace.

Where does harmless enjoyment end and compromise begin?
Where does convenience morph into captivity?
Where does appreciation of beauty become worship of the beast?

What struck me again today is how modern this chapter feels. Read the list of goods the merchants mourn over (Rev. 18:11–13): fine linens, perfumes, gold, silver, vehicles (well, chariots), even “human souls.” It sounds like a luxury market, an international shipping manifest, and a human trafficking report—all at once. The things Babylon sells are not evil in themselves—but they’ve become stained by the system that profits from injustice, exploitation, and spiritual adultery.

“And the merchants of the earth weep and mourn for her,
since no one buys their cargo anymore...” (Rev. 18:11)

This is what breaks me.
No one mourns her sin.
They mourn her usefulness.
Her profit margins. Her capacity to provide pleasure and distraction.
And all the while, the blood of prophets and saints soaks the foundation of the city.

There’s a part of me that wants to stop reading right there.
But then comes Chapter 19—and the cheering in Heaven.

If you don't understand the Gospel and God's nature, the pain of sin... this verse will make NO SENSE.

“Hallelujah!
The smoke from her goes up forever and ever.” (Rev. 19:3)

It always feels strange at first—this eruption of praise over the fall of Babylon. Heaven rejoicing while earth laments. But then I realize: what we lament and what we applaud reveal the allegiance of our hearts. If I’m mourning the collapse of the things that seduced me, that’s a warning. If I’m celebrating that God is finally setting things right, even at great cost, then that’s a sign of reoriented hope.

Still—it’s not easy. I love some of the things Babylon offers. The music (Rev. 18:22). The craftsmanship and technology. The beautiful weddings. The clever architecture. These aren’t evil. But they can become a veneer that hides the rot beneath. They can draw my affections away from the God who made beauty for His glory, not mine.

That’s why Revelation doesn’t just challenge the wicked. It challenges the comfortable. It speaks to people like me—people who need grace not because we’re out killing saints, but because we’re far too comfortable in the shadow of the system that does.

And here’s the tension I carry:
I don’t know how to live outside of Babylon.
But I don’t want to belong to her.
I want to live as a citizen of the New Jerusalem while I dwell in the streets of this world.

That’s why I desperately need God’s mercy and grace. Not just to forgive me, but to loosen Babylon’s grip on my heart.

So I pray:

Lord, help me not to love the things You are going to burn.
Help me to use them wisely, hold them loosely, and never trade them for You.

Because Babylon’s fire is coming.
But so is the wedding of the Lamb.

And the more I set my eyes on that feast, the less I’ll mourn the fall of what was never meant to last.

Midnight in the City of Man

Now I know why I felt this way— The City smiled but could not stay. The green light fades, the music’s gone— And dawn reveals what we stood on. I held the night but lost the day— And now the truth won’t turn away.

Drawn Again to the Desert: Ozymandias and the Wreck of Human Pride

It’s amazing how often I return to Percy Bysshe Shelley’s Ozymandias. There’s something hauntingly beautiful about it—a sonnet that stretches like the sands it describes, dry and desolate, yet full of ghostly presence. It is dystopian and apocalyptic in tone, but not without allure. Each reading draws me deeper into its lonely desert, to stand again before that shattered statue and ponder the arrogance of men.

The Echo of Empires

When Shelley penned Ozymandias in 1817, he was responding not only to the ancient world, but to a very current event in his own. In 1816, the British Museum had acquired a colossal fragment of a statue of Ramses II, often identified with the Greek name Ozymandias (a rendering of “User-maat-re Setep-en-re”). This massive torso, brought from the Ramesseum—the mortuary temple of Ramses near Thebes (modern-day Luxor)—was being prepared for transport to London.

This was the age of European empire-building, the Napoleonic campaigns in Egypt, and growing fascination with ancient ruins. The discovery of Egyptian antiquities inspired awe but also reflected the plundering impulse of empire. In this cultural moment, Shelley looked back at one of the greatest rulers of history—and offered a sobering critique: even the mightiest leave only fragments.

The Real Ozymandias: Ramses the Great

Ramses II reigned for 66 years (c. 1279–1213 BC), one of the longest reigns in Egyptian history. He was a builder of monumental architecture, a prolific self-promoter, and a formidable military leader. His image was etched into obelisks, temples, and statues all across Egypt. He even commissioned statues of himself in double-life-size scale.

But Shelley’s poem suggests the great irony: those efforts to immortalize himself have only served to display his ruin. The mighty king who challenged time to a duel has been humbled by it.

"Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains.

A Romantic Warning

Shelley, a second-generation Romantic poet, was skeptical of institutional power—whether monarchies, churches, or empires. His poem is not merely about the fall of one king, but a sweeping commentary on the fate of all human pride. Romanticism often lifted up nature over civilization, the timeless over the temporal. And here we see it: the desert wins. The sands stretch far away.

But what arrests me most is not the fall of power—it’s the quiet triumph of the artist.

"The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed..."

The sculptor saw through the king. He read his passions—his arrogance, cold command, and sneering pride—and stamped them into stone. Was this flattery, or subversion? Was the artist a servant, or a subtle prophet? His work outlasted the king’s—both in the statue and in Shelley’s poem.

Modern Mirrors: What Are We Stamping?

In our age of digital monuments—AI models, cloud databases, media archives—I can’t help but wonder: what are we stamping into these lifeless things? Are we embedding wisdom or just more pride? Bias or truth? These algorithms may one day lie broken in their own desert, but what will future “travelers from an antique land” say of us when they uncover them?

The question lingers uncomfortably: Will they find wisdom, or a colossal wreck?

Antique Lands and the Dust of Time

I love the phrase “antique land.” It evokes something not just old, but forgotten, foreign, faded by time. Ozymandias now belongs to that realm—the realm where names have lost their power and monuments crumble under silence.

This is where every empire goes eventually. No matter how brutal, brilliant, or vast—its reach is ultimately swallowed by entropy. Even language, even fame, even “King of Kings.”

And that image Shelley ends with—it lingers longer than any boast:

"The lone and level sands stretch far away."

No pyramids. No fanfare. Just wind, sand, and silence.

Song: Relics in Foul Dust

Verse 1 The towers we raised now crumble in the haze, Trophies of war, buried by the blaze. Shattered glass and broken stone, Ghosts of kings, who took the throne. What were we chasing? What did we trust? All that's left are relics in foul dust. Chorus Relics in foul dust, echoes of our trust, We built our thrones on greed and lust. Now all that’s left is ash and rust, Relics in foul dust. Verse 2 Inscribed in stone, once bold and bright, Boasts of power now erased by night. "Look on my works," they said with pride, But the desert’s winds took all they tried. What were we chasing? What did we trust? All that's left are relics in foul dust. Chorus Relics in foul dust, echoes of our trust, We built our thrones on greed and lust. Now all that’s left is ash and rust, Relics in foul dust. Bridge The taunts of kings now tremble in the breeze, Golden dreams lost to bitter seas. We chased the stars, we chased the flame, But in our pride, we sealed our shame. Chorus Relics in foul dust, echoes of our trust, We built our thrones on greed and lust. Now all that’s left is ash and rust, Relics in foul dust. Outro In silence now, the world remains, Broken crowns and forgotten names. The kings are gone, their empires slain, And the dust, it whispers all their pain.

Language, Limits, and the Mood of a Culture

(note: the timing of this post was so ironic because exactly ONE DAY after I published this, President Trump dropped the F-bomb on live TV- you can't make this stuff up- the analysis and use of that word remains below)

Back in college, I had a linguistics professor who was sharp, a little eccentric, and always engaging. Every Friday, she hosted what she called her “Taboo Words Lecture.” It was part lesson, part cultural study. She’d break taboo language down into categories, tracing history and usage like a tour guide through the darker corners of the dictionary.

That’s when I first heard this breakdown:

• Profanity – Words that offend religious sensibilities (e.g., using God’s name in vain).

• Obscenity – Terms related to sexual or bodily functions.

• Vulgarity – Crude, coarse slang often rooted in class or common speech.

• Slurs – Hateful speech aimed at identity or race—words meant to wound.

One Friday, she told us the f-word came from “For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge,” supposedly inscribed on stocks in Puritan times. It was a dramatic tale—but it turns out, completely untrue. Linguists agree the word actually stems from early Germanic roots like fokken, meaning to strike or copulate. It’s always been a crude word, but it gained staying power because of its visceral sound and broad utility.

And today? It’s everywhere.

Just last night I was watching a series—TV-14—and after just 30 minutes, I was stunned at the flood of f-words. Easily 200+. It was like background music. Not sharp. Not funny. Not shocking. Just… there.

It made me think of how different things used to feel. When Gone With the Wind premiered in 1939, the word “damn” (spoken by Clark Gable at the end) nearly derailed the entire production. When Scarface dropped in the '80s, its profanity count was legendary. Now, that level of language shows up in shows for teens :(.

Here is a brief re-cap of a google search into this:

Over the centuries, it retained its punch because of its connection to what’s base, private, and powerful. Even today, it hits hard because of its sound (that plosive F and K combo) and its versatility—noun, verb, adjective, exclamation.

Its early appearances, like in 15th-century texts (e.g., "Flen flyys" from 1475), were often veiled or coded due to social taboos around explicit language. It existed in slang and crude contexts, but public use was heavily stigmatized, especially in formal or polite settings, through the medieval and early modern periods.

By the 19th and early 20th centuries, the word was still considered highly vulgar and was largely confined to private, informal, or subcultural speech, such as among soldiers, sailors, or in certain literary works (e.g., D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover, 1928, which faced censorship). Its use was far less prevalent in public discourse compared to today, as societal norms and censorship laws (like the Obscene Publications Act in the UK) restricted its spread in media and literature.

The word’s modern ubiquity began to grow in the mid-20th century, particularly post-1960s, with loosening cultural norms, the sexual revolution, and countercultural movements. By the late 20th and early 21st centuries, its use exploded in popular media—films, music (especially hip-hop and punk), comedy, and online platforms like X. Studies, like those from the British National Corpus (1990s), show a marked increase in its frequency in spoken and written English compared to earlier decades. A 2018 analysis of American English (via Google Books Ngram) noted a 28-fold rise in the word’s appearance from 1960 to 2010.

It’s worth noting that nearly every culture has its own version of the f-word—raw, abrupt, often sexual or scatological—and used for emphasis, anger, or comic effect. In German, it’s ficken; in Spanish, joder; in Italian, fottere; and in French, while baiser has softened over time, slang like niquer now carries the same punch. Scandinavian languages like Swedish use knulla, while in Eastern European languages the equivalents are often more graphic and colorful. Even in languages where a direct equivalent doesn’t exist, like Japanese or Korean, intensity and disrespect are conveyed through honor-based insults, formal speech violations, or invocations of shame. In every case, these words tend to cluster around what is culturally sacred or sensitive—sex, religion, family, or bodily functions. What’s taboo might differ, but the emotional and social function of these words—to shock, to vent, to rebel—is nearly universal.

I’m not writing this out of moral panic. I’m writing it because I’m tired. And to be honest.. it is annoying.

It’s not that I never used those words or have them burst out even now (but I don't think I have ever taken the time to TEXT them). Before I became a Christian, my language was loaded with them—mostly flippant, thoughtless. I used to joke, “I had really bad language before I became a Christian… now I cuss on purpose.” And there’s some truth in that: In my mind there is a difference between careless speech and calculated, intentional words that carry weight. We should not be unfiltered, we learn to harness and attempt to control our speech as a way of respecting others and adding to the good of our society—we mimic what we hear. We’re shaped by the voices around us. Culture is often caught, not taught. The more we fill our ears with flippant, degrading, or empty speech, the more we find it leaking into our own. It’s not just about sin management or legalism—it’s about the atmosphere we breathe.

Have you listened to the conversations among NFL coaches and players on a show like "Hard Knocks"? So should we be shocked if a high school team mirrors that? Are we good with that?

The Bible has something to say about that. Paul writes in Ephesians 4:29:

“Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up… that it may give grace to those who hear.”

That’s not about throwing people under the law or silencing everyone into bland speech. It’s about using words as tools of grace—constructive, careful, thoughtful. Jesus reminds us in Matthew 12 that our words reflect the overflow of the heart. Not in a guilt-trip way, but in a way that invites us to listen more deeply to what’s coming out—and why.

So here’s the question I’ve been chewing on:

If we found better ways of speaking—measured, thoughtful, uplifting—would the mood of our culture feel different?

Would our homes, our friendships, even our entertainment shift—just a little—if we rediscovered the power of well-chosen words?

I think they would.

Maybe restraint is more powerful than we think.