Tucker Carlson and "The Smoking Man"

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

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

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

And that’s what gave me pause.

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

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

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

And that’s where I find myself wrestling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

History rarely rewards that kind of impatience.

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

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

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

For me, I’m choosing steadiness.

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

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

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

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

And a reminder to stay clear-headed anyway.

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

Would Nietzche Tweet?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From' Thus Spake Zarathustra":

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

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

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

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

Lion Soul Revisited

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here are some links to my earlier posts:

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

Updated (2021)

of course a song: Lion Soul