As someone born and raised at the end of the Cold War, I have given little thought to nuclear war. Nuclear weapons have felt more like a trope from the spy movies I enjoyed growing up than a genuine threat to my existence.

Recently, unable to sleep, I stayed up late and watched a Netflix film I had added to my watchlist months ago: A House of Dynamite. I knew almost nothing about the plot going in. What unfolded was a sobering story that imagines how key figures within the United States national security apparatus might respond in the midst of a nuclear attack.

The film follows a range of characters, including the President, the Secretary of Defense, the commander of U.S. Strategic Command (STRATCOM), White House Situation Room staff, a missile commander at Fort Greely, Alaska, the National Intelligence Officer for North Korea, and FEMA officials. Its dramatic force lies in how it splinters the crisis across these perspectives, showing the confusion, pressure, and dread that accompany the possibility of nuclear catastrophe.

The movie is loosely inspired by Annie Jacobsen’s chilling nonfiction book, Nuclear War: A Scenario. After watching the film, I immediately began reading her book. One line in particular stayed with me: “The epic, existential tragedy is that these last and final nuclear battle maneuvers cease to matter on anyone’s scorecard. Everyone loses. Everyone.”

That is the horrifying truth at the center of every nuclear scenario: there are no winners, only losers. Former President Reagan commissioned a simulated war game, code-named Proud Prophet, to explore the outcome of nuclear war. The conclusion was grim. In every scenario, the end was the same: complete destruction. Even those who survived the initial exchange would likely face starvation, social collapse, and a ruined world in the aftermath.

The film imagines an intercontinental ballistic missile launched from an unknown source in the Pacific Ocean. We later learn that Chicago is its target. The characters suspect North Korea, though the source is never conclusively established. That uncertainty only deepens the terror. In a matter of minutes, leaders are forced to make civilization-shaping decisions while lacking complete information.

The ending is especially disturbing. The screen goes black just before the missile presumably strikes Chicago. The audience is left to imagine the devastation, while the President, played by Idris Elba, is pressured by STRATCOM to respond with nuclear force. The final moments leave you with the awful sense that once such a chain of events begins, human beings may be unable to stop it.

Perhaps the most devastating scene is the despair of the Secretary of Defense, played by Jared Harris, who walks off the edge of the Pentagon to his death after speaking with his daughter, who lives in Chicago. It is a crushing image: a man entrusted with the command of the most powerful military in history realizing, in a moment of helpless clarity, that he cannot save the people he loves or the nation he serves.

What made the film feel even heavier was reading current analysis afterward and realizing how close these questions remain to the modern world. A March 27, 2026, TIME article argues that conflict with Iran could do more than intensify one regional crisis; it could accelerate nuclear proliferation worldwide. The article notes that the International Atomic Energy Agency reported last year that Iran had stockpiled 408.6 kilograms of uranium enriched to 60%, material that, if further refined, could potentially fuel multiple warheads. It also argues that even if attacks on Iran’s nuclear sites slow its program in the short term, they may strengthen the regime’s conviction that only a nuclear deterrent can guarantee its survival.

That logic does not stop with Iran. The article points out that North Korea has seized on the moment to vindicate its own nuclear posture, while countries long sheltered under American security guarantees may now be reconsidering their dependence. In Europe, discussions about deterrence have sharpened amid fear of Russia. In the Middle East, Saudi Arabia, Turkey, and perhaps Egypt could feel pressure to pursue their own programs if Iran survives and presses ahead. In East Asia, public anxiety has already pushed debate further in South Korea and Japan, where the credibility of the American nuclear umbrella is increasingly questioned.

That is what makes the nuclear question so haunting. It is never only about one bomb, one nation, or one war. It is about the contagious logic of fear. Once one state concludes that survival depends on nuclear weapons, other states begin to reason the same way. Deterrence promises security, but it multiplies the instruments of catastrophe. What begins as protection can become a chain reaction of suspicion, stockpiling, and permanent instability.

As I thought about the film, Jacobsen’s book, and the article, I found myself reflecting not only on nuclear weapons but on human nature itself. Why, knowing the destructive capacity of such weapons, have nations continued to build and stockpile them? Why would humanity create devices capable of annihilating cities and then call their possession a form of security? These questions expose something deeply broken in us. Nuclear weapons are not merely a technological problem; they are a moral one.

They reveal how fear, ambition, pride, and the lust for power can shape nations just as surely as they shape individuals. And they remind us how fragile the illusion of peace really is. In a world marked by war in Ukraine, instability surrounding Iran, and rising tension over Taiwan, it does not take much imagination to see how quickly such weapons could become more than theoretical. The danger is not only that a madman might launch one. The danger is that entire systems of rivalry, deterrence, retaliation, and mistrust have made the unthinkable imaginable.

I also find myself wondering how close the world has come to such disaster in the past. It seems to me that only by the common grace of God has humanity been spared from nuclear catastrophe since the end of World War II. Whatever political calculations, diplomatic efforts, or military restraints have been involved, behind them all stands the mercy of God.

That realization does not make the danger less real, but it does place it in a larger frame. Peace is never finally secured by treaties, stockpiles, or military strategy. True peace is found only in the heart of the one who trusts in the sovereignty of God. In his wisdom, God has permitted a world in which such terrible weapons exist. Yet even now, history is not spinning out of control. The future does not belong to presidents, generals, or dictators. It belongs to God.

For that reason, I believe it is right to labor for restraint, de-escalation, and the prevention of nuclear proliferation. It is right to pray that no new nations acquire such weapons and that those who possess them would act with sobriety and restraint. Yet even beyond political hope, the Christian’s deepest confidence rests elsewhere.

God will bring all things to their appointed end. He will judge evil, put an end to war, and stand glorified over all he has made. His new creation will know nothing of chemical weapons, ICBMs, air raid sirens, or the threat of annihilation. That world will be free from fear because it will be ruled openly and perfectly by the Prince of Peace. I look forward to that day.

With bowties and books, some of my interests might surprise you. I’ve always had an affinity for cars. My dad watched NASCAR when I was growing up. I went to a race with my brother to Bristol, TN, which is famously called the Thunder Valley. It remains one of my favorite sports experiences as an adult. However, the spark really caught in 2007 when I visited England and discovered Top Gear. As a fan, I started paying attention—not just to the jokes and stunts, but to the craftsmanship and the stories behind the machines.

‌During COVID, I found another British series, Car SOS, where a team restores classic cars for ordinary people who’ve fallen on hard times. Ever since, I’ve had a steady appetite for new car content. A few years ago, while scrolling Netflix, I noticed a show I hadn’t tried. I wanted something different from the original Top Gear crew’s Amazon project, The Grand Tour. I watched the trailer, it hooked me, and I gave it a shot.

The show—now finished after six seasons—is Car Masters: Rust to Riches. It follows the flamboyant L.A. builders at Gotham Garage as they craft custom rebuilds for wealthy enthusiasts. Like most reality TV, it’s probably more scripted than it admits. Still, I keep coming back for the real payoff: remarkably cool cars imagined, designed, and built by a team of genuinely talented people. That team dynamic is what pulled me in season after season. Every member brings a distinct gift, and together they create something greater than any one of them could produce alone.

I’ve realized that’s one of my favorite storylines in any genre: a group of people accomplishing a mission together. It’s one reason The West Wing remains my all-time favorite show—at its heart, it’s a story about staffers striving side by side to advance something bigger than themselves.

I felt that theme land in a conversation recently with a new friend. We were talking about our daughters—his loves dance, mine loves volleyball—and it hit me again how sports teach teamwork in a way academics often doesn’t. School can feel like a solitary arena: your wins and losses are individualized. But most meaningful endeavors in life are shared. The question is: how do we help the next generation understand not only how to shine, but how to belong? How do we form people who can play their role well for the good of the whole? Most parents dream their child will be the star. But one of the most essential abilities is recognizing your place on the team.

Rudy Ruettiger—the famous Notre Dame walk-on—once said his job was to get the starters ready for Saturdays. He embraced that role, and he did it beautifully. Over the years, I’ve realized my own ambition is simple: I want to be a contributing member of a great team. Healthy teams require unity around a shared vision and humility about our particular assignments. We celebrate victories together, and we carry defeats together.

‌Partnership is one of the central themes of Partners and Citizens. I’ve loved collaborating with writers to offer thoughtful, biblically rooted content for our readers and listeners. I’m not sure exactly how God will use these articles and podcast episodes, but I hope to build a team of dedicated contributors—people who want to encourage Christians to strive together as partners in the gospel and to live worthy of the gospel as citizens of heaven in a fallen world.

‌If you’re interested in contributing to Partners and Citizens, email us a writing sample.

The modern world is full of loud opinions about the Middle East, but not always careful ones. Every new strike, every retaliatory attack, every debate in Washington, and every protest in the West creates another flood of reaction. Yet careful moral judgment requires more than outrage. It requires clarity about power, justice, and the nature of government itself.

The recent widening of the Iran conflict has forced that clarity upon us. On February 28, 2026, U.S. and Israeli strikes killed Iran’s Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei and other senior Iranian figures, pushing a long-shadow war into a far more direct and dangerous phase. In the days that followed, Iran retaliated not only against Israel but also against Gulf countries hosting U.S. forces, broadening the conflict across the region.

The escalation has not remained abstract. Israeli airstrikes hit oil depots and refinery-linked sites around Tehran, sending thick black smoke over the capital and raising fears about civilian health and environmental damage. At the same time, the conflict has disrupted tanker traffic through the Strait of Hormuz, one of the world’s most important energy chokepoints, after Iran threatened to block regional oil exports. Inside Iran, authorities have also carried out dozens of arrests tied to alleged espionage and information-sharing, a familiar sign that external war is being paired with intensified internal repression.

These details matter because they reveal more than airstrikes. They expose the character of a regime.

For years, Iran has harassed Israel primarily through proxies. Hezbollah in Lebanon and other regional actors have allowed Iran to pressure Israel from a distance while maintaining a measure of plausible deniability. But direct retaliation and regional escalation have made clear what was already true: Iran’s leadership is not merely reacting to events. It is acting according to a political logic shaped by domination, intimidation, and ideological preservation.

To understand why this matters, it helps to remember the broader context. The Middle East is not simply divided between Israel and its enemies. There is also a larger contest involving Iran and the Gulf states, especially Saudi Arabia. Israel’s strengthening ties with Gulf powers threaten Iran’s regional influence. Economic cooperation, political alignment, and regional normalization all weaken Tehran’s standing. In that sense, hostility toward Israel is not only ideological. It is also strategic.

That does not excuse Iran’s actions. It clarifies them.

Iran’s rulers are not simply animated by grievance. They are driven by the logic of power. They see Israeli-Gulf cooperation as a loss for their own ambitions, so they respond through intimidation, terror, escalation, and spectacle. Even when attacks fail to achieve all they intended militarily, they still serve another purpose: they project strength to hardliners at home and remind the region that Iran intends to remain a disruptive force. Recent threats against shipping and attacks tied to the widening war fit that pattern.

The issue is not merely whether one side in a conflict has suffered and the other has retaliated. The deeper issue is what kind of governments are at work, what they reward, and what they are trying to preserve. Scripture presents government as an institution meant to restrain evil and uphold justice. In both the Old and New Testaments, the basic logic is clear: the sword is given not to terrorize the innocent, but to punish wrongdoing and protect life.

By that standard, Iran stands exposed as a profoundly corrupt regime. Bad government is not simply inefficient government. It is not merely a government that taxes too much, wastes money, or stumbles into policy failures. Bad government is government that suppresses truth, crushes opposition, denies liberty, and spends its power not for the common good but for the preservation of its own ideological ambitions. That form is present in Iran.

Iran does not model justice. It jails dissent. It silences opposition. It restricts liberty. It aligns itself with regimes and movements that share the same instincts: coercion instead of persuasion, repression instead of freedom, fear instead of accountability. Its posture toward Israel is inseparable from its posture toward its own people. A government willing to suffocate liberty at home will have little hesitation in exporting violence abroad. The latest arrests inside Iran during the current war are not incidental to the conflict. They are part of the same moral pattern.

The same pattern appears in Hamas. Whatever complexities may exist in the history of Israel and Palestine, the moral character of Hamas as a governing force should not be difficult to identify. It is oppressive, violent, and deeply hostile to the basic freedoms that make human flourishing possible. It does not protect its people well. It does not prize truth. It does not build a just society. It weaponizes suffering and feeds on instability. This is one reason the conversation in the West so often becomes confused.

Many people rightly recognize suffering in Gaza. They see poverty, loss, hunger, and displacement, and they are right to grieve it. Christians should grieve it too. We should pray for the poor, the wounded, the grieving, and the vulnerable. We should care about humanitarian disasters wherever they unfold. But grief must not erase moral discrimination. Compassion for victims cannot mean blindness to oppressors.

There are many victims in this crisis. But not all parties bear the same moral weight.

That distinction matters because much of the rhetoric surrounding Israel and Gaza collapses categories that should remain clear. It is possible to acknowledge that Israel has acted harshly in certain ways and still insist that Hamas and the Iranian regime represent a clearer and more consistent form of oppression. It is possible to care deeply for ordinary Palestinians without romanticizing the governments and militant networks that have helped produce their suffering. It is possible to oppose civilian harm while still recognizing that democratic societies, for all their flaws, are not morally equivalent to terror regimes and authoritarian states. That is a distinction too many people no longer want to make.

Part of the problem is that public discourse increasingly prefers simplistic binaries. The oppressor and the oppressed are often assigned too quickly. Instead of serious historical and moral reasoning, many now default to power optics and ideological fashion. But these shortcuts do not help us tell the truth. The reality is more demanding. It requires that we ask which governments protect liberty, which governments silence it, which governments uphold some measure of justice, and which governments thrive on fear and destruction.

Israel is far from perfect. The United States is far from perfect. No honest observer should deny that. Democratic nations often fail, sometimes badly. They can be hypocritical, unjust, and shortsighted. Christians should never confuse patriotism with moral innocence. But there remains a meaningful difference between imperfect governments that preserve freedoms and oppressive governments that crush them. That difference matters.

It matters not only for foreign policy, but for Christian witness. If a government allows freedom of religion, freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, and freedom of the press, it creates conditions in which truth can be spoken, debated, proclaimed, and heard. Those are not small things. Those are gifts of common grace. They make possible the open preaching of the gospel, the gathering of the church, and the freedom of conscience. Where those freedoms are denied, both society and mission suffer.

That is why Christians should care about the installation and preservation of good government. Not because government is ultimate, but because government can either restrain evil or intensify it. A society with just laws and protected liberties is not the kingdom of God, but it is a place where neighbors are better protected, and the church can more openly fulfill its calling.

This is also why support for nations resisting coercive regimes can be morally defensible. Such support is not merely about strategic interest. It can also be about resisting the advance of governments that oppose liberty and reward domination. Iran’s recent threats to regional shipping, its attacks beyond Israel, and its internal crackdown during wartime all underscore that it is not simply another center of power among many. It is a regime shaped by repression at home and destabilization abroad.

Nor should we be naive about prayer. We should pray for Israel. We should pray for the Jews. We should pray for ordinary people in Gaza. We should pray for the suffering, the hungry, and the displaced. We should pray for justice against wicked rulers and for restraint in the midst of escalating conflict. We should pray for the people of Iran, many of whom live under a regime they did not freely choose and cannot freely challenge. And we should pray that God would raise governments that protect life, punish evil, and allow the truth of Christ to be freely proclaimed.

Because in the end, the deepest issue is not merely missiles, drones, oil markets, or foreign aid packages. The deepest issue is whether rulers will use their power for justice or for destruction.

Bad government is one of the great curses of the fallen world. It steals from the poor, lies to the public, silences the righteous, and spends its energy preserving itself rather than serving the weak. Iran is a vivid example of that curse. Hamas is another. They do not simply make bad decisions. They embody a moral disorder in which power is detached from responsibility. Christians should oppose that.

We should oppose corruption not because we imagine any nation is pure. However, scripture teaches us to care about justice, truth, and the protection of human life. We should oppose oppressors because governments matter. We should oppose it because tyranny harms real people. And we should oppose it because the gospel itself flourishes most openly where rulers do not attempt to suffocate truth. In a world of easy slogans and partisan noise, clarity is a form of faithfulness.

Not every government is the same. Not every cause is equally just. Not every protest is morally perceptive. Sometimes the truth is painfully simple: some governments are bad, and their badness leaves suffering in their wake.

Iran is one of them.

Leadership rarely collapses all at once. More often, it decays gradually. A leader casts a compelling vision, followers rally behind it, a culture forms around it, and before long, an institution can no longer tell the difference between excellence and illusion. What began as ambition becomes deception. What looked like momentum turns out to be moral rot. That is one of the enduring lessons from the Volkswagen emissions scandal.

In recent reflection on leadership, I returned to Barbara Kellerman’s framework in Leadership from Bad to Worse, where she argues that destructive leadership does not emerge in a vacuum. Bad leaders matter, of course. But so do followers. And so does context. When all three align in unhealthy ways, organizations do not merely struggle. They corrode.

Volkswagen offers a vivid case study. Martin Winterkorn took over as CEO with a clear and sweeping ambition: Volkswagen would become the largest and most successful car company in the world. More than that, the company wanted to be a leader not only economically, but also environmentally. The vision was grand. Volkswagen would produce affordable cars for ordinary people while also setting the standard for clean, efficient performance. This fits the company’s very identity. “Volkswagen” is, after all, the people’s car.

There is nothing wrong with vision. Good leaders must be able to imagine a better future. But one of the first signs of trouble comes when a leader begins to paint the future as boundlessly better than the past while refusing to honestly admit present limitations. Vision becomes dangerous when it outruns integrity.

That is what happened at Volkswagen.The company promised that its diesel vehicles could deliver what competitors could not: affordability, performance, and exceptional environmental compliance. But instead of achieving this breakthrough through engineering, Volkswagen embedded software in its vehicles that could detect when emissions tests were being run and alter performance accordingly. The “defeat device,” as it came to be known, made the cars appear cleaner and more efficient than they actually were. It was a tiny line of code carrying the weight of a massive lie.

That detail is worth lingering over. The corruption was subtle before it became scandalous. It was first a compromise. The lie was small enough to hide in software, but powerful enough to distort an entire corporate strategy.

This is how bad leadership often works. It does not always begin with a public act of villainy. It often begins with an internal willingness to justify what is false in the service of what appears successful. But Kellerman’s point is crucial: the leader is not the only character in the story.

A company does not sustain fraud at that level without the cooperation, silence, or fear of followers. At Volkswagen, conformity was rewarded, and dissent was discouraged. Consensus became a virtue, not because agreement is always healthy, but because disagreement was costly. Employees who challenged the direction of the company risked being sidelined, demoted, or ignored. In that kind of environment, followers stop functioning as truth-tellers and become enablers.

This exposes one of the great misunderstandings about followership. A good follower is not a yes-man. A good follower is not a bobblehead who merely nods at power. Faithful followership requires courage, judgment, and a willingness to challenge bad decisions for the good of the whole. Followers help create healthy institutions not by parroting leadership, but by refusing to let ambition outrun truth.

When followers abandon that responsibility, the context changes. Fear takes over. Incentives become distorted. Image matters more than honesty. In such a culture, people begin protecting the institution from the truth rather than protecting the institution by telling the truth. That is when bad leadership gets worse.

Volkswagen did not simply make one unethical decision and then repent. It continued. The company stayed on course. It expanded its commitment to the false story it was telling the world. The institution became trapped inside its own narrative of superiority. Volkswagen was not merely selling cars; it was selling the myth that it had accomplished what others could not. And once that myth became central to the brand, telling the truth threatened the whole enterprise. So the wrongdoing persisted.

It is hard to speak truth to power. Often it is risky. Sometimes it is very risky. But when no one is willing to question wrongdoing out loud, wrongdoing grows roots. The lie gets normalized. The culture adapts. People learn what must never be said. And over time, the institution becomes increasingly incapable of self-correction.

This pattern is not unique to the automotive industry. It appears in corporations, churches, nonprofits, political movements, and even families. Wherever leaders crave success more than truth, wherever followers fear honesty more than failure, and wherever the surrounding culture rewards appearances over character, the same dynamic can take hold.

That is part of why this matters beyond Volkswagen.

It is easy to blame everything on leaders alone. Certainly, leaders bear a unique weight of responsibility. The buck does stop somewhere. But leadership failure is often sustained by a larger ecosystem. Followers prop up leaders. Contexts shape incentives. Institutions teach people what to reward, what to ignore, and what to fear. If we want healthier communities, we must think not only about who leads, but about what sort of people follow and what kind of culture surrounds them.

This has political implications, too. A nation that places all its hope in a single leader will be tempted to excuse almost anything for the sake of victory. When citizens treat leaders as saviors, they create the conditions for manipulation, flattery, and fear. Leaders then begin serving their base rather than the common good. They become captive to applause and allergic to correction. A people hungry for rescue can easily become a people vulnerable to falsehood. Christians, of all people, should resist this.

We know that no human leader is messianic. We know that truth is not negotiable. We know that character matters more than image, and that institutions are healthiest when humility and accountability are woven into their life together. Scripture does not call us to lead or follow in fear. It calls us to walk in truth, to seek wisdom, to correct one another, and to serve with integrity.

That means leaders must be governed by conviction rather than vanity. They must be willing to do what is right, even when it is costly, unpopular, or slower than the shortcut. And followers must see themselves as moral agents, not passive spectators. They are responsible not merely to support leadership, but to help keep leadership honest.

Healthy leadership cultures do not emerge from charisma alone. They require courage, truthfulness, and the kind of humility that welcomes correction before disaster forces exposure.

Volkswagen’s scandal reminds us that institutions do not collapse simply because one person wanted too much. They collapse when too many people decide that truth is expendable.

And that is why the task before us is larger than choosing better leaders. We must also become better followers and build better contexts. Wherever God has placed us, in churches, businesses, homes, or public life, faithfulness means refusing the lie that success can justify deceit. The path to real health is slower, harder, and less glamorous. But it is the only path that leads to integrity.

If leadership is stewardship, then truth must remain non-negotiable. And if we forget that, bad will not stay bad for long. It will get worse.

Artificial Intelligence has arrived, and it is here to stay. From text message composition to the professional analysis of sensitive datasets, AI has been widely incorporated into the existing technologies and processes that we have grown accustomed to. Like any other epoch of rapid technological change, the church is now faced with the question of how it may use this newfound technology in a way that bolsters —rather than detracts from —its ministry to a world in need of the gospel. Whatever the right appropriation of AI may be, I would like to draw attention to an inappropriate use that has become a serious issue in many churches: the growing reliance of preachers on AI to generate their sermons. The danger of this practice was underscored when, on the 19th of February, Pope Leo XIV met with priests of the Diocese of Rome and warned them about the “temptation to prepare homilies with Artificial Intelligence.” That the Roman Pontiff felt compelled to address this issue directly shows how widespread the practice has become, and why it demands our attention. But why? Why, exactly, is it wrong to use AI to generate sermons? In what follows I argue that the outsourcing of homiletic labor to AI undermines the preacher’s vocation in at least three ways: (1) it removes the sanctifying toil that sermon preparation ordinarily works in the preacher himself, (2) it weakens the soft skills that ministry to others requires, and (3) it changes the nature of Christian preaching from testimony to information delivery.

First, relying on AI to generate sermons eliminates the sanctifying toil from the work of preaching. Paul writes in Colossians 1:28-29, “Him we proclaim, warning everyone and teaching everyone with all wisdom, that we may present everyone mature in Christ. For this I toil, struggling with all his energy that he powerfully works within me.” The ministry, though a noble profession (1 Tim. 3:1), is relentlessly hard work; so demanding, in fact, that it requires divine energy to be worked within the minister in order for him to rightly carry it out. Like an athlete in training, the preacher is formed through the discipline of ministerial work, including sermon preparation. Through the labor of exegesis, prayer for illumination, and the exercise of discernment in applying the Word faithfully to a particular people, the Spirit deepens dependence upon God and advances the minister in spiritual maturity for the good of his congregation. When the generation of a sermon is outsourced to AI, the labor through which God grows the preacher is exchanged for a synthetic substitute, stunting growth even as it accelerates production.

Second, this outsourcing of the preacher’s work weakens the soft skills that ministry to others requires. Emerging research on AI-assisted writing has shown that heavy dependence on AI weakens neural connectivity, as reduced mental engagement diminishes active thinking, concentration, memory, and problem-solving. In other words,

the mental soft skills that pastors need for interpersonal ministry atrophy when sermon composition is abdicated to AI. Ministers must be able to attentively listen to the needs of their congregation, to concentrate when studying or teaching, and to give wise counsel when a problem arises. More fundamentally, the preacher must be able to teach (1 Tim. 3:2), and part of that ability consists not only in possessing knowledge but in the skill of explaining and applying the Law and the Gospel to the specific needs of his congregation. He must be able to personalize his message to the people God has given him to serve, taking into consideration the trials they face. The diminution of mental soft skills hinders the minister’s ability to carry out this contextual work and is a disservice to the souls entrusted to his care.

Third, the reliance of a preacher on AI to generate sermons changes the very nature of Christian preaching by transforming it from testimony into the mere delivery of information. Fundamentally, preaching follows the apostolic pattern of proclamation rooted in encounter. As the apostles declared, “we cannot but speak of what we have seen and heard” (Acts 4:20). Likewise, John describes proclamation as the declaration of what “we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we looked upon and have touched with our hands” (1 John 1:1). Preaching therefore begins with the preacher’s own Spirit-dependent encounter with the Word of God in Scripture. AI-generated sermons, however, do something categorically different. Instead of merely informing the preacher’s labor, as do commentaries, they replace the preacher’s encounter with the Word with a mere summary of compiled data. That is, something essential to preaching is lost when it is no longer the prophetic witness of a preacher who has himself wrestled with the Word. What is preached may retain a sermonic form but is like unto a whitewashed tomb, having been stripped of all vitality. God may still work through an AI-generated sermon, to be sure, but the apparent vacuum of conviction and toil behind it does not help the church’s hearing of it. Whatever the benefit and proper use of AI might be in relation to the preparation of a sermon, it is not at all a worthy substitute of the thing. If our preachers would serve their churches well, they must hold fast to the apostolic pattern of toil, they must keep their minds sharp, and they must never give up the Spirit-dependent encounter with God in the study of Scripture that is so vital to the preacher’s craft. The church does not need men who abdicate their responsibilities —we need men of the Word!

Christians today live in a deeply political age. News cycles, social media, and public discourse constantly frame our world through political categories—liberal and conservative, Democrat and Republican, left and right. These labels are used as if they represent fixed ideological systems. Yet in reality, they are far more fluid than most people realize.

An article in The Wall Street Journal titled “The Myth of Ideological Polarization” argues that the terms left and right are not stable philosophical traditions. Instead, they function more like shifting social tribes whose ideas and priorities constantly change. What counts as “left” today may not have been considered left twenty years ago. Likewise, what qualifies as “conservative” today may not resemble conservatism from previous generations.

This dynamic helps explain a phenomenon we see frequently in modern politics. People who have not changed their views can suddenly find themselves labeled differently simply because the ideological landscape around them has shifted.

Elon Musk illustrated this point when he noted that although his political views have remained largely the same since 2008, he is now commonly described as center-right rather than center-left. The shift did not occur because Musk moved politically. Rather, the political categories themselves moved.

Political identities are therefore less stable than many people assume. Social conformity, rather than philosophical consistency, often determines who belongs to a particular political tribe. Those who refuse to adopt the newest positions within their group may appear to have “switched sides,” even though their convictions remain unchanged.

This pattern has occurred across the political spectrum. On the right, some conservatives who resisted the populist or nationalist direction of recent years were labeled moderates or liberals. On the left, shifting expectations about cultural and social issues have redefined who counts as progressive. In both cases, ideological boundaries change, and those who do not conform risk being pushed out of the tribe.

The result is increasing hostility between political groups. Political scientists often describe this phenomenon as polarization, suggesting that parties are moving toward opposite ideological poles. But this explanation may actually obscure the deeper problem.

What we often see is not ideological clarity but tribal loyalty. The boundaries of political tribes change constantly, and those who do not fully adopt the newest positions are treated as outsiders.

In this environment, political labels become weapons. Words like liberal, conservative, progressive, and far-right are often used less as meaningful descriptions and more as ways of dismissing or attacking others. If someone disagrees with us on a particular issue, we quickly assign them to the opposing tribe. While this dynamic is troubling in society, it becomes especially concerning when it appears within the church.

Political Tribalism in the Church

Christians are not immune to the tribal instincts of the broader culture. In fact, political identity can sometimes become a source of division among believers.

Within the church, brothers and sisters in Christ are often labeled according to political categories—left, right, liberal, conservative—as if these labels define a person’s identity. Yet these categories are unstable and constantly shifting. What they mean today may not be what they meant even a few years ago.

Why, then, do we use them so confidently to divide one another? Too often Christians appear more secure in their political tribe than in the gospel itself. If we know that someone professes faith in Christ, why do we sometimes feel more threatened by their political opinions than encouraged by their shared salvation?

The New Testament repeatedly calls believers to unity in Christ. Yet political disagreements frequently fracture relationships within the church. This raises an uncomfortable question: Why do some Christians seem more confident defending their political ideology than proclaiming the gospel?

Political movements offer clear narratives about who is right and who is wrong. They provide a sense of belonging and identity. But when political allegiance becomes central to our identity, it can easily become a form of idolatry. Scripture repeatedly warns us against placing ultimate trust in anything other than God.

The Danger of Political Idolatry

The story of the golden calf in Exodus provides a powerful illustration of this danger. After God rescued Israel from slavery in Egypt and gave them His law, the people quickly turned to idolatry. While Moses was on Mount Sinai, the Israelites fashioned a golden calf and declared:

“These are your gods, O Israel, who brought you up out of the land of Egypt.”

In doing so, they transferred their trust from the living God to a man-made object.

The temptation for modern Christians rarely involves a literal idol of gold. Instead, our idols often take more subtle forms—ideologies, political parties, or national movements. When we begin to believe that a political tribe will ultimately save the nation or secure our future, we have misplaced our trust.

Political engagement itself is not wrong. Christians should care deeply about justice, governance, and the well-being of society. Yet political solutions can never serve as our ultimate hope. As Eugene Park observes, Christians must approach politics with radical humility, guarding against the kind of certainty that leads to idolatry.

A Christian Posture Toward Politics

The New Testament calls believers to a radically different posture toward one another. In Ephesians 4:1–3, the apostle Paul writes:

“Walk in a manner worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, eager to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.”

This instruction challenges the tribal instincts of political culture. Instead of hostility and suspicion, Christians are called to humility, patience, and love.

Jesus similarly warned against self-righteous judgment. In Matthew 7, He instructs His followers to examine the log in their own eye before attempting to remove the speck from another’s.

Christians are people of repentance. We confess our sins, acknowledge our blind spots, and seek God’s grace daily. Because we are saved by grace, we should approach disagreements with humility rather than arrogance.

Political conversations within the church should therefore be marked by patience and charity. Our brothers and sisters may have perspectives or experiences that we need to hear.

As Jonathan Leeman has written, Christians should be the first to stop self-justifying and the first to examine themselves when necessary. Our unity in Christ is far more fundamental than our political opinions.

Where Our Hope Truly Lies

Ultimately, the Christian’s confidence does not rest in political movements or leaders. Governments rise and fall. Parties redefine themselves. Ideologies shift with time. But the gospel does not change.

Salvation has always been—and will always be—by grace alone through faith alone in Christ alone. The message that saved believers in the first century is the same message that saves today.

Our political judgments will never be perfect. Our motives will sometimes be mixed. Our decisions will be flawed. Even our best intentions are affected by sin.

Yet our salvation does not depend on our political accuracy or ideological precision. It rests entirely on the perfect righteousness of Jesus Christ.

Christ lived the life we could not live and died the death we deserved. His righteousness is credited to all who trust in Him. That is the foundation of our hope.

One day, Christ will return and establish His kingdom fully. In that kingdom, there will be no competing political tribes, no ideological conflicts, and no rival claims to authority. There will be only one King.

Until that day, Christians should resist the temptation to place ultimate confidence in politics. Instead, we must live with humility, remembering that our deepest identity is not found in a political tribe but in Christ.

And as we engage the world around us—reading the news, discussing public issues, and participating in civic life—we should do so with humility, charity, and confidence in the unchanging gospel. Because while political definitions may change every few years, the good news of Jesus Christ never will.

When we consider the growth of Christianity in China, we are quickly reminded of the ongoing persecution of Christians by the Chinese government. A recent report by ChinaAid documented widespread repression of believers across the country. ChinaAid president and founder Bob Fu expressed grave concern over how both house churches and state-sanctioned churches are being treated. According to the watchdog organization Open Doors, China has approximately 96.7 million Christians, many of whom face increasing restrictions.

Fu noted that new regulations on religious content online have severely limited Christian activity and visibility. Authorities have cracked down on Christian websites and apps in an effort to, as ChinaAid describes it, “remove Christianity from cyberspace.”

The Chinese Communist Party (CCP) views Christianity as a threat to its vision of a unified socialist society under the absolute authority of the state. In one sense, their suspicion is understandable. Christians confess Jesus Christ as Lord, not Xi Jinping or the CCP. In this respect, the situation of believers in China resembles the circumstances described in the book of Daniel, where Daniel and his friends remained loyal to the God of Israel despite the demands of rulers such as Nebuchadnezzar and Darius.

Among the many faithful believers who have endured persecution in China, Wang Ming-Dao stands out as a remarkable example. Often called the “Dean of the House Churches,” Wang remains a powerful model of fidelity to Christ amid immense pressure.

Wang was born during the Boxer Rebellion, a violent uprising fueled by anti-foreign and anti-Christian sentiment. He attended a school operated by the London Missionary Society and came to faith in Christ in 1914. Early in his ministry he demonstrated strong theological convictions. His insistence on believer’s baptism cost him his position with the Presbyterian Church. Yet God soon opened other doors. By 1923 he was preaching widely at conventions and evangelistic meetings.

Not long afterward, Wang began a Bible study in his home that eventually developed into a thriving house church. He once summarized his ministry with simple clarity:

“On the one hand I emphasize beliefs; on the other hand I emphasize the Christian’s manner of life.”

Wang was known for his strict commitment to sound doctrine and holy living. Yet he did not merely preach these principles—he embodied them.

Throughout his ministry he prepared believers to endure suffering for Christ. In one sermon he addressed the experience of hardship:

“You feel downcast and even broken-hearted… You feel that the Lord has deliberately made you bear the one thing most difficult to bear… You ask in your heart, ‘What is the meaning of this?’… Your heart is filled with darkness and affliction.”

Yet Wang urged believers to trust in the goodness of God—a goodness most clearly revealed in the redeeming work of Christ.

During the Japanese occupation of China during World War II, the occupying forces required all publications to print propaganda slogans supporting their rule. Wang edited a journal called The Spiritual Food Quarterly, yet he refused to submit to these demands. He believed that compromising truth would ultimately destroy the church. Despite the pressures of occupation, he continued to lead faithfully, and the church remained active.

After the war, however, a new challenge emerged. With the establishment of the People’s Republic of China, the Communist government sought to reshape Christianity into a patriotic institution aligned with socialist ideology. In 1954 the government promoted a seven-point proposal designed to integrate churches into the state’s political program.

The proposal urged Christians to support the communist constitution, resist “imperialism,” and participate in patriotic education designed to eliminate Western influence. The movement eventually developed into what became known as the Three-Self Patriotic Movement.

Communist publications openly declared their suspicion of Christianity, portraying missionaries and church leaders as agents of Western imperialism. One statement insisted that churches should hold “accusation meetings” against those supposedly serving foreign interests.

Wang, however, recognized the greater danger. Although he had minimal ties to Western institutions, he believed the movement threatened the integrity of the gospel itself. His objection was fundamentally doctrinal.

He wrote:

“These people say they are Christians, but they do not believe the truth in the Bible that must be accepted by faith. They do not believe that man was directly created by God, that Jesus was born of the virgin, that Jesus died on the cross for our sins, that His body was resurrected, or that He will come again.”

Wang warned that the movement represented a wolf in sheep’s clothing. In his words:

“The Three-Self Church is the most effective method used by those outside the Church to destroy the Church from the inside out. Throughout history, no one had thought of such a clever way to destroy the Church, but today it has been discovered.”

Because he refused to cooperate, government pressure quickly escalated.

In 1955, authorities arrested Wang, his wife, and several church leaders on charges of counterrevolutionary activity. A year later, he signed a confession to crimes he had not committed, hoping to secure the safety of his wife. He publicly read the confession and was briefly released.

But Wang soon regretted his compromise. After his release, he refused to merge his church with the government-controlled movement. Authorities promptly rearrested him and his wife. They spent six years in detention before Wang received a life sentence, while his wife was sentenced to fifteen years.

Separated from his wife, Wang endured long years in labor camps. Yet even in prison, his faith deepened. Like Paul and Silas in the Philippian jail, he openly sang praises to God in his cell.

In 1979, after more than two decades of imprisonment, Wang was finally released and reunited with his wife in Shanghai. In later years he spoke honestly about his earlier compromise in 1956. Yet he also testified to the restoring grace of God.

Reflecting on the Lord’s mercy, Wang wrote that God had “lifted him up again and enabled him to stand,” filling him with the same joy he had known when he first believed.

Wang Ming-Dao’s life reminds us that our hope ultimately rests not in our own strength, but in the grace of Christ. Even when believers stumble, the cross remains sufficient to forgive, cleanse, and restore.

For this reason, Christians need not cower in the face of hardship. God does not abandon His people. He holds them fast.

The hymn writer Ada R. Habershon captured this truth beautifully in He Will Hold Me Fast:

When I fear my faith will fail
Christ will hold me fast
When the tempter would prevail
He will hold me fast
I could never keep my hold
Through life's fearful path
For my love is often cold
He must hold me fast

God must hold me fast when I am tempted to compromise, when I fear my faith is slipping, and when I am walking through life's fearful path. He must, and He promises that he will. If I happen to stumble, his grace is sufficient for me to cleanse me and restore me.  

Some rooms don’t let you in unless your name is on the list. That’s how exclusive events work. The Met Gala, arguably the most famous invitation-only event in the world, runs on approval, connections, and gatekeepers. If the right person doesn’t approve of you, you don’t get in. The velvet rope doesn’t care how sincere you are, how badly you want it, or how confident you sound at the door.

That’s why the gospel of Jesus is so startling. Because what Jesus offers is the opposite of what we assume. We assume access must be earned—by the right résumé, the right spiritual wardrobe, the right connections, the right performance.

But in the kingdom of God, access is granted through the work of Another. And Jesus names that access plainly in John 16:23–24:

“Truly, truly, I say to you, whatever you ask of the Father in my name, he will give it to you… Ask, and you will receive, that your joy may be full.”

This is the promise. Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection open the way to the Father, so we can come in His name for wisdom and joy.

Access After Ascension: The Spirit Opens the Way

Jesus says, “In that day…”—meaning the day after His departure. The disciples will not be able to bring questions and needs to Him in person anymore. But they are not being abandoned. Jesus opens a new path for their burdens. They may ask the Father in His name and receive what they need.

One key to understanding John 16 is the Holy Spirit. Jesus has already told them:

“When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth…” (John 16:13)

Luke paints the transition vividly. Even right before the ascension, the disciples are still asking Jesus kingdom questions:

“Lord, will you at this time restore the kingdom to Israel?” (Acts 1:6)

Jesus redirects them. The Father’s timeline is not theirs to command, but they will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes (Acts 1:7–8). And when Pentecost arrives, it’s like the “how they do it” moment in a great caper film. The plan becomes clear. Peter changes. Scripture opens. Boldness rises. The Spirit illuminates what once seemed locked and distant.

Joel’s old promise becomes a present reality:

“I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh…” (Joel 2:28–32)

In the new covenant, access to God’s truth is not reserved for a few spiritual elites. John can say to ordinary believers:

“The anointing that you received from him abides in you… and you have no need that anyone should teach you.” (1 John 2:27)

That does not mean teachers are useless. It means God’s people are no longer dependent on a special priestly class to gain access to God’s Word and presence. The Spirit makes believers wise not because we become intellectually brilliant, but because God draws near through the Spirit and His word.

And when we lack wisdom, the call is not panic; it is prayer:

“If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God… and it will be given him.” (James 1:5)

But all of this depends on an even deeper turning point the turning point that makes prayer itself possible.

Three Movements on the Path to Open Access

To feel the shock of John 16:23–24, we need to feel the weight of the story that comes before it.

1. God’s holiness meant restricted access for sinners.

2. Jesus’ blood means open access.

3. Open access produces wisdom and joy.

I. God’s Holiness Meant Restricted Access for Sinners

Sin doesn’t just wound. It separates.

In the beginning, God created humanity in His image and called it good, which means pure, upright, and holy. Genesis even describes God “walking” in the garden “in the cool of the day.” The picture is an unhurried fellowship.

But sin shattered that nearness. Instead of closeness and rest, Adam and Eve experienced guilt and shame. The garden becomes a place they can no longer inhabit:

“Therefore the LORD God sent him out from the garden of Eden…” (Genesis 3:23)

Separation becomes the new normal. Walking with God becomes rare. “Face-to-face” communion becomes rarer still. So rare that Moses stands almost alone in it:

“Thus the LORD used to speak to Moses face to face, as a man speaks to his friend.” (Exodus 33:11)

Moses had access that the rest of Israel did not. And eventually, the privilege of entering God’s presence belonged to one priest, once a year.

A Representative Required

After rescuing Israel from Egypt, God established guardrails. Not everyone could access His dwelling place. The tabernacle was constructed—God at the center, the people arranged around Him, and a veil was hung to separate the Holy Place from the Most Holy Place (Exodus 26:31–33).

God dwelt behind the veil. And the warning was not theoretical. Leviticus tells of Nadab and Abihu offering “unauthorized fire,” and judgment falls immediately:

“Fire came out from before the LORD and consumed them, and they died…” (Leviticus 10:1–2)

What happened? They treated God as approachable on their terms. But God is not approached casually. Unauthorized access is lethal.

So God prescribed the only safe path, the Day of Atonement. Once a year, the high priest entered behind the veil. He was to be washed, clothed in a special garment, carrying blood and incense, and doing the work alone. This ceremony did more than manage religious ritual; it put the distance between God and man on display in real time because of sin.

The Day of Atonement preached the same sermon every year. God is holy, and we are not.

And if we’re honest, we still feel the effects. Even in a culture that dismisses sin, people feel disorder within, fear, anxiety, and despair. We ache for relief. We sense that something isn’t right.

We need a better representative, whom God appointed—someone who can grant access to many to where fullness of joy actually lives.

The Veil Torn: The Turning Point

Then something extraordinary happened. At the crucifixion, we read:

“And behold, the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom.” (Matthew 27:51)

The tearing of the veil was not merely architectural damage. It was a spiritual triumph. The barrier was being dismantled. Not because God became less holy, but because a true atonement was being made. God’s holiness meant sinners like you and me could not draw near until Jesus changed everything.

II. Jesus’ Blood Means Open Access

Jesus returns us to John 16:23 with a phrase that should make us sit up:

“Truly, truly…”

In John’s Gospel, those words function like a spotlight. Jesus is saying: Pay attention. This matters. And the claim is staggering:

“Whatever you ask of the Father in my name, he will give it to you.”

“In my name” is the qualifier, and it is everything.

Praying in Jesus’ name is not a magic phrase tacked onto the end of a prayer. It means we come to the Father on Jesus’ merit, under Jesus’ authority, trusting Jesus’ mediation. He is the key to the curtain.

As Jesus says elsewhere:

“No one comes to the Father except through me.” (John 14:6)

Access is not earned. Access is purchased. Hebrews says Jesus entered the holy places not with animal blood, but with His own:

“By means of his own blood, thus securing an eternal redemption.” (Hebrews 9:12)

And now:

“Since we have confidence to enter… by the blood of Jesus…” (Hebrews 10:19)

So the invitation becomes clear:

“Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace…” (Hebrews 4:16)

Not with swagger. Not with entitlement. Not with performance. With confidence because Christ has done the work. And for those in Christ, there is no lingering curtain. Nothing can separate you from the love of God in Christ Jesus (Romans 8:38–39).

What Keeps You From Asking the Father?

If access is truly open, why do so many of us refrain from asking the Father for anything?

Sins. Distractions. Shame.

Whatever is holding you back, the gospel invites you to throw it off. You are invited to speak to the Almighty God in the name of Jesus Christ. Come running—not because you are strong, but because Christ is sufficient.

III. Open Access Produces Wisdom and Joy

Jesus promises that open access is not merely permission. It is a provision.

Wisdom in Chaos

The world can feel unhinged. Wars, inflation, political volatility, personal instability—when the noise rises, we’re tempted to scroll endlessly for answers.

But Scripture says something better. Ask your Father.

We have access to God’s will through His Word, and we have His Spirit to help us understand, believe, and obey. The Father who feeds the birds sees you and cares for you (Matthew 6:26). He is working all things according to the counsel of His will (Ephesians 1:11). You are not left to interpret your life alone.

Joy in Conflict

Jesus finishes the promise:

“Ask, and you will receive, that your joy may be full.” (John 16:24)

Joy is not ultimately produced by circumstances, money, stability, or human validation. Even when those things are good gifts, they cannot hold the weight of “fullness.”

Fullness of joy is found in God’s presence:

“In your presence there is fullness of joy…” (Psalm 16:11)

So don’t just believe in access. Use it. Put away the phone. Step into the quiet. Speak to the God who spoke to Moses from the cloud. Fight for margins with the Lord—even when life is loud.

David’s one request is still a wise prayer:

“One thing have I asked of the LORD… to gaze upon the beauty of the LORD…” (Psalm 27:4)

Come Boldly

The invitation of the gospel is not, “Try harder to earn your way in.” It is. Come boldly, because Jesus has opened the way.

When God calls you into uncertainty, you don’t have to be paralyzed by the unknown. You have access. When you feel lonely, unsteady, or afraid, you don’t have to drift without a compass. You have access. When you feel stuck in calling or distracted in faith, you don’t have to pretend. You have access.

So ask the Father for wisdom, for courage, for a whole heart, and for joy. Because what was once an unbridgeable chasm has become open access through Jesus’ atoning work. And when you come in His name, you will not be turned away.

Why do many Christians today feel exhausted from trying to be good enough?

It is true that our American culture is obsessed with performance, production, and perceived value but how does this translate to church culture? Why do we find ourselves working so hard for intimacy with God only to end up feeling like He is even further away? What would happen if we could truly do as the Bible commands us in Psalm 46:10 and “cease striving and know that I am God?”

Our lives would look endlessly different from the worldly culture around us. We would find our value and identity shaped by who God is rather than by what we are doing or experiencing. Unfortunately, the problem with finding true rest in the Lord often begins with what our churches are teaching us (either explicitly or implicitly) about what is truly important. Modern evangelicalism often measures faith by the intensity of our personal devotion and ever- increasing spiritual maturity. Because of this, rest often feels wrong or unearned because we can always do better. However, true Christian rest is found not in pietistic striving, but in a confessional, church-shaped life that anchors weary believers in Christ’s finished work.

I was recently gifted a book called “Rest: A Consideration of Faith vs. Faithfulness” by Jon Moffitt, Justin Perdue, and Jimmy Buehler. It is a short but impactful read in which the authors make the claim that the focus of the modern evangelical church is often on us-centered things rather than on Christ. When I received the book, I was entering a season of stepping back from a lot of the ministry-related tasks and duties to which I was previously committed. As someone who has often struggled with finding my identity in how I am serving in my church and whether or not I add value to the congregation, the Lord, in His providence, saw fit to challenge me to confront unbiblical beliefs and lean into the true rest that is promised in Scripture. Reading this book was a breath of fresh air at a time when I really needed this reminder and has been a continued encouragement to me that there is another, better, way.

Justin Perdue, one of the book’s authors, begins by making the claim that modern evangelicalism is a pietistic movement. Pietism is the idea that individual performance and emotional experience are the most important spiritual indicators in the life of a believer. In other words, pietism focuses on the subjective inner life and personal religious experience as the main measure of spiritual health. He states,

“Pietism begins with the questions: What must we do? This is the baseline consideration. As a result, duty (what we do) comes before identity (who we are) in a pietistic world. Even worse, in this schema, our identity is seemingly derived from what we do- or don’t do- and assurance is tethered to how well we’re performing our duty. If we aren’t performing well, we should be worried” (Rest 13-14).

This type of pietistic language shows up everywhere in modern church life. Think about how often we use phrases like, “I need to be more faithful with having a quiet time”, “Are you really on fire for Jesus?”, or even “Prayerlessness is practical atheism.” This gradually erodes the foundation on which our faith is set. It shifts from a faith built on Christ’s finished work on the cross, and in its place rises up a focus that unintentionally trains believers to find assurance in personal efforts. We begin to think less about Christ and more about each Christian. We become obsessed with personal victories over struggles and temptations, with church attendance and service, and with moral living. While those are all good things, they should not be the focus of our Christian walk. The focus should always be, first and foremost, on Christ, who is the author and perfecter of our faith (Hebrews 12:2).

What happens when the Church becomes a spiritual treadmill focused on personal results? Church becomes a place where we measure ourselves against pietistic standards and walk away

believing that because we are “doing good,” we are growing. Or the inverse, if we aren’t doing well, we are falling backwards into dangerous territory. But, ultimately, we end up doing the same things over and over with little spiritual growth and more and more exhaustion. In our modern evangelical culture, we often mistake busyness for devotion. If I can just serve enough, worship better, have longer quiet times every day, etc then I will finally be able to rest in the Lord. But I have to earn my chance to rest. This mentality inevitably leads to burnout, and we are no closer to the Lord than when we started. Why? Because we’ve made our spiritual lives all about us rather than being focused on the Lord. But what if we discovered that rest isn’t something to achieve, but rather, something that is already finished?



So, what is the antidote to a spiritual life marked by busyness, insecurity, and burnout? Confessionalism. Confessionalism is an adherence to historical church confessions that shapes the way the body of believers views the Gospel, themselves, and the great commission. The focus is on the objective truths of the Gospel which are shared and confessed by the Church and on the ordinary means of grace by which Christ gives rest to His people. While spiritual disciplines such as personal time in the Word, fasting, tithing, etc are encouraged, they are viewed as supplemental or secondary to participation in the body and the means of grace. Critics of confessionalism may view it to be too exacting and too specific but perfect confessionalism is not the goal here. The goal is for the Church to be centered on objective realities from which our theology flows and, in so doing, find true and lasting rest in Christ regardless of how we feel from moment to moment. In the book, Justin Perdue states,

“Confessionalism emphasizes Jesus and what He has accomplished on our behalf. The emphasis is on what has been done. The concern, in a confessional context, is that we take hold of- and rest in- our standing before God in Christ, regardless of how we might be feeling or performing at any given moment. If the Christian is at the center of pietism, Christ is at the center of confessionalism. Jesus and his work are in the foreground; the Christian life is in the background and is only rightly understood in light of Jesus and His accomplishments. Confessionalism begins with the question: Who are we? This is the baseline consideration. As a result, identity precedes duty in a confessional world. What we do is derived from who we are, not the other way around” (Rest 17-18).

So, what does it mean to rest in the finished work of Christ? It means that we are secure in the knowledge that Christ has already done everything necessary for our salvation and that the Bible is true when it says, “He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion” (Philippians 1:6). As believers, we are being sanctified daily, not by any works we can do or personal victories we can achieve, but by the work of the Holy Spirit in our lives. How then shall we live and find true rest? By committing to a church-shaped life: the comfort of a shared confession, the ordinary means of grace, the weekly rhythm of hearing the true Gospel preached, and the reminder to ourselves and one another that our chief end is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever. Confessionalism gives believers a stable doctrinal anchor. It is based on Scripture and not in our ever-fluctuating spiritual experiences. It gives us a community that comes together each week to declare the truth of the Gospel rather than to put pious pressure on one another to perform better. Finally, it gives us a rhythm of hearing “Christ for you” not “do more for God.”

True confessional rest reshapes the Church’s focus. The focus becomes worship over self- assessment, honesty over hype, and dependence over striving. We choose to evaluate spiritual health less by “How did my week feel?” and more by “What has Christ promised and finished for me?”. Imagine with me what it would be like as weary sojourners in this land if we came to gather as the Church each week to acknowledge that we are indeed sinners in need of grace, to affirm that grace cannot be obtained through righteous works of our own, and to celebrate

what Christ has done for us so that we can rest in His perfect peace instead. We could finally get off of the spiritual treadmill that equates performance with pleasing God and identity with what we bring to the table in our congregations. Moreover, our mission and our sense of justice would be rooted not in ourselves and our guilt that we need to “do more”, but in grace and worship for our Savior who has done it all already. True confessional theology doesn’t make faith less personal; it makes it more sustainable by shifting the focus from ourselves back to Christ.

When you doubt your salvation, where do you instinctively look? To your performance? Or to Christ’s promises? Is your church asking you to feel more, do more, be more, or is the encouragement to rest more deeply in what Christ has already done? As believers living within a culture that puts maximum emphasis on how much we are accomplishing, our churches must encourage us to root our identity in what Christ has already done for us. Rather than deciding if we are good enough or doing enough to earn our place in our congregations and in the Lord’s kingdom, we must rest in the security that Christ has already done everything necessary to accomplish for us true and lasting rest in Him. Indeed, maybe the most radical thing a believer can do today is to stop trying to prove his or her faith, and instead receive the rest Christ has already purchased.

I just watched the 2½-hour interview Tucker Carlson did with Mike Huckabee a few days ago, and I’d encourage you to watch it too. I found it genuinely thought-provoking—partly because I haven’t spent much time studying either man. Huckabee is a former governor of Arkansas, a Baptist pastor, and he now serves as the U.S. ambassador to Israel. Tucker Carlson is a famously provocative media personality who also identifies as a Christian. The interview was recorded in Israel, and Tucker pressed Huckabee with difficult questions about the legitimacy of Israel as a secular nation-state—and about who, exactly, deserves citizenship there.

I’ve known for a long time that the political and religious tensions surrounding Israel and its neighbors are extraordinarily complex. Those tensions even reach into our own community, especially since my family has relationships with at least one family that identifies as Palestinian. And I should admit something else up front: my own personal history with Islam is uncomfortable. After living for a year in the Middle East, I moved from being a Christian who simply regarded Islam as a false religion to someone who sees it as spiritually and socially destructive. Some of the most violent and hateful acts I’ve ever witnessed have come out of the Islamic system. So my perspective is not neutral; it’s biased against Islam.

For me, there is no clean, obvious answer to the Israel–Palestine conflict. The water gets muddy quickly when you realize that “Jewish” can function as an ethnic category, a religious category, or both—with overlap that is real but not always definitional. And as a Christian, I believe the Bible is inspired and authoritative in everything it addresses. Yet it’s hard to have a good-faith debate when the basic terms aren’t agreed upon.

A prime example is Galatians 6:16, where Paul speaks of “the Israel of God.” Depending on one’s theological framework—especially dispensational versus covenantal—“Israel” can mean either (1) the physical offspring of Abraham (an ethnic category) or (2) the spiritual descendants of Abraham through faith in Christ (a covenantal category). My own view is that Paul includes New Testament Christians in “the Israel of God.” Much of the New Testament, and Galatians in particular, addresses mixed congregations of ethnic Jews and Gentile believers. It makes sense to me that Paul would apply “Israel” covenantally to a community defined by faith in the Messiah rather than merely by ethnicity.

Because I read Scripture from a more covenantal than dispensational perspective, I tend to see deeper continuity between Old and New Testaments. Practically, that means I think many of God’s promises to Old Testament Israel reverberate into the life of the New Testament church—though not always in simplistic or one-to-one ways. And that matters here because the modern state of Israel typically justifies itself from a blend of sources: theological narrative, historical claims, international law, and military outcomes. In this moment, I’m most interested in the theological claim.

Tucker came into the interview with a few central questions, and—frustratingly—he rarely got clean answers. Huckabee identifies as a “Christian Zionist,” and Tucker wanted him to define what that means. Huckabee described it as a Christian who believes the Jews have a right to a homeland. But when Tucker pressed further—on what basis that right is grounded—Huckabee’s answers felt like an amalgam: biblical precedent, international agreement, and military success, all woven together.

And here’s where the messiness shows itself. If we appeal to the Bible alone as justification for Israel’s land, the borders extend from Egypt to the Euphrates (Genesis 15)—an enormous territory that today includes parts of multiple modern states. If we appeal to modern history, the border story shifts dramatically around the 20th century, especially the aftermath of World War II and subsequent treaties and wars. If we appeal to military conquest (or military survival), Israel’s “legitimacy” becomes tied to what it can hold and defend—though even that story changes, as with the return of the Sinai Peninsula to Egypt. So which source defines Israel’s boundaries: Scripture, international agreements, or battlefield outcomes? There isn’t an easy answer.

Tucker then moved to a related question: Who are the Jews who have a right to live there? At first glance, the answer seems obvious: Jewish people. But even that quickly becomes complicated. The modern nation of Israel was formed, in large part, to provide a homeland for the Jewish people—conveniently in a region with deep Jewish history. Yet in the establishment and expansion of that homeland, many other families—who also had lived in those areas for generations—were displaced. So whose history establishes a right to remain? And does Israel’s secular government ground its legitimacy primarily in biblical history, in legal agreements, or in political power?

Christians often say, rightly, that God is sovereign over political outcomes. He can use unrighteous rulers to accomplish righteous purposes, even when their motives are compromised. God’s motives are not. And God’s goodness is not dependent on our emotional comfort with the complexities; his goodness is definitional—part of his nature.

One of the most confusing elements in this discussion is Israel’s “right of return,” which grants certain Jews the legal right to immigrate and gain citizenship. But that raises another question: which Jews? My understanding is that ethnic Jews who convert to Christianity can forfeit that right, while a person with no ethnic Jewish connection who converts to Judaism may be able to claim it. That’s a striking example of how the lines get drawn: sometimes by ethnicity, sometimes by religious affiliation, and sometimes by a combination that doesn’t map neatly onto the biblical categories people assume.

That tension gets sharper when you consider Paul’s argument in Romans 9:

“For not all who are descended from Israel belong to Israel… This means that it is not the children of the flesh who are the children of God, but the children of the promise are counted as offspring.”

If we take Paul seriously, then “Israel” cannot be reduced to biology alone. It becomes a category shaped by promise and faith. Which creates a provocative thought experiment: if Christ is the true Israel—the faithful Israelite who fulfills Israel’s calling—and believers are united to Christ, then in a sense the people of God are the community defined by union with him. If you follow that line all the way down, you end up with a spicy conclusion: maybe the land belongs to Christians. That’s a hot take, and I’m not presenting it as a policy proposal. I’m simply pointing out how quickly biblical categories complicate modern political claims.

Huckabee also leaned on Israel’s military survival as a marker of legitimacy. Historically, most nations can point to battlefield outcomes as part of their story. But Israel’s claim often functions differently: it is treated as a unique case because it is tethered—at least rhetorically—to sacred history. Tucker raised the analogy of Great Britain: an ethnic population has existed there for a very long time, its religious character has shifted dramatically, and yet no one debates whether the British “deserve” to live in Britain. Britain’s legitimacy isn’t typically argued from Scripture. Israel’s often is.

And that returns us to the central question: Is modern Israel the same as Old Testament Israel? I don’t subscribe to crude replacement theology. I do believe God’s purposes for ethnic Jews matter, and that his covenants aren’t disposable. But if Christ is the fulfillment of the Old Testament, then how should Christians understand the status of the Jewish people apart from Christ? From a New Testament standpoint, it seems they are an ethnic people with profound historical significance who are, at present, living in unbelief regarding God’s climactic revelation in Jesus. That reality should produce humility and grief, not triumphalism. It also raises another question Christians sometimes ask: Is it our responsibility to help prophecy become a physical reality? I’m not convinced we’re called to engineer history. But I am convinced we are called to love our neighbor, to oppose needless suffering, and to bear witness to Christ.

I’ve also been thinking about what “rights” actually are. In the United States, we proudly claim that our rights are “unalienable” and endowed by God. In one sense, that’s true—human dignity is real because humans are made in God’s image. Yet in the practical realm, rights are protected only when there is power to enforce them. Laws, courts, and institutions are the mechanisms that prevent rights from being merely theoretical. So what power enforces Israel’s “right” to exist? In obvious terms: the Israeli military and significant support—financial, diplomatic, and strategic—from the United States. In ultimate terms: the providence of God, who raises up nations and brings them down. If God wills Israel to endure, it will endure. If he wills the Palestinian people to endure, they will endure. And if you read the Old Testament honestly, you’ll see that God often preserves and judges peoples simultaneously—disciplining, refining, and exposing hearts without surrendering his sovereignty.

Another portion of the interview that caught my attention was Huckabee’s positive mention of the Abrahamic Family House in Abu Dhabi—a complex that includes a mosque, a church, and a synagogue, framed as a cooperative space for Jews, Christians, and Muslims. It’s an interesting idea, especially coming from a religious tradition that has historically shown little tolerance for dissent. Their public messaging emphasizes learning rituals and promoting mutual understanding. But my concern is that it treats religious practice as the main point, rather than truth. Christianity, Judaism, and Islam are not merely three different ritual systems; they make mutually exclusive truth claims at the deepest level. So I find myself questioning why Christian leaders would endorse a project that—at least in its stated purpose—elevates rival truth claims under the banner of harmony. Some will argue it creates evangelistic opportunity. Maybe it does. But that rationale can easily become wishful thinking if it contradicts the project’s explicit goals.

None of these reflections yields a clean, actionable solution. If anything, this interview reinforced how difficult it is to translate sacred history into modern political legitimacy without either flattening the Bible or weaponizing it. Theocracy rarely produces good outcomes for populations that don’t share the faith of the ruling class—even if I also believe moral reality is objective and that societies flourish when shaped by true moral goods.

At the same time, I do believe God endorses secular governing authorities in a limited but real sense. Jesus tells us to render to Caesar what belongs to Caesar and to God what belongs to God. Christ never attempted to overthrow Rome in order to establish a religious state. Christianity aims at conversion and discipleship—at hearts and worship—more than it aims at capturing political machinery. So perhaps the best we can do is pursue policies that reduce suffering, protect the vulnerable as much as possible, and seek a stable peace, while recognizing that no arrangement will be morally pure in a fallen world.

I don’t know the answer. But I do trust God’s sovereignty—and I’m reminded that complicated history does not threaten God’s rule. It just exposes how much we want the world to be simpler than it is.

The Case for Christian Nationalism. By Stephen Wolfe. Moscow, ID: Canon Press, 2022, 488 pp., $24.99 paper.

Many Christians today feel disenfranchised as they look at the world around them, noting the accelerating dissolution of the basic institutions and public moral grammar they took for granted even a few decades ago. In response, some have looked back to “Christendom,” the long era from Constantine to the Peace of Westphalia when the Western world was marked by the magisterial establishment of Christianity. That experiment, which was an intentional entwining of church and state, furnished Europe and its colonial descendants with a shared religious and cultural heritage that now seems all but lost. Against this backdrop, Stephen Wolfe’s The Case for Christian Nationalism stands out as a sophisticated defense of retrieving something like Christendom. This is, in my estimation, the clearest articulation yet of the Christian-Nationalist vision. Wolfe raises real questions and offers his own answers. Given the size and scope of the work, a total review would be difficult. I will focus instead on my main contention, that the project depends on a peculiar theological method which begins outside Scripture and only afterward turns to it for support. That is, it suffers from an authority problem at the level of formulation, and this problem produces two downstream distortions: it assigns to the state privileges that are reserved for the church alone, and it functionally adopts a theology of glory instead of a theology of the cross.

Wolfe’s work is rigorously logical; if you accept his premises, his conclusions follow. The problem is his starting point. He tells readers in the introduction that the book proceeds “from a foundation of natural principles,” making “little effort to exegete biblical text” (pp. 16, 18). Wolfe also assumes “the Reformed theological tradition” (p. 16) and draws upon its principal theologians (Calvin, Turretin, etc.). His method, therefore, begins with natural law premises, moves to Reformed retrieval, and only then to Scriptural citation. This makes the work more philosophical

than biblical and ironically undermines his prior Reformed commitments. Theologically, Wolfe effectively elevates reason and tradition to a magisterial status, while relegating Scripture to a ministerial role, which is a reversal of the Protestant dogmatic order that sees Scripture alone as magisterial, with reason and tradition as its ministers. Wolfe justifies these moves by saying he offers Christian political theory rather than political theology (p. 16). But any genuinely Christian theory is unavoidably theological, since calling it “Christian” necessarily claims derivation from God’s revelation in Christ through Scripture. To be sure, certain passages speak directly to political life (e.g., Romans 13 and 1 Peter 2), yet they focus on Christian submission to existing authorities, and Scripture never mandates a governmental form for Christians to establish. Israel experienced judges, monarchy, and foreign empires, and the New Testament church lived under Rome without advocating an alternative government. Scripture, therefore, permits prudential diversity in governmental forms, and none is normatively “Christian” in itself. Thus, in his Case, Wolfe constructs a theory from natural law and historical precedent, consulting Scripture only secondarily. This method pressures Scripture to support prior conclusions (in this case nationalism), risking eisegesis or outright contradiction. And as I will argue, following this method has led Wolfe to conclusions that conflict with Scripture, with two distortions standing out in particular.

The first distortion may be seen in how Wolfe’s political ideal assigns to the state privileges that are reserved for the church. For example, he says that the state has the right to “protect the church from heretics” (p. 312), call synods (p. 313), set aside days for “religious purposes” (p. 318), and pronounce binding theological judgments (p. 369); that is, that the state’s authority functionally extends to even the soul, thereby placing the church in a position of structural subordination. By contrast, Scripture teaches a jurisdictional distinction between the church and

the state. Whereas the state’s civil authority is ordained to, among other things, preserve temporal justice and peace by the sword (Rom. 13:1-7), the church alone is given the spiritual authority to preach the gospel (Rom. 10:14-15; 2 Tim. 4:2), to make disciples and to administer sacraments (Matt. 28:18-20), and to guard its members from heretical corruptions via church discipline (Matt. 18; Titus 3:10-11); the two must not be confused. When the state encroaches upon the church’s jurisdiction, it risks the creation of conditions that marginalize dissenting believers and inhibit necessary reform movements, as seen historically in the suppression of such groups as the Waldensians and Lollards, and in the persecution of nonconformists following the Act of Uniformity in seventeenth-century England.

A second and more fundamental distortion may be seen in the way that Wolfe’s vision of Christian nationalism runs contrary to Scripture’s general depiction of God’s people. In The Case for Christian Nationalism, Wolfe displays an implicit embrace of what Luther called a “theology of glory” (see his Heidelberg Disputation in LW 31, p. 39). In contrast with the theology of the cross, the theology of glory looks for God in power, success, and outward order rather than in weakness and in the cross, directly opposing Scripture’s portrayal of God’s people as a pilgrim community. In like fashion, beginning with a rational picture of how a nation should function, Wolfe defines Christian nationalism as “a totality of national action, consisting of civil laws and social customs, conducted by a Christian nation as a Christian nation, in order to procure for itself both earthly and heavenly good in Christ” (p. 9). Drawing on speculations about pre-Fall natural orders (p.70) and a philosophy of cultural homogeneity (see esp. 134-149), he treats this idealized arrangement—with civil laws, customs, and a “Christian prince” who advances Christ’s kingdom through a “theocratic Caesarism” (pp. 277-279)—as the pattern of what God intends for human society. In this framework, the earthly city becomes a preparatory analog of the heavenly one (213),

as the secular is subordinated to the sacred to orient people en masse toward salvation (p. 104). With this rational ideal as the starting point, visible strength and cultural influence can be read as signs of God’s favor. Scripture repeatedly challenges this instinct: Israel wanted a king “like all the nations” (1 Sam. 8:5–9), the disciples hoped Jesus would restore Israel’s political greatness (Acts 1:6), and the Corinthians were drawn to eloquence and prestige (1 Cor. 2:1). In each case outward success was mistaken for divine approval; a theology of glory. The theology of the cross, however, says that God reveals himself most clearly in weakness, suffering, and what looks like failure (1 Cor. 1:21–29). Scripture describes the church as a pilgrim people—strangers and exiles in this world (Heb. 11:13) who desire “a better country... a heavenly one” (Heb. 11:16). We are “sojourners and exiles” called to live faithfully among unbelievers (1 Pet. 2:11), with our true citizenship in heaven (Phil. 3:20)—not built on political power, but on union with the risen Christ. Any hope for lasting cultural or national dominance inevitably leads us to obscure that basic identity.

In conclusion, The Case for Christian Nationalism raises important questions and offers sophisticated answers. Yet by beginning with natural law premises and an idealized account of the nation, the project stands in tension with Scripture’s distinction between church and state and reorients Christian hope away from the cross and toward visible cultural strength. Whatever the problems our society faces, the Christian solution will always be the same: the preaching of the Word, the administration of the sacraments, and patient endurance as we await the consummation of Christ’s kingdom. Come, Lord Jesus.

In a conversation with a friend, we discussed the thought: there’s a Hall of Fame for everything—tow trucks, insurance, even cockroaches. But the real question is sharper:

If there were a Christian Hall of Fame, who would be in it—and by what standard?

We know what modern culture calls success: platform, audience size, influence, and growth. And we can feel how easily that logic seeps into Christian life. Social media quietly becomes an unofficial scoreboard. Public recognition starts to feel like spiritual significance.

But Scripture’s “Hall of Faith” (Hebrews 11) doesn’t reward visibility. It rewards trust—often costly trust. The Bible’s heroes are not always impressive by cultural metrics; sometimes they are faithful in suffering, faithful in obscurity, faithful when there is nothing to gain.

Are we celebrating faith… or celebrating communication talent?

A Better Kind of Hero

We talked about a largely forgotten pastor, Richard Greenham—faithful, steady, not prolific, not famous. He equipped other pastors who became more well-known than he was. And yet his life exposes a category the Christian imagination desperately needs: the hero who never becomes a brand.

That same kind of hidden faithfulness shows up today in missionaries laboring in hard places, serving small communities, caring more about disciple-making than recognition.

Lynn Vincent’s line in the article crystallizes the whole point: heaven’s Hall of Fame is marked not by climbing upward, but by obscurity, sacrifice, and servanthood—and maybe public Christians should spend more time learning how to be less.

God’s Strategy Offends Our Strategy

Philippians gives a surprising example. Paul is in prison—apparently sidelined, apparently limited. But he insists the gospel is advancing anyway, even reaching the imperial guard and “Caesar’s household.”

That flips our instincts. We assume the kingdom advances through visibility—bigger platforms, louder voices, stronger branding. But God advances his kingdom through weakness, confinement, and suffering. If God can reach Caesar’s household by chaining up the apostle, then our definitions of “effective strategy” need to be humbled.

Acts tells the same story. Persecution scatters believers, and the scattering becomes the means of mission. Philip—the behind-the-scenes servant—becomes a front-line missionary because hardship forces the church outward. The gospel goes forward in the face of adversity. It always has.

Partnership That Goes With People

We end by returning to “partners.” Paul’s gratitude in Philippians isn’t only about money. Partnership is a shared mission—encouragement, presence, sacrifice, “let’s go together,” not merely “we’ll support you from a distance.”

That kind of partnership is what my friend and I tasted in Guatemala: pastor training, shared life, arms around shoulders, the quiet joy of standing with believers who won’t be celebrated by the world but are dearly known by God.

A Closing Practice: Read Faithfulness

We recommend two books because we need better models than the algorithm provides:

• Colin Hansen, 12 Faithful Men—portraits of pastoral endurance and humble service.

• From Jerusalem to Irian Jaya—a wide-angle history of missions filled with names you know and many you don’t.

I recently finished the final season of Stranger Things. The season had its uneven moments, but I was genuinely satisfied with how the story ended. I also laughed at how often the writers staged deep, emotionally honest conversations while the world was literally collapsing around the characters. Still, after five seasons of battles with the Mind Flayer and Vecna—after the Upside Down, the abyss, and everything in between—the series closes where it began: in a basement, among friends.

‌

At its heart, Stranger Things is a story about the power of friendship. In the darkness, bonds are forged that help people endure the monsters around them—and the fears within them. Some of those friendships are unexpected, like Steve Harrington, the former golden boy, becoming a true friend and protector to Dustin Henderson, the brilliant “dork” with the biggest heart. The show portrays these relationships with surprising depth and warmth. That, more than Demogorgons or plot twists, is the real treasure of Stranger Things.

‌

The final episode drives this home with two farewell scenes—two groups of friends looking back on what they survived together.

‌

First, the older group: Jonathan, Steve, Nancy, and Robin. After defeating Vecna, life begins to pull them in different directions, but they reunite for the younger kids’ graduation. They end up on the roof of the local radio station and admit what the show has been implying for years: they miss each other. They make a pact to stay connected and to reunite regularly—anchoring their future in a friendship that was formed under pressure.

‌

Then, the younger “party”: Mike, Will, Dustin, Lucas, and Max. After graduation, Mike convinces them to play Dungeons & Dragons one more time. He narrates what might come next for each of them, knowing full well that this era is ending. Their basement nights are concluding. And when the group heads upstairs, Holly—Mike’s younger sister—seized the basement with her friends, hinting that another generation will take their turn in the story.

‌

As the credits rolled, I was reminded of something simple and strong: friendship is powerful. The Duffer Brothers set their story in a world of strange monsters to tell a deeply human truth—we need friends in a strange world. Margaret Mead is famously credited with saying, “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.” Whether or not she wrote it exactly that way, the point stands. Most mountains aren’t conquered alone. The great triumphs—especially the quiet ones—are usually won by a handful of people who love each other more than themselves, each bringing their own gifts to the shared mission.

‌

Ironically, I connect less with the younger group—not because they aren’t compelling, but because their story doesn’t mirror my own. I didn’t grow up with a tight-knit crew and then graduate high school beside them. I had good friends in Virginia—sports, video games, late nights—but my family moved, and I graduated in Collierville, Tennessee instead. That kind of transition changes you. You learn early that friendship doesn’t automatically follow you into the next chapter.

‌

But the older group resonated with me. Their sadness wasn’t teenage nostalgia—it was the ache of separation from friends forged in a difficult season. That one hit close.

‌

In the providence of God, people enter your life at unexpected times. And then, just as unexpectedly, God sometimes scatters them. I had a group of friends formed in a strange, “upside down” world—friends who loved each other through it all. And then God separated us. But we made a pact: we would stay connected, no matter where we lived.

‌

Last summer, our families drove from four different points on the map to meet at a cabin in eastern Kentucky, and we spent a week together. No agenda—just friendship. It was pure joy. Our bond was forged in a hard season, and even now we continue to be anchors for one another. We don’t see each other as often as we wish, but the commitment remains.

‌

Two lines from the final episode captured what I feel.

‌

Dustin said in his valedictorian speech: “Even though there was a lot of bad, there was so much good, too.” I can say that about my own recent story. There was a lot of bad—but there was so much good, too.

‌

And Robin said: “There is one thing that I actually miss about this place. Us. I miss you guys. I mean I really like my new friends, but it’s not the same.” I feel that one in my bones. God gives you new friends—and thank God for them—but there are some friendships that are simply irreplaceable.

‌

So, thank you, Duffer Brothers, for making Stranger Things. Beneath the monsters and nostalgia, it reminded us of something we easily forget: friendship is essential to life. Friends are a gift from God—steady companions to help us persevere through the strangeness of this world.