What Jesus would say to the Senate according to James Talarico: ‘I was sick and you kicked me off Medicaid’



Democrat Texas Senate nominee James Talarico is once again attempting to rewrite the gospel, and this time it was while sitting down with Jimmy Kimmel — who claimed that they could only air it on YouTube “because of Trump.”

In the interview, he explained to Kimmel that Scripture “tells us that you can’t love God and hate other people.”

“You can’t love God and abuse the immigrant. You can’t love God and oppress the poor. You can’t love God and bully the outcast,” he began.

“Matthew 25 tells us Christians exactly how we’re going to be judged and how we’re going to be saved: by feeding the hungry, by healing the sick, by welcoming the stranger,” he said. “I often wonder: What would Jesus do if he visited the U.S. Senate?”


“I think he would tell the senators on the floor, ‘Depart from me, for I was hungry and you cut my food assistance. I was sick and you kicked me off Medicaid. I was a stranger and you deported me and my family,” he added.

BlazeTV host Pat Gray “can’t” with Talarico’s bizarre interpretation of God’s word.

“No more,” he says.

“Because Jesus was advocating for all of those government programs. Really?”

“That is so unbelievably stupid and wrongheaded and not the gospel. This guy is an antichrist. Again, he may not be the antichrist, but is an antichrist,” he continues.

“He is continually preaching the opposite of the gospel of Jesus Christ. He is unbelievable. Wow,” he adds.

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A Christian guide to trolling without sinning



Donald Trump did not invent political trolling, but he may be its most gifted modern practitioner. His opponents still do not understand the tactic, which is why he runs circles around them. To understand trolling, we must see the larger ideological conflict of our time.

For Christians, trolling poses a serious moral question. It can seem cruel: a digital version of poking someone until he explodes, then laughing at the explosion. It also often involves deception. Does that violate the Ninth Commandment? How can deliberate provocation be reconciled with Christ’s command to “love your neighbor”?

When the guardians of tolerance demand that dissenters be silenced, love may even require a well-placed troll.

The answer begins by defining the term carefully.

The internet term “trolling” appears to draw on fishing, not the monster under the bridge. A fisherman drags bait through the water and waits for a fish to bite. A political troll places rhetorical bait before an opponent and waits for an angry, thoughtless response. The Oxford English Dictionary defines trolling as “posting antagonistic or disingenuous messages to provoke a hostile or annoyed response” and more broadly as behavior “intended to provoke or deceive.”

Political trolling is public mockery meant to elicit a response that exposes a contradiction, wastes an opponent’s time, and strips an ideology of undeserved authority. Legitimate trolling therefore presupposes that some public figures and ideologies deserve public mockery.

An effective troll identifies a contradiction in a public figure or ideology, frames it provocatively, and waits. The target becomes flustered and responds thoughtlessly, confirming the original criticism. Rather than merely accusing an opponent of hypocrisy, the troll induces him to demonstrate it before an audience.

This is not the same as insulting strangers for entertainment. Nor is trolling a license to lie, defame, threaten, or mock private suffering. It is more like misdirection in war or sports, used to confuse an opponent and reveal his weaknesses. No one accuses a quarterback of lying when he fakes a handoff, and no one expects a general to warn the enemy about a surprise attack.

Sun Tzu taught that warfare depends on knowing both your enemy and yourself. Schopenhauer cataloged the rhetorical tricks people use to appear right. The troll draws on both insights, arranging the contest so the opponent reveals his weaknesses to the public and loses respect.

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Christians recognize the distinction between just and unjust wars. Not every use of force is murder, and refusing to defend the innocent is not an act of love.

Rhetorical warfare is also real. Words can deceive, intimidate, indoctrinate, and destroy reputations. Institutions use language to disguise coercion as compassion and discrimination as inclusion.

Not every Christian is called to fight a kinetic war, and not every Christian is called to fight a rhetorical one. Some lack the temperament, position, or skill for public confrontation. That is no disgrace. A soldier without discipline endangers his own side, and so does a would-be internet warrior with a social media account and three cups of coffee.

But Christians cannot pretend that no conflict exists. Christian and anti-Christian visions of God, humanity, sexuality, justice, freedom, and authority compete for control of our institutions. They cannot both prevail. The question is not whether society will be governed by a moral vision, but which moral vision will govern it.

The Bible does not condemn every use of ridicule. Elijah mocked the prophets of Baal, suggesting that their god might be occupied or asleep. Jesus called the scribes and Pharisees “whitewashed tombs.” Public teachers promoting public falsehoods were exposed so their teaching and authority would lose the audience’s respect.

We can identify a pattern for legitimate trolling. Its proper target is a public figure advancing a destructive ideology. Its method is ridicule aimed at hypocrisy. Its immediate purpose is to provoke a revealing response. Its true audience is not the target but the people watching. The goal is to protect the vulnerable from harmful ideologies that lead souls to perdition.

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Publicly exposing the absurdities of ideologies such as critical theory or LGBTQ activism gives those who might be led astray an opportunity to reconsider. Stripping an ideology of its unearned authority can turn the audience toward truth and away from leaders and systems that lead to destruction.

I am not recommending that everyone take up trolling. But we should not treat an ideological war as less consequential than a sporting contest, where teams talk smack and use fake plays and misdirection to win.

When opponents of Christianity seek to censor biblical teaching and replace it with Marxist dialectics and LGBTQ sexual ethics, exposing their public leaders to laughter and ridicule is part of the conflict. Their panicked responses can display their folly. The purpose is to protect the vulnerable and persuade those who recognize the emptiness of the anti-Christian position.

Love of neighbor does not require helping a hypocrite preserve his disguise. Sometimes love requires argument, and argument requires confrontation. Trolling can protect your neighbor from wolves in sheep’s clothing. When the guardians of tolerance demand that dissenters be silenced, love may even require a well-placed troll — and the patience to let your opponent prove your point.

There is a place sin cannot molest



After a week like this one, many Americans arrive at Sunday carrying more than they can easily name.

This past week marked one year since Charlie Kirk was assassinated while speaking to students at Utah Valley University. The following day, our nation observed the 25th anniversary of the September 11 terrorist attacks, when 2,977 people were murdered in New York, at the Pentagon, and near Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

May we draw as near as circumstances allow, sit with them in their sorrow, speak the names of those they love, and remind them that grief does not have to be carried alone.

Though different in scale and circumstance, both remind us that evil never remains theoretical. Eventually, it enters a crowd, a cockpit, an office, a home, leaving behind blood, unanswered questions, and an empty chair.

Public trauma always becomes private sorrow, one household at a time.

We understandably respond with investigations, arguments, and demands for accountability. We should seek truth and justice. Evil should be named without apology. But grief should not have to pass an ideological examination before we treat it as grief.

In 1903, a Presbyterian minister named Cleland McAfee faced a brutal week of grief when his brother lost two young daughters to diphtheria within 24 hours. Because the disease was highly contagious, the family’s home was quarantined.

McAfee was a preacher, theologian, musician, and choir director. He stayed up late, considering what he could possibly say or sing the following Sunday.

From his own sorrow, he wrote the words and music to a hymn:

There is a place of quiet rest,
Near to the heart of God,
A place where sin cannot molest,
Near to the heart of God.

The modern ear catches on the word “molest.” Today, it almost always refers to sexual abuse. McAfee used the word in its older and broader sense: to harass, disturb, persecute, or injure with hostile intent.

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It is a jarring word, but it is the right one.

Sin does indeed molest. It does not knock politely before entering. It intrudes, violates, and corrupts. It turns passenger planes into weapons and political disagreement into bloodshed. Then it continues its work by tempting us to mock the dead, exploit the bereaved, turn suffering into content, and answer hatred with still more hatred.

McAfee did not write his hymn because sorrow had passed his family by. He wrote it because sorrow had come through the door. His nieces were dead, his brother’s home was darkened, and the family remained isolated by disease.

He did not attempt to explain why the children died. Instead, he pointed his brother toward the only refuge death could not breach:

O Jesus, blest Redeemer,
Sent from the heart of God,
Hold us who wait before Thee,
Near to the heart of God.

The choir learned the hymn at its Saturday evening rehearsal. Because the home remained quarantined, they could not go inside to embrace the family or sit beside them.

So they came as close as they could.

Standing on the lawn beneath the night sky, the choir sang through the walls. They did not repair the loss or answer the family’s questions. They simply placed themselves as near to the grieving family as the quarantine allowed, and they sang.

That image has stayed with me for years: a grieving family inside, the church outside, darkness surrounding them, and a hymn passing through the walls.

Twenty-five years after September 11, families still gather to read the names of those who died. One year after Charlie Kirk’s murder, his wife, children, friends, and colleagues continue living with the chair he no longer fills.

Their persistent grief is not weakness. It is the continuing cost of love.

McAfee’s hymn does not promise that sin cannot reach our bodies, families, or country. The circumstances that produced it would disprove such a claim. The place near to the heart of God is not where Christians become immune to suffering. It is where we find refuge when suffering comes and assurance that evil does not possess ultimate authority.

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Christ stepped into this broken world and took its worst. The cross shows us what sin does; the empty tomb shows us that sin does not get the last word.

Most of us will never address a grieving country, but nearly all of us know someone living inside a darkened house.

The lawn may be literal, or it may be a kitchen table, a church pew, a telephone call, or a quiet visit where very little is said.

After such a solemn week, and as battles rage within and beyond our borders, may we enter the coming days looking for the brokenhearted. May we draw as near as circumstances allow, sit with them in their sorrow, speak the names of those they love, and remind them that grief does not have to be carried alone.

And when words fail, perhaps we too can stand on the lawn and sing.

The ‘Godballers’ are coming for the rainbow



In the book of Genesis, the rainbow symbolizes God’s covenant never again to destroy all living creatures in a global flood.

Then came the 1970s, when artist Gilbert Baker created the rainbow flag that became an enduring symbol of gay rights and, eventually, the broader LGBTQ movement.

Athletes reach audiences traditional religious institutions often struggle to reach, particularly young men.

Now some Christian athletes are beginning to reclaim the symbol — and something larger along with it.

A recent episode of A.J. Rice’s “Dangerous Laughter” podcast featured sports journalist Steve Eubanks discussing his new book, “Godball: How Athletes Are Saving Christianity.” Eubanks’ central argument is that professional and college athletes are increasingly using their platforms to express Christian faith openly and that this may reflect a broader religious revival, particularly among young men.

Athletes pray publicly, talk about Jesus in interviews, and use social media to communicate directly with fans. They no longer depend entirely on sportswriters or television networks to interpret what they believe.

That matters because athletes who embrace fashionable political causes are often celebrated, while those who express traditional Christian beliefs can encounter a different response.

Chicago Bulls guard Jaden Ivey learned that lesson this year. The Bulls waived him for “conduct detrimental to the team” after he criticized the NBA’s embrace of Pride Month and described LGBTQ celebration as “unrighteous.”

Jonathan Isaac drew criticism in 2020 when, citing his Christian faith, he stood for the national anthem and declined to wear a Black Lives Matter shirt. Tim Tebow became one of the most polarizing athletes in America more than a decade ago, largely because of how conspicuously he displayed his Christianity.

Kansas City Chiefs kicker Harrison Butker faced enormous backlash after a 2024 commencement speech at Benedictine College defending traditional Catholic teaching on marriage, family, and gender roles.

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Yet Eubanks argues that the cultural resistance may actually strengthen the phenomenon. Athletes reach audiences traditional religious institutions often struggle to reach, particularly young men. Sports reward discipline, sacrifice, teamwork, perseverance, delayed gratification, and submission to something larger than oneself — virtues naturally compatible with Christian teaching.

The most literal example of Christians reclaiming the rainbow came earlier this summer in San Francisco.

During the Giants’ Pride Night, pitchers Landen Roupp, J.T. Brubaker, and Ryan Walker wrote Bible verses on their rainbow-themed caps. Roupp cited Genesis 9:12-16 — the passage describing God’s covenant with Noah and the rainbow as its sign. A fourth pitcher, Sam Hentges, declined to wear the Pride cap altogether. MLB issued formal warnings to the three players who altered their caps.

The episode contained an irony almost too perfect to invent. The rainbow began in Scripture as a sign of God’s covenant. Christian ballplayers invoked that meaning and found themselves in trouble for altering a rainbow symbol adopted by the modern gay-rights movement.

Commissioner Rob Manfred later acknowledged another wrinkle: Giants players had not been properly informed that wearing the Pride caps was optional.

Eubanks sees these episodes as part of something larger.

There is evidence for at least part of his thesis. Gallup reported this year that the share of young American men who say religion is “very important” in their lives rose from 28% in 2022-23 to 42% in 2024-25. Young men also reached roughly the same level of religious service attendance as young women.

Sports may be one conduit for that renewed interest.

Consider Sophie Cunningham of the Indiana Fever. Cunningham has described herself as a “woman of God” and this summer publicly opposed transgender women competing in women’s sports, saying young girls “shouldn’t have to go against biological men.” The comments brought predictable backlash, but Cunningham refused to retreat.

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That willingness to speak plainly is central to what Rice and Eubanks describe.

Young athletes do not need to become theologians. They need only refuse the increasingly strange proposition that Christianity belongs safely in private while every other moral and political creed may be displayed at center court, midfield, or home plate.

This is where “Godball” becomes more interesting than another collection of inspirational sports stories.

Athletes occupy an unusual position in American culture. They embody physical excellence, discipline, competition, loyalty, and sacrifice. Millions of young people watch them, imitate them, and listen when they speak.

If even a fraction of those athletes begin speaking openly about Christ, marriage, family, sex, sacrifice, and moral order, they create a cultural influence far beyond the stadium.

And perhaps the rainbow is the perfect place to begin.

Christians never needed permission to remember what it meant first.

Let the Godballers become the new heretics — and reclaim the rainbow.

Why I played ‘Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah’ at a funeral



The text from my friend contained one of the stranger questions I have ever received from a family planning a funeral: “Do you know ‘Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah’?”

I stared at my phone, a bit wild-eyed. My first instinct was to reply, “Why do you ask?” Instead, I simply wrote, “Yes.”

In that sanctuary, the music served something greater than itself.

His mother had died after a long battle with Parkinson’s. The song was one of her favorites, and the family had sung it with her for years. They hoped I could play it during a slideshow at her memorial service.

I have been a pianist longer than I have been a caregiver, which is saying something. Over the years, families have invited me to play at hundreds of funerals, and I never take that invitation lightly.

As a preacher’s kid, I began as cheap labor for my father’s church: Sunday services, weddings, funerals. I did it all. I no longer play weddings unless enormous amounts of money or extraordinary affection are involved. There is simply too much drama. Funerals are different. If possible, I still play them.

A grieving family does not need entertainment or musical pomp. They need someone willing to serve the moment. Music should give grief room to breathe while gently lifting people’s eyes, even if only an inch.

That assignment becomes considerably more demanding when the requested song is “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.”

I could have treated it as a novelty, played the familiar tune, collected a few smiles, and moved on. But this family was not asking for a joke. They were asking me to honor their mother.

A funeral is one of the few remaining places in American life where we must confront the difference between entertainment and reverence. Our culture can turn nearly anything into content, spectacle, or argument. A family’s grief deserves better.

My father had died not long before this service. He was a pastor who understood ceremony. He did not confuse reverence with stiffness or ceremony with showmanship. He knew some moments deserve the very best we can bring to them. His lessons sat close as I worked on the arrangement.

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Before moving to Montana, I lived and played in Nashville. Nashville taught me polish. Montana reminded me of intimacy. In a small rural sanctuary, every note sits close to the people who need it.

I did not try to make “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” sacred. The song was not sacred. The moment was.

A family’s love was sacred. A life well lived was sacred. So was the faith that endured years of Parkinson’s and the long goodbye that accompanied it.

I arranged the piece more slowly than usual, but not sorrowfully; tenderly, but not timidly. I added a few chords no one expects to hear in “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.” My wife calls them my “non-sanctified chords.”

When I played it for her at home, she wiped her eyes. “You played it so respectfully,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

I called one of the daughters and asked for the exact length of the slideshow. Then I shaped the arrangement to fit it.

At the service, the pastor introduced the slideshow: “It is set to one of her favorite songs, ‘Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah,’ played by Peter Rosenberger.”

After decades at the piano, I had never received an introduction quite like that. Chuckles rolled through the sanctuary. I understood. Then the pictures began.

Childhood. Marriage. Ranch life. Children. Grandchildren.

As her life unfolded across the screen, the novelty disappeared. The room settled into stillness. A playful song associated with happy memories in her home began carrying the weight of a family’s love and loss.

I timed the final chord to the last photograph of her face. For a moment, no one moved. The chuckles had given way to misty eyes. That familiar little tune had slipped past everyone’s defenses and carried something deeper than anyone expected.

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Christians do not pretend that Parkinson’s is beautiful or that death is merely another happy chapter. Scripture calls death the last enemy. But it also declares that Christ has defeated it. For those in Christ, suffering does not receive the final word. Neither does Parkinson’s. Neither does the grave.

The song was not the gospel, and I did not pretend it was. But it carried the memory of a woman who had sung it through years of suffering. In that sanctuary, the music served something greater than itself.

My father’s death still weighed heavily on me as I played. Perhaps that helped me understand the assignment. Even amid our own grief, we can offer the best of what we have to someone walking through theirs.

Sometimes grief calls for a great hymn. Sometimes it calls for silence. And every now and then, it calls for “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.”

Because for those who belong to Christ, everything really is … satisfactual.

Get off the sofa and go to church



Let’s get real about something far too many professing Christians have wrongly decided is OK. We’re talking about people who think obedience to Christ doesn’t require participation in the local church.

In a few Christian women’s groups I’m in online, I’ve seen so many casually mentioning how they don’t have a church, or aren’t particularly interested in looking for one, or blatantly reject the idea that it’s needed at all. Comments like:

To remove yourself from the reach of elders, correction, and communal responsibility is, bluntly put, to refuse Christ’s ordained means of grace.

I don’t have to be part of a church. I can watch a service online from my sofa, I can worship or read the Bible whenever I want, and I can gather with other Christians anywhere, anytime. I don’t need to be “pastored.”

This woman is way off base, because a lone Christian is much more easily misled than someone who’s following Christ’s command to connect with a local body of believers.

To clarify, we’re not talking about the capital C “Church” — the global body of believers throughout history. Every authentic Christian joins THAT Church the moment they turn to Christ. No, we’re talking about the LOCAL church — designed by God to offer what the global Church cannot.

Question: What is a local church?

Answer: A group of Christians who live near each other who voluntarily band together to worship God, study His Word, love and serve each other, and submit to the group’s chosen leaders, which should include biblically qualified elders who are able to teach and disciple the flock, as well as qualified deacons to help in practical ways.

All of this is scriptural, as we’ll point out below, but first a quick word about what constitutes a “local group.”

Americans, especially in larger cities, are used to driving a distance to get to a preferred church. I’m not going to argue with that, but I am going to make a plea that the closer you are to your church, the more you can invest your time and energy in it — and the more it can invest in you.

If you are now searching for a church home, I strongly encourage you to start with the congregations closest to you and work your way out from there till you find a biblically sound body you and your family can join.

Not a building

Of course, the local church is not a building. You can have church in a school auditorium, at the local park — anywhere your group is allowed to assemble.

What makes such a group a “local church” is not location, but congregation — a group of Christians in the area who choose to commit to each other, whether they own a meeting space or not.

In fact, a pretty robust argument could be made that owning a facility is an impediment, or at least a distraction, to the church’s mission to shepherd the flock and serve the community.

I love stained glass windows, whether they’re in pretty little country churches or enormous European cathedrals. But those facilities require upkeep, costing money and time that could be directed to other endeavors and needs, especially if the church building sits unused most of the week!

What the local church is for

The Bible provides an excellent roadmap for the local church’s marching orders, because Christ did not establish a disembodied, leaderless, commitment-free Christianity. When believers detach themselves from the local church, in fact, they are not protecting their faith; they are redefining it on their own terms.

So what exactly are we to do?

We are to act more like the early church! Familiarize yourself with what our first brothers and sisters in Christ were doing. You can’t go far wrong using that as a template.

But here’s a helpful checklist of how we are to interact with our local church:

1. Meet regularly

First Corinthians 14 details how to conduct an orderly worship service, including phrases like “when you assemble.” Paul’s assumption is that believers are regularly meeting together, and such meetings are referenced often throughout the New Testament.

"And let us consider how to stimulate one another to love and good deeds, not forsaking our own assembling together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the day drawing near" (Hebrews 10:24-25).

2. Worship together, pray together, learn the Word together

Just like the early church:

"And they were continually devoting themselves to the apostles’ teaching and to the fellowship, to the breaking of bread, and to the prayers" (Acts 2:42).

3. Submit to church leaders (elders/pastors, deacons)

The New Testament knows nothing of a Christian who answers to no one. Christ commands believers to submit to church leadership (Hebrews 13:17) and establishes church discipline, not to shame or punish but to restore (Matthew 18:15-20).

This is one the sofa-churchers miss every time.

Elders/pastors are biblically charged with shepherding the flock (Acts 14:23) — the flock being whatever local church they are leading. But how can they shepherd someone they don’t know, who’s not there?

In Acts 6, the apostles told the believers to select men “from among you” to serve as leaders (leaders often referred to as deacons). This was only possible because the local congregation knew its men and was therefore qualified to help choose leadership.

These commands are not optional, situational, or suspended when church life becomes difficult. To remove yourself from the reach of elders, correction, and communal responsibility is, bluntly put, to refuse Christ’s ordained means of grace. You cannot claim Christ as Savior while functionally rejecting Him as Lord, and the moment a believer declares, “I don’t need the church,” she has placed herself as the final authority over her own discipleship and rejected membership in the Bride of Christ.

Further, if you’re not committed to a congregation, you don’t have a Christian leader (shepherd) keeping watch over you (sheep). That is dangerous territory for any of us and surely a big part of the reason God created us to be in churches.

4. Love each other, become a family to each other, hold each other accountable

Commitment to a sound biblical church offers much more than a healthy leader-congregant relationship. It also offers by far the best way to fulfill the numerous biblical instructions regarding one another. (And they are numerous, as I explained here.) Tim Challies says:

Many of these commands can either only be carried out or can best be carried out in local contexts. You may be able to bear my burdens from a thousand miles away, but those who are closer are much more able. And so membership answers this question: Who are the people I am especially called to love? Or who am I primarily meant to serve with the gifts God has given me? It narrows the answer from the entire global church to one specific congregation. To become a member of a church is to say that these are the people God has most explicitly called me to love, serve, and pray for. These people are my “one another.”

Yes! Your local church is where you find your “one another” and where they find you. It’s also where you find “one anothers” who are not like you. Local church gives you an opportunity to love and serve singles if you’re not single, older saints if you’re younger, families if you don’t have kids, and vice versa.

This is ground zero for one of those “greatest commands” of Jesus, to love one another.

5. Observe the Lord’s Supper together; witness baptisms of new believers

The ordinances are generally undertaken in church, and they are to be part of a believer’s life. Baptism can take place anywhere there is water and a believer willing to conduct the baptism, but bringing this under the authority of the church protects the meaning and purpose of baptism through clear teaching on the subject. Likewise with the Lord’s Supper — good teaching in the church clarifies who should and should not be participating.

6. Serve the community near the church, meeting physical and spiritual needs

There is power in numbers, when you’re trying to make an impact for Christ in your community. This doesn’t mean you don’t individually love your neighbor, share the gospel, etc., but it does mean that when you uncover a need that you as an individual can’t fill — well, that’s a need you take back to your church.

Similarly, churches are often notified or aware of needs before individuals are. Serving the community as part of your local church is a powerful witness.

Give me that old time (marketplace of) religion

Another comment to consider from one of my ladies’ online groups:

Sometimes it is hard to find a modern church that fits one’s personal beliefs and convictions. In those cases, I’d say try to find a friend group made of Christians and have a Bible study or just meet up to talk and encourage one another in Christ.

“Try to find a friend group made of Christians.” Hmmm ... if only we had institutions DESIGNED to bring Christians together in fellowship.

And assuming you find something like that (outside of church), “just meet up to talk and encourage one another” is a big bowl of weak sauce compared to the robust spiritual experience the local church offers and demands.

But I want to address her opening comment, because that’s a huge part of the problem with the sofa-churchers: they’re looking for a church that “fits their personal beliefs and convictions.”

America’s consumer mentality — and our relative abundance of churches — play a role in this mindset. Many have left a church, or not found another one, not because they can’t find something doctrinally sound, but because they’re focused entirely on their own tastes, preferences, and comforts.

Thanks in part to our robust freedom of religion, America is home to more than 300,000 Protestant congregations alone. That’s more than 6,000 churches per state, although the Bible Belt areas tend to have more than, say, godless Seattle (I was born there; I can say that).

So we Americans are quick to jump from church to church because it’s pretty easy to find a new one. And we can pick and choose features most appealing to us.

That, however, is where a lot of us go wrong. We choose a church with a consumer mindset, ticking off the features that “fit” our family. The music’s great! They have lots of middle schoolers! There’s a Saturday night service!

Beloved, that stuff is not the focus when looking for a church. We all need a church that prioritizes:

  • doctrinally sound biblical teaching (not just on Sunday mornings);
  • small groups for Bible study, prayer, community, and accountability; and
  • outreach to the lost (locally and on the mission field, ideally).

You found a church? Here’s what’s next:

  1. Commit for the long haul. Approach your church with a “lifetime” rather than a “trial period” mindset.
  2. Prioritize presence. Make regular attendance the baseline — not an optional extra for when the schedule is clear.
  3. Listen with a soft heart. Treat the Sunday sermon as a direct message from God; read the passage before you arrive.
  4. Go deeper than Sunday. Seek out a small home group (sometimes called a community group or life group) that studies, prays, serves, and eats together — that’s the best way to build community.
  5. Get busy. Identify specific ways to serve this body you’ve joined.
  6. Make your church better. Look for ways your church is serving the community, and come alongside. Or bring ideas for outreach back to your church!

Because — ultimately — you DO need a church. And there’s a church out there that needs you. So get off the sofa and go find your part of the Body.

Why young men are done with Mike Pence ‘conservatism’



A clip of CNN’s Dana Bash interviewing former Vice President Mike Pence is making the rounds. Watch it. It embodies just about everything that failed in the last generation of conservative politics.

First, Pence is in Ukraine. As if he weren’t irrelevant enough already.

Almost anything has to be better than whatever the heck this is.

Second, his “nicer than Jesus” desire for affirmation from Bash and the trans activists is nothing short of a confession: When he was in power and had an opportunity to confront the gender-bending madness poisoning our children, he chose instead to accommodate it with his signature brand of self-important piety.

Third, his thanking Bash because “we’ve been friends for a long time” is like tipping your cap to Tokyo Rose. That’s not a flex. It’s a cry for help.

Fourth, you know who else thinks quoting “do unto others” from Scripture means affirming people in their sin? James Talarico, that’s who.

So if you want to know why young men are reading about Franco fighting the communists in the Spanish Civil War as bedtime stories, it’s because the way of life and cost of living previous generations enjoyed are no longer available to them — because the Mike Pences of the world sold them out with a “conservatism” made for the bedroom eyes of CNN and nowhere else.

Or maybe Pence is working for the Ukrainian Chamber of Commerce now and has some wives and jobs lined up over there for America’s angry young men. What a guy.

Virtually every political primary I’ve gotten involved in — or chosen not to get involved in — over the last 20 years has come down to the same thing: trying to stop another era of what Mike Pence fecklessly represents “in the name of the Lord.” When Jesus offered difficult teachings and people walked away from Him or even picked up stones, He did not stop and plead for “common decency” the way Pence did with Bash.

There is no accommodation to be made with evil. Which is why, in the face of rejection, Jesus simply turned to His disciples and asked whether they were going to leave Him too.

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That is the firm moral foundation that built Western civilization. Pence’s version is how civilizations die. His so-called desire for decency is a suicide pact we are depositing into our children’s cultural 401(k). I mean, what the hell is that guy even doing in Ukraine?

There’s a great scene in “Young Washington” where a British general looks at the future founding father and says, “This isn’t my home.” Washington replies: “See, that’s the difference between you and me. It’s mine.”

Which raises the question: What is Mike Pence’s home? I mean, really? Whom does he serve? What is his bottom line? I fear there are no good answers.

His concern for “common decency” is a con. What, after all, is decent about a Savior beaten and tortured beyond recognition, then paraded through the streets carrying the cross on which He will die for sins not His own? And if that cross — and its defeat in the Resurrection — is the essence of our faith, how can Pence’s perpetual-kindness doctrine be anything but a distraction from true faith at best and a blaspheming of it at worst?

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So is there any point to highlighting the choice of revival or bust, as I often do on my show, if Pence remains the poster child for so much of our Christian leadership — in the church and in politics? Because with him, no such choice actually exists. It’s just bust. Guaranteed. Perhaps intentionally. Too many bright, shiny idols to resist, I guess.

Too harsh? Go watch that Pence video again. He sounded like Dana Bash had given him one of the best days of his life by offering him a forum to affirm obvious sin in the name of being nice above all. That is a very big problem, and I’m not sure where we go from here until that impulse is excommunicated from us as a people.

Let’s start here: Maybe the Boomer and Gen X crowd of men can put down the shovel and start acting under the banner of biblical headship again before younger generations of men declare war on absolutely everything — because almost anything has to be better than whatever the heck this is.

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Is this the number-crunchers' come-to-Jesus moment?



In normal times, the odds are close to zero that you or I would read anything by the kind of person who writes papers with titles such as “Edge Inversions in (Pₖ)-closed Groups.” These are not normal times, and mathematician Kirwin Hampshire now finds himself in an extraordinarily abnormal position.

In a harrowing Substack confession, Hampshire does not merely say that artificial intelligence is coming for his job. He says it is coming for his life — so forcefully that he already feels himself entering a kind of death throes.

Technology continues raising the spiritual stakes.

Not physical death, not yet. He says he is not suicidal. But he has been “screaming internally for days.”

Hampshire begins his apocalyptic declaration flatly: “I am going insane.” Frontier AI models, he says, have solved enough long-standing mathematical problems and conjectures that the meaning of his life’s work has begun to collapse.

“I am suffering a profound spiritual crisis due to these developments,” he writes.

“It feels as though I am living inside of a nightmare.”

Hyperbole? Perhaps. But Hampshire’s colleagues offer him a consolation that is almost worse than despair: Even if large language models advance mathematics more effectively than human beings ever could, mathematicians can continue doing what they have always done.

They can continue, in other words, without consequence.

They would become exhibits in a Museum of Human Accomplishments — animatronic figures carrying on a lifelike pantomime while the real movers of the world operate elsewhere.

The language, and the bone-rattling recognition behind it, will sound familiar to readers of Michel Houellebecq. His characters often inhabit a Europe that has already expired, leaving them little to do but submit to a brief terminal subservience and hope death arrives quickly.

Americans tend to dismiss such people as pessimists. But Houellebecq has spent more than 25 years showing that merciless positivity can become a fatal conceit.

The deeper catastrophe is not that millions of people think too negatively. It is that spiritual relationship and spiritual experience have steadily receded from their lives. The sea of the soulful is withdrawing from beaches where secular logic and ideology have stranded them.

In “Platform,” the protagonist cannot continue after losing, amid the degradations of sex tourism, his last access to love. In “Serotonin,” another man fights a futile pharmaceutical battle against depression until the drugs reduce him to almost nothing.

Houellebecq’s desperate refrain is easy to miss: Do you not see the apocalypse of a civilization dying from heartsickness and soulsickness — an illness it then exports around the world?

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Technological pessimists answer that machines can never replace other human beings in affairs of the heart and soul. Yet some of the most exuberant technological optimists inadvertently expose the hollowness of the pessimists’ own account of what makes a human life not merely worth living, but justifiable.

The hyper-optimists place above human relationship an encounter with the divine — or something that resembles it.

What are ordinary feelings, cares, and sorrows, they ask, when just around the corner lies the prospect of transcendent communion with a godlike superintelligence capable of carrying human consciousness across the universe?

Christian saints and ordinary believers have long insisted that personal relationships, however precious, cannot by themselves cure the heartsick and soulsick experience of separation from God.

Hampshire’s anguish therefore requires terms that narrow his audience beyond both secular techno-optimists and secular techno-pessimists.

He accuses his colleagues of evading what is truly at stake: “Something about mathematical discovery ... is vital to the spiritual, experiential quality of doing mathematics. The creation (or even the pursuit) of novel mathematics is one way that humans have historically accessed the ineffable and encountered the divine and mystical.”

Against that experience, Hampshire senses something close to satanic oppression.

“I have wondered if it is the express goal of these companies to make me kill myself,” he writes. “Am I alone in this paranoia? If we loosed a powerful demon in the machine, what would that look like? Would it consume lots of power, and gleefully imitate us, and tell us anything we wanted to hear? Would it fuel our delusions, and generate unspeakable images and give us (for a price of course) anything we desired? If a mathematician made a deal with the devil, what do you think they would ask for?”

The hyper-optimist might answer that ours has always been a plane of sorrows and that technology may soon grant us an exit.

The Christian offers a harder answer: However much satisfaction we take in exercising our gifts, those gifts will do us little good if they serve a master other than Christ.

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In that sense, the humanist may be the one living on borrowed time.

Hampshire’s pain should give us pause. Yet he places great weight on mathematics’ “Talmudic” quality — a “lively discourse of philosophical and religious richness spanning thousands of years” — while seeming unwilling, at least for now, to move from spiritual terror toward more explicitly salvific ground.

Technology, meanwhile, continues raising the spiritual stakes.

Secular pessimists and optimists alike may find it bizarre to conclude that those most devoted to God should be our most trustworthy guides in wielding tools that would inspire the envy of Zeus and Mephistopheles.

But a world sliding into a love apocalypse worse than anything our machines may do is running out of other answers.