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The bill ignores the intimacy and vulnerability intrinsic in sex, and the emotional damage sex can wield outside the bounds of loveUnmasking the lie about 'love' that fuels the LGBT agenda
You’ve probably seen the slogan “love is love” (or a variation of it) on a T-shirt, bumper sticker, or poster, or in an advertisement or social media post by a corporate giant like Facebook, Coke, Vans, or Nordstrom.
On its face, it sounds to many like an undeniable axiom. Who would be so backward as to try to put limitations on love? Corporations that remind us of this maxim take on the air of moral teachers. How could we feel comfortable purchasing a product unless we know that its maker is on the right side of history?
Rather than the self-centered love that comes naturally to the aesthete, biblical love is other-centered.
But since “love is love” is so prevalent and so well captures some of the wrongheadedness of our culture, I want to examine what this slogan means and some of its implications and contrast it with the Christian view of love that is much richer and deeper and leads to human flourishing rather than detriment.
Although anyone who is culturally aware likely knows what “love is love” intends to convey, the following is a typical elaboration: “The phrase ‘love is love’ is often used to express the belief that love is a universal human experience and that all forms of love are valid and equal. The phrase also implies that love should not be restricted or judged based on factors such as gender, sexual orientation ... or any other social category.”
What is love?
Our culture is awash in ideas about “love.” Popular songs of all musical genres are devoted to it, and it’s the theme of innumerable TV shows, movies, articles, and books.
The outlook on love of most people in the West has been shaped by understandings of human nature that arose out of the Enlightenment that have come to be called "expressive individualism" and the "autonomous self." As a result, most in the West now view the goal of their lives as personal self-expression and the fulfillment of their unique identity. Unlike in previous eras when identity was primarily defined by one’s community and faith, identity today focuses on individual desires and self-expression.
Right at the start, the kind of love being envisioned in “love is love” is primarily romantic feelings and a delight in what another person can contribute to our personal desires, goals, and tastes.
Think of almost every popular love song for the past several decades, almost every rom-com, most every romance novel, and this is the implicit view of love.
As we’ll see, compared to the biblical view of love, this is a thin and hollowed-out version focused on self-actualization.
As the late Timothy Keller insightfully observed, drawing on Søren Kierkegaard, this modern understanding of love is the one that comes naturally to what Kierkegaard called the aesthete (which all of us naturally are, apart from rebirth in Christ).
Keller explains in his book "The Meaning of Marriage: Facing the Complexities of Commitment with the Wisdom of God":
The aesthete doesn’t really ask whether something is good or bad but only whether it is interesting. Everything is judged as to whether it is fascinating, thrilling, exciting, and entertaining. ... An aesthete often claims to be a free individual. Life should be thrilling, full of “beauty and sparkle,” he says. And that means often casting off the shackles of society’s expectations and community ties. But Kierkegaard says that this is a very mistaken idea of what freedom is. The person living the aesthetic life is not master of himself at all; in fact, he is leading an accidental life. His temperament, tastes, feelings, and impulses completely drive him.
The tragedy of this approach to love is that “if a wife loses her beautiful skin and countenance or a husband puts on the pounds, the aesthete begins to look around for someone more beautiful. If a spouse develops a debilitating illness, the aesthete begins to feel that life is pointless.”
This is because, as Keller writes, the “aesthete does not really love the person; he or she loves the feelings, thrills, ego rush, and experiences that the other person brings. The proof of that is that when those things are gone, the aesthete has no abiding care or concern for the other.”
'Love' without boundaries?
Even apart from a diminished view of love, should we accept the proposition that “all forms of [romantic or sexual] love are valid and equal”? Even committed secularists will balk at some of the implications of this purported principle.
What about love between a father and a daughter? Or love between an adult and a minor? Is love between humans and animals OK? What about multiple wives or husbands (i.e., polygamy)? What if causing or experiencing physical pain is part of one’s love life? What if a man or woman prefers to love an AI avatar rather than a real human being?
Are we really prepared to say that each of these forms of “love” is just as valid as a traditional husband-wife relationship? Even if the individuals in these kinds of relationships consent, are we ready to normalize and celebrate them?
A better story
Clearly, not all “love” is acceptable love, even when strong feelings and desires are involved.
Humans across all cultures, past and present, have recognized and established boundaries when it comes to sexual relationships. Sexuality has never been unconstrained. This stems from the moral law God has written on the hearts of all human beings (Romans 2:14-15).
Given the naturalism that pervades the West, it’s not surprising that issues like love and sexuality are viewed as personal choices that have no moral consequence. Yet, the God who made us and knows what helps and harms us has revealed his will concerning relationships and sexuality in his word.
Consequently, as Glynn Harrison points out in the book "A Better Story: God, Sex and Human Flourishing":
We flourish as human beings when we work in harmony with God’s reality. When we [do this], we are on the road to becoming fully human. And so the road to human flourishing ... is to work with the grain of God’s reality, not to try to manufacture a reality of our own.
While we may chafe at what seem like restrictions on our freedom, God has established marriage between a natal man and a natal woman as the only appropriate relationship for sexual expression because this is the way he designed us to function and flourish.
This also means embracing the kind of love God displays and commands in scripture. Rather than the self-centered love that comes naturally to the aesthete, biblical love is other-centered.
As one scholar relates in the "New Dictionary of Theology," this love “is based neither on a felt need in the loving person nor on a desire called forth by some attractive feature(s) in the one loved. ... It rather proceeds from a heart of love and is directed to the other person to bless him or her and to seek that person’s highest good.”
This divine love the apostle Paul describes as patient, kind, not boastful, not proud, not self-seeking, not easily angered, and forgiving. “It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres” (1 Corinthians 13:7).
It’s a sacrificial love.
Keller observes that our culture “makes individual freedom, autonomy, and fulfillment the very highest values”; yet, “thoughtful people know deep down that any love relationship at all means the loss of all three.”
C.S. Lewis acknowledged in "The Four Loves" that if we desire to keep our heart safe from the vulnerability divine love might bring, we can lock it up “in the casket or coffin” of our selfishness. “But in that casket — safe, dark, motionless, airless — it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.”
This is the end result of the self-serving love of the world. The love of God, on the other hand, is glorious, bountiful, and life-giving.
This article is adapted from a post that originally appeared on the Worldview Bulletin Substack.
Broken poinsettia, unbroken spirit
The Christmases of years past often blur together, but some stand out and remain cherished forever. My father’s last Christmas at home began as a disaster but became something extraordinarily special.
About a dozen years ago, my father was in rapid decline due to a cruel disease that had severely diminished his ability to walk and speak. We knew the time was approaching when he would require 24-hour skilled nursing care. My mother, supported by hired part-time caregivers and nearby family members, worked tirelessly to make his life comfortable and to keep him at home for as long as possible.
The broken poinsettia was such a minor incident, but it was one setback too many. 'Can’t anything go right?' my mother asked as she started to cry.
It was a little before Christmas when my father found the words to say, “It’s time,” lovingly helping the family make the difficult decision as to when we should seek out a nursing facility. He was a generous, compassionate man who even at this awful time sought to give what he could to help his wife and family. His assent to this final move was the gift he offered. A nice nearby facility that my mother could visit every day was found, and the move was scheduled for the new year.
Caregiving is also tough. My mother, who might otherwise have been enjoying her golden years with travel and leisure, was instead a round-the-clock caregiver who was extremely tired after several years in this role.
But there would still be one last Christmas at home! All of their children and grandchildren would be there, including those who lived in other cities and who had started making their own family Christmas traditions. We all made plans to converge on our hometown to celebrate one last all-family Christmas at my parents’ house.
My mother’s excitement about this Christmas gathering gave her strength as she planned for the wonderful meals and the time we would all spend together. The out-of-town family members were scheduled to arrive on December 23.
But things went very bad late on the night of December 22.
My dad experienced a medical emergency that caused him to take a bad fall. My mother called an ambulance and then contacted my wife and me, as we lived in the same city. By the time we arrived at her house, the ambulance had already taken my father to the hospital, and my mother had decided to drive herself there to meet it.
Her night got even worse. While driving to the hospital alone after midnight, my mother’s car had a flat tire, forcing her to pull over on the side of the highway. My wife and I changed course and headed to where my mother was stranded. Before we arrived, she called to tell us that a police officer had pulled up behind her. After hearing her situation, he kindly offered her a ride to the hospital. My wife and I redirected again, arriving at the hospital shortly thereafter. While my wife comforted my mother and assisted with the hospital intake process, I left to take care of the abandoned car.
By the time the rest of the family started arriving the next day, my father was checked into a hospital room and his injuries were being attended to.
Discharge would not occur until after Christmas, meaning there would be no final Christmas at home.
Over the next 36 hours, a constant stream of family members came and went from his hospital room. As the afternoon of Christmas Eve progressed, the family decided to celebrate Christmas Eve together in his hospital room.
Gifts from my parents to the grandchildren would be brought into the room, as would gifts being given to my mother and father. They would be opened on Christmas Eve in the hospital room. A few decorations would also be brought in, and although there wouldn’t be a Christmas tree in the room, a big, beautiful poinsettia from my mother’s house would be brought over.
As dusk settled in on Christmas Eve, the family converged on the hospital, with the grandkids hauling in presents from the cars and the women heading in with trimmings to decorate the room.
But during transport, some presents had shifted and fallen on the poinsettia, knocking it over and breaking several stems. The broken poinsettia was left in the car.
With the family all assembled in the hospital room, my mother inquired about the poinsettia, and she was told of its fate. While disappointed that this Christmas was not playing out as she had envisioned, until now she had stoically persisted in addressing the challenges. After all that had occurred in the past 48 hours, the broken poinsettia was such a minor incident, but it was one setback too many. “Can’t anything go right?” my mother asked as she started to cry.
The daughters-in-law led her into the corridor to console her, while others stayed behind to sing Christmas songs for my father. Meanwhile, the two oldest grandsons returned to the car to retrieve the scattered poinsettia parts. They brought the pieces back into the hospital and, with duct tape borrowed from a nursing station, carefully reattached the broken branches to the original stalks.
The boys triumphantly brought the taped-together poinsettia into the hospital room, and this time it was my father’s turn to be emotional. First there were a few tears, followed by his hearty laugh, as the boys showed off their poinsettia repairs. It was a laugh we all knew well but that we hadn’t heard much recently.
The family was now all back in the room, and my mother was beaming with pride at the love her children and grandchildren were showing to her, to my father, and to each other. We sang carols and opened presents. There was lots of hugging and abundant laughter.
At the center of it all was a beloved man whose earthly race was almost over and a poinsettia held together by duct tape, a poinsettia that will always be a cherished memory to the family assembled in that hospital room.
Grateful for my parents and their 50 years of marriage
This Thanksgiving, I'm giving thanks to God for the gift of my parents and their upcoming 50th wedding anniversary.
Be not alarmed. All things considered, my Boomer parents, Richard and Karen, are in remarkably good health. That my family is not cherishing this holiday season in fear that it may be the last for one or both of them is itself a blessing.
We weren't always so lucky.
Just a few days before Thanksgiving in my senior year of high school, my father nearly died when an aortic aneurysm that had been silently ballooning in his chest suddenly ruptured. Only by the grace of God did he survive. So many others who have his condition, including late actor Alan Thicke, do not.
After that catastrophic event, my entire family underwent a thorough medical assessment, at which point doctors discovered a severe congenital heart defect in my mother, then in her early 40s. Over the next two decades or so, her health slowly deteriorated until she received a heart transplant three years ago. Had she not qualified for a transplant, she might not be here today.
I am not trying to be morbid this holiday season or to fixate unnecessarily on death. But I know that I am likely to outlive my parents, and when they're gone, Thanksgiving and Christmas will never be the same.
The older I get, the more I witness the heartbreak of other people my age losing their parents. In November 2021, my best friend from high school lost her mother to a rare and aggressive form of ALS. Six months later, my friend's father was gone too, less than a year after he and his wife celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary.
Another friend, two years younger than I, is still reeling from the unexpected death of his mother in the summer of 2023. Yet another friend is savoring whatever time remains with his mother, who was recently diagnosed with cancer.
And I would be remiss if I did not remember the death of my beloved Aunt Linda in May 2021 and the loss of my husband's uncle a few weeks ago.
Though memento mori is a good mindset to adopt at any time of the year, I am not trying to be morbid this holiday season or to fixate unnecessarily on death. But I know that I am likely to outlive my parents, and when they're gone, Thanksgiving and Christmas will never be the same.
I know no parents are perfect, but I am extraordinarily fortunate to have the parents I have. My mother, a skilled designer, taught me about the importance of beauty and acting like a lady. My dad instilled in me a love of sports, and his quick wit reminded my siblings and me never to take ourselves too seriously.
But even more important than those lessons, my parents gave me the gift of my Catholic faith and taught me through words and actions the importance of the sacrament of marriage.
To this day, I would be devastated if my parents divorced, and I cannot imagine the pain and trauma endured by children of divorced parents. That every day my parents wake up and choose each other is a blessing worth recalling this Thanksgiving.
This spring, the two of them will celebrate 50 years of marriage.
My in-laws are also still married, as are the parents of my two sisters-in-law and my brother-in-law. These couples are not impervious to marital strife. At various times, some of them have overcome addiction, financial hardship, estrangement from other family members, and, of course, devastating illness. Commitment is a choice.
My brother and his lovely wife, the mother of my darling nieces and nephews, now have 20 years of marriage under their belt too. So it seems that while divorce can be a generational curse, marital commitment can be passed down through the generations as well.
God willing, my husband and I will someday celebrate 50 years together. If we do, we will have God and our parents and their respective examples of marriage and commitment to thank.
I don't know why God has thus far spared my parents, Richard and Karen, and continues to allow them to live full and relatively healthy lives, but I'm grateful that He has. However many Thanksgivings we have left together, I'm especially thankful this year for them and their faithful commitment to one another — in sickness and in health.
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How America’s War On Marriage Threatens Democracy
Via the Sexual Revolution and decades of Supreme Court decisions, our government has sought to punish marriage, rather than elevate it.'There is nothing feminists hate more than family' — and the Sunday Times’ article on Ballerina Farm PROVES it
When Liz Wheeler first heard about the hugely popular homesteading influencer Hannah Neeleman, more commonly known as Ballerina Farm, she didn’t pay much attention to the hype, as it seemed to revolve around inconsequential matters, such as Neeleman competing in a beauty pageant 12 days postpartum.
But in the wake of the Sunday’s Times recent defamatory article “Meet the queen of the ‘trad wives’ (and her eight children),” Liz has gleefully hopped on the Ballerina Farm bandwagon.
“I'm all about this woman,” she says, lambasting the author of the Times piece, Megan Agnew, as a “bitter, agenda-driven, man-hating, disrespectful, derogatory feminist.”
And when you read even a handful of the remarks Agnew made about Neeleman and her family, it’s easy to see that Liz’s anger is righteous.
EXPOSED: The WORST Thing That Happened at Ballerina Farmwww.youtube.com
The author “deliberately, falsely portrayed Hannah as unhappy, falsely portrayed her marriage as unequal, falsely portrayed her children as annoying, falsely portrayed her life as unfulfilled, her life as fake because Hannah's life is family. And there is nothing feminists hate more than family,” says Liz.
In the article, Agnew took jab after jab at Daniel Neeleman, Hannah’s husband, painting him as the domineering alpha-male type. Liz cites the following excerpt as an example:
“Our first few years of marriage were really hard, we sacrificed a lot,” she says. “But we did have this vision, this dream and —” Daniel interrupts: “We still do.” What kind of sacrifices, I ask her. “Well, I gave up dance, which was hard. You give up a piece of yourself. And Daniel gave up his career ambitions.”
I look out at the vastness and don’t totally agree. Daniel wanted to live in the great western wilds, so they did; he wanted to farm, so they do; he likes date nights once a week, so they go (they have a babysitter on those evenings); he didn’t want nannies in the house, so there aren’t any. The only space earmarked to be Neeleman’s own — a small barn she wanted to convert into a ballet studio — ended up becoming the kids’ schoolroom.”
The passage captures the tone of the entire article.
“Cultural hegemony” is what Liz sees when she reads Agnew’s insults.
First coined by Marxist Antonio Gramsci, founder of the Italian Communist Party, cultural hegemony refers to how a governing body captures various institutions in order to shape and control the culture, the end goal being that the governing class’s worldview becomes the cultural norm.
“The Marxist left cannot stand if a man and a woman are happily married, if they are fulfilling traditional gender roles — the woman is having babies, the husband is providing and running a business — if they're homeschooling their children, if they are happy,” says Liz.
If you need further proof, look no further than Agnew’s brazen acknowledgement of her irritation at not being able to get Hannah Neeleman alone.
“I can’t, it seems, get an answer out of Neeleman without her being corrected, interrupted or answered for by either her husband or a child. Usually I am doing battle with steely Hollywood publicists; today I am up against an army of toddlers who all want their mum and a husband who thinks he knows better.”
“What an absolutely nasty article,” says Liz in disgust, adding that the piece proves that “feminism is a pernicious fraud that hates women.”
“When women choose to be feminine — like Hannah Neeleman — choose to be wives, choose to be mothers and actually like it, feminists' heads explode.”
“Nobody will more viciously gut a happily married mother — who's happy with those choices — than a feminist who thinks nobody should be allowed to be fulfilled by doing what God created women to do,” Liz condemns.
To hear more of her analysis, watch the clip above.
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