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The time has come. If you had asked me a year ago whether or not I would be saying this today, I would have laughed in your face. If you had asked me a week ago, maybe when I was drinking a glass of milk, I would have done a legit spit-take.

In fact, if you had asked me yesterday my thoughts on going MAGA, I would have simply said, “I’m in!” (Cause I wrote this yesterday.)

Yes, that’s right. I’m going MAGA. Full MAGA. What caused this change of heart, you ask? Honestly, I just got tired or resisting. The promoters of MAGA are relentless. They may be a small, fringe club, but they are mighty in their influence.

Not that I’m easily swayed. I’m actually quite stubborn. But the more I thought about what MAGA has to offer, I realized I’d be coming around sooner or later.

Did you know that those who make MAGA their slogan are actually 97% more likely to be a Christian? I don’t mean CINOs (Christian In Name Only), but actual, bonafide, Jesus-following believers. I would suggest that it’s precisely because of their belief in MAGA that they are able to have an authentic connection with the Son of God. Or maybe it’s their authentic connection with God that produces the MAGA. Either way, it’s mystical. Truly mystical.

I want MAGA in my life. It’s not that I’ve never embraced MAGA before now. I’ve at least heard about it since I was a young child. And there were times, growing up—many times, in fact—when you could say I was more MAGA, and then I’d be less MAGA for a period of time, and then more MAGA, then less, then more, less... you get the picture.

Like my on-again-off-again MAGA life, I know it won’t be easy. I’m under no illusions or delusions about the cost of MAGA. It’ll cost my will and my pride. It may even cost my sense of justice. How many times have I witnessed another human do some action that is not ok and felt like my response needed to be pure judgement or condemnation, even when they had expressed remorse afterwards for their bad choices?

Interestingly, some of the wisest voices on the planet—past and present—would produce a different response; a MAGA response, even when that seemed too lenient, or forgiving, or like the punishment does not fit the crime.

Honestly, true MAGA is so radical, the idea of actually embracing it, practically speaking, feels unrealistic. Aspirational, at the very least. But whenever I’m feeling negative about MAGA, I just remind myself that Jesus understood it—and practiced it. And I’m told, that because Jesus embraced MAGA, we can follow his example. There’s even a suggestion that the Spirit of Jesus can help us go full MAGA. (There’s that mystical part again.)

How about you? Have you considered going full MAGA? It’s really the best way to live. And who knows? You may find yourself in a position where you’re wishing that everyone around you was embracing Mercy And Grace Again, too.

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Try this, too:

And this:

Even before page one of How to Be a Friend (In an Unfriendly World), an epigraph reveals the answer to the conundrum posed in the title. In fact, the first sentence of the paragraph-long quote from Johann Wolfgang von Goethe gives it away: “I have come to the frightening conclusion that I am the decisive element…”

For those who are less attuned to 18th century German polymaths and perhaps more influenced by 21th century American drag queens, RuPaul puts a finer point on it: “If you can’t love yourself, how in the hell you gonna love somebody else?” To be clear, RuPaul doesn’t appear in this book, but just this week I was reminded of those words as two podcast bros were discussing another recently published book touching on the difficulty of forming male friendships.

It seems that this “love oneself to love others” idea is common knowledge across time and across different cultures, though it also seems that we struggle to make it common practice. The author of How to Be a Friend attempts to move us from knowing to doing and being.

Barnet Bain is a Canadian creator, known for his production of movies such as What Dreams May Come (1998) and The Celestine Prophecy (2006). He’s more recently known for his college courses in the fields of creativity and spirituality. This book is based on his Columbia University course called “Artistry and Personal Spirituality.”

Unlike other courses that rely on historical facts or scientific data, Bain’s approach is more descriptive and prescriptive, fitting comfortably within the “self-help” genre. While this category may not be immediately attractive to some (myself included), it’s really just indicative of a book that intermingles psychology and spirituality with the goal of personal change.

I suspect Bain comes from a Christian background; however, apart from a brief mention or two of Jesus, all the spiritual concepts are communicated with a more universally appealing religious tone, often incorporating language suitable to the Buddhist tradition. There are almost no Bible verses or references to external sources other than scattered quotes, no footnotes or endnotes as one might expect from a college course or textbook. Instead, Bain opts for a fluid conversation that uses brief anecdotes to communicate his thesis.

The book follows a tripartite structure that reflects the author’s experience as a storyteller, using the metaphor of three “stories” to describe our human experience. The First Story is the unique situation into which a person is born. The Second Story is the person’s attempt to triumph over the challenges presented by their First Story. The Third Story is the person’s shift away from a “subject-object” orientation and toward a recognition that “the other is me.” (This last point builds upon Bain’s 2013 book, The Third Story: Awakening Love That Transforms.)

One gets the sense that these First, Second, and Third Stories occur chronologically through a person’s lifetime; however, there’s also the implicit suggestion that the experience of all three Stories is not a foregone conclusion for everyone. The progression, according to Bain, requires intentional growth in fundamental psychological-spiritual concepts that we must first apply to ourselves and then to others. Bain calls these concepts “The Nine Tools of Friending.” They include being present; providing safety; reducing fear of loss, humiliation, and shame; honoring one’s journey; providing pleasure; listening deeply; prioritizing commitment; seeking forgiveness; and seeing each person clearly.

I must admit, halfway through I judged that this book was simply a repackaging of popular psychology, especially in its focus on those “Nine Tools.” It wasn’t until Bain introduced the mystical twist of the Third Story that I encountered something truly fresh. Perhaps I engaged more deeply at this point in the book because I locate myself somewhere near the beginning of that “deeper layer of self-examining” represented by the Third Story.

According to Bain, as we become “aware of our psychological framework and structure—our matrix of thought and belief, choice and decision,” we are then prepared to receive the perspective-shifting reality of the Third Story. This is the knowledge and acceptance that “the other is me.” Incidentally, this revelation may also explain why the word “friend” appears far fewer times than one would assume in a book about friendship.

In friendship, we are “the decisive element,” not only because we must first befriend ourselves to befriend another, but also because… there is no other. Loving your neighbor as yourself starts—and ends—with you. That is a conclusion far beyond the bounds of “pop” psychology, and one I’ll be attempting to put into practice for years to come.

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Another book review:

I have a stack of old notebooks in which I wrote random stuff many years ago—poems, lists, maxims, observations, song lyrics… The notebooks have been in deep storage, but recently I’ve begun looking through them again. Here and there, I come across some moderately interesting words I’ve completely forgotten about.

This short piece (not sure what to call it—A poem? A musing? Amusing?) is from December 22nd, 1998. I find it interesting, personally, but I’m sure part of my interest lies in the fact that I’m deeply intrigued to encounter an earlier me.

Even if you’re not intrigued to encounter an earlier me, maybe you’ll find some part that’s worthwhile for you today—

God’s Journal (12/22/98)

I’d like to see God’s journal; to read what He writes.
For instance, what does God say about Creation? Is it still good? Is He still proud?
Does God have regrets about the whole fiasco?

Are there poems He’s written (in the journal) that no one has read?
Is His meter solid? Is He better than Shakespeare?
Has God ever composed a love sonnet to me?
I’ll bet He thinks of the best metaphors.

I wonder if God laments to Himself—or only through the Prophets.
Are His sorrows and disappointments gathered together and released through His pen? Does He even use a pen?

Would God ever share His journal with me? If He did, I’d promise not to share His private thoughts. But maybe I wouldn’t understand. I suppose His problems are significantly bigger than mine.

If God were ever to accidentally leave His journal lying around, like at a café, some enterprising person could make a lot of money by publishing it. Perhaps as a supplement to the Scriptures.

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The Infinite Closet: Chapter Four is coming real soon! If you missed the first few chapters, you can catch up here before the next one drops…

Later in the afternoon, I’m running around the yard, my sunburned ears dripping sweat in the thick mid-summer air. My thirst naturally leads me back to the spigot protruding from the wall on the side of her little house. This time, the black rubber hose has been detached and it’s just a short, exposed, pipe-fitting.

My tiny fingers try again, this time anticipating the extra strength required to open the flow. Twist (nothing). Again (nothing). A little harder (nothing). Twiiiist… the valve finally opens wide and the water spews everywhere with an uneven, chaotic gush. I’m doused (another ancient word), but at least I’m cool.

Startled by the spray, I forget which way is off and continue to turn it counter-clockwise. The spray widens even further, spitting and gurgling with a visibly erratic flow.

I think back to earlier, when it was attached to the hose. That erratic flow was invisible as it filled the foot pool. The chaotic spew was still there, it was just tempered by the gasket and metal ring that help connect the hose-end to the pipe sticking out of the wooden shingles (these finer details unknown to my young mind at the time, of course). Instead of a spray, the water ran smoothly as it exited its long rubber pipeline.

But the smooth stream was hot—like burning hot. I had learned early on not to put my lips to the hose-end until the water had run for half-a-minute. This allowed the near-boiling liquid that had been stagnant inside the black tubing, underneath the summer sun, to run its course before I stole a sip.

Several weeks ago I stumbled upon a post in which a young philosopher type was decrying the presence of overt Nazi accounts on Substack. I wholeheartedly agree that in a perfect world, no one should have to look at that. But we live in a very unperfect world.

This young philosopher was making the argument that Substack is failing as a platform by allowing speech content that is offensive. On that specific point, however, I disagree. I believe that speech should have virtually no limits, even “hate” speech—unless and until it directly incites violence.

It sucks, but if we want to be free to disseminate the kind of speech that we prefer, we need to make space for others, even those whom we believe to be deceived or willfully hateful.

Apparently, my comment on the young philosopher’s article struck a nerve, both with those who agree with me and with those who want to limit free speech.

It also brought out those Nazis!

I wasn’t trying to start anything, but the response to my comment did start something in me. I began thinking more deeply about bigotry—not only that of others, but also of my own.

Bigots and spigots have more in common than just their phonics, and I think the science (I use that word loosely) of spigots can teach us something about the sociology of bigots.

A bigot is a person who hates what they don’t understand. They are like an exposed pipe sticking out of the wall through which all manner of hatred (better, fear) spews forth.

The bigot’s disdain for “the other” takes form as a violent (not always physical) rejection of something foreign—of ideas and cultures that are misunderstood, or perhaps understood, but disagreeable to the bigot’s own way of thinking and living.

Twisting our bigot valves counter-clockwise, out bursts a chaotic flow, spurting, sputtering, and spraying. It’s an uneven stream of insults, an abusive surge that harms the target, while perversely soothing the speaker.

But such “unhosed” bigots are not the only kind. Even though overt bigots seem to be having a resurgence recently (see: my new ‘friends’ on Nazi Substack), bigotry still remains under the surface for most of us.

Common covert bigotry is like the spigot hooked up to a hose. You don’t see the chaotic flow spraying out insults and slurs because it’s controlled, tempered by the tubing that focuses it and keeps it hidden as it swirls around inside.

It does come out eventually. Even though it comes out in an even flow, when it does, it’s stinging hot. “Others” who are the focus of our steaming stream may not be sprayed with insults, but they are hurt just the same, perhaps even more deeply by our surreptitious expressions of hatred and fear.

We try to keep our bigotry hidden, even from ourselves. Those who know what to look for can see it—disguised as off-color jokes, under-the-breath comments, dirty looks, and “innocent” exclamations, like, “Those people, they are all bad drivers!”

I count myself among the garden-hose variety of bigots. My bigotry is mostly hidden, sometimes even to myself. But it’s there, and it rears its ugly head in a variety of different, but specific ways, including:

As much as I’d like to say, “I am none of these things,” instead, I’d have to say I’ve been all of them at some point in my life, to one degree or another.

As an adult, my bigotry has been tempered by the hose of my own filters. I force it into a long rubber tube of sorts that promises to tame the hate that enters at the wall with such violence. But although it comes out the hose-end with a smooth flow, it’s still harmful. It’s been rotting in the tube, growing hotter and hotter, silently, invisibly.

This deceptive stream burns everyone at which it’s aimed, and it doesn’t even quench my thirst for despising the “other.” I have some personal stories about this that I’ll perhaps share on another day, but today, I just wanted to share some of the ways I’ve been thinking about battling my own bigotry…

Battling Bigotry: 13 Ways

1. Name the bigotry. First, I try to be specific about who I’m against and why. Do I find myself disliking another person because of their race or skin color? Because of their religion? Because of what country they are from? Do I dislike them for their gender? Is it a back-door bigotry, over-emphasizing my own particulars to such an extreme that I begin to dislike anyone with different characteristics, beliefs, or circumstances than me?

2. Imagine them as a child. More often than not, the object of my bigotry is an adult. It helps me think of them as a child. There is something about a child’s innocence and vulnerability that makes them harder to hate, and much, much easier to love.

3. Imagine them as my child. Thinking of that “other” one as my own child adds an element of intimacy to the thought experiment. How much more tolerant are we of our own kids? If you don’t have kids, think of your sister, or brother. How much more do we try to understand them, even when they are making choices incomprehensible to our way of thinking?

4. Imagine I am “the other” that I so dislike. What if that guy from a particular ethnic group who is smoking and talking loudly on their speaker phone was me? Can I put myself in their shoes for a moment? Can I imagine myself having been raised with different models of behavior; different ways of acting in the world?

5. Remember that no one chooses their origins. Underlying number four (above) is the acknowledgment that nobody decided to be black, brown, or white. No one has chosen to be born into a Hindu family, or a Muslim family, or a Christian family. No one got to pick where they arrive on their first day… in China, or Armenia, or Africa. Or what time they arrive, for that matter… in the Jim-Crow South, during the First Crusade, at the time of the Holocaust, or when Vikings were invading England.

6. Make a friend who is in the group I don’t like. If I dislike trans people, I should make a friend who’s trans. If I generally have bad feelings about “old” people, I should visit someone who is elderly and learn about their life. If I think all Republicans are ignorant, I should grab coffee with someone who is politically conservative and seek to understand the reasons they vote the way they do.

7. Make friends with the actual person in the group I don’t like. If I find myself acting bigoted towards a specific person with whom I am in regular contact, I should spend some time with them to get to know what makes them who they are.

8. Learn about “the other’s” culture. If I don’t like the sound of Mandarin, maybe I can take an introductory Chinese language class to begin to understand the sounds and the way they are put together to communicate. If I don’t like the smell of Korean food, I should ask a Korean person to teach me how to make their favorite dish. If I am annoyed by the Buddhist neighbor who refuses to kill the ants invading their house for fear of karma, perhaps I should read a book about Ahimsa (non-violence) and seek to understand related beliefs, such as veganism and reincarnation.

9. Ask myself, “Have I ever done the thing I dislike in the other person?” When I’m confronted with someone from another political group unfairly editing a video on social media to serve their own party’s interests, I should look for a similar example from my own political party. Whatever type of bad action it is, it likely exists on both sides, in one form or another!

10. Think of someone I know or have seen from that group who doesn’t live up to my stereotypes. If I am annoyed thinking that all “Asians” are bad drivers, I should go to lunch with my Asian coworker and ask them to drive. Chances are, they’re not half bad. If I don’t like how “all Armenian men smoke,” I should note how many Armenian men I see without a cigarette in their hand.

11. Observe someone else’s bigotry and find my own disgust with it. If I am in a group that is the target of another’s hatred, I should examine how that makes me feel and act. Then I should allow the hurt feelings I experience to direct me away from making others feel as badly as I have felt when subjected to their bigotry.

12. Refrain from any kind of talk that marginalizes others. I should stop telling race jokes, even if I’m with a “safe” group. I should refrain from verbalizing my negative thoughts about a particular group, even when I’m alone.

13. Talk with others about my fear and hatred of others. On the other hand, it is good to verbalize my bigotry when I’m confessing it, or when I’m trying to understand my own tendency to hate. I can do this with people within my own group who may also struggle with the same negative feelings and thoughts. Or better yet, I can do this with a person or a group of people who are in the specific group I don’t understand. This last approach is risky, but probably reaps the the most rewards.

So, what is my goal in engaging these thirteen practices? It’s pretty straight-forward. My ultimate goal is to see anyone who is “other” as simply that. Someone like me, but not me.

The goal is to see someone from a different country, or different political party, or different age group, or different gender as just another person who happens to have ideas, beliefs, and other cultural practices that are not the same as my own.

This is not wokism, or a rejection of truth. It is a plain acknowledgment of the reality that everyone’s experience is valid, no matter how much it contrasts with our own experience.

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Now, how about some short fiction?

Or maybe more cultural commentary?

Perhaps something with a religious twist?

Read Chapter One

Read Chapter Two

CHAPTER THREE : Continental Cubbyhole

I rose early the next morning, excited by the prospect of finally solving my storage dilemma. Was I nervous? Yes. I was going to meet someone I didn’t know, in the parking lot of a closed Pizza restaurant, to buy stuff out of a car trunk. It’s the kind of thing people do when they are in the market for drugs or stolen stereo speakers.

Although, it could be argued that what I was in the market for was far crazier.

As I pulled on my socks, I had so many questions running through my mind: if it’s an Infinite Closet, how does it fit in the trunk of his car? Surely there’s a show-room somewhere. And why be so secretive about it? It’s not like Infinite Closets are illegal. Maybe they are?

Finishing my fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice and jelly-filled donut, I had the sudden dreadful realization that I hadn’t done nearly enough research. I was out of my closet-depth and soon to wade deeper into the uncharted waters of cosmic cabinets. What was I thinking?! It seemed there was no turning back now.

After the half-mile drive to Pizza, Pizza, Pizza, I entered the parking lot to find who I assumed was Cuba, all the way on the other side of the lot. (The reader may be asking, "Why not just walk?” As silly as it may seem in retrospect, I had thought I might need my car to cart the Infinite Closet home. Certainly, there was a chance it wouldn’t fit, but I knew for sure I wouldn’t be able to carry it.)

The lot was completely deserted, except for a mammoth 1979 Lincoln Continental Mark V. Or maybe it was ‘78? My great uncle drove one of those “land yachts,” and had bragged to me many times how his Collector’s Edition model was the longest American-made car at the time. He also never failed to mention that it was the most expensive. At around $22,000 in 1979 (the equivalent of $100k today), this was the car of moguls and CEOs. And by about 1989, drug dealers and pimps.

I suppose Cuba was driving the Continental for its hallmark faux-spare-tire deck lid. The length of this “boat,” combined with the extra foot or so provided by that tire-shaped bump in the trunk, made it the most amenable car available (this decade or any other) for moving items as potentially lengthy as an Infinite Closet.

He reached out to shake my hand, even before I had stepped out of my car—a rusted out, sunflower-yellow (officially, “Yellow Rush”), 1998 VW Beetle, since we’re on the topic. This was the first of the redesigned Beetles, boasting the smallest and, dare I say, most useless, trunk of any car I had ever driven.

I parked several rows away from where he was, perhaps because I was subconsciously distancing myself from the potentially illegal action I was about to undertake. As a result, it felt like it took me forever to reach him. This awkwardness was compounded by the fact that his hand remained extended, as if suspended from an invisible thread, the entire time I approached.

“I’m Cuba,” he said when I had finally reached him. He unfroze, gave me a firm shake, and continued, “You can call me Cubby.”

Cute, I thought. He’s named after a small compartment.

“Nice to meet you. I’m…”

“I KNOW who you are,” he interrupted. “Wayne has told me all about you. The jam and the jars and your unique storage dilemma and so forth.”

It was actually kind of a relief that I didn’t have to explain it all to him. It meant we could get right down to business. “So… you sell In-fin-ite, um… Clo-sets?” Suddenly, the words felt completely foreign on my tongue, and they were followed by an abnormally prolonged silence.

I was just about to turn and leave, when Cubby finally spoke up, “YES, of course. That’s WHY you’re here, after all…”

I expected him to elaborate with some sort of explanation, perhaps a short history of Infinite Closets. I was hoping to gain some clarity on the price range, as well. Instead, his voice simply trailed off as he smiled again and turned toward the Lincoln, reaching for the keys in his front pocket.

I watched in silence as he pulled a large, loaded ring from his jeans and fished for the right key among what seemed to be twenty or more. I recall imagining that he was perhaps a custodian for his day job. Yes, that would make sense. That would be a natural career—what, with all the storage involved—from which to transition into the field of closet sales. Maybe this was going to be ok after all.

Locating the Continental key, he inserted it into the antiquated key-hole of the disco-era trunk and lifted the massive lid with two hands, revealing plush, dark-grey carpet that not only covered the entire bottom and sides, but also the full length of the lid interior.

Aside from the leather-bound tool-kit, the leather-bound owner’s manual, and the collapsible umbrella (all standard for the most expensive Mark models) the trunk appeared to contain… nothing. I’m not sure what I expected to see, but I know ‘nothing’ was not it.

Before I could inquire about the situation, Cubby dived into the trunk, his entire short body nearly disappearing into the darkness of the rear compartment. All I could see was the soles of his faux-leather sandals. His feet turned and twisted, as if he were fishing for something in the dark with his hands and needed to squirm in order to reach what he was after.

Finally, he wriggled backwards, like cat who’s stuck its head into a hole and realized it can’t continue. Out he popped, holding a worn, black leather pouch. It appeared to be the same material as the car’s vintage tire-change kit, but instead of leather straps, it had a large silver zipper.

He unzipped the pouch, then gracefully, like a slight-of-hand magician, pulled out a plain white business card. As he handed it to me, I read the embossed message, which was set in black Helvetica and centered on the card: “INFINITE STORAGE, 1-800-STA-SHIT.”

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Tune in next week for Chapter 4…

And meanwhile, read one of these…

Bamps was lucky, amputated before he could talk. The birch limb my cousins fashioned for him was a small consolation. He wasn’t shot-in-a-cemetary-at-night-by-a-cross-eyed-gunman lucky, but growing up graveyard adjacent was enough hoodoo—according to the men—to call him charmed.

I’d settle for charm-ing; and I was. Auburn hair and deep blue eyes, with wit to match. “My Welsh rarebit,” mam used to say. Though I’d always choose a crisp apple over cheese and soggy bread, unlucky as apples may be.

On that unfortunate day, I had lolloped back from my creekside adventures, my two front teeth sunk in the juiciest pomme. Entering the tunnel by the blackberry bramble, I missed the lurking shadow. He had me cornered the moment I entered the hole. Luck be damned! My instinct for self-preservation kicked in, “First time for you?” I blurted.

“Wha?” he choked, inching closer.

“I only mean to ask if you’ve ever been in such a predicament.”

His weasley nose twitched, “Doen get chopsy wit meh!”

I went on, “I’m only wondering...” (making it up as I went), “... if you’ve ever found yourself in a tunnel just before it collapsed?”

Thinking he could see through my charade, his beady eyes focused, “This tunnel’s been ‘ere since before I’s born!”

“True, true... but haven’t you heard the elders’ prediction?” That very moment, a thunderous thumping overhead sent him scampering away, leaving me and his evil aims behind. A better-timed bunny stampede there never was.

Call me lucky (or not), news of “the Trickster’s escape” spread throughout the warren. No one knows how the men got word, but now I’m closer to bamps than ever—my left-hind riding in the pocket of some lucky soul.

Our ancestors were right: the luck of a rabbit stays with the foot.

Read Chapter One

CHAPTER TWO : How Fruituitous

I discovered there are several shops nearby that sell closets, and having had my fill of the internet for the time being, I thought these physical stores might be a good place to start on my quest for an Infinite one.

First stop was Closet Caboodle on Plum street. (Note: the fact that I was eating plum preserves earlier and that Closet Caboodle is located on Plum street is a mere coincidence and should not be considered a relevant part of this story.)

The Closet Caboodle salesperson seemed very interested in my question, but when they tried to set me up with an unlimited closet subscription for $30 a month, in perpetuity, it became evident that they completely misunderstood my request.

“No, I don’t want to have infinite access to closets, nor do I want an infinite subscription to purchase closets until I’m dead… Besides, that wouldn’t be infinite anyway, now would it? I’m really just looking for a single closet that has within it unlimited space for storing my burgeoning collection of empty glass jars.”

The salesperson shrugged and said, “Well, have you thought about getting rid of some jars? Or perhaps collecting something a bit smaller?”

“Yes, of course I have!” I shot back. Immediately, I felt guilty about my tone. How could the salesperson know I had already consulted AI and exhausted all other possible solutions?

Despite this initial failure to procure an Infinite Closet (or perhaps because of it) my adrenaline was pumping. Riding the epinephrine wave, I next visited, in relatively quick succession, Closet Spaces; Closet World; Closet and Soap Dish Emporium; Closet Encounters (there are three kinds of this store); and finally, Closets, Closets, Closets.

None of them sold Infinite Closets. None of them even had a floor model that I could take for a spin, nor did they have any suggestions as to where I could continue looking to find one.

I took a few moments to regain my verbal equilibrium after the semantic satiation that resulted from repeating the word “closets” so many times in a row. Then I walked home from the bus stop—after another bus and a train.

Did I mention I live in the city? It comes with its perks, like being able to visit five different closet stores in one day. Ironically, closet stores are crammed into the limited metropolitan area, and thus, easily reachable by public transit. Of course the downside of city living is the compactness of everything else, including my studio apartment and its measley kitchen closet.

By now, my closet odyssey had worn me down and I was famished. I began daydreaming of a well-toasted piece of sourdough with a thick spread of raspberry preserves… then I spied my favorite fruit vendor as I rounded the corner after exiting the metro station. I decided to stop for some well-deserved unpreserved fruit before returning home.

As soon as Wayne saw me coming down the block, he started assembling my regular order. It was a stratified snack stacked from the bottom up with fresh strawberries, watermelon balls, and pineapple chunks.

He was nearly done when I reached his cart. “What’ve you been up to today?” he inquired affably, while adding the crowning scoop of pineapple. My first impulse was to lie and make up something about Saturday errands—but I decided I didn’t want to be a closet closet-shopper, so I began openly sharing the details of my dilemma with Wayne.

His eyes immediately lit up and I could tell he had something very important to say: “You know, my cousin Cuba sells Infinite Closets out the back of his Lincoln.”

“How fortuitous!” I nearly shouted.

“Fruituitous, one might even say,” Wayne slyly joked.

“Ha ha, yes,” I gave him a courtesy chuckle. But with a hot lead like this, there was really no time for frivolous fruit jokes. “Can you put me in touch with your cousin?”

“He’s off today, but on Sundays he’s usually hanging out in the parking lot of Pizza, Pizza, Pizza between 11 and 5.”

I knew the place well. In fact Pizza, Pizza, Pizza was my favorite place to eat, despite the fact that I often left overly full and with neural fatigue from hearing and saying the restaurant name so many times over and over.

I immediately set a plan to arrive at the Pizza, Pizza, Pizza parking lot by 11 a.m. sharp the following day to meet Cuba and to get my Infinite Closet.

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Read Chapter Three

And meanwhile, read one of these…

CHAPTER ONE : In a Real Pickle

After polishing off another 15.2 ounces of plum preserves, I couldn’t convince myself to throw away the empty jar. I had been admiring the thick glass and high-quality, copper-toned, aluminum lid since I broke the seal the day before.

(Yes, I consume lots of jam. And no, I’m not sure there’s a difference between jam and preserves, so I use the terms interchangeably.)

I strolled into the kitchen, delighted to put another freshly emptied jar in the closet with the rest of my collection. As I opened the pantry door and attempted to place the jar on the shelf, I was struck by a horrible revelation. There’s no more room.

I’ve always been able to successfully shift one jar here and one jar there to make room for the new empty. But this time, no amount of shifting yielded more space. I know they’re just jars, but something about the situation was making me rather desperate. I felt the urge to do something about it, though I had no idea what.

Whenever I am stuck like this—uncertain of my next move—I typically turn to the internet where I find answers to life’s most challenging questions. For instance, the last time I was stuck, the question was: how can one safely return toothpaste to its tube after it’s been entirely squeezed out onto the counter.

It’s too long of a story to explain why I needed to do this, but I can tell you, in very brief terms, that I learned how from the internet.

This time, of course, the question was: what do I do if my closet is so full of empty jam jars that there is no longer room for any more? Immediately, I Googled and Safari’d. I even Firefoxed and Bing’d. None of this standard interneting provided any real help.

When I had exhausted these “dumb-internet” options, I felt it was necessary to bring in the big guns. Although, I must admit that I was a little wary of how Artificial Intelligence might respond to my request.

Would it mock me? Would the concept of physical storage fly right over the “head” of a synthetic brain? Would AI offer to chronicle for me, unprompted, the history of jar making in Muncie, Indiana? I would not know until I asked. So, I did.

“CAN YOU GIVE ME THREE SOLUTIONS FOR THE PROBLEM OF HAVING TOO MANY EMPTY JARS TO FIT INTO MY KITCHEN CLOSET?”

I know it’s impossible, but I swear the LLM started answering my question before I had even pressed ‘Enter’ on the keyboard. Here’s what it said:

1. Take inventory of your jars and remove your least favorites in order to make space for new jars.

2. Purchase an Infinite Closet.

3. Stop collecting jars.

I considered these options for a moment—much longer, I think, than the AI thought about my question (which is not saying much). Right away, I was able to disregard number 3. Upon thoughtful consideration of number 1, I arrived at the conclusion that determining my “least favorite” jars would be much more trouble than it’s worth. Obviously, this left me with suggestion number 2.

The idea of purchasing an Infinite Closet seemed simple enough. It’s a two-part solution, really. First, find an Infinite Closet for sale, and Second, buy it. As it turns out, it was the first part that put me in a real pickle.

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Read Chapter Two

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“We don’t need another hero!” Tina Turner famously sang in 1985 for the soundtrack of Mad Max 3: Beyond Thunderdome. It’s kind of a lame song, except for the hook, which I could sing all day long and which has been stuck in my head since I heard the accusations of rape and sexual assault against Cesar Chavez.

While Turner was singing about Mel Gibson’s ersatz hero, I’ve been targeting my sung sentiment at humanity’s generally misplaced faith in conventional champions.

Whether we’re talking about rights activists like Chavez, sports icons like Kobe Bryant, political leaders like Thomas Jefferson, or even Biblical giants like King David, none of them are worthy of the heaping adulation we pile on.

Nine Reasons Heroes Are Bad

To put it another way, I would argue that our admiration for certain public figures is actually harmful to our broader human potential. Here are some reasons I think conventional heroes do more harm than good…

1. Conventional Heroes Are Fake. Those people I listed earlier—and other popular public figures—do not actually possess any intrinsic “hero” qualities. They are regular humans, like you and me. The only reason they have become heroes is because we have created them, according to our image of what we think a hero should be.

2. Conventional Heroes Are Good at One Thing. And why would we elevate them? Generally, it’s because of one thing—and it could be one really great thing. Perhaps they fought for the rights of immigrant workers who could not fight for themselves. Or they were an NBA champion five times. Maybe they drafted the Declaration of Independence. Could be that they effectively led the ancient Israelites through some difficult times. But all of these “heroes” also had many other things they were not good at.

3. Conventional Heroes Are Flawed. To be honest, our heroes often amount to zeros if we sum up their pluses and minuses. Take, for instance, Thomas Jefferson. He was certainly one of the most important figures in the founding of the U.S. Let’s give him 100 points for that. However, Jefferson was also a life-long slave owner who held hundreds of human beings captive as his personal property. Let’s give him -100 for that. 100 - 100 = 0. This is not to say that he (or other conventional heroes) are worthless. Clearly not. But when you do the math, they are often not much different than anyone else.

4. Conventional Heroes Are Often Good at Unimportant Things. In the grand scheme of things, how important is it to be a five-time NBA champion? Basketball lovers will disagree, but I think we can make an objective argument that Kobe Bryant, for all his glorious athleticism, does not deserve an annual, albeit unofficial, holiday. Many celebrities, including actors and musicians, are celebrated with hero-like status for their entertaining skills. It is natural to appreciate them for those talents. Unfortunately, appreciation is usually not enough for us, so we raise athletes and others with relatively unimportant skills to god-like status.

5. Conventional Heroes Inspire Us to Like Them, Not to Actually Do Anything. Sometimes, when we create heroes of our entertainers, we are inspired. If we are an actress our self, the inspiration of a Meryl Streep can be powerful. Her persona may encourage us on our path to acting. But for most of us, we are not inspired to actually do what our so-called heroes do. Instead, we partake in a kind of passive awe and veneration that actually has a demotivating effect on us. The more we elevate those entertainers, the more separated they become from our reality. And the less we feel like we need to act as heroes ourselves.

6. Conventional Heroes Inspire Monuments That May Not Last. As a testament to his heroism, fifty or so cities in the U.S. have a street, a school, or some other monument named in honor of Cesar Chavez. What happens when serious allegations of sexual abuse by credible women are made? Having been the first state to make March 31st (Chavez’s birthday) an official state holiday in the year 2000, California was also the first to officially change the name of the holiday to “Farm Workers Day” (and that on March 26th, just four days before the 2026 celebration). Wouldn’t “Farm Workers Day” have been a better holiday name in the first place?

7. Conventional Heroes Ultimately Degrade Our Faith In Human Potential. When we believe that only a chosen few can do great things, we lose our faith in the great possibilities of the common woman and man. Greatness becomes an inaccessible realm. Actually, it’s probably more accurate to say that “greatness” takes on a rarefied definition that it was never meant to have—and so we believe it is inaccessible.

8. Conventional Heroes Devalue “Small” Acts By Default. I believe that checking on your elderly neighbor, speaking up for a timid one, shaking the hand of the smelly man who wanders the streets, spending time with the lonely kid… these are truly heroic acts. But the existence of conventional heroes and their over-the-top acts of greatness convince us that nothing we do could or should be worthy of a statue or a holiday.

9. Conventional Heroes become untouchably mythic the longer they are remembered. “David and Bathsheba” is a familiar story, but usually it’s the sanitized-for-seven-year-olds, Sunday School version that people know. According to the Bible, it’s the story of a powerful man, who uses his power to sexually assault and rape a woman, then kills her husband. And yet… King David remains an adored figure in Judeo-Christian history. I know what you’re thinking: grace, grace, grace… God forgives… David’s successes made up for his flaws… etc. On the contrary, I would suggest that David’s corruption sullied his later actions, even his writing of the Psalms. For example, I wonder if the Davidic/Psalmic sentiment of hatred toward one’s enemies that our “Secretary of War” is so fond of quoting in prayer, is less a by-product of the Spirit and more the natural negative heritage of David’s utter moral failures. And yet, the shadow of his heroic status grows through the ages, obscuring the shameful reality.

Heroes In the Making

We don’t need another conventional hero. They suck all the oxygen out of the room, leaving the rest of us gasping for air. And the real irony is, we are the ones who have elevated them to hero status in the first place!

Thankfully, there is a fairly simple solution to this problem: You and I, we must become heroes. Not in the conventional sense. No need to become a caped crusader, an award-winning athlete, lauded entertainer, king or queen, or president.

Our hero-narrative is simply to live out a good life using whatever abilities we’ve been given, loving people, and by doing so, loving God. If you are doing this, you are already a hero. If you are not yet, you at least have a hero’s potential.

Resist the hero’s holiday. Cheer for the champion once. Transparently acknowledge the leader’s flaws. Name your streets “Maple,” or “Vista,” or “Planet Parkway.”

If we choose this alternate approach, we’ll have a world full of authentic heroes. Can you even imagine it?

I WOULDN’T MISS THEM
(a Poem)

We only have
Heroes
Because they are rare.
Can you imagine if
Everyone acted like
A Hero?

Saving kittens.
Feeding skinny children.
Driving grandma around.

Sharing snacks.
Visiting agoraphobes.
Not killing people.

Heroes
Would no longer be
A thing.
When everyone’s
A Hero,
No one is.

I wouldn’t miss them.

~

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Knox Bridger was first to call me fool. I remember smelling wet grass after he grabbed my brown paper bag and shoved me to the ground, his screechy fifth-grade voice demanding, “Gimme that, stupid fool!” Looking up—from a vantage point not unlike my present one—I saw torn jeans and caught the reek of matted curls. He needed that lunch more than I did.

My college roommate would call me fool, too, every time I rolled my window down for that man with the sign. “You’re a fool to give them money! They only drink it away.” But I had to believe my ten bucks would meet a real need. Lack turns humans into animals. So, what’s missing for these agents... ?

“Fool!” was also the last thing Andie said to me. She finally had enough of my evenings on the phone with strangers. I don’t blame her. I just wish she had understood how being present for the lonely ones who stare into the abyss holds more significance than sitting with me in the dark, staring for hours at a screen. If she were here now, she would understand...

~

My leg—the one under his boot—is completely numb. Crimson tributaries carve paths horizontally across my brow. I could vomit... that baton to my brain? The ringing is deafening, but the masked men are louder, “Stay down, fool! Stop moving!” The woman I had asked them to release still sobs, reaching out her cuffed hands to a runny-nosed boy just feet away.

Was I a fool to intervene? What is wisdom anyway? And why am I parsing philosophy when I can’t even breathe? Another unsolicited thought appears; an ancient saying, repeating, even as my consciousness fades: “…the foolish things of this world—will shame the wise…”

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AFTERWORD

I was challenged to write some micro-fiction (less than 300 words) with the theme being “The Fool.” Daunted by the task of telling an extremely concise—yet still potentially interesting—story, I set out with vague thoughts on April Fool’s Day rolling around my head.

Where I ended up, through no real intention, was with some words from the New Testament that sum up the “upside-down” (or we might say “foolish”) Kingdom of Jesus.

²⁶ Brothers and sisters, think of what you were when you were called. Not many of you were wise by human standards; not many were influential; not many were of noble birth. ²⁷ But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong. ²⁸ God chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things—and the things that are not—to nullify the things that are, ²⁹ so that no one may boast before him. ³⁰ It is because of him that you are in Christ Jesus, who has become for us wisdom from God—that is, our righteousness, holiness and redemption. (I Corinthians 1:26-30)

I hadn’t set out to write a Good Friday meditation, but in fact, this first chapter of 1 Corinthians puts the crucifixion at the center of Christian theology. The cross itself is described as “foolishness to those who are perishing,” but to those who are being saved, it is called “the power [and wisdom] of God.” What could be more upside-down than the death of God?!

My theology of the cross doesn’t look much like it did when I was younger. But even if I don’t agree with an orthodox view on the nature and mechanism of God’s salvation, it’s not difficult for me to embrace the idea that what appears wise in our world is actually foolish, from an eternal perspective.

And sometimes, those whom we label as “fools,” are the only ones who really understand what’s actually going on. Fools, like the one in my story, are often the real heroes of the Human Story. In this respect, Jesus, for his cross, is rightly to be labeled: “King of Fools.”

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The Idea had arrived. Not just “an” idea—THE Idea; the one I’d been waiting for my entire thinking life.

I had always carried this visceral sense that it was within reach—just below the surface, around the next corner, on the tip of my tongue… Probably behind my tongue and up several centimeters.

For decades, my brain was apparently a mere synapse away from bridging the right two neurons to spark The Idea into consciousness. But how exactly to harness these cagey intracranial powers? If only there were some proactive measures I could undertake to coax The Idea into existence. Finally, I settled on a suspiciously simple method. I walked.

Every evening, without fail, I would set out at 7 p.m., following the same familiar three-mile route I always took. This designated path entirely removed the distraction of having to think about where I was going. Thus, my thoughts were completely freed to wander through the mind fields, plucking virtual wheat straw, and ruminating over each kernel—asking once, and again, and then again: “What is it? What is The Idea?”

I soon grew use to returning home with my brain full only of ideas, lowercase “i.” You know, those regular little thoughts everyone thinks; things that help us hang on and muddle through our regular little lives. Stuff like: I must get enough sleep in order to be my best at work tomorrow. And: I should not worry myself with the things I can’t control and focus on the things I can. Even such mundane and unrevolutionary musings, as: Make sure your socks match and your underwear is clean, for you never know who might be looking.

Nothing revolutionary. Nothing extraordinary. No ideas to change the world. That is, until one night, about three weeks ago, when everything changed...

I was late heading out for my walk that evening. (Perhaps this subtle time shift had something to do with the ensuing revelation.) I was just rounding the first block, when suddenly, I tripped. To this day, I’m not sure if it was a tree branch, a rock, or one of those buckled sidewalks that have fallen victim to old oak roots.

Ultimately, such detail doesn’t matter. In fact, everything before that moment became suddenly and utterly insignificant. The Idea had arrived! The electrical pulse that had been ambling along the alleys of my brain for years and years, lost and loitering, finally found its synaptic bridge and willed to cross it.

Corporeal energy pulsed, colors flashed, The Idea was projected in Kodachrome 10k high def 3D on the back of my brain. It was striking and vivid. From my conscious perspective, all I know is that The Idea was instantly there, when just a moment before, it was not.

I do not have a lawyer, the way some people casually mention, “I could have my lawyer take a look at that,” but I do have enough sense to think that when one has an Idea so thoroughly groundbreaking, it’s best to get the lawyers involved.

My Idea was not an innovation to develop over time. It was an Idea that, once shared, would be immediately recognized as imminently and eminently promising. I had no doubt that The Idea would subsequently be fast-tracked to implementation, world-wide.

Unlike A.I., there would be no haggling over costs in the trillions, no ecological concerns over energy consumption. (In fact, I knew the Idea would solve the energy crisis, virtually overnight.) The Idea—my Idea—was so simple and so profoundly ingenious, there’s not a human being I can imagine, of any class or creed, who would hesitate to put it into effect without delay, and as fast as humanly possible.

Now, re-reading what I just wrote, I should pause to acknowledge that I probably sound like an arrogant prick. You’re thinking, “Who talks about their own idea in these terms?” I understand that my confidence may come across as hyperbole, especially from the perspective of one who does not know the gist of The Idea. But I am here to assure you, I am only speaking truth. There is literally no way to talk about It without sounding hyperbolic.

The Idea is beyond disruptive. To simply call it pioneering, would suggest that it still fits within the realm of some idea that has already been pursued in the sciences, philosophy, or even religion. No. It is truly “out of left field” as they say; and that is only if the field in question were a yet-unnamed realm of inquiry, perhaps even a dimension apart from our experience of reality.

I could go on, but suffice to say, I am speaking in the humblest terms I can muster for an Idea of this magnitude, with the most certain potential of far-reaching and world-changing effects.

After a brief search, I did find a lawyer. My selection process was not too precious; I knew I could waste no time, now that The Idea had finally made itself known. Martin J. Jones was not one of those billboard lawyers, his marketable name notwithstanding. Conversely, Jones wasn’t one who had brokered billion-dollar deals, either. He confessed as much in our first meeting:

“May I ask if I am the first lawyer you’ve consulted?” he inquired, then continued, “I am utterly confident in my knowledge of law and procedure related to rights and ownership, but I must confess, I have never guided a client in a matter this unique.”

“Of course, you haven’t,” I asserted, trying not to sound condescending. “But perhaps after our partnership, you will have no need to qualify your evidently solid, though somewhat limited, experience.”

And that was that. I had my lawyer.

Martin and I went straight to work generating the appropriate documents to secure my rights as related to The Idea. There were some interesting questions to answer, given the uniqueness of this situation, but Jones soon proved he was the right man for the job, creating protective addendums for the standardized documents, and detecting loopholes that we could then ensure were closed, using a variety of law techniques, which I will not bore you with, here.

In a mere 72 hours, we were able to prepare and submit the legal package that would protect me and The Idea. Once we submitted these to state and federal authorities, it was time to share The Idea with the world.

But where to start? Martin J. Jones rose to the occasion again, with the simple, yet elegant suggestion of a general press release. His thought was that if we could concisely state The Idea with enough color to attract attention, while still withholding the essential details, we would have no problem generating ample interest. He was right. We put out the release on a Tuesday at 8 a.m. Pacific Time. By 8:03, we started receiving emails. By 8:05, calls.

The first to respond were representatives of the medical community. One of my first calls was with a skeptical pediatric oncologist. After just 10 minutes on the phone with her, she was in tears. She couldn’t hang up fast enough in order to begin spreading the news among her colleagues that there would no longer be children suffering with cancer in our world.

Over the next several hours I also spoke with representatives in other fields of pathological research—Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, Lou Gehrig’s disease, Huntington’s disease, M.S., C.F., HIV/AIDS, and even diabetes—all of these doctors utterly flabbergasted to recognize that soon they would be looking for a new career.

But it wasn’t just the medical community that was affected by The Idea. Later that morning, I spoke with a very bright gentleman (that’s what we call an ‘understatement’) from the California Institute of Technology. He had read our press release and was curious if The Idea had any promise for solving some of the conundrums of Physics. I’ll admit, he was briefly (very briefly) disappointed, when he learned that I was not a scientist.

However, after only a few minutes discussing The Idea, he sounded less like a reserved scientist, and more like an ebullient Idea-evangelist, fresh off the road to Damascus. He spoke with an almost laughing tone, rattling off how The Idea, all at once, unified the theory of gravity with quantum physics, while also solving the mysteries of dark matter and energy. Fifteen minutes later, he was still enumerating the implications for finally understanding the nature of time and the origin of the universe. Though I couldn’t entirely understand him, it made me smile.

Barely had the corners of my mouth been raised, revealing those subtle dimples and high cheekbones my mother had always admired, when I received a FaceTime call from the president of the Academy of Gerontology and Elective surgery (A.G.E.). As I described The Idea, I was somewhat perplexed by the lack of expression on the president’s face. Could this be the first domain for which The Idea would have no effect?

But my fears were soon allayed, as she mentioned, almost in passing, that there would be no more need for Botox injections, a fact that she herself found incredibly satisfying, though her face was unable to show it. Still, I imagined a smile on her wrinkle-free visage, as she went on to describe how the age-old pursuit of eternal youth would now simply be “old news.”

It wasn’t just the sciences that were upended by The Idea. As I had presumed, The Idea was also to have profound implications for the fields of philosophy and religion. Just hours after the press release, I was drawn in to a three-hour video conference, convened by a council of ecumenical clergy, along with inter-faith representatives from around the world.

In just the first few minutes of the call, the towering trouble caused by the infamous Problem of Evil was effortlessly toppled, and with it, the heretofore unsolvable questions about suffering, free will, and morality. Not only that, the question of the existence of God was definitively answered, and with it, the questions about consciousness, the meaning of life, and life after death—all in one fell swoop. With “God” as my witness (or whatever we will say now), I believe that future arguments over religion will just be exercises in historical memory.

As that marathon metaphysical discussion was wrapping up, my brain entertained the unsolicited notion that with the greatest questions of religion and philosophy no longer nagging at the human psyche, we might actually have hope for peaceful political relations between even the most hostile and antagonistic nations. No sooner had I recognized the thought in my mind, when Martin J. Jones (who had been feverishly fielding calls on my behalf), tapped me gently on the shoulder. As I turned, he offered me his phone and spoke in a unexpectedly calm tone, “Sir… it’s the President.”

I had never spoken with the President of the United States before, but I quickly realized that, given these particular circumstances, there was hardly any need for formality. After one or two clarifying questions, which I proudly answered as succinctly as possible, the President did the rest of the talking. I almost couldn’t keep up with the list of global conflicts he said would be resolved tomorrow, all because of The Idea.

Not only would there finally be real peace in the Middle East, there would also no longer be any need for borders, anywhere. In fact, fighting—with any group, for any reason—seemed now to be completely off the table. War, forevermore, would truly be resigned to the history books, along with violence, fear, and famine.

Ah yes, famine! I almost forgot to mention one of the few visitors I received in person. None other than the world renowned chef and humanitarian José Andrés appeared on my doorstep at about quarter past noon. “This news you’ve shared… eh… my friend… this is too big—too big for a phone call,” he almost whispered with his warm Spanish accent.

“Well, I’m honored you would…”, I began to say.

“Bah! No, no—no need for such humility. Please! You must not hide from this,” he suddenly erupted, with a passion not unlike what’s displayed as he’s on location, feeding victims of a natural disaster. “I am here—yes—representing World Central Kitchen… of course… but also, eh… as a representative of so many others, no? So many who have given everything to this fight to end hunger across the globe… the World Food Programme, FAO, UNICEF, Action Against Hunger, Feeding America, Oxfam, World Vision…”

Andrés was still listing organizations, when Martin J. Jones tapped me on the shoulder once again. This time, he whispered in my ear, so as to not interrupt, “Sir, it’s your mother.”

I whispered back, “Please tell her I will call her right back.”

I didn’t like to make my mother wait, but it would’ve been rude not to invite the chef in for at least a morsel and a cup of tea—oh, the irony! He had been undeterred by Jones whispering in my ear, so I let him finish his list, which went on for at least another minute. Once he was done, I asked him inside for a bite, though he politely declined, with the reasonable excuse that there were still many more people in the world who would be starving to hear about The Idea.

“Hi, Ma.” I wasted no time calling her back.

“Son, is that you?”

“Of course, it’s me, Ma. You don’t recognize my voice?” I was internally gleeful, knowing that this feigned unrecognition was just a playful set up for the praise she was about to heap on me for The Idea.

“Yes, yes. Sorry. I must’ve forgotten to turn up my hearing aid. I can hear you now.”

I couldn’t wait to tell her that, because of The Idea, she would soon have no need for that hearing aid, not to mention her insulin shots, and her high blood pressure medication. “Have you called because you heard the news?” I asked, trying not to sound too eager.

“What? Oh yes. Yes, I have. And I have to say, son, I’m really glad.”

“Thanks, Ma!” It was nice to hear her say those words, but I couldn’t wait to hear what else she had to say about her son changing the world.

“Yes, yes. When I heard that you had managed to get off work on Friday, I was very excited that you’ll now be able to help with the garden before the weekend. You know, I’m having that party for aunt Gladys’s 90th in the backyard on Saturday morning. Didn’t I mention it? She’s been talking about it for months, and you know how she likes everything to be pretty and pristine. Since your dad passed, and with my sciatica, I just haven’t been able to keep up with those pernicious weeds.”

“Oh. Right,” I said, trying to hide my growing disappointment. Weeds? Backyard party? Aunt Gladys? What about… The Idea! Perhaps she just hasn’t heard about it, yet? Certainly it’s been on every news channel and across all media. Maybe she’s been cooking. Hmm. Wait a minute… I’ll bet she’s working on a celebratory meal in my honor. Yes, that’s it!

While on the phone with my mother, Jones had been speaking with representatives in the fields of computers, engineering, biology, climate science, astronomy, and even sports. It turns out, The Idea has real promise to eliminate injuries related to American football; to uncomplicate the rules of Cricket for the average person; and even to (here’s the real miracle), make baseball less boring. Home run!

As I hung up the phone, I saw Jones through my kitchen window. He had walked outside while on a call with some Hollywood director. He was pacing, but I overheard him say, “Mr. Spielberg…” and shortly after that, I thought I made out the words “film rights.” Who would they pick to play me? I wondered. It was thrilling to imagine how human creativity, in general, was destined to flourish, now that we were freed from attention to all those necessary evils!

I pushed down the window above the sink until it sealed and noted immediately how quiet it was. For the moment, no one was knocking at my door, no phones were ringing, no Zooms were incoming on my laptop. I looked at my watch; it was 7 p.m. On any other day, this would’ve been the exact time when I’d be stepping out for my walk.

I fell back on my couch, closed my eyes, and felt the silence inviting me to rest with it a moment. Aware that the next few days and weeks were sure to contain a whirlwind of activity—consultations, photo ops, a Nobel prize?—I was glad to take these few minutes for myself.

As my consciousness began to fade, I let it. Drifting off, I embraced the utopian dream that was now filling my head, permanently replacing the former question, which had been ever-present, as long as I could remember—but that was now, definitively answered; and along with it, all the most pressing questions of our fallen world.

POSTSCRIPT

I am writing this by candlelight in a bunker, about 150 miles east of Los Angeles. The space is cavernous, dim, and includes a faint dampness that has somehow tickled my olfactory nerve, despite the stagnant air. Looking past the others, a dozen or so fellow refugees, I glimpse towering rivetier that spans an entire wall and is stacked with canned goods. This is good. We might be here for a while.

It has been six months since I told the world about The Idea. I could not have imagined this scenario if I had tried. For all its overt promise, The Idea triggered a number of events and effects that one might label as “unintended consequences.”

In my naivety, I had believed that removing friction from human life would finally free us to achieve our greatest potential. Isn’t it intuitive to believe that a world, absent illness, starvation, and energy challenges, should flourish? I’m shocked and deeply saddened to learn that the opposite is true.

After a very brief period of exultant jubilation relating to the collective triumph over human obstacles, global society has since rapidly devolved into an empty pool of meaningless existence. Of course, all vacuums must be filled, and this black-hole of meaning sucked up nearly everything that was left in the wake of friction’s exit, including: the impulse toward learning; the natural desire for growth; and worst of all, any form of motivation. Only one thing has survived: the human ego.

You may recall how, back on that day when Jones and I announced The Idea, there was no mention of any conversations with psychologists. At the time, I made nothing of it. I now understand the reason. It wasn’t that no one from the psychological community had heard about The Idea. They had all heard. They also understood that any idea, even one as grand as mine, would not solve the most difficult problem of all, which is the problem posed by incorrigible human personality.

The Idea could eradicate physical illness, but it could not eradicate the mental pathology to which we’ve all succumbed; been born into, really. Those with a religious bent call it “original sin.” Students of evolution call it “maladaptive traits.” Whatever we name it, our tendency toward self-preservation (and once we are safe, self-exaltation), is incredibly potent and hopelessly irreversible.

Of mysterious origin, this trait is just as mysteriously subjected by nothing. Not even the power of The Idea can tame the human capacity for hatred of the “other,” and that dark, irresistible impulse for each of us to join with “our own kind” and dominate.

I do not know how long we will remain here, in this dark place. (As I write that sentence, I recognize the double meaning.) Though we sit in a shelter made for protection from nuclear fallout, we’re not huddled here for fear of radiation. No, we’ve locked ourselves in this shadowy, musty bunker to hide from what turns out is the only real threat known to Man, and that is man himself. We are refugees, scattered and forced into hiding by zombie-free, dystopian criminals.

If there is any irony left in my story, perhaps it will be that this new challenge—the challenge of surviving roving bands of murderous, thieving gangs—might be just the “friction” that motivates us to learn, grow, and help each other once again. Without any such motivation, I fear we are truly lost…

That’s all for now. I have to go. The musty air suddenly carries with it the click of can openers and the aroma of room-temperature legumes. My beans await…

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A couple weeks ago, I saw this notice posted on the window next to the main entrance of our apartment complex:

There was a film crew coming to our street for a Netflix project, codename: “Ugly Kitten.” Maybe you’ve seen a notice like this in your city.

Or maybe you’ve seen those simple yellow signs hung on signposts, with a single word or phrase in plain black, next to an arrow pointing in one direction. These coded signs are meant to covertly direct the movie crew to the filming location, without attracting too much attention or divulging which “stars” may be involved.

After some sleuthing, I was able to determine that “Ugly Kitten” likely refers to “The Fifth Wheel,” a full-length film directed by Eva Longoria and starring Kim Kardashian, Nikki Glaser, and others.

According to the description of the scene from the posted notice, the on-location filming would include a “camera and actor in the street,” with some action, including “driving up and away.” Filming would also include a large crane and a drone.

Here’s what I saw when I walked by on one of the filming days [view on TikTok]:

That’s all the video I could grab before a security guard started walking toward me. It was enough time for me to notice that the pink condo they were using is the exact same unit that Olivia Wilde used in the opening scene of her directorial debut, “Booksmart” (that’s the inset video).

“Who cares?” I kinda do. For me, it’s not so much the intrigue of famous people coming to my neighborhood. (Though I was a little curious if Kim would be using the Honey Bucket, or if they had something a little nicer set up for her.) It’s that I’m fascinated by the enormous amount of resources and skill it takes behind the scenes to create even one short and simple shot, like this one.

You can begin to understand the scope of this particular production by the number of trucks that were parked on the street—and there were even more on the next block [view on TikTok]:

During the day, crew were busy unloading tripods, booms, gimbals, lights, microphones, generators, cameras.

The inside of several trucks were set up with food service. I could see all the condiments lined up, along with a selection of energy bars, fruit, and bottled beverages.

Some trucks contained fancy bathrooms. Others, with humming air conditioning units, were designated as a respite for actors between takes.

And there were lots of crew. Men and women, many of them wearing black; some just in casual clothes—flannels, jeans, t-shirts. All of them had lanyards around their necks, setting them apart from the steady flow of students, dog-walkers, and residents that regularly inhabit this busy block.

All day, the crew was shuttling back and forth to the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf at the end of the street. Some of them may have been production assistants, grabbing $30 smoothies at Erewhon, for the talent.

Meanwhile, security officers were stationed, a couple per street, pacing with walkie-talkies and official-looking uniforms, commissioned to protect the set and deter lookie-loos like me.

The Netflix viewers won’t see any of this stuff, nor will they even be thinking about it. When they sit down in their living room, they’ll see what the director wants them to see. It won’t even cross their minds that for two days, two whole city blocks had restricted parking, extra security, and a whole bunch of additional people, not to mention literal truckloads of film production paraphernalia. They won’t consider all the hidden complexity that’s responsible for the visible simplicity.

Blind Men & Elephants

Do you know that ancient Indian parable about the blind men who encounter an elephant? One blind man touches the leg and concludes that the packyderm is a pillar. Another touches the trunk and says it’s a snake. Another feels the ear and reduces the massive grey mammal to a fan. Each sight-impaired seeker has touched a real part of the elephant—but only a part.

That parable is an amazing picture of our limited ability to perceive true reality, especially when it’s applied to discussions about God and religion.

Cinephiles & Movie Scenes

My experience of the “Ugly Kitten” movie set in my neighborhood feels like a modern metaphor for the complex nature of reality, and our limited perceptions of it.

Imagine for a moment that we—you, me, and everyone in the world—are sitting in a GIANT movie theater. We’re all in the dark, facing the same direction, seated on crimson, spring-loaded cushions with our family and friends, watching a massive screen that looms large in front of us, like IMAX on steroids. Adding to the immersive stimuli, we’re also awash in the Dolby Atmos 3D sound system.

To this collective and immersive movie-watching event called “life,” we each bring our own personal experiences—our individual and unique stories of love, loss, happiness, pain, regret, grief, joy, etc.

As I’m writing this, I’m suddenly reminded of Plato’s cave allegory, with candlelight shadows cast on the wall by characters passing behind the chained viewers.

In our theater, it’s not a candle casting faded shadows on a cave wall, it’s a projector, hidden somewhere above our heads, spinning out a procession of motion and sound that keeps us in our seats, no chains required.

What’s on the screen? Instead of an elephant, we’re watching a couple people walking down a tree-lined city street, having a brief conversation before they get into a car and drive away. The images are in full color, completely fleshed out, well lit, and presented from an ideal angle, just as the director planned.

Some viewers are engrossed in what they see on the screen. They’ve no real interest beyond what’s directly before their eyes. But there are other viewers who, while enjoying the film itself, are also quite interested in what’s gone on behind the scenes.

These movie buffs care about all the things they can’t see that went into making this film. “Who is the director?” they wonder. “What are the actors really like? How many cameras were used in this shot? Why did they choose the costumes that they did? Was the part that seemed like ad libbing scripted, or was that really improvised?”

Sitting in the dark theater, none of us can know all that’s gone on behind the scenes, but this doesn’t stop some moviegoers from guessing. “They probably used a drone for that overhead shot,” one viewer suggests, deducing that “Helicopter blades would create too much wind and disturb the scene.” They are correct.

Others who are more obsessed with the celebrity of it all might accurately guess actual ages of the actors, based on their skin, hair, and general physicality. Or they may consult a ‘sacred text,’ such as IMDB (Internet Movie Database) to learn otherwise elusive details about an actor’s upbringing and family life.

Still others might recognize the pink condos from their neighborhood and deduce the actual filming location—despite the fact that in the film script, the story is supposed to take place in a completely different town.

Among those sitting in the dark, there are also some who watch with disinterest. They are only there in the theater because someone dragged them there. They don’t care about questions relating to what’s happened behind the scenes, nor do they even care much for the story on the screen.

Meanwhile, the hidden reality persists for everyone, mostly undiscovered. And yet, there’s the implication that a director DID sit behind the camera, orchestrating the moves of the actors, working with the script writers to massage the dialogue, consulting with the costume designer, casting director, and cinematographer to create the visible world that only reveals fractions of the truth.

Let’s All Go to the Lo—bby

We’re all in this theater together. All in the dark. All facing the same direction. But we’re here with our people—friends and family—and we’re watching the movie through our own distinct filter that has been formed over time through the many aspects of our native culture and unique individual experiences.

Even though we see, we are very much like the blind men. We can’t agree on the exact nature of the elephant. None of us truly understands the motivations of the Director—even though there are clues—if we’re interested and paying close enough attention.

If we came together—perhaps in the lobby at intermission—and shared with fellow watchers what we’re learning, our combined perceptions could provide a fuller picture of what this universal “film” is really all about.

If we are open and humble enough to pool our (often very) different ideas about what’s going on behind the “ugly kitten,” it seems reasonable that we could end up closer to understanding the nature of the grand Director behind it all.

The alternative is that we continue stubbornly regarding only our own traditions, personal beliefs, and lived experiences as valuable and “true.” If so, we will surely end up talking ourselves in circles, sitting with sour faces along the fringes of the theater, sucking on black licorice in the dark.

What kind of moviegoer are you?

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I like the Gospel of Mark. I like it for its alacrity. It moves along, like a TikTok feed, from one short scene to another. And most of the vignettes have something important to say about the human condition, especially as it relates to God’s nature and values.

A great example, and one particularly relevant for our moment in time, is when Jesus heals the man with the withered hand on the Sabbath…

Jesus Breaks the Sabbath Law

3 ^1-3 Then he [Jesus] went back in the meeting place where he found a man with a crippled hand. The Pharisees had their eyes on Jesus to see if he would heal him, hoping to catch him in a Sabbath violation. He said to the man with the crippled hand, “Stand here where we can see you.”

⁴ Then he spoke to the people: “What kind of action suits the Sabbath best? Doing good or doing evil? Helping people or leaving them helpless?” No one said a word.

^5-6 He looked them in the eye, one after another, angry now, furious at their hard-nosed religion. He said to the man, “Hold out your hand.” He held it out—it was as good as new! The Pharisees got out as fast as they could, sputtering about how they would join forces with Herod’s followers and ruin him. (Mark 3:1-6, The Message)

Faced with the choice of obeying or disobeying a religious law—Jesus chose disobedience. This doesn’t seem like the obvious choice for a rabbi, one who is meant to teach—and of course, keep—the law.

But Jesus was being an example for others to follow. He was modeling a core value of God: people over rules. And though it wasn’t the obvious choice for everyone present—including the Pharisees and whomever else was gathered at the synagogue that Saturday—it was the obvious choice for Jesus.

Choosing the Obvious Good (C.O.G.)

Jesus Chose the Obvious Good. He had moral clarity. He knew and believed that the health of a person is more important than keeping the Sabbath. But how could this be? ‘Keep the Sabbath holy’ is not just a rule, it’s one of the Ten Commandments!1

Even so, Jesus understood that the “day of rest” was only created for the health of humans.2 And when the Sabbath was potentially going to interfere with someone’s well-being, it took a backseat to the work of making that someone physically whole again.

Choosing the Less Obvious Good (C.L.O.G.)

The Pharisees, on the other hand, did not have clarity on this point.3 They saw the religious law as supreme, no matter what. Perhaps they were thinking: Maybe this man has a withered hand for a good reason? Maybe he’s a sinner, and God caused this disfiguration as a punishment? Maybe God intends to heal the man himself at a later date, on a day that is not restricted?

They were blinded by their legalism. Likely with good intentions, they sought to follow God’s law, in an effort to guide their community to a future of wholeness. But this is the irony. When an opportunity for real, tangible wholeness presented itself right in front of them, they did not take it! The obvious good was not so obvious to them. They chose the rules. They chose the less obvious good.

And here we can pause to note a serious problem inherent in Jesus’ example of choosing the obvious good: What if the good is not so obvious? What if what is good is obvious to some, and completely obscured for others? In fact, this is the situation in which we find ourselves in America today.

Hard-Nosed Religion

In the Synagogue that day, Jesus looked the people in the eye and asked them point blank: What’s better… Doing good or doing evil? Helping people or leaving them helpless? From our perspective, his words seem so rhetorical, one imagines him speaking with an almost mocking tone. I think he was mocking. In the story, the narrator also says that Jesus was “furious at their hard-nosed religion.”

Reading the news every day, I see a whole lot of hard-nosed religion. Even worse, it is often hard-nosed religion in the service of power. Together, religion and power make for a poisonous elixir that, when drunk, causes moral blindness, not unlike the blindness of the Pharisees.

If Jesus were incarnate in America today, he might confront us the same way he confronted the Pharisees in the Synagogue. Looking us directly in the eye, he might ask:

• Which is better? Treating all immigrants as criminals, or sorting out the good and bad apples, treating each according to their actions?

• Which is better? Terrorizing American citizens for exercising their Constitutional right to peacefully protest, or allowing the them to speak and act out when their neighbors’ civil liberties are threatened?

• Which is better? Promoting racist tropes about the ones with whom we disagree politically, or engaging in thoughtful, reasoned arguments in our politics?

• Which is better? Demonizing those who are different than us (like Trans folks), or taking their needs seriously, as equal citizens in society?

• Which is better? Obfuscating investigations that might harm the powerful, or doggedly pursuing justice for child victims of sexual abuse?

When Good is Obscured

Here’s good news: Jesus is incarnate in America today. Jesus is you and me—and anyone else who follows his example of choosing the obvious good. We must advocate for those with withered hands on the Sabbath—willing to break the “rules” of our hard-nosed religion and corrupted politics, in order to ensure that people do not end up getting broken.

But what if the obvious good isn’t so obvious? There are many reasons why the good might be obscured. Here are some specific cases, with corresponding ways to promote moral clarity in each situation…

1. IGNORANCE OF FACTS
   Problem: When the facts are hidden, or when people willfully ignore the facts, the good is obscured.

   Solution: Promote the facts in every way, all the time, and loudly; through conversation, social media, writing, example… so that the good becomes obvious.

2. FAILURE TO REASON
   Problem: When facts are known, but emotion upstages reason, the good is obscured.

   Solution: Relentlessly engage in well-reasoned, cohesive logic to battle against false premises and bad-faith arguments for bad behavior, so that the good becomes obvious.

3. SELF OVER OTHERS
   Problem: When individuals put their own well being over the well-being of others, the good is obscured.

   Solution: Set an example by placing the needs of others above your own, so that the good becomes obvious.

4. IRRATIONAL FEARS
   Problem: When people promote fear-mongering, or entertain fears that have no basis, the good is obscured.

   Solution: Challenge fears with clear and comforting words that quell anxiety and promote peace, so that the good becomes obvious.

5. RELIGIOUS CERTAINTY
   Problem: When strongly held religious beliefs emphasize rules over people, the good is obscured.

   Solution: Expose hard-nosed religion by modeling God’s love and grace, so that the good becomes obvious.

6. XENOPHOBIA
   Problem: When bigotry and racism are encouraged, the good is obscured.

   Solution: Introduce xenophobes to actual people who are targets of hatred, in order to dispel the myths that advance “otherism,” and so that the good becomes obvious.

7. LACK OF EDUCATION
   Problem: When people are not taught how to think for themselves, the good is obscured.

   Solution: Model and encourage education, though classes, webinars, videos, mentoring… so that the good becomes obvious.

COG or CLOG?

It’s perfectly normal for anger to rise up when we see people choosing rules over people. Jesus himself was “angry,” in fact, “furious” at the hard-nosed religious types. Unfortunately, with so many contemporary examples of bad choices in this regard—by people who would otherwise claim to be righteous and wise—we could easily become angry all the time! But that’s not a solution.

The solution is this: We need more COGS. People who Choose the Obvious Good are like wheels with a series of projections around their edges that are part of a machine. With every obvious good they choose, they transfer positive motion from COG to COG to COG, reducing friction, increasing the forward motion, and keeping the whole system spinning in sync, with an output that is manifestly and undeniably good.

The trouble comes when people who Choose the Less Obvious Good are introduced into the system. One CLOG slows things down. Another CLOG or two can make the whole machine freeze up completely, effectively putting an end to any good that could ultimately come of it.

If we want a society that hums, in which people of all cultures and creeds are working together in harmony toward a better future, then Choosing the Obvious Good must become our default modus operandi.

On the other hand, if we normalize choosing of rules over people, then our society will assuredly grind to a halt—if it doesn’t catch fire, and completely incinerate first.

Choose the obvious good, every time. Do your best to help others choose it, too.

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That day, Dr. Hunt’s college-level American History lecture was too much for my high-school-senior psyche, so I distracted myself with art. My medium was blue ballpoint on lined college rule. I drew a horned devil wearing a lab coat and peeking out the back of a van that had the words “Free Abortions” in large letters on the side. The demon was holding a coat hanger, while amorphous blobs were flying over his head, out of the back. (It’s probably better that I was working in monotone.) As Hunt droned on about Lincoln, I handed my picture to the girl who was sitting at the desk in front of me. She had been talking about women’s rights in English class earlier that day. I thought my devil-doctor was something she needed to see. I was a Teenage Mutant Evangelical.

—

Chris and two girls from our high school jazz choir approached me as we left the arts building after practicing our version of, “Someone to Watch Over Me.” Chris was younger in the faith, but eager to learn the finer points of Christian doctrine, so when the girls asked him what he thought about hell, he told them they needed to speak with me. One of them asked me, “Do you think I’m going to hell?” I minced no words. I knew enough about her religious background to reasonably conclude that, yes, in fact, she was headed for a hot, hot place. Undeterred by her tears, I explained that it was undeniably true, no matter how she felt about it. I was a Teenage Mutant Evangelical.

—

Sean and I stood near the beginning of the winding path, right at the edge of the sprawling property. Our glossy pamphlets, featuring a flattering shot of the Portland Temple on the front, were running low after more than an hour of handing them out to the eager visitors. The Temple was even more impressive in person, gleaming white stone, with towering spires to match the nearby evergreens. Atop the center spire was a golden statue of the angel Moroni, whom we called the angel “Moronic”—but not while handing out our faux-chures to the beaming Latter Day Saints who were arriving in droves to visit this new monument of their faith. Their smiles disappeared upon realizing that we had actually handed them anti-Mormon propaganda, explaining everything wrong with their worship. I was a Teenage Mutant Evangelical.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles first came on the scene in 1984. For those unfamiliar with their origin story: four baby turtles were living in the sewers of New York City when they were exposed to a toxic, radioactive ooze, later called “mutagen,” which gave them humanoid bodies, advanced intelligence, and accelerated growth. They put these new traits to good use, fighting against evil in the city.

Around the same time, I came on the high school scene. My origin story reads a little bit differently—no sewers or mutagen. As a teenager, I was highly involved at my non-denominational church. That’s where I was exposed to a toxic ooze, which I later recognized as “certainty.”

The Toxic Ooze of Certainty

The Toxic Ooze of Certainty (TOC) initiated potent mutations in my teenage personality, including:

• Assurance that I followed the only true religion

• Conviction that I believed in all the right doctrines

• Confidence that the Bible infallibly held all these truths together

The TOC provided me with the perverse power to ruin those family outings to the Mormon Temple; to tell my choir mates they should expect eternal flaming torment; and to frame the complicated issue of abortion in cartoonish and offensive terms.

Where did this TOC come from? Most immediately, it came from my youth pastors and other church leaders.

But let me just pause for a moment and state that my purpose here is not to assign blame, but to acknowledge and to correct. I still feel great affection for those youth leaders. They made my teenage years so vibrant and fun.

Still, they unwittingly spilled the Toxic Ooze of Certainty into my life, just as it had certainly been spilled into theirs at an earlier time.

Uncertainty Spawns Certainty

The obsession with Certainty1 in Christianity first arose a couple thousand years ago, when some believers in the Early Church challenged core aspects of the faith, like the divinity of Jesus and the nature of salvation. These challenges introduced uncertainty. As alternate theories threatened previously held doctrines, they naturally drove the original beliefs deeper into clarifying terms.

It turns out that when uncertainty is introduced into a system (any human cultural system), it acts like a radioactive booster of its opposite. Doubt and uncertainty are triggers that can kick off a toxic reaction, resulting in a certainty that can feel unstoppable and impenetrable. At first, this inexorable certainty might feel good, even euphoric. Of course, there are some redeemable aspects to feeling assured.

But at the same time, this kind of absolute certainty can also be very destructive. It’s a foil for logic and reason, and it repels feelings of empathy toward anyone who is not privileged to experience the same kind of assurance.

This dynamic is nothing new. The radioactive relationship between certainty and uncertainty has played out over and over again, throughout the ages:

• Opposition to early Roman Catholic doctrine resulted in an over-emphasis on the absolute teaching authority of the institutional Church.

• Protestants developed doubt in the Catholic system, and re-centered absolute authority in the text of the Bible.

• Enlightenment philosophy (with its emphasis on empirical science and skepticism toward tradition) created doubt in the authority of both the Church and Scripture—the unintended consequence of which, was a more subjective Christian faith focused on the fundamentals of personal experience and an error-free interpretation of the Bible.

• The personal salvation experiences of 19th century revivals, along with intellectual battles over emerging scientific theories (such as evolution), drove the new Fundamentalists to double-down on their most entrenched beliefs.

• A chasm grew between believers and non-believers, resulting in an Us vs. Them mentality. In response, some Fundamentalists sought purity by exiting mainstream culture. Others, eventually called Evangelicals, chose to engage with culture in hopes of transforming it.

• Evangelicals (literally, bringers of good news) flourished in the 1980s, and after decades of ups and downs, they now are enjoying a resurgence, especially as those in government have begun using the Toxic Certainty of Evangelicalism to their political advantage.

Please forgive my oversimplification of history. The point is: the threat of uncertainty pushes faith into a posture of increasingly radical certainty, which is ultimately toxic to believers and to everyone with whom they come into contact.

The Radical Embrace of Complexity

Is there hope for a Mutant Teenage Evangelical? Can anything reverse the effects of the Toxic Ooze of Certainty? For me, there was hope, and the antidote came in a Radical Embrace of Complexity (REC). But it was not something that happened overnight. My REC resulted from a wide range of experiences following high school:

• At 19, I took a trip to freshly post-communist Eastern Europe (circa 1990), and saw for the first time, people living in very different circumstances than my own.

• At 27, I experienced a painful divorce, which showed me a kind of emotional suffering I did not know existed.

• At 28 (and through the following decade) I had more travels to other parts of Europe, Russia, and South America, confirming in me the variety and complexity of human culture.

• At 29, I voraciously read literature and philosophy, which illustrated different ways of perceiving the world that I had previously not considered.

• At 30, I met an older woman in my neighborhood named Anita, who was about to be evicted from her apartment. Through our friendship, and her journey of homelessness, my eyes were opened wide to the life of so many who are vulnerable and less fortunate in our world.

• At 31, hanging out regularly at local coffee shops, I met Michael, a chain-smoking, existentialist, illuminati who challenged me over a period of months on questions like: why would a loving God ask Abraham to sacrifice his son?

• At 33, I became friends with our next-door neighbors who were practicing Buddhists, and witnessed authentic devotion to a religion that was not my own.

• At 35, I studied the book of Job with a renowned Biblical scholar who was brutally honest about the complexities of God, and comfortable to speak of uncertainties in the context of faith.

• At 36, I took a class on Comparative Religions. It was taught by a Christian professor who was a former Hindu, and his ongoing respect for his own religious heritage impressed upon me the value of beliefs so radically different than mine.

• At 37, another teacher exposed me to the the lives of artists throughout history (from Michelangelo to Warhol), and modeled openness to ideas about sex that I had previously considered inappropriate for a Christian to consider.

• At 40, I was involved in a tiny, but vibrant, church of misfits and artists whose lives did much to break that “Us vs. Them” mentality in me.

Five Ways to Counteract the TOC

Reflecting on this personal history, I see some clear themes emerge. I count five “pursuits” that quite effectively reverse the mutations of Toxic Certainty, especially when they build on one another over a period of time:

1. Travel to appreciate the diversity of cultures.

2. Education to formally learn different perspectives.

3. Reading for exposure to human thought throughout history.

4. Friendship with those who are “other” in their age, gender, ethnicity, religion, economic status, etc.

5. Suffering to cure the disease of apathy and cruelty toward people in pain.

Some of these require proactive engagement, like Education or Travel. Others happen to us, like Suffering, maybe even Friendship. Whatever way the TERFS come to you, they will certainly (I say that non-toxically) foster a Radical Embrace of Complexity in whomever is open and committed to reversing their own Mutant Evangelicalism.

The Scourge of Adult Mutant Evangelicals

TERFS worked for me. That 1980s Teenage Mutant Evangelical has become a distant (still occasionally shameful) memory. Today, I’m becoming more of the person I am meant to be. I think that those around me are much better for it, too!

But not everyone makes this transition. Not every Teenage Mutant Evangelical crawls out of the Toxic Ooze of Certainty to grasp the Radical Embrace of Complexity. And unfortunately, Adult Mutant Evangelicals (AMEs) can wreak much more serious havoc than teenagers can, as illustrated by some of what we’re witnessing in America today.

You know, it’s stuff like…

• Local church leaders and pastors denying factual narratives when it disagrees with their pre-established ideas.

• Bad faith interpretations of Bible verses as pretext for political action.

• Justification of un-Christlike behavior, such as smearing the names of innocent victims of violence.

• Equivocation on opposing spiritual values, when the way of Jesus definitively walks on one side.

• Conservative politicians donning the cloak of Evangelicalism as it serves their pursuit of power.

• Hateful speech from the mouths of self-proclaimed believers.

• Ethical concessions that enable a neo-nazi agenda.

• A steep rise in anti-semitic rhetoric.

• Situational support for Constitutional rights (such as gun rights for some, but not for others).

• Downgrading the seriousness of lies and the importance of facts.

• General xenophobia and rejection of the “other” in the name of Christian Nationalism.

“Scourge” might seem like a strong term, but I’ve chosen it intentionally. It’s a whip used for punishment. To scourge is the act of whipping. Figuratively, a scourge can signify anything that produces violent oppression and great suffering.

What I’m proposing is that without TERFS, annoying little Teenage Mutant Evangelicals will continue wallowing in Toxic Certainty right into adulthood, when actions have significantly more serious consequences…

Teenage Mutant Evangelicals who draw cartoons of coat-hanger abortions to taunt young feminists, grow up to become Adult Mutant Evangelicals who harrass, bully, and even commit violence against anyone who doesn’t interpret spiritual and political issues through the same Biblical lens.

Teenage Mutant Evangelicals who scare their peers with threats of eternal damnation, grow up to become Adult Mutant Evangelicals who terrorize good people with all kinds of hellish acts and accusations, simply because they don’t hold the same abusive beliefs. (My friend and Presbyterian minister, Luke Hyder, just shared a relatable story that illustrates this.)

Teenage Mutant Evangelicals who are ok ruining family faith outings over concern about incorrect doctrine, grow up to become Adult Mutant Evangelicals who actively seek to purge society of any religious ideas or practices that don’t fit snugly into their narrow, dogmatic box.

Evangelizing the Evangelicals

So, is there anything we can do to counteract the Toxic Ooze of Certainty as it’s being spilled into the lives of others? I do believe that God uses things like Travel, Education, Reading, Friendship, and Suffering to reverse harmful mutations—but each individual has to be open to the challenging, and sometimes painful, work of personal change. Unfortunately, we can’t choose TERFS for someone else.

Still, we can listen to their rants with patience. We can agree where agreement is reasonable and disagree firmly, but with love. We can share our own experiences when relevant. We can lend an impactful book, or watch a poignant film together. We can take a trip with them to a foreign culture—downtown, or down to Latin America.

I know, I know… the irony is not lost on me as I’m talking about evangelizing Evangelicals! And if it’s true that introducing uncertainty only leads to more militant certainty, it’s highly possible that anything you or I do that’s not obsequious kowtowing will simply make things worse.

Nevertheless, if we care about people, our country, and our world, we must try to minimize and reverse the effects of the Toxic Ooze of Certainty—first in ourselves, and then in others. Cowabunga!

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I had a realization this week. It’s something I already knew and have thought about before, but in the moment, it stuck me as particularly profound.

A missionary I used to work with shared a politically conservative post about the current events in Minnesota. The post he shared was from Armstrong Williams, who made a number of wild assertions, including the idea that the reason for the violence in Minneapolis is a direct result of the chaos being caused by the protestors, specifically because the protestors are somehow motivated by “power.”

It’s laughable to me that you have men with guns and masks and military style uniforms, but the ones accused of being power hungry, are the grandmas holding signs and shouting for ICE to leave their neighborhood.

But anyway…

I don’t really want to get into all that. What struck me was less a political point than something related to religion and spirituality.

After we had exchanged some polite disagreements about the political situation, my missionary friend—who has written some Christian books, successfully trained many church leaders, and is a very kind and graceful man—concluded with these words:

“One thing we can agree on is how much we need Jesus in the midst.”

Immediately, a hearty “Yes!” began welling up in my soul. As the “Y-E-S” worked its way down my arms to my fingers and was about to initiate an affirmative tap-tap-tap on the keyboard, some cognitive dissonance announced itself in my psyche.

I paused. “Wait a second,” I thought, “which Jesus is he talking about?” As much as I consider my missionary friend a brother, I am also aware that we have some divergent views on the person and character of Jesus. If my Jesus and his Jesus are categorically different in some significant ways, then agreeing to have Jesus in our midst is not really a meaningful, is it? What exactly would we be agreeing to?

My fingers moved from “Y-E-S” on the keyboard to a bunch of other letters that spelled out the following:

“… I’m not sure we can even agree on that [needing Jesus in our midst]. I hate the thought, but I don’t think my Jesus looks like your Jesus. And my Jesus definitely doesn’t look like the Jesus represented by the cross that Karoline Leavitt [White House Press Secretary] wears around her neck.”

Another commenter responded right after this, declaring that “nobody owns Jesus”—and then went on to unwittingly hammer home my point by describing his, apparently indisputable, version of the Son of God.

And this is yet to say nothing of the diverse versions of Jesus that exist in the minds of millions of non-Christian Americans.

I suppose that despite our disagreements about the person of Jesus, we could still invite the Son of God to be in the midst of our troubled political situations. What could it hurt? If Jesus is real, couldn’t his presence benefit our American situation, even in spite of our good or bad ideas about who he really is?

Sadly, I still think the answer is no. It’s no because Jesus doesn’t show up hovering on a low cloud, poised to aim his charged finger at the violence to dispel it. In reality, Jesus shows up through real people.

And if Jesus shows up through real people, we’re back to that complication that people act on Jesus’ behalf out of their own understandings of who they believe the Son of God to be.

In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if many of the ICE agents view their job as motivated and empowered by Jesus working in and through them. Conversely, there are certainly a large number of protestors who recognize Christ in them, pushing back against this governmental aggression and overreach.

Apparently, we don’t need to agree for it to be so. It appears “Jesus” is already in our midst. And it is not very helpful. One could even make an argument that this “presence of Jesus in our midst” is actually making things worse.

If Americans don’t agree who Jesus is, he can’t be the answer to our problems. The answer must lie elsewhere.

What do you think?

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I had To Go On Living: Stories by Narine Abgaryan on my desk at work the other day when a co-worker stopped by. “That’s a bleak title,” he quipped. I mumbled something in response. I hadn’t quite found the words yet to describe the book. On the jacket, this fictional work is described as a collection of “poignant short stories [that] show how the people of a village ravaged by war pick up the pieces and carry on.” It definitely is this.

But this book is more. Through Abgaryan’s unique approach to storytelling, through her illustrative prose, and through the host of interrelated characters, To Go On Living creates a montage of community survival that is marked by perseverance, compassion, and hope.

The author weaves together these 31 stories (plus epilogue) using a very unique literary approach. Each 4-7 page vignette stands on its own, but when read consecutively, the stories present an intricate meta-narrative. However, it’s not a chronological series of events that connects these tales; it’s the relationships between characters who appear and reappear—and reappear again—from story to story.

For example, a gravedigger known only as Tsatur appears as a peripheral character in the story titled “Merelots.” Then, in the very next story called “Tights,” we meet Mayinants Tsatur in the central role.

In another example, a woman named Antaram is first mentioned briefly in the story “Gulpa,” when the character Khoren confesses, “I couldn’t keep my own daughter, Antaram, safe.” In the very next story, “Rug,” we find that Khoren’s granddaughter, Krnatants Lusine, is getting married and receives a rug as a gift from her groom. It is a rug made by Lusine’s mother, Antaram. The rug, along with Antaram, had both been lost for years, ever since she took it to town for an exhibition during a ceasefire, only to return the next year—her body and her arms in separate bundles. Finally, in “Valley,” we not only learn the name of Lusine’s groom, Karen, we also find him shooting an Azeri (Azerbijani) boy while on watch duty, and subsequently planning to exchange this injured prisoner of war for two Armenian prisoners—or perhaps for one prisoner, plus Antaram’s lost rug, which he has promised to recover for his beloved bride, Lusine, Antaram’s daughter.

This imaginative approach to storytelling is thoroughly engaging. After I recognized Abgaryan’s method, I found myself approaching each story with great expectation, “When will the next character reappear? Who will it be? To whom will they be related, and how?” Beyond its novelty, though, this compelling literary approach also serves to effectively introduce the broad and diverse Armenian community of Berd.

Berd (which also happens to be the author’s actual birthplace) is a rural town on the border of a war. The village is “tiny, no bigger than a pinhead,” as one character describes it, but it’s caught in the middle of a large conflict, the Nagorno-Karabakh War.

When the Soviet Union was collapsing in 1988, ethnic Armenians—who were the majority group living in this region of Azerbaijan—voted to join neighboring Armenia. This sparked ethnic violence between Armenian and Azerbaijani forces, which lasted for six years. Around 30,000 people were killed and a combined number of one million Armenians and Azerbaijanis were displaced. Fighting was renewed in 2020 and escalated again in 2023.

It’s an interesting history, but it’s not at all necessary to know the details of this conflict to appreciate Abgaryan’s stories. That’s because the specific geo-political details do not matter as much as the specific consequences of the war, which are described in brutal and beautiful detail throughout the book.

There’s Ninek, a widow of war, whose baby (her dead husband’s child) also choked and died while under Ninek’s mother’s care. Nevertheless, Ninek “loyally and lovingly” cares for her infirm and unappreciative mother, while carrying her own debilitating grief and pain with “wordless, humble dignity.” As the author observes through another character, “Life has meaning for as long as you have someone to take care of…” is a theme that resonates throughout the book.

There’s twelve-year-old Anna, who is shoved underneath the sofa by her grandmother when soldiers storm into their apartment. From that hiding place, Anna is forced to watch one of the intruders stomp her four-year-old brother to death. Another character editorializes, “The worst thing about death isn’t its existence so much as the fact that it enjoys deforming and humiliating the human body.”

Then there’s Nuzgar, who carried the corpse of his dead brother (murdered by looters) for three days through forests, fields, and rivers so that he could bury him somewhere he could visit, to keep his memory alive. Nuzgar finally arrives at his sister’s home with “a bunch of wild daisies he had picked along the way.” He was out of money, but had been raised to “never to visit people empty-handed.”

Bleak? Definitely. So, then, why would someone want to read To Go On Living? As I read these stories, I found a profound empathy building in my soul, not just for these fictional characters, but for their counterparts in our contemporary world.

I found myself thinking of the everyday struggles of Gazans, caught in a conflict between their own corrupt leaders and neighboring Israel. I thought of the Israelis waiting to find out whether or not their family being held hostage would be returned alive—or dead. I also thought of the Ukrainians, under constant threat of missile strikes, while their children still attend school, and the parents of those children still go to work.

In addition to these lessons in empathy, Abgaryan’s stories have reminded me about the importance of presence with the ones you love. And her characters have modeled attention to the ordinary, and the beauty therein that is everywhere around us, all the time. Even in spite of their ongoing struggles with death—of parents, children, siblings, beloved animals— the residents of war-torn Berd have discovered boundless ways to celebrate life,

“ …admiring the lilac-colored eyes of a young girl; loving a stepson; listening to the sounds of morning through a bedroom window; sharing a huge tray of baklava; mastering the art of rug weaving; feeding crusts of bread to hungry sparrows; composing poetry late into the night with a cup of thyme tea; teasing jokes between life-long friends; being surprised by a stranger; strolling casually through town; tasting sour apples; standing beneath the cypress grove; smelling summer in the canned vegetables…”

Now, if someone inquires about the bleakness of To Go On Living, and the value of such a book, I have a simple (and difficult) answer that’s illustrated in a variety of colorful and poignant ways, through each of Abgaryan’s stories. And this answer is also neatly summed up by the author herself, in the very last sentence of the epilogue:

“Life is fairer than death, and that’s what encapsulates its unbreakable truth. It is necessary to believe this in order to go on living.”

Through fiction, To Go On Living makes the argument that “Life is fairer than death.” And it’s proven to be true, inasmuch as the characters reflect the broad and beautiful capacity of human life, even in times of war.

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But in the end, it all worked out—quite nicely, in fact! Christmas 2025 will likely prove to be one of best Christmases in recent memory. (Also, important to note: when you order gifts from Amazon to ship to Oregon, you don’t pay sales tax. Win!)

Not to sound sappy, but the greatest gift of all was to be with family. Together, we went to Mt. Hood for some super snow-fun, enjoyed some fantastic family meals, visited my favorite bookstore, and we even went roller skating with the cousins.

Now, I haven’t skated since I was in high school, but it all came back to me in a flash. At least the foward skating part did. Unfortunately, there’s no proof of that statement. All I have is a video my sister-in-law took of my attempting to learn how to skate backwards.

A kind man saw me struggling and offered some unsolicited pointers. He was a large guy, over 6 feet probably 250 pounds, the sort who one would stereotypically assume did NOT spend his holiday roller skating. But his pointers really helped… though, admittedly, one wouldn’t be able to tell from the video. I did receive lots of “encouraging” comments later from those who saw the reel.

We also visited my favorite bookstore in the whole world: Powell’s City of Books. After a way-too-short trip there in the summer, this time I was able to negotiate a longer, though still-not-long-enough trip, in part by leaving the uninterested parties at home.

While making my way to the Gold Room on the second floor, where the enormous collection of sci-fi is kept, I overheard a conversation. I’m not sure the context, but the person said something like:

“No one in America is starving. There are so many ways to get food. If they are starving, it’s their own fault.”

I was immediately shook upon hearing this. Based on my experience, this statement is, at best, willful ignorance. At worst, it’s a hateful indictment of poor people.

I wondered how anyone in our place and times could believe this to be true when I can walk outside of my Pasadena apartment building right now (and it’s not a shabby section of town, nor of the entire country, for that matter) and, within minutes, find at least a handful of homeless folks—all of whom are malnourished and food-insecure; even “starving,” if you will.

But more on this later…

Back to the Gold Room where I wasted no time cataloging possible book purchases. Isaac Asimov. Ray Bradbury. Shirley Jackson. Philip K. Dick. Octavia Butler. Too many to choose from. I settled on these: The Illustrated Man a collection of short stories by Ray Bradbury, and The Penultimate Truth, a novel by Philip K. Dick.

(I also picked up If On a Winter’s Night a Traveller, by Italo Calvino—which I suppose would be considered sci-fi, even though I found wandering through the Blue Room (literature)—as well as Twilight of Democracy, by Anne Applebaum, a last-minute choice after straying into the Red Room (politics).

[Side note: Applebaum is an American journalist and historian with a new podcast called “Autocracy In America,” which I highly recommend.]

Now, I had to decide which book to read first. My gut told me to start with The Penultimate Truth. (After many years, I’ve learned that going with my gut—even when actionable data is limited—often turns out to be the best choice.) In this case, my gastrointestinal approach proved effective once again.

I have known of Dick’s influence for years (Heh, heh, heh… sorry, his name always brings out the junior higher in me), but I never quite realized the extent of his influence on contemporary film and TV.

Chances are you have seen, maybe unwittingly, more than one story of his over the years. Familiar titles include: Total Recall, Minority Report, and The Adjustment Bureau. The Man In the High Castle, is his invention, turned into a TV show in 2015. In 2017, Electric Dreams was a TV series inspired by PKD’s novel, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep (which is also the basis for one of the greatest sci-fi films of all time, Blade Runner).

But I had never heard of The Penultimate Truth. It turns out, my choice and the timing were interesting on a number of levels.

I won’t give away whole story, but here’s the gist (spoilers ahead):

World War III has ushered in a dystopian world that is largely unlivable. As the fighting apparently continues, most of humanity is forced to move underground into “tanks.” They occupy most of their time in this vast bunker system producing “leadies,” (robots) who are sent to the surface to continue waging the war.

One-way communication regularly comes from Talbot Yancy, the charismatic leader on the surface, to the so-called “Yance-men” (and women) who are living in the shelters below. Humanity is fed a steady stream of messages, including: news about battles being waged, reports on the poisonous conditions of the environment above, and increasingly impossible robot-production quotas.

What the tank dwellers (and reader) come to realize is that it’s all a lie. In fact, there is no longer any war. What’s really happening is that an elite group of wealthy industrialists are enjoying a life of comfort on the surface, supported and served by the robots being produced underground.

All of the communication sent below to the Yance-men amounts to an elaborate set of propaganda that includes fake speeches, false news reports, and fabricated images & videos—all produced to keep the tank dwellers in the literal and metaphorical dark.

What then is the Penultimate Truth? True to the general definition of penultimate as “the second to last,” this title apparently refers to the idea that the truth most of humanity believes in is not ultimate reality. PKD seems to be asking with his novel some form of the question, who controls the truth?

I probably don’t have to elaborate on how this novel, written in 1964, is deeply relevant for our times. The relevance is even more poignant when one finds out, as I did to my great surprise, that The Penultimate Truth is set in the year 2025! World War III, underground tanks, and “leadies” notwithstanding, PKD was spot on with his theme of political control through manufactured reality and propaganda.

We all know the term “foolery.” This is when you tell a regular lie with the intention of deceiving someone. Most lies are foolery. Simple deception. But I learned a new word this week that comes from hip-hop culture. Instead of foolery, it’s “fuckery” (sorry that’s the term—I did not make it up.)

Fuckery is used very specifically to refer to lies that are known to be untrue by all parties involved. The liars know their words are false. The people who are lied to know they are lies. And most importantly to this concept, the liars KNOW that the lied-to KNOW they are lies. In other words, NO ONE is deceived. Lies that are told when no one is fooled are simply a show of power.

This kind of “fuckery” is the most apt description of what Donald Trump, JD Vance, and Kristie Noem are engaging in as they send their one-way communication to us. Their widely publicized lies about the murder of Renee Nicole Goode in Minneapolis are not meant to deceive. How could they be? When they say, “she ran him over with her car” and everyone can see on the video that she did NOT run him over, the objective of their lies can’t be to fool.

The purpose of their lies is to control. To flex power. I heard someone say that speed is not a friend of justice. These so-called leaders are using their power to take control of the narrative early, before anyone can really investigate all the circumstances.

And yet, people are still fooled. But how? Are they fooled because of their hopeful trust in our elected officials? Are they fooled because of their own willful ignorance?

For many of us, it’s all just pure fuckery. These lies from the highest positions in our government are meant to assert power and convince us that no matter the ultimate reality, the only truth that really matters is a secondary one that those in charge would have us believe.

It’s important for us to understand that the ultimate truth is not just inconvenient for the people in power; it’s a threat and hindrance. It’s a major roadblock to where they want to take our country.

Sadly, it seems that ultimate truth has been no match for the five-axle, eighteen wheeler, “Trump truck” that is barreling down the highway of America with no guard rails and no concern for the rules of the road.

Through 2025 and now into 2026, penultimate truths have penetrated just about every level of political action and discourse. That overheard conversation about starving Americans is another example.

After hearing that “no Americans are starving,” I decided to see if I could find some data to corroborate. The most reliable data on hunger and food insecurity in the U.S. comes from the non-partisan Department of Agriculture’s Economic Research Service.

They don’t exactly measure “starvation,” which would probably be a measure of actual deaths due to lack of food, but they do measure access to adequate food. The latest available USDA data is from 2023. It says that about 13.5% of U.S. households (about 47.4 million Americans) were “food insecure” at some time during 2023. That’s about 18 million households.1

Food insecure includes two levels:

• Low food security, in which households experienced reduced quality, variety, or desirability of diet, but not significantly reduced food intake

• Very low food security, in which a household’s normal eating patterns are disrupted and eating is reduced due to lack of resources

In 2023, 5.1% of American households (about 6.8 million households) had very low food security. This means that some in those households were skipping meals or going without food. This includes about 841,000 children.

Here’s the real kicker. We can tell that food insecurity has been rising based on the USDA data from 2022 compared with 2023. However, the USDA recently announced it will no longer publish its annual Household Food Security report, which has been the primary national source for this kind of data for 30 years.

This decision was announced by Trump’s Agriculture Secretary Brooke Rollins, who “welcome(s) DOGE’s efforts at USDA,” to optimize the workforce and stop wasteful spending, expecting “full access and transparency to DOGE.”2 Ironic to expect more transparency, when the very reports that provide that transparency are being discontinued.

Statistics aside, this is a devastating combination of foolery and fuckery, aimed to confuse and obfuscate the American public with the penultimate truth that “Americans are not starving.”

My friend saw that video of me roller skating backwards and decided to post their own version:

I SWEAR that I am better than this at skating forward. But how would you know if you saw this?

Well, for one you could trust my words, though that might not seem reliable enough. I might have ulterior motives (like to make myself look good) and so present the penultimate truth that I can skate forward much better than I can skate backwards. In which case, you’ll have to rely on other data.

You could, perhaps, examine this video more closely and discover that I am the ONLY person skating forwards, while everyone else is skating backwards. That might indicate there is something fishy going on.

Also, if you happen to know my friend who posted the altered video, you might be aware that he likes to make jokes like this, which would further suggest that I may be telling the truth about my skating skills, contrary to the video evidence.

As with the elites behind the manufactured persona of Talbot Yancey, and the Trump Administration behind Brook Rollins and the U.S. Department of Agriculture—you really have no quick, easy, or foolproof method for arriving at the ultimate truth.

BUT…

There’s still hope. I can imagine some things we can do, especially if we are not satisfied letting the powerful control the truth. We can:

• become a savvy scrutinizers of media, whether video, photos, or text

• question authority—even authority we think we can trust

• examine motives of ALL truth messengers (both liberal & conservative)

• consume as many sources of truth as possible, looking for corroboration

• synthesize all data before arriving at our own conclusions

• hold our conclusions with open hands, willing to change our minds if new information comes to light

• protest governments who eliminate research in the name of “efficiency”

• acknowledge truth wherever it may be found—even in unlikely sources

• share what you know to be true with everyone, often, and without shame

Maybe you can add to this list? Please do!

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Seeking hard after ultimate truth, using these methods and others, is really our only hope toward digging our dystopian-leaning society up and out, past penultimate truths to breach the surface where ultimate reality still exists.

Grab your shovel!

We live about ten walking-minutes from the Pasadena Rose Parade route and I’m feeling a little bit bad for all those travelers who came to town for the Rose Bowl game and festivities, expecting to camp out on Colorado Boulevard.

Those Indiana and Alabama fans who were expecting our typical sunny 65 degrees on New Year’s Eve will have to settle for rainy and 55. (It hasn’t rained on the parade since 2006!)

For our family, it’s no matter. Kids are planning on walking around in the wet and watching all the crazy revelers… if there are any. N and I will be warm and cozy inside watching a movie, reading a book, or perhaps doing a little writing to kick off 2026.

Speaking of, I took a look back at my stories and essays from 2025. Below is a snapshot of the most popular posts, along with some of the writing that I especially enjoyed sharing.

Maybe if you’re in rainy L.A., or almost freezing Indiana, or wherever you are—you’ll find a few minutes to discover something here you missed.

I’m learning a lot about myself through this discipline of writing, and I’m grateful for anyone else who’s found some interest in my stories and existential ponderings. There’s much more in store for 2026. Won’t you come along for the ride?

Most POPULAR Posts of 2025

MY Favorite Posts of 2025

Did you have any favorites from my Substack, or any other you’ve been following? I’d truly love to know what’s been piquing your interest lately…

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Coming soon…

“Break Your Mama’s Heart”

Retelling my 18-year-old Dad’s experience of driving his ‘57 Ford Fairlane across the Indiana-Ohio border to a club for some music and 3.2 beer—you’ll never believe what happened on the way back home…

“Penultimate Truths”

Some ideas for how to reset our truth gauges for 2026, including thoughts on backwards roller skating, starving Americans, and Philip K. Dick’s 1964 prediction for 2025.

In October it’s Knott’s Scary Farm. Last fall, the entire park was transformed into a dark, creepy place, complete with roving monsters and zombies who will chase you as you make your way to the next attraction. Penny and I went to about six haunted houses. Aside from the Disneyland-like lines, we loved it!

But a few weeks ago, I was a little surprised hearing a radio ad for Knott’s Mary Farm. I couldn’t believe it. You still hear so much blather from religious folks this time of year about how there’s no Christ in Christmas anymore. To me this development was a major blow to that argument. Christ, or at least his mother, had made top theme-park billing!

I turned to my son and said, “Crazy that they would call it that, right?” He didn’t understand. I followed up, “Like, naming it after the mother of Jesus for Christmas. I’m so surprised.”

He chuckled, “Um. Dad… it’s ‘Merry Farm,’ as in, ‘Merry Christmas,’ you know?”

Ha! We had a good laugh over that one.

I really was fooled. But why did it even enter my mind that they would be so Christ-specific? (Or at least Christ-adjacent.) Maybe I thought so because Knott’s was once a good old American family farm.

But no. Knott’s is no Holy Land U.S.A. It’s as secular a theme park as they come. Then again, even ‘Merry’ has the specific connotation of Christmas. Perhaps Knott’s is straddling the fence a bit.

I’ll bet the truth is, they probably just couldn’t resist the “Berry” rhyme. And “Knott’s Happy Holidays Farm” is a mouthful.

As far back as I can remember, I’ve heard some version of, “We need to put Christ back in Christmas.” To be honest, there was a time when I participated in these rants. The sentiment that secular culture has hijacked a high Christian holiday has spawned all sorts of reclamation campaigns throughout the years.

In the 80s, it was driven by the Moral Majority and culture-war politics. This included legal battles over publicly displayed Nativity scenes and other religious symbols.

“Keep Christ in Christmas” PSAs came in a variety of forms leading up to the mid-2000s when conservative media figures like Bill O’Reilly bashed the use of the phrase “Happy Holidays” in place of “Merry Christmas” and starting using the “war” language.

Minimalist, solid-red, Starbucks holiday cups in 2015 became a focal point of the fray, leading to taunting hashtags such as #MerryChristmasStarbucks.

Surprisingly (or unsurprisingly?) the “war on Christmas” is still raging, in fact, the current regime has broadened its Christian culture war to all areas dubbed (by them) “woke,” from their truly serious attacks on women, minorities, and the disabled under the guise of a DEI rollback to Rubio’s truly laughable, recent attack on the font Calibri as yet another evil tool of the left. God prefers Times New Roman, I guess?

Hegseth, Rubio, Johnson, and Co. (Trump, too, I guess—but ultimately, I think he really only cares about himself) are leading the 2025 Christian Nationalist-charge to put Christ back in Christmas. This campaign still resonates with a large group. One recent study suggests that about 30% of Americans are either Christian Nationalist “adherents” or “sympathizers.”1

I’m thinking that this 30% doesn’t include old school conservatives (at least another 15%?) who, regardless of Christian Nationalist tendencies, would prefer to be greeted by Merry Christmas over Happy Holidays this time of year. (And, surely there’s a group of Catholics out there who would opt for Mary Christmas.)

Anyway, if that’s at all accurate, around 45% of Americans are still preferring—in many cases insisting—on “putting Christ back into Christmas.”

If you haven’t guessed by now. I’m not part of the 45%. I don’t think we need to launch any reclamation efforts to get Christ back in Christmas. However, it’s not because I don’t want Christ in Christmas. It’s simply because I don’t think it’s possible to remove Christ from Christmas to begin with.

I’m sure all of those Christian Nationalists are familiar with the verses about Jesus at the start of the book of Colossians in the Bible:

¹⁵ He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation, ¹⁶ for in him all things in heaven and on earth were created, things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers—all things have been created through him and for him. ¹⁷ He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together. ¹⁸ He is the head of the body, the church; he is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, so that he might come to have first place in everything. ¹⁹ For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, ²⁰ and through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross. (Colossians 1:15-20)

This passage—likely one of the first hymns and creeds of the nascent Church—is what theologians call “high Christology.” This is not the lowly baby in a manger of the Gospel of Matthew. This is not describing a mere weak and fleshy human. This Christ is “the image of the invisible God,” within whom “the fullness of God” resides.

This Christ created “all things in heaven and on earth… visible and invisible.” This Christ holds “all things… together.” This Christ even reconciled all of those created things to himself “by making peace through the blood of his cross.”

Does this Christ sound like the kind of person who can be removed from anything—let alone a silly December greeting?

And who are we to think that we could somehow coax Christ away from his creation? We can no more remove Christ from Christmas than we can even begin to comprehend the depth and breadth of Christ’s reach and reign.

This kind of thinking that Christ can be removed from Christmas is all a mistake. Perhaps it’s a good-faith mistake, but a big mistake, nonetheless. And it’s a mistake made by believers who claim to have the corner on Christ-knowledge.

If you’re buying what I’m selling here, the question remains: if Christ cannot be removed from Christmas, then is there anything harmful in saying “Happy Holidays”? And if Christ does, in fact, remain in Christmas—even amid the flurry of secular culture—where can Christ still be found?

The term holiday is a derivative of the phrase “holy day,” which also can be taken to mean “sacred day” or “a day set-apart” for it’s uniqueness and specialness. Besides Christmas, December happens to host a bunch of other holy days, including:

• Hanukkah, a Jewish holiday commemorating the rededication of the Jewish Temple after oppression, including the miracle of the lamp oil lasting eight days. It celebrates the themes of faithfulness, resilience, perseverance, and light overcoming darkness.

• Bodhi Day, a Buddhist holiday marking the Buddha’s enlightenment under the Bodhi tree. It celebrates the themes of liberation from suffering, meditation, and spiritual insight.

• Kwanzaa, a “non-religious” holiday celebrating African-American culture through seven principles, including the themes of unity, self-determination, and communal responsibility.

• Yule/Winter Solstice, ancient pagan festival focused on nature, celebrating themes of renewal, earth cycles, light, and balance.

• Eid al-Fitr, a movable Muslim holiday (last time it was in December was 2001-2002) marking the end of Ramadan with the breaking of a month-long fast. It celebrates themes of renewal, gratitude (for strength), and shared joy in collective effort.

These are obviously not Christian holidays. In fact, none of them even mention Christ. And yet, I see Christ all over each one. Don’t you?

Go back and read the themes each one celebrates. Then ask:

• Can there be true joy without Christ?

• Is there liberation and light apart from Christ?

• Does renewal happen without the power of the risen Christ?

• Would humans even care about unity and communal peace if not for Christ’s work of reconciliation?

Now, think of the themes central to birth of Jesus and the Christmas narrative. These include:

• Family

• Community

• Joy

• Gifts

• Incarnation

• Love

Right away, one can see that these spiritual themes overlap at various times and in different ways within those aforementioned holidays, and even with secular cultural practices at Christmastime (the centrality of gift-giving and family are obvious, for starters).

Insomuch as Christ is the creator of all things, I believe Christ is really present in all holidays, as evidenced and experienced in them by the multi-faceted character of Christ’s spirit.

That old adage comes to mind: If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it probably is a duck.

So, I would propose: If it walks like Christ and talks like Christ, it probably is Christ.

Religion is a box. But, God won’t be kept in a box. Though, perhaps, God might at least be well-represented within a bunch of boxes.

Accordingly, I judge that we are actually better off when we exchange our narrow Merry Christmas for the much broader and much more welcoming Happy Holidays.

Christ is in Christmas and cannot be removed. And Christ is in every holy day, where the fruit of Christ’s spirit is promoted, celebrated, and felt.

Happy Holidays to you all!

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But Patty Smith did have an unexpected influence on me a couple weeks ago when I happened to catch her giving a radio interview. Admittedly, I never knew that much about her. In fact, I think I had a lot of assumptions about Smith, based mostly on the fact that she came up in the New York City punk rock scene of the 1970s, hanging out with the likes of Warhol, Lou Reed, Robert Mapplethorpe, etc.

It turns out, she was raised in a very religious household. (She actually has that in common with Warhol.) Her mother sent her to Bible school starting at two-and-a-half. Just about as early, she was asking questions like, “What color is the soul?” See? A poet.

Eventually, she left organized religion, but in the radio interview, she talks about how she never rebelled against God. Now, in 2025, she still loves God and believes in Jesus. (It’s worth mentioning that her beliefs were initially formed in the Jehovah’s Witness tradition, so that certainly gave them a particular flavor.)

“I Pray For Everyone”

Her words about prayer are what struck me. Here is the brief section that caught my attention:1

David Remnick: How would you describe [your] relationship [with God today]?

Patti Smith: Basically, I trust that God understands my heart, knows who I am. He knows my trespasses. I never petition God.

David Remnick: You don’t?

Patti Smith: Even when Robert was sick, I never--

David Remnick: Your friend, Robert Mapplethorpe?

Patti Smith: Yes. I prayed for him. I pray for everyone. I pray for the hostages, for the Palestinian people. I pray for everyone. I’m not discriminating and praying for people, but I pray, just as I prayed for Robert, for the strengthening of their heart to endure what they have to endure.

These are relatively simple words. I’m not sure why they held so much weight for me when I heard them. Upon further reflection, I think it’s because her relationship with prayer seems so simple, while mine feels somewhat complicated.

I like that she prays for everyone, indiscriminately. That feels true and right. I also like that she prays for endurance, more than removal (of the obstacles). I like that she starts with the idea that God understands her and knows who she is.

Hearing Patty Smith talk about prayer like this has become an unlikely catalyst for a potential renewal of my own prayer journey.

Paid to Pray

I don’t like prayer. It’s very liberating for me to say this. For many years, prayer was literally part of my job description. That included both private and public prayer.

Like Smith, I have memories of Sunday School, starting at around three years old. I am 54 now, and you don’t have to be good at math to realize I’ve had over 50 years of experience praying...

I’ve prayed like a Baptist, respectful, heartfelt, extemporaneous.

I’ve prayed like a Pentecostal, expressive, loud, expecting manifestation.

I’ve prayed like a Lutheran, adoring, confessing, thanking, supplicating.

I’ve prayed like an Anglican, formal, wordy, poetic, communal.

I’ve prayed like a Quaker, silent, disciplined, contemplative, open.

I’ve prayed like a Benedictine, mindful, in my work and everyday actions.

Along the way, I’ve resonated with different aspects of these approaches, but it’s rarely been satisfying. I don’t remember feeling like: Yes, this is prayer! I do realize that perhaps that is the point. Perhaps prayer is not an end, but a means—which means, it is always striving, always looking for fulfillment.

On the other hand, maybe prayer is the end in itself.

If prayer is foundational for one’s relationship with the divine, it follows that it would function like any relationship, having its ups and downs; moments of feeling close and moments of feeling utterly disconnected.

Some of my discontent with prayer is surely due to my own lack of discipline to practice it. Then again, I want to believe that prayer is more than just a series of tasks, or program of repetition.

Can’t Pray the Pray Away

I would like to like prayer. Smith’s brief words were like a tease for my soul. It wasn’t the poetry of these particular words that pricked me. It was just her simple refrain: “I pray for everyone… I pray for everyone.”

Consequently, I don’t think what I’m feeling is just some vestigial hold-out from my evangelical past; some kind of guilty sense that I must pray to please God. I don’t believe that’s the origin.

So, I’ve decided to spend some time here, in this space, contemplating contemplation and reflecting more deeply on my history of prayer experiences. I plan to share some of these experiences in detail over a series of essays, with the goal to see if I can form a better idea of what prayer really is to me.

More importantly, I hope to come up with a practice (or anti-practice?) that works—that feels natural and right.

I am not interested in prayer that works from a results perspective. I have a pretty strong theological belief that prayer is not for supplication (i.e. “asking for stuff”), or at least not primarily for that.

I start with the supposition that prayer is some kind of conversation with God. Or even more simply, a way of living with God. In this sense, I believe prayer is unnatural when it’s overly formal.

And prayer is definitely not good when it’s dishonest. This is where some of the Psalms are instructive, though I have many beefs with the idea of Psalms as our primary pattern for prayer. More on that later.

Maybe you could help me start this reexamination of prayer by sharing some of your own thoughts or examples of prayer from your own experience.

What does prayer mean to you? There is no wrong answer, as far as I’m concerned…

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