Doulos Theo

In the 1986 comedy classic Back to School, Rodney Dangerfield’s character, Thornton Melon, a brash, self-made millionaire, steps into a college classroom and dismantles the lofty theories of a pompous business professor. In one memorable scene, the professor drones on about the textbook costs of building a factory—construction, materials, labor—only to be interrupted by Melon, who schools him on the gritty realities of the real world. “First of all, you’re going to have to grease the local politicians for the sudden zoning problems that always come up,” Melon quips. “Then there’s the kickbacks to the carpenters… and don’t forget a little something for the building inspectors. Then there’s long-term costs like waste disposal—I don’t know if you’re familiar with who runs that business, but I assure you it’s not the Boy Scouts.” The class erupts in laughter as the professor, flustered, suggests a factory location, prompting Melon’s zinger: “How about Fantasyland?”

Fast forward to 2025, and this scene feels like a perfect metaphor for the ongoing clash between Donald Trump and the self-proclaimed economic “experts” who dominate academia and media. Trump, a real estate mogul turned political juggernaut, embodies the Thornton Melon archetype—a man whose decades of hands-on business experience give him an edge over the theoretical pontifications of ivory-tower economists. As America navigates a complex economic landscape on April 4, 2025, with Trump back in the spotlight following his re-election, the contrast between practical know-how and academic abstraction has never been starker—or more relevant.

Trump’s approach to economics mirrors Melon’s no-nonsense pragmatism. While economists with PhDs debate abstract models and decry his tariff policies or tax cuts as “reckless,” Trump leans on a lifetime of deal-making and empire-building. His argument is simple: he’s done it, not just studied it. In a February 2025 speech at the Future Investment Initiative Institute Priority Summit in Miami, Trump touted his economic vision: “We’re ending trillions of dollars in waste… it’ll mean much lower inflation; lower interest rates; lower payments on mortgages, credit cards, car loans; and much higher stock markets.” The stock market, indeed, has responded—since his election on November 5, 2024, the Nasdaq has surged nearly 10%, and the Dow Jones climbed 2,200 points in mere months.

Contrast this with the chorus of economists who, much like the Back-to-School professor, cling to their theoretical frameworks. They warn of trade wars, inflation spikes, and market instability—yet the numbers tell a different story. Business optimism, as measured by a 42-point jump in a single month (the largest in history), reflects a confidence that transcends academic hand-wringing. Trump’s real-world lens cuts through the noise, focusing on what works: incentivizing investment, slashing red tape, and putting America first.

This isn’t a new phenomenon. History’s most successful businessmen and inventors have long understood that theory pales beside practice. Henry Ford, the automotive pioneer, once said, “I don’t know much about economics, but I do know that if you make something people want and sell it at a price they can afford, you’ll do alright.” Ford didn’t need a degree to revolutionize industry—he built an empire by understanding supply, demand, and human nature. Similarly, Steve Jobs, the visionary behind Apple, dismissed overcomplicated analysis: “Real artists ship.” Jobs didn’t theorize about markets; he created them, driven by intuition honed through trial and error.

The so-called experts, meanwhile, often miss the forest for the trees. In Back to School, the professor’s lecture omits the messy realities—bribes, negotiations, and unseen costs—that Melon knows intimately. Today’s economists exhibit a similar blind spot. Take the backlash to Trump’s “Liberation Day Tariffs,” announced in early 2025 to protect American industries. Critics howled that tariffs would tank the economy, citing textbook free-trade dogma. Yet Trump countered with a practical rebuttal: “They’ve taken advantage of us for many, many years… Our country is going to boom.” His logic echoes Melon’s: the real world isn’t a frictionless model—it’s a battlefield of competing interests, and you win by knowing the terrain.

Elon Musk, a modern titan of industry, aligns with this view. “The best way to predict the future is to create it,” Musk has said, reflecting his disdain for armchair theorizing. Musk’s success with Tesla and SpaceX stems from relentless execution, not academic papers. When he faced skepticism about electric vehicles, he didn’t debate—he built. Trump’s economic playbook follows a similar script: act decisively, adjust as needed, and let results silence the doubters.

The disconnect between theory and practice isn’t just philosophical—it’s measurable. Under Trump’s first term, pre-COVID, the U.S. enjoyed what he called “the greatest economy in the history of our country,” with unemployment at historic lows and median household income rising. Critics attribute this to luck or global trends, but Trump’s hands-on approach—tax cuts, deregulation, and trade renegotiations—laid the groundwork. Compare that to the Biden-Harris years, where theoretical promises of “equity” and “green energy” yielded stagnant growth and inflation woes. As Thornton Melon might say, one side lives in Fantasyland; the other knows how to grease the wheels. Thomas Edison, the prolific inventor, captured this ethos perfectly: “I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.” Edison’s breakthroughs didn’t come from equations but from relentless experimentation—much like Trump’s willingness to defy conventional wisdom. When Trump pushed for energy independence in his first term, experts scoffed; yet by 2020, the U.S. became a net oil exporter for the first time in decades. Theory said it couldn’t be done. Experience proved otherwise.

In 2024, voters chose Trump over Kamala Harris, signaling a rejection of the professorial class’s “hoped-for” solutions in favor of a proven doer. As Douglas MacKinnon wrote in a 2024 Yahoo opinion piece, “Trump is the real-life version of [Melon]. Back in 2016, tens of millions of Americans turned away from the elites and toward him to jot down notes.” That trend held in 2024, with voters betting on a man who’s navigated bankruptcies, built skyscrapers, and outmaneuvered rivals—not one who’s spent decades in lecture halls or Senate chambers.

The Back to School scene ends with the students laughing at the professor’s expense, a symbolic victory for practical wisdom. Today, Trump’s economic wins—rising markets, surging optimism, and a focus on tangible results—echo that triumph. The experts may clutch their textbooks, but as Warren Buffett, the Oracle of Omaha, once said, “In the business world, the rearview mirror is always clearer than the windshield.” Trump’s rearview mirror shows a track record of getting things done. The professors? They’re still lost in Fantasyland.

There certainly is a lot for children to be afraid of in today’s world. In fact, there’s a lot we all are afraid of these days. Mythology is how ancient’s developed stories to teach how children and adults as well, combated real fears and dangers in life.

G.K. Chesterton, the prolific English writer and Christian thinker, once remarked, “Children don’t need to be told that dragons exist, they already know. They need to be told dragons can be killed.” This deceptively simple statement carries profound philosophical, theological, and practical weight. It speaks to the innate human awareness of evil, danger, and chaos—symbolized by dragons—and the equally critical need to instill courage and hope that such forces can be overcome. It was very wise when in the past, myth and the power of storytelling in fiction and film, and real-life encounters with literal and metaphorical “dragons” was used to teach courage and hope in the face of danger and evil. Today, myth and story telling is used differently for the most part. Now instead of using the mythological to teach how to face real dangers and evil, myth and story telling is overwhelmingly used to teach society to face imagined dangers and fears and ignore the real ones. The real ones are dealt with chemically now.

The Instinctive Knowledge of Dragons

Chesterton’s assertion begins with a universal truth: children instinctively recognize the presence of danger and malevolence in the world. This aligns with St. Augustine’s reflections on the human condition in his Confessions: “For I was afraid of non-existence, and yet I was not strong enough to hold fast to existence.” Augustine suggests that even from a young age, humans grapple with an awareness of threats—be they physical, moral, or existential. The “dragons” children know are not merely fairy-tale reptiles but representations of chaos, fear, and the unknown, lurking in the shadows of their imagination and experience.

In literature, this primal recognition is vividly captured. Consider J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit, where Smaug, the great dragon, embodies greed, destruction, and terror. Tolkien, a devout Catholic, understood the dragon as a symbol of evil—a reality children grasp without explanation. Similarly, in C.S. Lewis’s The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, the sea serpent that threatens the ship is a monstrous force the young protagonists instinctively fear. Lewis wrote in Mere Christianity, “We are born helpless. As soon as we are fully conscious, we discover loneliness. We need others physically, emotionally, intellectually; we need them if we are to know anything, even ourselves.” The dragon, then, is not just a beast but a manifestation of isolation and peril that children sense in their bones.

The Need to Know Dragons Can Be Killed

If the existence of dragons is self-evident, Chesterton’s deeper point is that children must be taught they are not invincible. This is where courage, faith, and action enter the picture. Søren Kierkegaard, the Danish Christian philosopher, emphasized the necessity of confronting fear in Fear and Trembling: “To venture causes anxiety, but not to venture is to lose one’s self.” For Chesterton, showing, and telling children that dragons can be killed is an act of empowerment—it equips them to face the world’s evils rather than cower before them.

In fiction, this lesson shines through in tales of heroism. In Beowulf, the hero slays the dragon, but at great cost, reflecting the Christian notion that victory over evil almost always demands sacrifice—a theme Chesterton, a lover of paradox, would have appreciated. In Steven Spielberg’s Jaws, the great white shark—a modern dragon—terrorizes Amity Island until Chief Brody, Quint, and Hooper unite to destroy it; in the book Brody is the only one that survives. The film underscores that while the threat is real, human ingenuity and resolve can prevail. Herman Melville’s Moby Dick offers an earlier more complex and ambiguous take of the sea monster theme: Captain Ahab’s obsessive quest to kill the white whale ends in his own destruction, suggesting that the battle against dragons requires wisdom as much as bravery.

Real-Life Dragons and Their Defeat

Myth and fiction are not the only place to learn this lesson. Chesterton’s insight extends into the real world, where “dragons” take tangible forms. Consider the true story of the Champawat Tiger, recounted in Richard Conniff’s No Beast So Fierce. This lone man-eating tigress in early 20th-century India killed over 400 people (that they have documented for sure), sowing terror across many villages, and across the border of two countries. Her reign ended only when Jim Corbett, a hunter with a deep respect for nature, tracked and killed her in 1907. The villagers didn’t need convincing that the tiger was a real “dragon”—they lived in its shadow. What they needed was Corbett’s proof that it could be stopped, restoring safety and hope.

Similarly, the 1996 film The Ghost and the Darkness dramatizes the real-life terror of the Tsavo Man-Eaters—two lions that killed dozens of railway workers in 1898 Kenya. Engineer John Patterson, played by Val Kilmer, ultimately hunts them down, showing that even nature’s fiercest predators can be defeated with determination and skill. These stories echo Chesterton’s point: the dragon’s existence is a given, but its defeat is a revelation.

A Theological Lens

For Chesterton, a committed Christian, and for all Christians, the ultimate dragon is sin and death, both vanquished by Christ. As St. Thomas Aquinas wrote in Summa Theologica, “The human race was in a state of misery [and fear] through the sin of our first parents, but it has been brought back to glory through Christ.” In this light, Chesterton’s statement reflects the Gospel narrative: evil exists, but it is not the final word. Children, in their innocence, sense the darkness, but they must learn through stories, faith, and example that light triumphs.

Why This Matters Today

Chesterton’s wisdom remains urgent in a world brimming with internal and external metaphorical dragons—war, disease, injustice, and personal struggles. Modern films like Jurassic Park (with its resurrected dinosaurs) or even documentaries about surviving natural disasters remind us that threats persist. Yet, the message endures: we are not powerless. Whether it’s a child facing a bully, a community rebuilding after a storm, or a hunter tracking a beast, the knowledge that dragons can be killed fuels hope and resilience.

In the end, Chesterton invites us to embrace a dual truth: the world, and life are perilous, but it is not hopeless. Through the victories of Hero’s and Heroin in fairy tales, epics, and real-life stories, and most importantly Christ; we teach ourselves and the next generation what he knew so well—that dragons in all their forms, can be slain.

Denzel Washington, a celebrated actor and minister, recently offered a profound distinction between stage acting and movie acting during an interview with CBS News alongside Jake Gyllenhaal. The two are currently starring in a record-breaking Broadway production of Othello. Washington remarked, “I’m a stage actor who does film; it’s not the other way around. I learned how to act on stage, not on film.” He elaborated, “Movies are a filmmaker’s medium. You shoot it, and then you’re gone and they cut together and add music and do all of that. Theater is an actor’s medium. The curtain goes up, nobody can help you.”

This contrast invites us to reflect on our own lives: Are we self-reliant actors on a stage, or are we participants in a grand production directed by God? Just as Washington’s insight applies to acting, we can extend it to other performative arts—symphonic music and dance—and see how they mirror our spiritual journey under God’s guidance versus our own.

The Stage, the Symphony, and the Dance of Life

Consider a symphonic performance. Each musician, from the violinist to the percussionist, plays a specific part under the conductor’s baton. If a single player decides to improvise outside the score, the harmony collapses. Similarly, a dance troupe moves in unison, guided by a choreographer’s vision. A dancer who breaks from the routine disrupts the beauty of the collective. In both cases, submission to a higher direction creates something transcendent—something no individual could achieve alone.

Life under God’s direction is much the same. The Bible affirms this in Proverbs 3:5-6: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.” When we trust God as our Director, Conductor, and Choreographer, we find our place in His eternal symphony and dance. But when we insist on our own script, tempo, or steps, we risk discord and isolation.

God’s Timing and Our Role

The story of the invalid at the pool of Bethesda in John 5 offers a vivid example. This man, crippled for thirty-eight years, waited by the pool for healing. Jesus, who likely passed him many times before, chose a specific moment to act. Why the delay? As Augustine of Hippo wrote, “God’s delays are not God’s denials.” The timing of this miracle aligned with God’s redemptive purpose, amplifying its impact for the kingdom. Had the man rejected Jesus’ command to “rise, take up your bed, and walk” (John 5:8), insisting instead on his own terms, he would have remained paralyzed—both physically and spiritually.

This echoes Washington’s stage analogy. On the stage of self-reliance, “nobody can help you.” But in God’s “movie,” the Director knows every scene. Thomas Aquinas reflected on divine providence, saying, “God has a universal care over all things, directing them to their ultimate end.” When we surrender to His direction, we participate in a story far greater than our own.

The Symphony of Submission

Imagine a symphony where the conductor is God Himself. Psalm 23:1 declares, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” Like a conductor leading an orchestra, God guides us through each movement of life. C.S. Lewis, in Mere Christianity, observed, “God made us: invented us as a man invents an engine. A car is made to run on petrol, and it would not run properly on anything else. Now God designed the human machine to run on Himself.” To play our part in His symphony, we must follow His lead, not our own improvisations.

The Dance of Faith

Similarly, life as a dance under God’s choreography requires trust and obedience. The medieval mystic Julian of Norwich wrote, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well,” reflecting her confidence in God’s ultimate plan. In Matthew 11:28-30, Jesus invites us into this dance: “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me… For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” To dance with Christ is to move in step with His grace, not to stumble in our own frantic solo.

The Peril of Radical Individualism

Yet, the temptation to direct our own lives persists. Sociologist Robert Bellah warned of “radical individualism,” which “elevates the self to a cosmic principle.” This mindset mirrors a stage actor, a rogue musician, or a defiant dancer—each isolated and powerless. Søren Kierkegaard cautioned, “The proud person always wants to do the right thing, the great thing. But because he wants to do it in his own strength, he is fighting not with man but with God.” When we reject God’s direction, we forfeit His power to transform us.

“You Lead. I Follow.”

The invalid at Bethesda chose differently. He obeyed Jesus’ command, and in doing so, experienced a miracle. Likewise, whether we see ourselves in a play, a symphony, or a dance, the key is submission. As Paul wrote in Romans 12:1, “I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship.” To say to God, “You lead. I follow,” is to step into His purpose.

Who is directing your life today—yourself or the One who knows the end from the beginning? In God’s production, every note, every step, every scene aligns with His glory and our good. Will you take your place in His story?

“Use me, God. Show me how to take who I am, who I want to be, and what I can do, and use it for a purpose greater than myself.” —Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

In today’s cultural landscape, a glaring contradiction stands out: society loudly decries the objectification of women in movies and television, yet it showers praise—and Oscars—on women who embody the very thing it claims to reject. Films like Anora, which features graphic nudity and normalizes prostitution, rake in accolades, while performances that lean into explicit content are hailed as bold or empowering. A recent USA Today piece recommended streaming such movies, touting them as must-see experiences without a whisper of critique. This isn’t just inconsistency—it’s a window into a world chasing its own tail, exalting what it pretends to condemn.

Consider the analogy of a dog barking at a passerby. Day after day, it rushes the fence, snarling as if the stranger poses a threat. At first, you might call it foolish—surely it should know better by now. But then it clicks: the dog’s just doing what dogs do. The real folly lies in expecting it to act otherwise. So, it is with a culture unmoored from any moral “north.” When actresses bare all or filmmakers peddle sensationalism, and awards follow, they’re not defying the system—they’re feeding it. Profit and applause dictate the script, not principle. To be shocked when the world celebrates its own contradictions is to misunderstand its nature.

From a Christian vantage point, this shouldn’t surprise us. The Bible pulls no punches about the world’s bent. “For all that is in the world—the desires of the flesh and the desires of the eyes and pride of life—is not from the Father but is from the world” (1 John 2:16). Hollywood’s glitz, the red carpets, the glowing reviews—they’re often just shiny wrappers on those desires. C.S. Lewis saw through this in Mere Christianity: “We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea.” What looks like liberation—an actress “owning” her sexuality or a film “pushing incestuous boundaries”—is often just mud pies sold as a gourmet feast.

The Old Testament offers a stark parallel. In Exodus 34:12-16, God warns Israel not to cozy up to the Canaanites, whose pagan practices and sexual immorality were a snare. “Take care,” He says, “lest you make a covenant with the inhabitants of the land to which you go, lest it become a snare in your midst.” The danger wasn’t just the sin itself—it was the slow creep of compromise, the way adopting the culture’s ways could hollow out a nation. Today’s media is our Canaan, littered with altars to self-expression and profit. Women, even those winning awards, are often the offering—objectified under the banner of art or empowerment. The culture doesn’t betray some universal ethic by celebrating this; it IS their ethic; it’s simply worshiping its own gods.

Augustine of Hippo cuts to the heart of it: “The world is a smiling enemy; it promises pleasures, but it gives sorrows.” The promise of Oscar glory or cultural relevance masks the sorrow of exploitation, repackaged as progress when it is actually regress backwards. Yet Christians aren’t called to cluck tongues or clutch pearls. Jesus prayed, “I do not ask that you take them out of the world, but that you keep them from the evil one. They are not of the world, just as I am not of the world” (John 17:15-16). We’re not here to demand the world play by God’s rules—it won’t and expecting them to is folly on our part. Lost people act like lost people, and barking dogs act like dogs. Our task is to stand apart, not blend in.

Think of Mary, the mother of Jesus. On March 25—what tradition calls the Annunciation—Gabriel found her a virgin, pure in a culture where many young women sold themselves to passing traders (Luke 1:34). Her godliness wasn’t just personal; it positioned her to bear the Light of the World. So it is with us. When we refuse to buy the culture’s contradictions—like this celebrating objectification while decrying it—we earn the right to point others to something better. Jesus called us “the light of the world” (Matthew 5:14). Hide that under a basket, and the darkness wins. Live it out, and others “may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven” (v. 16).

The stakes are high. A culture that makes heroes of those who trade on their own objectification isn’t hypocritical—but being hypocritical only means something to the world when it is us, as it should. The culture being hypocritical is just being itself, they don’t scrutinize themselves. But we don’t have to play along. We can pray for those caught in its churn, from actresses to filmmakers, that they’d find the abundant life Christ offers (John 10:10). And we can choose not to covenant with Canaan, holding fast to a standard that doesn’t bend with the applause. Only then can we be the change we long to see. Changes of the heart eventually change the mind, and then the actions.

In Long Beach, California, the Queen Mary stands as a silent witness to a profound transformation. Launched in the 1930s just 22yrs after the Titanic sank, it also was thought of as the pinnacle of luxury. This grand ship was designed to cradle 3,000 passengers in opulence, offering every conceivable comfort as it glided across the Atlantic. Its staterooms were sanctuaries of peace, its decks a playground for the privileged. But when World War II erupted, the Queen Mary’s purpose shifted dramatically. Stripped of its peacetime extravagance, it was refitted to carry 15,000 troops into the chaos of battle. Rooms once reserved for a single couple now bunked eight soldiers, the plush interiors replaced by the stark utility of war. Peacetime and wartime demanded entirely different postures—one of indulgence, the other of sacrifice.

This striking metaphor mirrors a truth too often ignored in our modern church worlds. We’ve grown accustomed to the luxury liner version of Christianity—comfortable pews, polished programs, and pristine buildings that invite us to settle in and stay. We’ve curated environments that feel like a spiritual retreat, where the coffee is hot, the donuts are plentiful, the worship is seamless, and the sermons soothe rather than convict. And there’s nothing inherently wrong with excellence in our gathering—when it’s offered to the glory of God. But the danger creeps in when we forget that we’re not sailing on a peacetime cruise. We’re living in a wartime reality, and the unsaved world around us is not lounging on the deck of the Queen Mary—they’re crammed into its wartime holds, battered by the storms of sin and despair, desperate for rescue.

C.S. Lewis, in his timeless work Mere Christianity, cuts to the heart of this dissonance: “Enemy-occupied territory—that is what this world is. Christianity is the story of how the rightful king has landed, you might say He landed in disguise, and is calling us all to take part in a great campaign of sabotage.” Lewis reminds us that we’re not merely passengers enjoying the ride; we’re enlisted in a cosmic battle. Yet how often do we act as though the war is over, or worse, as though it doesn’t concern us? We polish our spiritual staterooms while the cries of the lost echo outside our walls.

The gospel itself begins with a wartime dispatch: humanity stands under the judgment of God, “dead in [our] trespasses and sins” (Ephesians 2:1, ESV). It’s a grim diagnosis—rebellion has severed us from our Creator, and there’s no self-made remedy. But then comes the glorious counteroffensive: “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life” (John 3:16, ESV). Jesus stormed the enemy’s territory, lived the life we couldn’t, died the death we deserved, and now offers salvation as a free gift. This is not a message meant to be savored in isolation—it’s a battle cry to be shouted from the rooftops.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who knew the cost of faithfulness in a literal warzone, warned against the complacency that can settle over the church: “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.” Bonhoeffer’s words sting because they expose our tendency to treat Christianity as a luxury liner ticket—a comfortable escape—rather than a call to lay down our lives for others. He understood that the gospel demands action, not just admiration. Paul embodied this urgency in Acts 20:31, declaring, “For three years I did not cease night or day to admonish every one with tears” (ESV). Why such relentless passion? Because Paul knew the stakes: the world was at war, and the unsaved were perishing in the crossfire.

So what does this mean for us? Our churches can be warm and welcoming, our worship can be excellent, but we must never mistake these blessings for the mission itself. Our resources—our time, money, talents, and spaces—aren’t meant to build a cruise liner for Christians to coast through life. They’re tools for a rescue operation. The Queen Mary didn’t stay docked in Long Beach during the war, pampering its guests; it sailed into the fray, carrying souls to safety. Likewise, the church must move beyond its walls, recognizing that the unsaved are living in a wartime reality—crowded, chaotic, and crying out for hope.

This shift requires us to rethink how we view our “stuff.” Are we hoarding comforts for ourselves, or deploying them for the kingdom? Are we content to sip coffee in the lounge while others drown? As Jesus Himself said, “The Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many” (Mark 10:45, ESV). If the Captain of our salvation embraced the wartime mission, how can we, His crew, do any less?

The Queen Mary’s transformation from luxury to lifeline stands as a challenge: wake up, church. The war isn’t over. The lost are still out there, packed into the holds of a sinking world. Let’s refit our lives and our communities not for peacetime indulgence, but for wartime rescue. The gospel demands nothing less.

Suni Williams and Butch Wilmore have been rescued and should be able to sleep in their own beds tonight. Or at least in beds on this planet. That’s more than these two astronauts have been able to say in the last nine months, since their return after a supposed ten-day stay aboard the International Space Station (ISS) was delayed due to thruster problems on the Boeing Starliner spacecraft that was intended to bring them home. A four-person crew entered the ISS early Sunday morning as part of a mission to relieve Williams and Wilmore. The crew was greeted with smiles and hugs by the seven astronauts aboard the space station, none more than the two stranded Americans.

Their SpaceX spacecraft undocked from the ISS at 1:05 a.m. ET this morning, transporting Wilmore and Williams alongside two other astronauts. Their journey back to Earth will take seventeen hours, with splashdown planned for 5:57 p.m. ET. I’m sure the movie is coming soon.

Let’s consider this remarkable story as a parable.

The ISS has been continuously occupied since November 2000. In its quarter-century operation, it has hosted more than 280 astronauts, cosmonauts, and spaceflight participants from over twenty countries.

However, none of them were born there in the space station.

Each came from Earth with the intention of returning when their operational duty was completed. As a result, no one would need to encourage them to board the spacecraft that would transport them home. However perilous such a journey might seem, it is a temporary means to a much more permanent end, and their real home here on earth.

However, imagine that the space station was populated only with people who were born there on the space station. How hard would it be then to convince them to board a spacecraft to leave the only home they have known for a place they had only read about in a book that claimed that another place called earth was their real and permanent home, and whose existence they must take on faith, from a distant past person who says he was sent from there to tell us?

In the meantime, how challenging might it be to persuade them to live for that day and destination? To convince them that the best way to redeem each day on the ISS is by using it to prepare for the day they leave?

This is just what Christians are asking secular people to believe today.

You and I believe that this temporal world is but a means to our eternal destiny and that the best way to live today is to be ready for the day we depart this broken planet for our glorious eternity. But someone who does not share our faith will understandably wonder why they should make it their own and believe any of us.

The fact that we christians believe it is not enough, nor should it be. If that were the case, people who know Muslims should therefore become Muslims, people who know Buddhists should therefore become Buddhists, and so forth. No one should base their decision regarding eternity on such secondhand evidence.

If someone were to ask me why I use my days on this “space station” floating through the universe to serve the heavenly destination that I believe comes next, I would offer three responses:

1. Our planet has in fact been visited by an emissary from heaven who taught us how to join him there. The empirical and historical evidence for Jesus’ life, earthly ministry, death, and resurrection is so compelling as to convince me that our faith is correct on factual and rational grounds.

2. This God who visited our planet continues to work in our lives and world through his Holy Spirit. I have experienced personally the transformation he can make in a person when they seek his best for their lives. When we submit to his Spirit (Ephesians 5:18) and focus on loving our Lord and our neighbor (Matthew 22:37–39), others see the difference and we pray that they’re drawn to our Father (Matthew 5:16).

3. Living for our eternal home is the best way to live on this temporary planet because all such preparations improve our lives and relationships now. If we knew our Lord would come for us tomorrow (John 14:1–3), anything we would change today is something we should change anyway. Confessing our sins, forgiving those of others, thinking biblically, and living redemptively are the best ways to experience the “abundant” life of Christ right now (John 10:10).

Ultimately, no evidence will ever be enough to convince blind spiritual eyes into believing all of this. You cannot ask a blind man to look at something they are incapable of seeing. It is actually impossible without God opening your spiritual eyes supernaturally. So, I would ask all on the space station for God to open their spiritual eyes.

In the grand sweep of history, the epochs unfold in a roughly linear fashion, with the Enlightenment paving the way for Modernism, which in turn is followed by Postmodernism.

• Early Modern Period (roughly 15th-18th centuries): This period encompasses the Renaissance, Reformation, and the Age of Enlightenment, characterized by the rise of humanism, scientific inquiry, and the questioning of traditional authority.
• Enlightenment (roughly 17th-18th centuries): This intellectual and cultural movement emphasized reason, individualism, and scientific progress, challenging traditional religious and political structures.
• Modernism (late 19th-mid 20th centuries): Emerging in response to rapid technological advancements and societal changes, Modernism sought to redefine art, literature, and philosophy, often characterized by experimentation, abstraction, and a questioning of traditional forms.
• Postmodernism (mid-20th century to present): Postmodernism emerged as a reaction to Modernism, characterized by skepticism towards grand narratives and universal truths, embracing complexity, irony, and a questioning of the very nature of knowledge and reality.

We are now in the Postmodern era which is proving to be almost completely incompatible with Christianity. Satan is working to convince our post-Christian, secularized culture that this “space station” is the only reality that exists. However, I remind you that in many hearts, at the same time, the Holy Spirit is working to convince them that they desperately need the salvation and transformation available only in Christ (cf. Acts 4:12).

You and I are largely the instruments through which this battle is being waged. When we submit to the Spirit, he uses us to lead eternal souls to their Savior (cf. Matthew 4:18–22). When we do not (and this happens to me a lot) the enemy uses our secularized, sinful failings as evidence against the gospel.

And we miss God’s best for us along the way as well.

I was a machinist for the first few years I was married to make ends meet. I worked for a boss who insisted that I do things precisely the way he wanted them done. This was not egotism on his part. He had been in this business for his entire career, cultivated the customers we served, and knew what they wanted far better than I did. As a result, my opinions were less relevant than his directives. Doing what he said served the customers who paid my salary.

When I had shoulder surgery 8 years ago, the situation was similar. After the surgery, my physical therapists insisted that I do things that made no sense to me and only made my pain worse at the time. Again, this was not egotism on their part. They were outstanding physicians who knew what was best for my long-term recovery far better than I did. Doing what they said came at a cost but turned out to be an investment in a much better future.

Living on this “space station” called Earth, we are all like astronauts—some of us longing for home, others unaware that a greater home even exists. Suni Williams and Butch Wilmore’s journey reminds us that we, too, are sojourners here, awaiting our return to the eternal home prepared for us. As Christians, we hold fast to the promise of Scripture: “For this world is not our permanent home; we are looking forward to a home yet to come” (Hebrews 13:14, NLT). Their rescue from the ISS mirrors the rescue we’ve been offered through Christ, who came to bring us back to the Father.

Yet, for those born on this “station,” the idea of leaving for an unseen world requires faith—a faith that God alone can awaken. As the Apostle Paul writes, “For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God” (Ephesians 2:8, ESV). We cannot force spiritual sight, but we can pray for it, trusting that “the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of glory, may give you the Spirit of wisdom and of revelation in the knowledge of him, having the eyes of your hearts enlightened” (Ephesians 1:17-18, ESV).

In this postmodern age, where skepticism reigns and Satan seeks to blind hearts to the truth (“The god of this world has blinded the minds of the unbelievers, to keep them from seeing the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ”—2 Corinthians 4:4, ESV), our task remains clear. We are called to live as ambassadors of that eternal home, reflecting Christ’s light in a darkened world. Jesus Himself assures us, “In my Father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also” (John 14:2-3, ESV). This promise fuels our hope and shapes our lives.

So, like those astronauts stepping onto the spacecraft with trust in its design, we step out in faith, guided by the One who designed our destiny. We live each day preparing for departure, knowing “our citizenship is in heaven, and from it we await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ” (Philippians 3:20, ESV). And as we do, we invite others to join us—not by our own strength, but by the Spirit’s power, trusting that “faith comes from hearing, and hearing through the word of Christ” (Romans 10:17, ESV). In this way, our temporary stay on this broken planet becomes a testimony to the eternal glory that awaits.

I can still feel the weight and the worry of that moment—the dread that no one knew what was coming, as the world we all knew unraveled. For me, it’s not just a historical marker; it’s a personal wound that reshaped much of my life, my relationships, and the exercise of my faith. The images flood back: sitting alone at work with and empty building because I was deemed “essential.” Portable morgues parked outside hospitals, patients dying alone in sterile isolation wards, friends masking their faces not just from a virus but from the fear of everyone around them. New acquaintances that I thought, and imagined looked a certain way from the sound of their voice and eyes, turned out to be very different from what I had imagined they looked once masks were no longer required (that was weird). Restaurants shuttered, my kids’ school closed, and even my church locked its doors. We were left wondering when—or if—a vaccine would come.

The numbers are staggering. Over seven million deaths confirmed worldwide. But those figures, as chilling as they are, don’t capture the quiet devastation of my own world. My friend lost his father, isolated and unreachable in a hospital bed. Many small businesses I patronized for years collapsed, and to this day my preferred time for shopping on my days off (around midnight) has never returned. I lost the rhythm of Sunday mornings—the hymns, the handshakes, the comfort of a pew—and found myself staring at a screen, alone with my Bible, wondering where God was, and what he was doing in all of this.

David Wallace-Wells wrote in the New York Times that the pandemic “shattered our cities and disordered society,” creating a new “branch of history” we’re only beginning to understand. He’s right—it changed everything. Homicides spiked nearly 30 percent in a single year, homelessness swelled, and addiction—whether to alcohol, drugs, or the numbness of isolation—tightened its grip. I saw it in my own life: the way I stopped calling friends, and they stopped calling me, the way my prayers grew shorter, the way I turned inward. Wallace-Wells says it “turned us into hyperindividualists,” forcing us to process an unthinkable tragedy through the narrow lens of personal survival. I felt that shift, we all saw that shift. I stopped relying on the world around me—government, neighbors, stores, even the church building—and learned to fend for myself. To this day, people still wait in line differently than they did before this all happened.

But it wasn’t just society that fractured; it was also how I viewed my faith. I’d grown up in a cultural Christianity made in my small world—a faith of certain rituals, Sunday services, and national pride. It was comfortable, predictable, a shared identity, like a comfortable old pair of 501 Levis. The pandemic stripped that away. When the doors closed and the programs stopped, I realized how much of my belief was tied to habit, not to a living Lord. Wallace-Wells notes that the pandemic “may have halted the years-long decline of Christianity in America,” but I’d argue it exposed its weakness. A faith built on tradition or entertainment crumbles under real pressure. Biology doesn’t bend to Bible studies or patriotic hymns. The trials of 2020 demanded something deeper—something personal. And quite frankly it was a good thing, it reformed it for me.

I remember the early days, pacing my living room, scrolling through X posts about masks and vaccines, feeling my trust in public health erode. Debates raged, and I found myself doubting not just officials but the systems I’d leaned on—government, church, community. Wallace-Wells calls it a “new age of social Darwinism,” where survivors like me credited our own grit and blamed others for their weakness. I caught myself thinking that way, too—judging those who panicked, those who hoarded, those who didn’t pray hard enough. But that pride was a dead end. It left me isolated, not stronger.
What I needed—what I found—wasn’t more religion/ritual. Going to more services (when they reopened), reading more verses, or saying more prayers wouldn’t have fixed the ache. Cultural Christianity, with its rituals and vague spirituality, was and is, a hollow shell against the chaos. I needed a revitalization and renewal of relationship—not with a theology or a movement, but with Jesus Himself, alive and present. Luke 24 expresses it well. The women at the tomb, stunned to find it empty, were asked, “Why do you seek the living among the dead?” That is a great question for all of us. Too much of my life had been seeking life in lifeless things—in routines and ritual, in nostalgia, in a faith that was more about culture than Christ. But He wasn’t there, and he never will be. He is risen, waiting for me, waiting for all of us to meet Him personally.

That shift doesn’t come easily. Our world is materialistic, wired for cemeteries, not resurrections. I was very comfortable with sermons and songs, less with silence and surrender. But in the solitude of the pandemic, I had no choice. Stripped of the crowd, I faced Him alone. And there, in the quiet, I heard His voice—not as an idea, but as a Person, and it was beautiful. My eyes opened, my heart burned, just like the disciples on the road to Emmaus (Luke 24:31–32). He loved me—me, not some abstract “churchgoer”—and that changed everything for the better.

The pandemic made us individualistic, yes, but it also showed me that faith must be, too—not in a selfish way, but in an “hyperintimate” one. Christ meets us one by one because He loves us one by one. I still need other believers—my walk is stronger with them—but I can’t borrow their faith or hide in their rituals. I had to wrestle with Him myself (as Jacob did), and so must we all. The living Lord isn’t a national mascot or a Sunday mascot. He’s the One who says, “I am able to make all grace abound to you” (2 Corinthians 9:8), who “always lives to make intercession” for me (Hebrews 7:25). In 2020, when society shattered and my old faith changed, He didn’t, and He was enough.

Today, March 11, 2025, I remember the millions who died and the grief that still lingers—for me, for my family, for the world. I pray for leaders and health officials, knowing more pandemics may come. But mostly, I seek Him—the One who turned my isolation into an invitation, who proved that a personal relationship with Him outlasts any and all trial. He’s waiting to meet you, too—not in the dead things we cling to, but as the living Lord who loves you personally.

The “law of unintended consequences” asserts that human actions—particularly those of governments—inevitably produce effects beyond their intended scope. Not occasionally, but always.

I want to look at this through three real-world examples of profound faith, four philosophical illustrations, and also some personal examples.

First, in February 2025, seventy Christians were found beheaded in a Protestant church in the Democratic Republic of Congo’s North Kivu province. Suspected militants from the Allied Democratic Forces (ADF), tied to the Islamic State, rounded up these believers from the village of Mayba, intending to terrorize and suppress Christianity. Their aim was to instill fear, yet the unintended consequence may be a galvanizing of faith among survivors and the global Christian community, as martyrdom most often strengthens resolve rather than extinguishes it.

Second, consider Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a German pastor executed by the Nazis in 1945 for resisting Hitler’s regime. His intent was to live out his Christian ethics by opposing tyranny, expecting imprisonment or death. Yet, his writings—smuggled from prison—unintentionally inspired generations of theologians and activists, amplifying his witness far beyond his immediate circle.

Third, there was Malala Yousafzai, a Pakistani Muslim shot by the Taliban in 2012 for advocating girls’ education. Her goal, rooted in her faith’s call to knowledge, was to secure learning for herself and others. The Taliban aimed to silence her, but the unintended result was her global platform, amplifying her message and earning her a Nobel Peace Prize in 2014.

Now let’s go into the philosophical ideological world.
Imagine a ruler inspired by Plato’s Republic, who mandates rigorous education in abstract reasoning to mold citizens into “philosopher-kings.” The intention is to elevate wisdom and virtue. Yet, the populace, overwhelmed, grows resentful, rejecting the ideal for simpler pleasures, thus fostering factionalism instead of harmony.

Now picture a Stoic sage who retreats from society to live ascetically, seeking indifference to external goods and personal tranquility. However, this withdrawal inadvertently weakens communal bonds, leaving others vulnerable to disorder while the sage remains serene.

Consider a utilitarian governor who, following Bentham, subsidizes a pleasure-inducing elixir to maximize happiness. The aim is collective well-being. Yet, the elixir dulls ambition, and productivity plummets, leading to economic stagnation—a misery no one foresaw.

Now envision an existentialist leader who, inspired by Sartre, liberates individuals from norms to foster authentic self-creation. The intent is freedom. But this radical autonomy breeds chaos, as people, unmoored from shared values, clash in their pursuit of meaning.

No matter the nobility of our aims, we finite beings cannot evade the law of unintended consequences. Our foresight falters: our control over outcomes is illusory. We lack the omniscience to predict every ripple of our choices, the omnipotence to bend reality to our will, or even the clarity to always discern what is for our own good.

A recent survey might reveals that only 22% of Americans in our secular age are satisfied with the nation’s “ethical and moral climate” and they can’t find comfort in society’s ethical drift. Does this suggest a need for spiritual renewal?

Last week, I tuned into an online debate titled “Does the West Need a Religious Revival?” hosted on a popular platform. On one side stood a columnist and a recent convert; on the other, a comedian and a skeptic. Their exchange, streamed to thousands, probed whether religion benefits or burdens humanity. Statistics on anxiety, addiction, and despair peppered the discussion. One camp tied these woes to faith’s decline; the other of course dismissed the correlation.
Midway, the believers shifted ground: they explained that even if religion is profoundly beneficial, and it’s decline is as they argue; the reason for societies decline, what matters most about religion—Christianity especially—is not its utility but its truth. If false, its benefits are nothing more than a shaky scaffold atop a lie. If true, its claims, no matter the utility on earth and in this short life, demand reckoning. The reason is that eternity hangs on accepting or rejecting Christ’s call.

They’re right. Paul staked his faith on evidence: “If Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile” (1 Corinthians 15:17). Without resurrection, “we are of all people most to be pitied” (v. 19). Christianity rests on history, archaeology, science, and reason—a foundation demanding a verdict, as Josh McDowell might say

The seventy Christians beheaded in the DRC stood firm, knowing Christ as Lord through fact and relationship. Why such fidelity? C. S. Lewis wrote in God in the Dock: “Christianity, if false, is of no importance, and if true, of infinite importance. The only thing it cannot be is moderately important.” For Lewis, its truth lit all else: “I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else.”
David prayed, “Those who know your name put their trust in you” (Psalm 9:10). Faith, like a finite currency, yields returns based on where we invest it. Scripture warns we cannot split trust between God and worldly anchors—wealth, approval, or self-will. Each moment demands a choice.
Placing faith in Christ alone unlocks peace beyond earth’s turmoil, power beyond our frail abilities, and love beyond human opinion. Only this path yields the abundant life he promises.

I like to write sometimes. In doing this, I’ve seen this law unfold in my own writing choices. Once, I wrote a critique of a cultural trend, aiming to spark reflection. Instead, readers polarized—some lauded me, others vilified me—widening rifts I’d hoped to bridge, that’s always the chance you take when making thoughts public and in writing. Another time, I declined a project to guard my time, intending focus. Yet, the lost connection dimmed future opportunities I hadn’t foreseen. Even in faith, I’ve shared insights to inspire, only to find some twisted my words into dogma I never meant. These stumbles remind me: my intent is no match for reality’s complexity. Only trust in a wiser hand steadies the course, and makes the unintended consequences livable.

When we look at the front side of a tapestry it is beautiful. However if you only see it from the back it is a tangled mess. This is how we see the complexity of the world. Yet, on the other side of this tapestry of human striving and stumbling lies a divine design so intricate it defies comprehension. The unintended consequences we lament or celebrate—whether the DRC martyrs’ witness igniting faith, Bonhoeffer’s prison notes reshaping theology, Malala’s survival amplifying justice, or even a philosopher’s misstep sparking unforeseen chaos—are not mere accidents. They are threads in God’s ultimate plan, weaving individual lives and humanity’s story into a masterpiece only He fully sees. Romans 8:28 promises, “All things work together for good to those who love God, who are called according to his purpose.” The Congolese believers’ sacrifice, my own small missteps, the grandest philosophical ideals—all are caught in His hands, bent toward redemption. Our finite choices, with their unpredictable ripples, are gathered into an eternal narrative where every tear, triumph, and twist serves His glory and our good. In this unbelievably complex plan, faith in Christ is not just a response to truth—it’s an invitation to trust the One who holds the end from the beginning. And we are told how it all ends already.

Singer and songwriter Sheryl Crow made headlines over the weekend by posting an Instagram video in which she waves goodbye to her Tesla as it is driven away. She explained: “There comes a time when you have to decide who you are willing to align with. So long Tesla.” She added: “Money donated to @npr, which is under threat by President Musk, in hopes that the truth will continue to find its way to those willing to know the truth.” She included hashtags for “PresidentMusk” and “ProtectTheConstitution.”

These statements are a far cry from the themes of her songs, which I like, and are generally pleasant and about the relaxed life. The same artist who once sang “All I wanna do is have some fun / Until the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard” (All I Wanna Do) and “I’m gonna soak up the sun / Gonna tell everyone to lighten up” (Soak Up the Sun) now speaks as though the very foundations of the republic are crumbling. The contrast is striking.

Her rhetoric reflects a growing trend among celebrities who use their platforms to make political statements—many of whom seem to misunderstand basic civics, much less constitutional law. The phrase “constitutional crisis” has become their latest buzzword, a dramatic invocation meant to suggest that any policy or decision they dislike is somehow illegal or undemocratic.

My brother, Hon. Andrew W. Gould, a constitutional expert and a State Supreme Court justice for 20 years, has pointed out how laughable this rhetoric has become. According to him, everything that the current administration—including its advisers—is doing falls well within the powers granted to the executive branch. It is absurd for celebrities and journalists to parrot this “constitutional crisis” phrase over and over, as if it were some kind of shibboleth.

The reality is that, in the last 100 years, the only event that came close to an actual constitutional crisis was the COVID lockdowns and mandates, where government authorities pushed the limits of executive power in ways never before seen in peacetime. And yet, the same celebrities who now cry “crisis” were among the loudest voices cheering on those government overreaches as they sat in their giant mansions with private cooks and the latest of every gadget known to humans.

The preponderance of celebrities seeking political influence across the partisan spectrum stands in sharp contrast with the hero our nation celebrates today. Presidents’ Day (sometimes spelled President’s Day or Presidents Day) is officially Washington’s Birthday at the federal level. Since 1879, the U.S. has honored George Washington in this way. And appropriately so: He led the Continental Army to victory in the American Revolutionary War, presided at the Constitutional Convention of 1787, and served as the first U.S. president from 1789 to 1797. However, he was in many ways a reluctant hero who avoided celebrity whenever he could.

When asked to lead the army, he responded, “I do not think myself equal to the Command I am honored with.” After winning the War for Independence, he was reluctant to lead the Constitutional Convention lest he be perceived as grasping for power. When elected president, he lamented that he lacked the “competency of political skill . . . necessary to manage the helm” and said, “Integrity & firmness is all I can promise.” When he voluntarily stepped down after his second term as president, a dumbfounded King George III proclaimed him “the greatest character of the age.” Historian Matthew Spalding calls him “the man who would not be king” and notes that “no one walked away from power with more dignity.”

Washington exhorted his fellow citizens: “The name of ‘American’ which belongs to you, in your national capacity, must always exalt the just pride of Patriotism.” But his sacrificial and humble patriotism made him the “father” of our nation in ways no words could. Now It’s Our Turn.

We live in a time when many people—celebrities included—are quick to point fingers at what they see as national crises while often misunderstanding the true nature of civic duty and governance. If we want to preserve the principles that make our country strong, we must model them ourselves. This is only fair: If we claim that Jesus transforms people into “new creations” (2 Corinthians 5:17), the world has a right to expect such transformation in us.

Imagine the difference in America if every American Christian imitated Jesus—if we asked, “What Would Jesus Do?” and lived accordingly. Consider the evangelists we would become, the ministry we would share, the obedience we would model. Here’s what makes imitating Jesus different from emulating any other laudatory figure of history: Jesus will help us do so.

St. Augustine observed: Christ takes shape in a believer through the faith that is in his inmost soul. Such a believer, gentle and humble of heart, is called to the freedom of grace. He does not boast of the merit he gains from good works, for they are worth nothing. It is grace itself that is the beginning of merit . . . [as] Christ is formed within the believer who accepts the form of Christ, who comes close to Christ by means of spiritual love.

How can we “come close to Christ” today?

1. Make it our ambition to imitate Jesus (cf. Romans 8:29). This and nothing less must be our highest purpose in life.

2. Admit we cannot imitate Jesus without His help. Ask His Spirit to “fill” and control us (Ephesians 5:18), manifesting the “fruit” of His character in our lives (Galatians 5:22–23) and using us to demonstrate Christ to the culture.

3. Join the Spirit in our sanctification through prayer, Bible study, worship, and other spiritual disciplines. These position us to experience the transformation only God can make in our lives.

4. Measure success by service. As with Jesus’ earthly ministry (Matthew 20:28), the consequences of our faithfulness will far outlive our obedience.

St. Augustine assured us: “The believer who imitates Christ becomes . . . the same as Christ whom he imitates.” If more Christians committed to this kind of transformation, perhaps we would see fewer celebrities mistaking their opinions for constitutional crises—and more Americans seeking true wisdom from the One who governs all things.

Former President Donald Trump has proposed relocating Gazans and having the United States take control of the region. The idea has sparked controversy, with critics accusing him of supporting “ethnic cleansing.” However, a closer look at the facts—and at Gaza itself—reveals a vastly different reality.

Ethnic cleansing is a serious accusation, one that implies the forced removal or killing of a group to create a more homogenous population. But that definition simply does not apply here. The people of Gaza already identify as refugees, and international law allows for their relocation when necessary for security. The Geneva Convention states that forced transfers are legal if required for civilian protection or military reasons, and the ICC’s Rome Statute reinforces this by allowing displacement when it ensures civilian safety. If Israel or the U.S. relocates Gazans temporarily, and some may want to relocate permanently, with proper safeguards and the possibility of return, there is no violation of international law—just a necessary response to an ongoing war.

If we are going to talk about ethnic cleansing, we should start with Gaza itself. Over the years, Gaza has systematically removed anyone who does not align with Hamas’ radical terrorist ideology. Christians, political dissenters, and anyone opposed to the regime have been persecuted or driven out. The Jewish population? They were expelled long, long ago. Today, the only people allowed to remain are those who either support or submit to Hamas, an organization that openly calls for the destruction of Israel. Gaza, in effect, has already been “cleansed”—not by Israel or the U.S., but by its own leadership. In fact, this has been taught to the children of Gaza by Hamas as soon as they can read. It is a monstrous situation of indoctrination to a cult of death, the only hope for some is intervention by supernatural enlightenment spiritually from God.

This reality stands in stark contrast to both Israel and the United States. Israel is one of the most ethnically diverse nations in the world, home to Jews, Arabs, Christians, Druze, and others. In fact, 21% of Israel’s population is Palestinian, living as full citizens with rights and representation. The U.S., of course, is one of the most diverse countries on earth. If either of these nations were to take control of Gaza, it would immediately and de facto, become more diverse, not less. Yet despite these facts, many still insist on calling the relocation of Gazans “ethnic cleansing,” twisting the meaning of the term for political purposes. This is not about race or ethnicity—it is about security. For decades, a majority of Gazans have supported or tolerated violent attacks on Israel. Now that Israel is defending itself, accusations of “ethnic cleansing” are being thrown around as a way to demonize the response. It is the same tactic that elitist and self-loathing western nations have used with respect to many issues. Call anything “racist” or “colonial” and you will have the left leaning (and western academically indoctrinated) falling all over themselves to jump on the hate western, Judeo-Christian values train.

To put this in a clearer perspective, imagine a scenario in the United States where an entire city, let us say Detroit, has been taken over by a violent terrorist organization that has ruled with an iron fist for decades. This group has driven out anyone who opposes them, murdered political rivals, persecuted religious minorities, and brainwashed the population into believing that their only purpose is to destroy America. The rest of the country has tried to negotiate, has offered aid, and even allowed supplies to flow in, but every time peace seems possible, the terrorists launch new attacks—suicide bombings, mass shootings, and missile strikes—on Chicago, New York, and Washington, D.C.

For years, the American people tolerate the situation, hoping for a peaceful resolution. But then, one day, this terrorist-controlled city launches the deadliest attack in modern history, killing thousands of civilians. The government has no choice but to respond with full military force to stop the violence and remove the threat. Now, let’s say the terrorists have embedded themselves deep within the civilian population, using homes, schools, and hospitals as bases for their operations. As the U.S. military moves in, civilians are caught in the crossfire—not because the military is targeting them, but because the terrorists refuse to let them leave.

At this point, the most humane and logical option is to evacuate the civilians for their own safety, clear out the terrorist infrastructure, and eventually rebuild the city with a more stable and diverse population. The innocent residents who were trapped under terrorist rule would have a chance to return—not to the same war-torn, oppressive regime they once lived under, but to a rebuilt city where they could live alongside new residents who believe in peace, coexistence, and prosperity. Would this be considered “ethnic cleansing”? Of course not. It would be a necessary security measure to protect both the civilians of that city and the rest of the country. The goal wouldn’t be to remove a particular ethnic group but to eliminate a violent ideology and restore peace. The only people being permanently removed would be those who irrationally hate, and simply must have violence against the rest of the country, and refuse to live without violence.

This is essentially what is happening in Gaza. For years, Hamas has ruled by fear, using civilians as human shields and promoting an ideology of endless war. Israel, like the rest of the U.S. in this analogy, has endured attack after attack, always hoping for peace. But after the October 7th massacre, Israel, like any responsible nation, has no choice but to dismantle the terrorist regime. The safest and most humane way to do that is to temporarily relocate civilians, clean out the terrorist infrastructure, and eventually rebuild Gaza in a way that allows for a peaceful and diverse future.

Just as the U.S. would never tolerate a city launching attacks against its people, Israel cannot be expected to live under constant threat from a terrorist stronghold next door. And just as the U.S. would take action to remove the threat while protecting innocent lives, Israel is doing the same. Those who call this “ethnic cleansing” are either misunderstanding the situation or deliberately distorting reality.

The irony is striking. While critics accuse Israel of ethnic cleansing, it is Gaza that has already purged itself of anyone unwilling to participate in the ongoing war against the Jewish state. With Hamas in charge of Gaza, it is like a hopeless drug addict, addicted to hatred and violence against Israel, their only hope is to go completely “Cold Turkey.”  The reality is simple: Trump’s plan is not about erasing an ethnic group, but about ensuring security in a region long dominated by terrorism. Relocating refugees from a war zone is not a crime; it is a legal and sometimes necessary action. And if diversity is the standard by which we measure justice, then Gaza is the last place that should be held up as an example.