But listen closely and you’ll hear something deeper. The people leading these protests are not calling for liberty under law; they are calling for power that bends instantly to the will of the crowd. They want government to move with emotion rather than principle, with public feeling rather than truth. In their world, legitimacy comes from popularity, and policy changes whenever enough people shout.

They are not seeking to restore the republic our founders built. They are seeking to replace it with direct democracy—a system where emotion and numbers outweigh wisdom and process. They want a government that promises protection from every hardship and provision for every desire, a government that manages conscience, commerce, education, and morality alike.

The cost of that vision is the loss of a republic and the rise of a democracy of appetite. In a democracy, the majority rules. In a republic, law and conscience rule. In a democracy, rights come from the state. In a republic, rights come from God and cannot be taken away. In a democracy, emotion rewrites the law. In a republic, law restrains emotion. In a democracy, people live by permission. In a republic, they live by principle.

John Adams saw this danger centuries ago: “Democracy never lasts long. It soon wastes, exhausts, and murders itself.” He understood that when people vote for comfort instead of character, when they expect government to replace God and conscience, freedom collapses under the weight of its own desires. Athens proved it. Rome proved it. Every nation that traded responsibility for relief ended with rulers who called themselves servants.

The protesters cry, “No Kings!” yet what they truly seek is rule without restraint—a crown worn by the majority instead of by a man. They do not see that the republic they scorn is the very shield that protects their right to protest. If their vision prevails, that shield will vanish, and what replaces it will not be freedom, but feeling.

The answer is not silence or surrender. It is remembrance. A republic survives only when its people know the difference between liberty and comfort, between self-rule and self-indulgence. It endures when citizens govern themselves before demanding to govern others.

America does not need another revolution. It needs restoration—a return to the truth that law, not passion, must rule; that rights come from the Creator, not from the crowd; and that the only throne strong enough to sustain freedom is not in Washington, but in heaven.

Proverbs 28:2 — “When a country is rebellious, it has many rulers, but a man of understanding and knowledge maintains order.”

San Francisco—once the crown jewel of the West Coast—is now a city of broken glass and broken souls. New York is on the verge of choosing a Muslim man who promises “free everything,” funded by punishing those who still produce. California calls lawlessness compassion and funds failure by taxing the faithful. We are a nation that celebrates rebellion and calls it progress. We have exchanged the fear of God for the worship of self.

The liberal left preaches a gospel without God—a religion of self-rule. They promise peace without righteousness, compassion without law, and freedom without discipline.

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn warned, “When men forget God, the devil takes over the stage.”

And that is exactly what we see. The same voices that riot against ICE for enforcing the law now cry for help when lawlessness devours their freedom. They shout, “defund the police,” then beg for protection when fear visits their door. They trade the truth of God for lies and wonder why their cities burn. When a nation removes God from its conscience, emotion replaces truth, and compassion becomes corruption.

C.S. Lewis once said, “We laugh at honor and are shocked to find traitors in our midst.”

We have become a nation mocking morality yet mourning its absence. Demanding equality but rejecting accountability. Claiming enlightenment while stumbling in darkness. Preach tolerance but cannot tolerate truth, promise heaven but create hell.

What does it look like when a nation truly turns to God for help? The best way I explain it that it is like a person coming clean from addiction. At first, it is agony—shaking, sweating, desperate for relief. Because repentance and change always has pain before it heals. When an addict decides to get free, the body cries out for the poison that is killing it. So too does a godless culture when confronted with truth. It resists correction, mocks conviction, and fights surrender. But those who endure the pain discover what they were always searching for: peace.

History has shown that when a nation turns back to God, it does not happen in comfort—it happens in crisis. It costs pride, and often, it costs blood. It takes courage to admit we were wrong. It takes discipline to rebuild what sin has destroyed. It takes faith to trust that God’s way—though hard—leads to healing.

But when we submit to God’s rule, the fog lifts. The heart clears. And what once felt like restriction becomes freedom. God’s order brings peace. His truth brings stability. His mercy restores what rebellion destroyed.

That is how change begins—Not with slogans or speeches, but with broken hearts bowing before a holy God.

— Romans 12:2

I listened to a young woman on the news passionately share her “progressive” view of life. She spoke with conviction, certain of her truth — but behind the confidence, I heard something else: emptiness. It made me think back to my younger years, when my own view of life was centered entirely on me.

I voted for what helped me.

I worked for what pleased me.

I chased what made me happy.

Then I got married, and life began to change. My decisions now affected more than myself. My priorities shifted from what I wanted to what was best for my family.

Now, as a grandfather, my view has widened even more. I find myself asking questions I never asked before: What kind of world will my grandchildren inherit? What will truth mean to them in a culture that constantly changes its definitions?

Will they even know what it feels like to speak truth freely — or will fear silence them before they can?

The culture around us is shifting faster than ever. We live in a world where men claim to be women and demand to be celebrated for it. Where the family — God’s first institution — is being dismantled in the name of “progress.” Where morality is treated as a personal choice, and absolute truth is mocked as intolerance.

Our children are taught that feelings matter more than facts. They are told to “live their truth” instead of living in the truth. We celebrate rebellion and call it authenticity. We glorify confusion and call it courage. We redefine words until they lose all meaning, and then we wonder why the world feels so lost.

We have raised a generation that worships visibility over virtue, comfort over conviction, and emotion over endurance. We have become experts at expressing ourselves — and failures at examining ourselves.

And yet, all of this reminds me that life has always been about becoming. Every day, every decision, every influence shapes who we are becoming — by what we believe, what we love, what we tolerate, and what we pursue.

If I hold on to anger, I will become bitter.

If I make peace with sin, I will become numb to truth.

If I seek God’s wisdom and walk humbly with Him, I will become wise.

The truth is this: we are all becoming what we allow.

Look around. Many are becoming entitled — believing the world owes them comfort, success, and affirmation. Many are becoming desensitized — scrolling past evil as if it were entertainment. Many are becoming deceived — convinced that truth can be bent to fit their feelings. And sadly, many are becoming cowards — silent when God’s truth demands a voice.

Proverbs 14:12 warns, “There is a way that seems right to a man, but its end is the way to death.”

Dallas Willard once wrote, “The most important thing in your life is not what you do; it is who you become.”

That could not be more true today.

But here is the hope: when you stand on the truth of God’s Word — when you refuse to conform to the patterns of this world — you become something different. You become strong in conviction. You become anchored when others drift. You become a light in a generation addicted to darkness.

Standing on God’s principles will make you stand out — and sometimes that means standing alone. You will be labeled, criticized, and even rejected. But that is the price of becoming different in a world that worships conformity.

So as I grow older, I am learning to ask better questions:

Am I becoming more like Christ — patient, courageous, faithful, and true? Or am I slowly blending in with the noise around me?

Age does not define what we become — surrender does. Every day, God gives us the choice: to conform or to be transformed.

We cannot stop the shouting of culture, but we can choose who we become within it. Our grandchildren are watching. The next generation needs examples of men and women who are not swayed by emotion or trends, but anchored in eternal truth.

And that is why I have told my grandchildren to be heads, not tails — to lead, not follow; to stand when others bow; to walk in truth even when the crowd walks away. Because when we stand on God’s Word, we do not just become different — we become the difference this world desperately needs.

In our desire to be “kind,” we spared correction. We replaced hard truth with soft words. We told children they were special, but never taught them that character is forged through struggle. We gave them comfort instead of conviction, praise instead of principles. And now, they cannot bear correction because they never learned that love sometimes says “no.”

The result is a culture where accountability feels like oppression and truth feels like hate. Without discipline, we have produced dependence; without correction, confusion.

Psychologist Jordan Peterson once said, “Do not let your children do anything that makes you dislike them.” It’s a sobering reminder that unchecked behavior in childhood becomes rebellion in adulthood. A generation raised without correction will one day despise authority—and eventually, truth itself.

But discipline is not punishment—it’s love with direction. It teaches humility, gratitude, and self-control. Without it, we create people who feel owed rather than called.

If we want a generation that can carry the weight of truth, we must return to discipline—not as cruelty, but as care. Because a nation that refuses correction will eventually crumble under its own pride.

He went to the garden because His soul was heavy, fully aware of the pain that was coming. While His disciples slept, He fell to the ground in prayer. The weight was so great that His sweat became like drops of blood. Alone in the darkness, He poured His heart out to the Father. And when He rose from the ground, His resolve was firm: “Shall I not drink from the cup of suffering the Father has given Me?” (John 18:11).

Here is the way of perfect surrender. Jesus did not run from what He dreaded; He prayed until His heart was aligned with the Father’s will. Prayer did not remove the suffering, but it gave Him the strength to endure it.

The apostle Paul reminds us of the same truth: “For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all” (2 Corinthians 4:17). The trials of this life may feel overwhelming, yet in God’s hands they are never wasted. Christ’s time in the garden led to His strength on the cross — and through His cross came our salvation.

Others who have walked through trial have echoed this same lesson. Oswald Chambers once said, “We have to pray with our eyes on God, not on the difficulties.” And Elisabeth Elliot, who knew suffering well, wrote, “Leave it all in the hands that were wounded for you.”

The garden teaches us where true power is found. Not in escaping hardship, but in facing it with hearts strengthened through prayer and fellowship with the Lord. And the same God who sustained His Son has promised to sustain us: “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18).

Whatever cup of suffering we may be called to drink, His grace will be enough, and His glory will outweigh it all.

This past week has been heavy with grief and anger. Emotions have run high, but in the middle of the turmoil came a moment that pierced my heart. A wife stood over her husband’s casket, holding his hands through tears, whispering words that will not be forgotten: “We will not forget you. We will not forget what you stood for.” Emotion and truth collided in that scene, and together they formed something powerful. Emotion alone can stir for a moment, but it fades. Tears dry. Anger cools. Conviction, forged in the fire of truth, becomes eternal.

The price of truth is not new. Jesus warned, “You will be hated by everyone because of me, but the one who stands firm to the end will be saved” (Matthew 10:22). Our own nation’s history bears witness as well. Patrick Henry, with fire in his soul, declared, “Give me liberty, or give me death!” because he knew that freedom without conviction is an illusion. Thomas Jefferson warned, “The price of freedom is eternal vigilance.” Abraham Lincoln, in the midst of America’s darkest hour, said, “Truth is generally the best vindication against slander.” From the beginning, those who loved liberty and truth understood that the stand would always come with opposition.

The world has never tolerated truth. It crucified Christ, and it has mocked, silenced, and opposed every voice that dares to speak against its idols. Yet history proves again and again that while men can silence a messenger, they cannot silence the message. And in America, the words of those who risked everything to declare freedom still thunder long after their bodies returned to the dust.

So the question before us is not simply what Charlie stood for, but whether we are willing to stand in the same place. Emotion without conviction will fade, but grief forged into courage can ignite a movement. Elijah once thought he was alone, hunted and silenced by a hostile world, but God reminded him that there were thousands who had not bowed their knees to Baal. The enemy wants us to feel isolated and powerless, but truth is never alone. God always preserves a people who will not bow. Now is not the time to retreat. This is the hour to stand, to shine as light in the darkness, to hold firm to truth without shame and without fear.

When you stand for the truth, you will be recognized. Perhaps not by this world, perhaps not by men, but by heaven itself. That recognition is eternal. The world may hate, mock, or even kill, but God will honor the faithful. Their testimony will not die with them — it becomes seed in the ground. It takes root, and it rises again in those who have the courage to carry the torch.

The flame has been passed to us. It burns because one man stood. It burns because many before him refused to bow. And now it burns in our hands. We can choose to let it flicker out, satisfied with tears and memories, or we can lift it high, lighting the path for a generation stumbling in darkness. This torch was never meant for one man alone. It was always meant to be carried forward, from hand to hand, from heart to heart, until the truth shines brighter than the lies of this world.

The question is no longer what did he stand for, but what will we do with the fire he left behind.

This is the great deception of every age. Slavery never begins with chains. It begins with promises. Promises of provision. Promises of safety. Promises that sound like mercy, but hide control. The meal is the bait; the leash is hidden in the hand that offers it. The master gives, but only so he may own. The cage may be golden, the rope may be velvet, but the result is the same: slavery.

The prophet Isaiah thundered, “Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness” (Isaiah 5:20). And is it not the same today? A culture that calls dependency “justice,” that names bondage “compassion,” and that dresses control as generosity is only rewrapping Pharaoh’s chains. What is promised as “free” always comes with a price: your freedom.

Scripture does not mince words. “You were bought at a price; do not become slaves of men” (1 Corinthians 7:23). “It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery” (Galatians 5:1). To depend on man for what only God can provide is to bow to a false master. It is to step back into the prison even when the door stands open.

The lesson is clear: those who live as slaves will be ruled by masters, but those who live free under God will walk in responsibility, dignity, and strength. Slaves surrender their choices for comfort. Free people embrace responsibility and refuse to bow. Slaves live by what is handed down. Free people live by what is built up in faith.

So here is the warning: any system, any power, any promise that demands your dependence is not your friend — it is your Pharaoh. And any people who trade their freedom for provision will find themselves in chains. True freedom is not found in governments or masters. True freedom is found only in the Lord, who gives life without taking liberty, who sustains without enslaving.

Choose wisely which hand you trust. One binds. The other blesses.

Do you remember the first time you did something you knew was wrong? Maybe it was stealing something small from a store shelf, lying to your parents, cheating on a test, or crossing a line you promised yourself you never would. At first, it shook you. Your heart raced, your stomach knotted, and you felt that invisible pressure of guilt pressing down. That was your conscience—God’s built-in alarm system—telling you to stop.

But then you ignored it. You did it again. The second time didn’t sting quite as much. The third time was easier still. And eventually, the voice that once shouted became only a whisper. Ignore it long enough, and it falls silent altogether. The conscience becomes seared—like flesh burned until it turns into scar tissue, tough, numb, and unfeeling.

This doesn’t just happen to individuals. It happens to whole nations. When leaders silence their consciences, when truth is traded for lies, and when sin is paraded without shame, the people soon follow. Wrong stops feeling wrong. Good is mocked, evil is celebrated, and the culture loses its ability to blush.

We see it everywhere today. Abortion is called “healthcare.” Pornography is marketed as “adult entertainment.” Greed is celebrated as “success.” Corruption is brushed aside as “politics as usual.” Profanity is normalized as “just words.” Lust is excused as “human nature.” Drunkenness and drug use are praised as “freedom of choice.” Pride is championed while humility is scorned.

Can you imagine your great-grandparents walking into our world for a single day? What would they say as they scrolled through our television channels, social media feeds, and city streets? Would they not cover their mouths in shock at what we parade with pride? Would they not grieve at what we now defend as progress?

This is what it means to live with a seared conscience. And often, it disguises itself with lofty words. People convince themselves: “We’ve become enlightened. We’re free now. We don’t have to live like our ancestors did. I can say whatever I want, do whatever I want, live however I want—and nothing will happen to me.”

But the Bible warns us that this so-called “freedom” leads only to emptiness: “leanness of soul” (Psalm 106:15). It is the soul becoming like rawhide—dried out, stiff, unable to feel. The joy of innocence is gone. The sting of conviction is gone. Even the hunger for truth disappears.

And isn’t this the world we see around us? We are the most entertained generation in history, and yet the most bored. We are the most connected through technology, and yet the loneliest. We drown guilt in alcohol, hide pain with drugs, scroll endlessly into the night, and fill every silence with noise so we don’t have to face the truth. Our consciences have grown dull, and in the process, so have our souls.

Hearts once tender, hardened like stone,

Truth exchanged for lies we now call our own.

Good is mocked, and evil wears a crown,

And a seared conscience drags a nation down.

A tender conscience is a treasure. The moment we stop feeling conviction is the moment we are in the most dangerous place of all. For when the conscience no longer stirs, repentance no longer seems necessary—and without repentance, hope fades. God still whispers, but only those with soft hearts will hear Him.

Yesterday, America was shaken to its core. Charlie Kirk — young, bold, unafraid — was gunned down in cold blood. His life was stolen, not because of crime, not because of corruption, but because he dared to stand for truth.

Evil always believes that if it kills the messenger, it can bury the message. They believed that when they nailed Jesus to a cross. They believed it when they stoned Stephen, when they beheaded Paul, when they slaughtered the martyrs across history. But every time, the fire only spread wider. Every time, the truth thundered louder.

Charlie Kirk’s voice stirred a generation. He called young men and women to think, to resist, to fight for faith, family, and freedom. He stood as a watchman on the wall, sounding the alarm, refusing to bow. And for that, he was struck down. Jesus warned us: “If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first” (John 15:18). That hatred has once again revealed its face.

So why kill Charlie? To silence him? To frighten those who stood beside him? To provoke violence and chaos? Whatever their aim, they have failed. For you cannot silence truth with bullets. You cannot bury conviction in a grave. His death is not an end — it is a spark. And that spark will ignite a thousand voices, louder and bolder than before.

Evil wants us to cower. Evil wants us broken. Evil wants us divided. But Isaiah declared: “The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever” (Isaiah 40:8). The word still stands. And so must we.

Now is not the time to retreat. Now is not the time to fall silent. Now is the time to rise. To live the truth. To shout the truth. To embody the truth so fiercely that darkness trembles at the sound.

Charlie Kirk is gone from this earth, but his message lives. His courage lives. His fire lives. The messenger has fallen — but the truth marches on. And it will not be silenced.

Gaslighting is when someone tells you not to believe what you see. That’s what’s happening in America right now.

We see New York hotels packed with illegal migrants while veterans sleep on the street. But leaders call it “compassion.”

We see Chicago’s weekends soaked in gunfire, but are told the problem is the police.

We see San Francisco covered in tent camps, needles on playgrounds, businesses fleeing downtown—but city hall says it’s “progress.”

We see stores in Portland, L.A., and Philly locked down behind steel gates because of theft, yet the media calls it “shopper inconvenience.”

That’s not compassion. That’s not progress. That’s not inconvenience. That’s chaos—and we’re told it’s normal.

We’re told capitalism is oppressive while millions climb into the middle class through hard work. We’re told communism is “fair” when it left a hundred million dead. We’re told America is racist even as millions risk everything to get here.

None of it adds up—unless the goal is to make you doubt reality itself.

And the cruelest gaslight of all? White fragility. You live right, treat people with respect, reject racism—and you’re still told you’re guilty by skin color. Defend yourself, and they call that “proof.” It’s a trap to silence you.

The truth is simple: families are fleeing liberal-run cities because crime is real. Businesses are closing because lawlessness is real. Migrants are storming the border because freedom is real.

They want you to doubt your eyes. Don’t. Trust reality. Trust the truth. As Sophocles said: “What people believe prevails over the truth.”

So don’t buy the lie.