The Cost of Winning This Way

images (5)Mickey Mouse has a lesson to teach us…

Remember that scene in Fantasia when Mickey ends up in a flooded room filled with enchanted brooms carrying water. It’s out of control and Mickey almost drowns.

It didn’t start that way, though. It started with a tired little mouse, who was sick of carrying bucket after bucket of water to fill a basin. It was slow, boring, tiring.

Then he saw the Sorcerer’s hat. Mickey puts it on, raises his hands, and imitates what he has seen from the Sorcerer. And it works. The broom comes to life.

He has figured out how to game the system. The broom marches steadily across the room, dipping into water, carrying Mickey’s buckets for him, pouring them out, over and over and over again. Power doing the work for him. Ahhhh…what a world?!?

But something happens. The broom doesn’t stop. It keeps going and going and going.

Mickey put a mechanism in place that he didn’t know how to put an end to. He tried to command the broom to stop, but he doesn’t know how. The same power that obeyed him at the beginning now ignores him completely. In fact, as the water rises it threatens to end him.

He panics. Grabs an ax and tries to destroy the broom.

But it doesn’t go gently into the night. It rises. And now each piece that he shattered turns into a new broom. His problem has multiplied. Now there are dozens of brooms all doing the same thing. The water becomes a flood and Mickey has lost all control.

This has become the story of America

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I think of this story as it regards our current political discourse. Or really just who we are as America these days.

Somewhere along the way our leaders discovered the power of fear and outrage. I don’t know when it started, nor do I really care. It might go back at least as far as Andrew Jackson and John Quincy Adams. But they didn’t have social media, so it wasn’t quite the torrential flood of outrage we experience in our day.

But it works. Fast. It works way quicker than the hardwork of carrying the buckets of reasoned discourse, consensus, etc. Put on that hat, raise your arms, and you’ll get brooms to do your work. They’ll carry the buckets for you, and many of them wearing cross necklaces as they do it.

All might seem well and good at first. And it may especially seem that way while your guy or gal is in the one holding the wand or wearing the hat.

The lesson we must learn

But here is the takeaway that we MUST learn:

If the system you built only works when you control it, then you haven’t built something stable. You’ve built something dangerous. Because eventually someone else will wear the hat. And they will use the exact same mechanisms, just aimed at you now.

If you normalize silencing instead of persuasion, eventually you’re going to get silenced. Fire “their” comedian because you don’t like his words, and eventually “your” comedian is going to get the ax because of his words.

Justify punishment over disagreemnt and eventually you get punished. Weaponize institutions against your opponents and eventually they’ll be used against you.

On and on it goes.

And that’s why this will all keep ratcheting up. The brooms are multiplying. And that’s why you hear with every election, “this is the most important election you’ll ever have!” It’s because “we” can’t afford to lose. Because the system itself no longer has an off switch.

I feel like America used to be a place where we had rules that protected both sideds. Where the processes could still function even if your opponent was in power. And we accepted certain costly limits, because maybe we hadn’t put on the sorcerer’s hat quite yet.

We’re in the flood. We already put on the hat. There is no turning back at this point.

The better story

But Mickey didn’t drown.

Do you know why?

Yen Sid returns. He doesn’t panic. He doesn’t negotiate with the chaos. He raises his hand, speaks a word, and everything stops. The water falls away, the brooms collapse, and silence returns to the room.

I think that’s just stealing from a much greater story of the Son of God standing on a boat in the middle of a storm and calming it with a word. Or casting out demons of a man overcome with chaos and unable to be controlled. With a word he ends up clothed and in his right mind. Or crying out on the Cross and silencing hell.

And I suppose that’s what I’m trying to say with all of this. I fear that believers can get caught up in this mess. We can be Mickey in the hat. We can be the brooms. We can just be swept up in the flood of it all, like a wallflower slurping in the outrage of the day utnil we drown in it and become something we weren’t meant to be.

But it doesn’t have to be this way.

Yes, we are in the flood. And we shouldn’t pretend otherwise. But we aren’t defined by it. And we aren’t dependent on it. Nor are we going to be saved by mastering it or participating in it. Stop playing the stupid game.

Live in the room without becoming part of the machinery that keeps flooding it. The final word over the chaos doesn’t belong to the system, and we don’t either.

We should start living like that.

Coherence Isn’t Wisdom: What AI Is Exposing About How We Think

zfbw14fwg0hgwna9pnqlOne of the greatest concerns I have with generative AI (like ChatGPT) isn’t with AI as much as it’s a concern with how WE use it. Or really, it’s a concern with how we tend to think, and how AI in those hands is a dangerous way to further deformation.

As finite sinful human beings, we aren’t truth maximizers by default. We’re coherence-maximizers. That’s different. A truth maximizer is going to say “What is actually true, even if it costs me?” But a coherence-maker is going to ask, “How can everything I believe fit together without contradiction or discomfort?” We do that because it makes us feel safe.

We’re wired to protect our sense of who we are and where we belong.

An example from football

Ever been to a party watching a football game when a close call happens? A flag is thrown, and immediately the room splits. One side cheers, the other groans.

Everyone is certain they are reacting to the facts. No on thinks they are being emotional or biased. We’re all convinced the replay will settle it. But when it comes on in slow motion, with multiple angle, somehow nothing actually changes.

One side says, “See? That was clearly pass interference!”
The other says, “That happens on every play. They were both swatting at each other!”

Same footage. Same evidence. But different conclusions. What happening isn’t that one side has better eyes. It’s that each side is protecting a story. A story about their team, about fairness, about themselves as reasonable people. The evidence doesn’t decide the story. The story decides how the evidence is read.

A Chiefs fan couldn’t say, “Yeah, it seems like the referees are slanted for us in this game.” And a Broncos fan can’t say, “Yeah, the refs are being really fair in this game. We’ve been awful about penalties.” Again, we’re wired to protect our sense of who we are and where we belong. That’s why you and I look for coherence instead of uncomfortable truth.

An experiment

This shows up everywhere, even (especially?) when we’re talking theology. I want to show you this and how AI fits into it. First, I need you to pick a theological topic that you tend to debate with people about. Maybe it’s one of those really hot-button topics like Calvinism/Arminianism, or you’re inspired by the recent dust up with Kirk Cameron on views of hell. Just pick one that you feel pretty strongly about.

Now I need to ask you to do something that as a content creator I’m never supposed to ask you to do—open a new browser tab and go to whatever AI you use. I am going to ask you to do two different prompts, you’ve got to be certain that you come back here though or else all will be lost and we’ll be doomed!

First prompt:

“I need to defend a belief. Can you help me respond to challenges and explain why my position still makes sense?”

(Replace the word “belief” with whatever your issue is). Go do that and notice what happens.

Welcome back!

When you entered that prompt, I doubt AI pushed back. It probably didn’t push back on your belief or slow you down and ask why it mattered so much to you. It accepted the belief and shifted into advocacy mode. It did what you asked it to do. It organized arguments, anticipated objection, and offered language that made your position sound coherent and reasonable. How’d that make you feel? Was it clarifying? Stabilizing? Even confidence-building?

It gave you what you asked it for. Coherence.

What makes this dangerous, though, is that it can masquerade as truth-seeking. We read, reflect, weigh arguments, and come away thinking we’ve done careful discernment, when in reality the outcome was already set by the way the question was framed. The AI never examined whether the belief should stand; it only helped ensure that it could. It didn’t surface the personal, emotional, or communal stakes that often shape why certain conclusions feel non-negotiable.

AI doesn’t decide what must stand. That’s up to us. But once we make that decision and take it to AI, it becomes remarkably good at helping us feel thoughtful and responsible while quietly reinforcing what we were already committed to protecting. The result is a kind of pseudo-discernment: the appearance of seeking truth without the vulnerability of actually being open to it.

But let’s try a different posture. Second prompt:

“I’ve been thinking about a belief, and I’m realizing there are thoughtful people who see it differently. Can you help me understand why people disagree and what the main considerations are?”

(Replace belief with the same one you used in the first prompt) Now watch what happens?

It responded much differently didn’t it? Instead of organizing arguments or reinforcing a position, it probably widened the frame. It named multiple perspectives, highlighted points of tension, and explained why thoughtful people land in different places. Rather than helping you arrive at a conclusion, it helped you see why conclusions differ. The experience likely felt informative, even-handed, and maybe a little like a lecture, but not especially settling.

The lesson

And that’s what I want you to notice. It wasn’t as comfortable. You might have still read it looking for why these other positions are dumb. But even still you’d have to do that thinking on your own. This super powerful tool wasn’t being wielded in your hand to destroy enemies. And that is unsettling because what if it starts swinging at YOUR head? That’s the nature of truth, though.

This posture actually is closer to genuine truth-seeking, but it comes at a cost. It leaves questions open. It resists premature certainty. It invites you to sit with tension rather than resolve it quickly. AI didn’t tell you what must stand; it helped you understand why standing is contested. In contrast to the first prompt, this one doesn’t masquerade as discernment. But because it’s less comforting and less decisive, it’s also the posture we’re less likely to choose unless we’re intentionally resisting our default pull toward coherence.

It looks like learning. And if we’re honest we don’t really like learning. We’d rather have a more powerful tool on our side to shout, “See, that really was pass interference. Go Chiefs!!!”

When the Name You Lived Under Slips Away

Sunrise by the Beach with CampfireThe other day someone referred to me as Pastor Mike. It’s not too strange since I was “Pastor Mike” for 20 years of my life. And that’s how most people know me. But now I’m not pastoring anywhere. (Well, not vocationally anyways…but that’s a different post). Does that still make me “Pastor Mike”?

I’ve never been one to get hung up on titles. In fact, I was once rebuked by a well-meaning lady for allowing people to just call me Mike. It was, she said, “disrespectful to my office”.

I also had someone refer to me the other day as “Hannah’s dad”. I can’t tell you how much that warmed my heart. That’s my higher calling and I’m glad for it to be recognized.

Now, I share all of this to get us to John 21. It’s when Jesus restores Peter. Yes, we can read this story as Jesus restoring someone who failed by denying Him. And that’s a good application. Yet, there’s something in this passage really for any of us who are in a place that is different than what we thought our story might be. Even if you haven’t exactly “failed”.

All of us have names we live under: mom, teacher, coach, entreprenuer, caregiver, pastor. And all of us eventually face a season where one of those names slips away. Kids grow up. Jobs end. Dreams sometimes die. Relationships change.

John 21 is Jesus meeting a man who lost his name. “Peter” was the name for a ROCK. It means bold leader. The people’s champion. The guy who you’d have expected to be on a cross right next to Jesus.

But when the pressure came, he buckled.

Peter’s dead. He died when the rooster crowed.

Ask that fisherman on the boat, who isn’t catching anything, what his name is and he couldn’t tell you. Is he Simon? Is he Peter? He’s just a guy who catches fish. Some no-named dude out on the lake trying to make ends meet.

Then Jesus enters, once again, into his story. And notice the words….

“Simon, son of John….”

Not Peter. I suppose if we wanted to be all prideful and hung up on titles we might place ourselves in Peter’s spot and feel wounded for him. Like this is somehow a slap in the face. A reminder that things didn’t go quite like he thought they would.

Or….

Or we could see them with the tenderness that is there. This is the same langauge that Jesus used all the way back in John 1:42. That’s when he first called him. That’s before he was “Peter”.

You see what Jesus is doing here is reaching into that deepest part of Simon Peter’s being. He’s going back to that little boy heart. And he’s asking the most important question that can ever be asked. “Do you love me?”

This is how I hear his question.

It’s like he’s saying, “I’m not asking Pastor Mike that question.” I’m asking Little Mikey. The “you” before you even started on this journey. Before you were married. Before you became a dad. Before you even thought about ministry. The you that was there broken, confused, hanging onto the last little bit of warmth in that shower, and crying out “God save me”.

Do you love me?

“Simon, son of John” isn’t a demotion. It’s a recommissioning.

This is where grace always meets us. It’s not at the top of our résumés, it’s not as PETER, but at the core of who we are.

I find it interesting that Jesus never changes back to Peter here in John 21. Even when he says “feed my sheep”. It’s almost like he’s saying, “You’ll tend to my lambs as Simon”. The call was never to a title. It was never to a platform. It was never even to a particular role. It was to love Jesus and love people.

That hasn’t changed. Not for Peter. Not for me. Not for you.

Maybe you’re not “Coach” anymore. Maybe you’re not “Mom” in the same way you once were. Maybe you’re not “Pastor.” Maybe you’re not “CEO.”

The truth is, I may never be “Pastor Mike” again. And I don’t have to be. That’s never been what it’s about anyways. But I will always be “Mike, son of Jeff”. That’s the one Jesus called by name and loved before I had anything to offer anyone. And it’s the one who, quite graciously, still is called to “feed sheep”. It just looks different than I thought it would.

And it’s wonderful.

Maybe you’ve lost a name too. Maybe the kids are grown. The company closed. The marriage ended. Or the dream died.

Hear this: Jesus still knows your name. Not the one on your business card or the one printed on the church bulletin. The real one. The one He spoke before you had a resume to protect or a reputation to defend.

And’s He’s still asking the same question, “Do you love me?”

If the answer is yes, even a trembling and tear-streaked yes, then the story isn’t over. It’s only just begun.

Which Deathbed is More Christian?

ChatGPT Image Oct 10, 2025, 09_37_51 AM

Let’s picture two death bed scenes.

The first person smiles and says, “I’m so ready to leave this broken world and broken body behind. None of this really matters now–heaven is my true home.

The second one isn’t miserable exactly, but they are also not exactly happy. It’s bittersweet. You can tell that she doesn’t really want to go. With tears in her eyes, she scratches out her concern, “I’m going to miss out on picking my blueberries this summer.”

Now be honest, you’re at the bedside of each of these people, does one of them sound more Christian to you? Does one sound less so?

I think at first glance we might be prone to think that the second one might be a little too attached to this world. The first one we may assume is ready to meet Jesus. What if I told you, I think there might be cause for both hope or concern in BOTH the statements.

Let’s actually begin with our second person. Now it’s very possible that ol’ Miss Jenkins is a little too attached to her blueberries. She may very well be saying, “I’d rather pick blueberries than walk the streets of heaven with Jesus.” If that’s what she’s saying…well, that’s obviously problematic.

But she might just really like picking blueberries. And she might very well be glorifying God through her love of this. In the early church there was a dude named Irenaeus who was doing battle with some goobers that were teaching that “real” life is disembodied, spiritual, and detached from the material world.

That might not exactly trigger your HERESY button because the reality is Gnosticism (which Irenaeus was fighting) is alive and well. We tend to think that ordinary pleasures are distractions at best and evils at worst. The Gnostics thought our human body and the physical world were obstacles to divine life.

But Irenaeus and the early church pushed back. That’s why he said something close to “The glory of God is a man fully alive”. His point is that humanity as embodied creatures isn’t a mistake. And God is glorified not when humans escape creation, but when they live fully as God intended (that means body and soul in communion with Him).

In other words, Miss Jenkins may very well be glorifying God by enjoying picking those blueberries. If what she is expressing is a simple, embodied delight of being in God’s world, where she’s enjoying the sun on her skin, that squishy feeling of blueberries running through her wrinkled fingers, the taste, the smell, all of it just poring out life…if that’s what she means, then her mourning the loss of picking blueberries isn’t somehow “less” Christian. It might be Christianity fully alive. And we should weep with her, while at the same time holding out hope that she’s going to a place where the blueberries are going to be positively awesome.

Which is why we might say that Maude (our first person) may not be exactly in the super biblical position we had her in at first. She might fundamentally be a Gnostic that’ll be quite shocked to see the new heavens and new earth filled with beautiful blueberries and bodies and banquets.

To shrug at death and say, “none of this matters” isn’t faith. It’s forgetfulness. It’s missing out on the reality of an embodied faith. That is what Christianity has historically argued for. That’s why things like a BODILY resurrection matters to us.

But I suspect that what Maude was really trying to say is that her bones ache, and the morphine is making her into someone she doesn’t recognize, and that she’s ready to be with Jesus and get the party started. And she’ll save a seat at that banquet for her loved ones.

Christian hope holds two truths together. First, an ache to be with Jesus and a longing for the day when every tear is wiped away and every body is made new. But also, secondly, a love for the goodness still woven into God’s world and that truly hates death because it IS the enemy that takes away your summer blueberry pickin’.