There’s a genre of writing that gets a free pass most other genres don’t: the “I visited a bad neighborhood and now I have Opinions” column. Christianity Today just ran a fresh entry from editor-in-chief Marvin Olasky, and it’s worth pulling apart — not because it’s poorly written, but because it’s well written in service of an argument that falls apart the moment you check it against the research the author didn’t bother to cite.

The piece is framed as an indictment of “harm reduction” — the public health approach that includes needle exchanges, naloxone distribution, and tolerance of drug use in public health settings as an alternative to demanding abstinence up front. Olasky’s argument, in short: harm reduction is a euphemism for giving up on people, San Francisco proved it, and the city’s recent political swing toward crackdown policy vindicates the old-school “tough love” model.

It’s a tidy story. It also leaves out almost everything that would complicate it.

Mitch McConnell was elected to a position, not to do anything. No Senate seat comes with a job description that requires consciousness. The position pays whether he shows up or not, whether he casts a vote or not, whether he can perform the ordinary functions of the office or not. There’s no ordinary employment mechanism by which a senator loses the office for taking an extended medical absence — no manager who can decide the job isn’t waiting for him, no clock running out on his right to come back to it.

That’s not really a scandal. It’s a design choice, and a defensible one: the office was built so that no one short of the voters, or the Senate itself, can push a senator out mid-term. Otherwise you’d get senators pressured to resign the moment they got sick, which is its own kind of abuse.

McConnell was hospitalized in mid-June after a fall, treated for pneumonia, and spent weeks in rehabilitation before returning to the Capitol and casting a vote on September 14 — an absence multiple outlets counted at roughly three months, 92 days by one tally. Through all of it, his salary, his seat, his staff, and his committee assignments sat exactly where he left them.

A recent piece making the rounds — The Destruction of Marriage – Just a Bonus — argues that Satan’s real target isn’t marriage at all. Marriage’s collapse is, per the title, just a side effect. The real prize is souls: get women to reject submission, get men to abandon headship, and you get a church too compliant to resist false teaching and too fractured to keep people out of hell.

It’s a serious piece, argued with real structure. But when you pull on the threads, most of what looks like reasoning turns out to be curtains hung around one load-bearing claim that never actually gets defended: that God has delegated husbands an authority over their wives broad enough that, within ordinary marital decisions, refusing a husband’s authority can constitute disobedience to God.

That claim is worth examining on its own, because it’s doing more work than the rest of the article combined. Which decisions does that authority cover? What are its limits? How do the passages cited actually establish either?

A clip from an old John Lennon interview has been making the rounds on TikTok lately — the one where he defends “Woman Is the N***** of the World,” the 1972 song he wrote with Yoko Ono. People are arguing about it the way people always argue about it: is this a bold feminist statement, or an offensive appropriation of a word that carries a specific, singular history?

That argument isn’t actually the interesting one. The interesting one is buried underneath it, in a phrase Lennon himself pointed to when he was asked to explain the song. He didn’t say he made the comparison up. He said he got it from Yoko, and Yoko traced it back further, to an Irish revolutionary named James Connolly, who in 1915 wrote a line that’s much less quotable but much more precise: the worker is the slave of capitalist society, the female worker is the slave of that slave.

Slave of the slave. Not slave of the master. Of the slave.

Right now, a grieving person can upload photos, voice memos, and old texts from someone they lost and get back a chatbot that talks like them. It’s marketed as comfort — a way to ask one more question, hear one more goodnight, finish a conversation death cut off mid-sentence. The instinct behind that isn’t crazy. It’s the same instinct behind hired mourners, seances, and every reason Israel had to be told, directly, to knock it off: people don’t want the relationship to be over.

But notice what the griefbot is actually trying to solve. Its whole premise is that the relationship has to keep running in the present tense, right now, or it’s lost — so you manufacture more of it. That’s a reasonable thing to want if you don’t believe there’s anything on the other side of the pause. It’s the wrong thing to want if you do.

That’s the whole point of this title. “Ta ta for now” isn’t a shrug, and it isn’t flippant. It’s what you can only say if you actually believe there’s a later. And believing there’s a later is what frees you from needing to keep manufacturing now with someone who currently isn’t available for it — so you can put that energy into the people who currently are. This isn’t really an essay about whether there’s an afterlife. It’s about what happens to your grief, and to your attention, once you actually believe death doesn’t revoke belonging.

If the afterlife worked the way most fire-and-brimstone preaching assumes it does, near-death experience research should be boring. Good people should report light. Bad people should report fire. Case closed, sermon illustration secured.

That is not what the data does.

I want to build a grid — good people and bad people, crossed with good NDEs and bad NDEs — and then fill in the cells with actual documented cases, not hypotheticals. What ends up in each box, and especially what refuses to show up in one particular box, tells you something. Then I want to run the same people through a second grid: what happened to them afterward. And then I want to hold both grids up next to three things Jesus and Paul said about debt, fire, and the thing actually worth fearing.

A few weeks ago an email landed in my inbox from Tuttle Twins, selling a new “Mindset” course bundle for their homeschool Academy. The pitch opens with Toto Wolff — the billionaire boss of Mercedes’ Formula 1 team — whose father died of brain cancer when he was a teenager, plunging the family into financial trouble. Young Toto sold candles and torches at outdoor gatherings in Vienna. He wore a golden cape and handed out flyers for an electronics shop. He started an economics degree and dropped out.

“That’s it,” the email says. “That’s the ‘official’ education of Toto Wolff — the origin of a two-and-a-half-billion-dollar fortune.”

Three more names get the same treatment — Sara Blakely, Richard Branson, David Karp — each one a hardship-to-fortune story, each one proof, the email argues, that the one skill separating billionaires from everyone else is mindset: the ability to get knocked down and keep moving. Luckily, mindset “can be taught.” Theirs, for $499 lifetime or $269 a year.

There’s a phrase that gets tossed around in certain corners of church culture: “worm theology.” It’s shorthand for a way of talking about human nature — depraved, worthless, crawling — that shows up in old hymns, in fire-and-brimstone sermons, and in the quieter but more corrosive language of spiritually abusive groups. Isaac Watts, in 1707, put it into one of the most sung lines in English hymnody: wondering at the cross, “would He devote that sacred head for such a worm as I?”

It’s worth remembering, before going further, that Watts doesn’t leave the singer there. The hymn moves through astonishment at grace, into repentance, and closes with the singer giving himself away in response to love, not curling up in permanent self-disgust. Even the hymn most responsible for popularizing “worm” language in devotional English doesn’t treat the worm as a resting place. That’s a pattern worth watching for, because it shows up again and again in the biblical texts themselves — and it’s exactly the pattern that gets dropped when “worm theology” turns into a tool for control.

Strip out the verses where “worm” just means a worm — the ones that ruined the manna overnight (Exodus 16), the ones that will eat Israel’s vineyards if the nation breaks covenant (Deuteronomy 28), the ones crawling over a corpse (Isaiah 66:24, Mark 9:48) — and four passages stand out as especially relevant, where “worm” is applied figuratively to a person. (The underlying Hebrew uses more than one word translated “worm” or “maggot,” so this isn’t offered as an exhaustive concordance count — just the passages that matter for the question at hand.)

A new Andrew Garfield movie, The Uprising, is being sold with a simple moral: it “warns of what happens when we dispense the wrath of God.”

It’s a good line, and it’s not a strawman — it’s the review’s own framing. Christianity Today’s review invokes Romans 12:19 and argues the film shows the “cross-class danger of claiming divine authority,” insisting that “whether we’re powerful or oppressed,” our sense of justice gets clouded by sin. That’s a deliberate choice to place both categories inside a single moral “we.” And there is a truth inside it: equal moral accountability does not change with social class. Vengeance is as wrong for the powerful as for the powerless. But equal moral accountability is not the same thing as equal power.

I think that’s the wrong question, and the pronoun is doing most of the damage. “We” implies a single actor, weighing a single choice, with a single amount of power to misuse. But the events behind The Uprising — England’s Peasants’ Revolt of 1381 — involved actors who were not standing on anything like equal ground. Before asking what happens when “we” dispense divine wrath, it’s worth asking who “we” actually were, and what each of them wanted badly enough to invoke God for it.

There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that doesn’t show up in the unemployment rate. It belongs to the person working 22 hours a week at one job and 14 at another, neither of them offering enough hours to count as full-time, neither of them willing to guarantee a schedule more than a few days out, both of them expecting total availability anyway. On paper, this person is employed. Twice, even. In practice, they are stitching together a living out of scraps that two different managers keep rearranging without asking.

This is not a fringe case. It’s close to the default experience of low-wage service work in America, and it’s worth being specific about why, because the specifics point toward an argument that’s less comfortable than “we need better labor law.” The specifics point toward a culture that has decided dignity is a line item to be minimized, and that no bargaining structure by itself is going to fix that.

Start with the schedule itself. Surveys of service-sector workers — retail, food service, hospitality — find that something like a third are working part-time involuntarily: they want more hours and can’t get them. A large share of the workforce gets less than a week’s notice of their schedule. Around half report working “clopenings” — closing the store at 11 p.m. and opening it again at 5 or 6 a.m., with barely enough time in between to drive home, sleep, and drive back. Researchers who’ve studied this have found that unpredictability isn’t just an inconvenience; workers exposed to unstable, last-minute scheduling are significantly more likely to experience hunger, missed rent, and utility shutoffs than workers earning the same wage on a stable schedule. The instability itself is the hardship, independent of the paycheck.

You don’t always have to choose between two competing accounts of a relationship. Sometimes it’s worth listening closely to what the denial itself reveals.

This week, Aaron Rodgers sat down with his Steelers teammate Cam Heyward and revisited his relationship with Danica Patrick, who ended things with him in 2020. Patrick had already put her version on the record a year earlier, on Sage Steele’s podcast, calling the relationship “emotionally abusive” and saying Rodgers left “a trail of blood” behind him when it ended.

Rodgers’ response was meant to be a rebuttal. Parts of it sound strangely compatible with the allegation.

On April 9, 1944, a church choir from Trinity Lutheran drove through a gap in a barbed-wire fence in Algona, Iowa, to lead an Easter service for German prisoners of war. It’s a striking scene, and Christianity Today recently ran a piece on it — the choir director recalled that the prisoners sang beautifully, that many wept during the Lord’s Prayer, that there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. The essay’s argument, drawing on theologian Jeremy Begbie, is that corporate worship “retimes” us: it forces people who disagree, even people who were shooting at each other months earlier, to sit in the same duration together, and that this can cultivate empathy where nothing else will.

It’s a good essay, as far as it goes. It just doesn’t go very far.

Read the piece carefully and you’ll notice what it never says. It never says the word “Holocaust.” It never asks what regime these men had served, or who that regime was simultaneously murdering in the camps a continent away while Iowa farmers were setting out extra plates at Christmas. It gives us crooked teeth and broken bootlaces and homesick tears — the sensory texture of ordinary humanity — but never asks the harder question sitting right underneath the anecdote: what does it mean that people can seem this human and still have served a regime doing what theirs was doing?

A Texas congressman gave a Republican convention crowd exactly what it wanted this week: a land acknowledgment with the punchline flipped.

Rep. Brandon Gill opened his speech at the RNC Midterm Convention in Dallas by “acknowledging” — not Indigenous nations, but American settlers. “I’d like to acknowledge that we stand here today in the great state of Texas,” he said, “and the United States of America is the ancestral homeland of great American patriots, pioneers and explorers who put down roots, fight for freedom all over the globe and bled and died to build the greatest civilization ever known to man.” The crowd roared. Fox News ran it as a straight-up win: a firebrand “flipping the script” on Democrats’ “bizarre” latest trend, unapologetic to the end.

It’s a good applause line. It is also, on inspection, a category error dressed up as a rebuttal — and it’s worth taking seriously enough to actually check the history it’s leaning on.

There’s a graphic that’s been making the rounds — white serif text over a shot of exposed drywall and popcorn ceiling, the kind of photo that says “unfinished renovation project” without needing a caption. The headline: “Lord, save me from my side hustle.” Underneath: “Hard work is a virtue. But Scripture warns of its vice.”

It’s a good hook. It’s also doing something sneakier than it looks like it’s doing — collapsing two very different biblical warnings into one, and aiming both of them at the wrong person.

Start with the easy half, because the Old Testament doesn’t treat work itself as a vice. Work isn’t a punishment. In Genesis, Adam is placed in the garden “to work it and keep it” — two chapters before anything goes wrong. The curse in Genesis 3 doesn’t invent labor; it makes labor harder. Thorns, sweat, resistance. The work itself predates the fall.

Somewhere in a transcript archive sits an “Open Line Friday” episode of The Rush Limbaugh Show, recorded right around September 30–October 1, 2011 — the day after a U.S. drone strike killed American-born al-Qaeda propagandist Anwar al-Awlaki in Yemen. Nearly three hours of monologue, caller segments, and parody commercials. I went through it and checked the claims that could actually be checked.

The results split cleanly into three buckets: things that turned out to be accurate, things that were opinion or prediction dressed up as commentary, and things that were straightforwardly comedy — fake ads and song parodies that nobody, including Limbaugh, intended anyone to fact-check. Sorting those apart turned out to be the most interesting part of the exercise.

It’s also worth pausing on why that sorting is only easy to do now. In 2011, checking a claim like this meant knowing it existed, tracking down primary sources, and cross-referencing numbers by hand — a task that took real time even for a professional researcher, and that essentially nobody did in real time for a three-hour radio show. To be clear about the mechanism: what changed isn’t that a machine now hands out verified facts — an AI model can be wrong, too, and shouldn’t be trusted as the final word on anything. What changed is AI-assisted search and source retrieval: the ability to pull up the original CNN poll write-up, the original KFF survey, the original news coverage of a specific claim in a couple of minutes instead of an afternoon. The verification still has to happen against a primary source; what’s different is how fast you can find that source. For the entire run of talk radio and cable news as mass media — Limbaugh’s show launched nationally in 1988, Fox News in 1996 — the ordinary listener had no practical way to check most of this at anything resembling the speed at which the claims arrived. The claims got wrapped in enough true and half-true material to feel credible, and moved on before anyone could verify them. The medium was built for an environment where fact-checking was slow and rare; that environment is not the one we’re in anymore.

A post came across my feed the other day predicting that AI collaboration will finally make science fiction good, because now actual scientists — not mere writers — can lead these projects. The theory goes like this: the only people who’ve ever been able to write science fiction are people who happen to be both scientifically literate and gifted prose stylists, and that combination is rare. Large language models remove the prose bottleneck. Now the scientist can be in charge, the AI can supply the sentences, and scientific accuracy — the thing science fiction has supposedly been starving for all these decades — finally gets its due.

I don’t buy the premise. Not because I think AI collaboration is useless, but because it’s solving a problem science fiction doesn’t actually have.

Here’s the thing I keep coming back to: we don’t need replicators to be decent people.

There’s a kind of person — maybe you’ve been one, maybe you’re one now — who keeps a running tally without ever deciding to start keeping it. A half-beat late on a response at the office. A basket finished before the bell, entered in your favor, though not heavily. A fault noticed in the dark before sleep, filed and carried forward, uncorrected, the way it’s carried forward every day you can remember. You don’t remember opening the ledger. You just notice, one day, that it’s open, and that it has always been open, and that you’ve never once gone into anything — a room, a relationship, a morning — level.

Spinoza spent four propositions in the Ethics diagnosing exactly this apparatus, and naming the four passions that run it. He didn’t think much of any of them. And it turns out that once you’ve spent enough time inside the ledger yourself, you arrive at his conclusions less by argument than by exhaustion — which may be the more honest way to arrive at them.

Spinoza’s Part IV — “Of Human Bondage” — works through a sequence of propositions that all make the same move on four different emotions:

A few weeks ago, Ryan Burge went on the Holy Post’s Skypod and did what Ryan Burge does: he took a survey that had nothing to do with religion and found religion hiding inside it anyway. FIRE surveys upward of 68,000 college students at more than 400 schools every year about self-censorship on campus. Buried in the data were questions about religious attendance and affiliation, broken out by major. Burge mined it, and the internet did what it does with a spicy chart.

The headline findings weren’t surprising. Fine arts, theater, film, English, environmental studies — low religiosity, high secularism. Finance majors were the most religious and the most conservative students in the entire dataset, sitting alone in the corner of the ideology graph like they’d been assigned there. Nursing students were nearly as religious as finance bros, but nowhere near as conservative — moderate, even.

Skye Jethani, hosting, floated a metaphor: greed is the engine, conservative politics is the first car it pulls, and religious identity is the caboose. Burge, more cautiously, offered a narrower theory — finance students end up religious because their future clients are old, rich, and church-going, and religiosity is good for the client pipeline.

The U.S. added 162,000 jobs in August 2026. That’s the number that makes the headlines. But there’s another number worth putting beside it: $30 an hour.

Thirty dollars isn’t a proposed minimum wage, and it isn’t a scientifically derived poverty line. It’s a benchmark — a round number close to where a reasonably solid full-time income sits right now, and a useful test for what a “job” actually is once you stop counting them and start asking what they pay. A full-time worker earning $30 an hour makes $62,400 a year before taxes. That’s already a little below the current median earnings of full-time American workers. And even at that income, financing two of the standard promises of middle-class life — a child’s college education and one’s own retirement — is genuinely difficult.

So instead of asking only how many jobs America created last month, it’s worth asking a second question: how many of those jobs clear even that modest line?

Every few years, someone rediscovers that an entire generation of American children grew up torturing a purple dinosaur, and someone else turns that into a morality tale. You’ve probably seen the shape of the take: kids are cruel, teenagers especially so, and Barney’s only crime was being too good — too kind, too patient, too earnest — so a culture allergic to sincerity destroyed him for sport. It’s a tidy story. It flatters the person telling it, since it lets them cast themselves as defenders of goodness against a mob of little nihilists. It also happens to be wrong, and you don’t have to dig very deep to find out why.

Ask people who hated Barney why, and one complaint comes up with remarkable consistency: the voice.

Barney’s harshest critics didn’t object to niceness. They objected to a very specific register — the sing-song, treacly, everything-resolves-in-four-minutes tone that talked at children instead of to them. Academic write-ups of the backlash describe critics zeroing in on the “dopey” voice, the fixed toothy smile, a personality read as self-centered rather than warm. The sharper version of the critique wasn’t about tone at all, though — it was about content: Barney’s shows didn’t help kids learn to deal with negative feelings, because along with the giggles and unconditional love, they offered a one-dimensional world where everyone had to be happy and everything had to resolve immediately. That’s not a complaint about excessive goodness. That’s a complaint about dishonesty — a show performing goodness by refusing to admit anything bad exists, which is a different and much emptier thing.