Yesterday I had the privilege of having lunch with Pastor Trey VanCamp, and much of our conversation centered on this idea of formation. At some point in the discussion, Proverbs 4:23 came up:

If you have followed any of my writing here, you probably know that I am working on a book with the working title Downstream. Much of the book traces the ideas that have traveled through history and eventually made their way into our culture, our institutions, our churches, and ultimately our own thinking. Ideas have a history, and most of us have been influenced by far more of that history than we realize.

That’s part of what makes formation so important. We encounter ideas through conversations, books, movies, music, podcasts, classrooms, social media, churches, and countless other places. Over time, those ideas can begin shaping the way we think about what is true, what is good, what is normal, and what kind of life is worth pursuing.

Formation itself is not the problem because it’s unavoidable. We’re going to be formed by something. The danger comes when we allow our hearts and minds to be shaped without ever stopping to consider what is doing the shaping or whether what we are absorbing is actually true.

That’s what makes the warning in Proverbs so important. If the springs of life flow from the heart, then we should care deeply about what we allow to influence it. What enters our hearts and minds today may eventually affect the way we think, what we desire, how we respond to others, and the decisions we make tomorrow.

Some translations render the beginning of Proverbs 4:23 as, “Guard your heart.” I like that wording because it gives us an image that is hard to miss. I picture a castle with guards stationed at the entrance, paying attention to who comes through the gate. Their job is not to pretend that nothing exists outside the walls. Their job is to pay attention to what they allow inside.

Maybe that’s a helpful way to think about formation. We can’t keep every idea from reaching us, nor should we try. But we can learn to pay attention to what we are allowing to shape us.

The Progression

No one wakes up in the morning and decides to completely rethink their understanding of identity, morality, truth, or faith. It usually takes place slowly over time. Every avenue through which we absorb information has an impact on those beliefs.

A strong wave may get our attention, but even a slow current, over time, will cut away at a shoreline and reshape a river.

An idea that initially seems outrageous or taboo, over time through repeated exposure, becomes more and more normalized.

Think of it this way: an idea may go from being strange to familiar, to plausible, and eventually believable. That idea didn’t leap from strange to normal. It got there over time based on the influences impacting one’s thinking.

The Question

In considering formation, we need to always be asking, “What is it that is teaching and influencing me?”

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that we should shut ourselves off from culture or hide out in our pious Christian towers. We don’t have to be so fearful of other ideas that we place ourselves in a bubble or an ideological echo chamber.

But what we do need to do is realize that engagement and uncritical absorption aren’t the same thing. Sifting everything through the filters of Scripture is different from taking in cultural ideas and then attempting to make Scripture fit the popular narrative.

So the question must be, “What is influencing you?” More importantly, which voices have been given the authority to shape the way you understand what is true? If Scripture is simply one voice among many, or if we continually allow other voices to reinterpret Scripture for us, we shouldn’t be surprised when our thinking begins to drift.

Remember, we are always being formed. If we aren’t guarding our hearts by carefully evaluating what voices we listen to and what resources we expose ourselves to, then we will be moved by the current instead of impacting the current.

So, guard your heart. Be picky about who and what influences you. Pay attention to the voices you repeatedly allow into your life, and learn to evaluate what they are teaching you against the truth of Scripture.

After all, Proverbs tells us to guard the heart for a reason. What enters there does not stay there. Eventually, it flows downstream.

On April 2nd, Action Church of Ball Ground, GA, posted an Easter promotion that included the Playboy bunny and the slogan, “Get some Action this Easter.”

The case for what is “right” and what is “wrong” has become more difficult to make. What was once considered fringe and taboo has made its way into the political arena and into our churches. Where pastors once pointed out similarities to worldliness, we now seem to bring the world’s symbols right into our intentionally provocative marketing strategies.

But why not?

The rebuttal to what I’m about to say is a line that is difficult to argue with: “Who are you to say what is right and wrong?” Another popular line is, “That may be true for you, but it isn’t for me.” That’s what makes what is happening in our culture so dangerous and why it is more important than ever that churches understand where these ideas come from and why they matter so much.

How Did We Get Here?

We didn’t arrive here randomly.

We can see that all the way back to ancient Greece, philosophers spent centuries asking the same fundamental question: What is truth, and where does it come from? Some looked to the cosmos, believing truth was embedded in the order of the universe. Others tried to uncover it through observation of nature and early forms of science. Still others turned inward, arguing that truth was something each person determined for themselves. And while many of them proposed interesting ideas, they never arrived at a clear, unified answer. They circled the question, pushed its limits, and offered theories. In the end, they all ran up against the same wall: they could not definitively explain the true source of truth.

What we can learn from them is this: the claims of what we now call postmodernism are not new. The idea of truth as a social construct has been developing for over 2,000 years. But since the mid-twentieth century, it’s as if the point of the pencil has been sharpened. Philosophers and intellectuals have done more in the last seventy-five years to formalize and advance what we now call postmodernism than at any other point in history.

To understand postmodernism, we need to recognize that it didn’t begin as a rebellion, but as disillusionment. It was born in the aftermath of a world that had placed so much confidence in reason, progress, and human capability, only to watch those very tools produce unprecedented destruction.

The same societies that championed enlightenment and advancement plunged into world wars, mass genocide, and the creation of weapons capable of annihilation on a global scale. In the wake of that collapse, many began to question whether truth, reason, and progress could be trusted at all. Postmodernism didn’t emerge as a defiant rejection of truth, but rather a deep skepticism shaped by disappointment and a loss of confidence in the very foundations that once promised certainty.

The Enlightenment, which existed in the 17th and 18th centuries, ushered in a new kind of confidence. Reason was no longer just a tool, but it became the foundation for ideas. If humanity could think clearly enough, observe enough, and apply knowledge consistently enough, then progress was inevitable. Science would advance. Society would improve. The future would be brighter than the past.

The idea was this: no longer was everyone looking to inherited ideas or even religion, but to human reasoning and discovery. Enlightenment thinkers believed that through observation and experimentation, truth could be discerned. They believed that authority should be questioned and put to the test in order for progress to occur. Thus, people began to question monarchs and the control of the church, which led to political reforms and revolutions.

Not all Enlightenment thinking was bad. Because of people like John Locke and Voltaire, ideas like natural rights and free speech, along with religious tolerance, were being advanced. Our modern democracies were born out of these ideas. Literacy, education, and public debate were advanced. However, the elevation of reason often led to a questioning of faith and set the stage for later reactions like postmodern skepticism about reason itself.

But the twentieth century exposed a fracture in Enlightenment confidence. The same world that believed in progress built gas chambers. The same reason that promised clarity engineered destruction. The systems that were supposed to elevate humanity were used to dehumanize it. Nations with the highest levels of education, innovation, and organization carried out some of the most devastating acts in human history.

This wasn’t a failure of ignorance, but a failure of trust in the very things people believed would save them. Reason didn’t prevent evil, and progress didn’t purify humanity. Knowledge didn’t produce wisdom, either. And in the aftermath of two world wars, mass genocide, and the looming threat of total annihilation, many began to ask a different question—not just what is true, but can truth even be trusted at all?

Postmodernism, at its core, is not the denial that truth exists, but a deep skepticism about whether it can be known in any objective or universal way. It shifts the question from What is true? to Who decides what is true?

In this way of thinking, truth is no longer something to be discovered; it is something that is shaped. It is shaped by culture, by language, and most importantly, by power. What a society calls “truth” is often understood not as an accurate reflection of reality, but as a system that has been constructed and upheld by those who benefit from it.

Because of this, postmodernism places a strong emphasis on examining the structures beneath our beliefs. It asks questions like: Who does this idea benefit? Whose voice is being elevated? Whose voice is being silenced? Knowledge itself is viewed with suspicion, not because knowing is impossible, but because knowing is never neutral.

This also means that language is no longer seen as a simple tool for describing reality, but as something that actively shapes reality. The words we use, the categories we create, and the narratives we tell all contribute to how truth is formed and understood within a given culture.

As a result, universal truth claims begin to break down. If all knowledge is shaped by perspective, then no single perspective can claim authority over another. Truth becomes local, personal, and fluid rather than fixed and universal.

Over time, this way of thinking moved beyond observation into action. If truth and systems are shaped by power, then changing those systems of power, especially through language, education, and cultural influence, becomes a way of reshaping reality itself. The goal is no longer to understand the world, but to transform it.

In the end, postmodernism reframes reality through three primary lenses: perspective, power, and language. It does not begin by asking what is true, but by asking who is speaking, who is benefiting, and what structures are being reinforced.

If truth is not neutral, then it raises a deeper question: who has the power to define it? What is accepted as fact, what is considered right or wrong, and what is taught or reinforced is not seen as neutral, but as the result of systems shaped by those in positions of authority. In this, truth is not simply discovered; it is established and maintained through power. What a culture calls “truth” is often understood as a reflection of who has the influence to define it.

This way of thinking did not emerge in a vacuum. It was shaped by the events of the twentieth century. The same systems that claimed to advance humanity, governments, scientific institutions, and educated societies, were also responsible for some of the greatest atrocities in human history.

Nations with the highest levels of knowledge and organization carried out genocide. Scientific advancement led not only to medical breakthroughs but also to weapons of mass destruction. For many, this was not just a failure of people, but a failure of the systems themselves. Power, they concluded, had been used to dominate, to control, and to destroy. It was not something to be trusted.

Because of this, postmodern thought does not simply question power, but it seeks to expose and, in many cases, reverse it. If truth has been shaped by those in power, then those systems must be challenged, dismantled, and restructured. The goal is no longer just to understand reality, but to change it by elevating voices that have been marginalized and questioning long-accepted structures. What began as an analysis of power has become a framework for reordering society itself.

The idea of “questioning everything” was not intended to reshape thinking only, but to reshape culture itself. Initially, these ideas took on an almost playful character, intended to disrupt what were seen as unjust systems of power. Early postmodern thinkers often focused on exposing assumptions, reversing hierarchies, and challenging the structures that had long been accepted without question.

But over time, something began to shift.

If truth is not neutral, and if systems of power shape knowledge, then those systems are not merely mistaken; they are unjust. And if they are unjust, then simply observing them is not enough. They must be confronted and dismantled.

What began as a philosophical critique slowly became a moral framework.

The focus moved from asking Is this true? to asking Who does this benefit? And once that shift takes place, truth is no longer the primary concern—justice is. Not justice as something grounded in an objective standard, but justice as something defined by the reordering of power itself.

In this way, the emphasis on power naturally gave rise to a deeper concern for those seen as marginalized or oppressed. If those in authority have shaped systems of knowledge and truth, then it follows that those without power have been excluded, silenced, or misrepresented. Elevating those voices, then, becomes not just an act of compassion but an act of correction.

As time went on, this shift became more pronounced. What began as an attempt to question and critique systems developed into a more defined effort to reshape them. The goal was no longer to understand how power operates, but to redistribute that power, particularly in ways that would challenge long-standing hierarchies and elevate those who had historically been pushed to the margins.

So, they were less concerned with objective truth and more concerned with issues of social justice. The question was no longer, What is true? but what must be changed?

Postmodernism in Education

Ideas like these don’t stay confined to books and lecture halls. If they are going to reshape culture, they have to be passed on. And one of the primary ways this happens is through education.

It is easy to look back on schools and education with nostalgia, but those days are long gone. A postmodern thread has been woven into the system, from those who develop these ideas theoretically to those who actively put them into practice.

One of the most prolific writers and lecturers in modern universities on the subject of activism in education is a man named Henry Giroux. In the introduction to his colleague’s book, he wrote, “In the traditional worldview, schools were considered merely instructional sites. That schools were also cultural and political sites was ignored, as was the notion that they represented areas of contention among differently empowered cultural and economic groups.”

Paulo Friere was a Marxist educator in Brazil who wrote extensively on incorporating ideology into education. His books have impacted nearly every secularly educated teacher or professor. Friere believed in a utopian society that could only be brought about with a changing of people’s minds. To Friere, people were unaware of their oppression, and the educational system was the means to make it known to them.

Many years later, these ideas of identity and oppression have made their way from the institutions of higher learning through critical theory studies all the way down to the lower levels of education through programs like social and emotional learning. Postmodernism has infiltrated not only as an academic study, but has, in fact, become exactly what men like Friere wanted—activists educated in their own perceived oppression.

Postmodernism in the Church

I recently ran across a social media influencer who claims she is a Bible scholar. Here is what one of her posts read: “I am a Christian and I have a high view of Scripture. And I fully support lgbtq+, pro-Palestine, pro-choice, leftism, feminism, socialism, gun reform, prison reform, and defunding the military.” I’m not saying every one of those positions is completely wrong, but several of them stand in direct tension with historic Christian teaching. She is holding perceived “theological” viewpoints that she really believes are in line with Scripture. However, two thousand years of church history and scholarly study of Scripture would disagree with so much of what she claims to believe.

Apparently, she is a new kind of scholar; a scholar who can simply read all of her personal beliefs into the Bible. But why not? Why are all of the theologians of the past wrong and she right? Who’s to say? In a postmodern worldview, Christianity has just been used to hold down the oppressed, right?

On what has come to be known as the International Day of Trans Visibility, Bishop Yehiel Curry of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA) made a statement regarding trans youth in which he stated it was “a time dedicated to celebrating the lives, gifts and contributions of transgender people, while also recognizing their ongoing struggle for safety, dignity and justice.”

The actual truth is that in the 21st century, seminaries and churches have often fallen to the language and knowledge of postmodernism. The work they have done to impact a culture is paying off. We have church leaders in mainline denominations unwilling to stand against that which the Bible clearly stands against.

Here’s the thing, though, I actually believe many of these people mean well. Part of postmodernism’s goal is to stand against real abuses of power. It challenges blind trust in institutions. It tries to ask important questions and search for the hard answers.

When the church turns from its biblical foundation, whether in belief, in teaching, or in practice, we have already begun to drift.

Truth has become optional, even in the church. We don’t find authority in Scripture, but in the self. It’s okay to have “your” version of Christianity; just let me have mine. Theology and Scripture are being removed from the pedestal and placed on the same level as philosophical thought.

In many places, preaching has drifted toward motivation rather than proclamation. Congregants want to laugh and feel good. No one wants to press too hard into Scripture, or the Holy Spirit might show up and convict. This is what the Bible predicted when it said we would gather to ourselves “teachers to suit their own passions.”

This is the current we are in. These ideas didn’t begin in our churches, but they have made their way down the tributaries of past ideas into them. And if we don’t understand where they came from, we will continue to drift further downstream without even realizing it.

There probably wasn’t a moment when you sat down and consciously decided what a successful life should look like. No one handed you a questionnaire and asked you to define what makes a person happy, what freedom means, or what kind of person deserves your admiration.

Most of those ideas developed much more quietly.

You watched. You listened. You experienced. You heard the same messages again and again. Ideas came from your parents, teachers, and friends. Some came from churches. Others came through movies, music, advertising, news, politics, and an endless stream of content on your phone.

Over time, those messages began shaping the way you see the world because formation usually isn’t an event. It’s a current.

And whether we realize it or not, everyone is being formed.

Formation Happens Slowly

When we think about someone changing what they believe, we often imagine an argument. Someone presents an idea. We consider the evidence. We weigh the alternatives. Eventually, we decide whether we agree.

Sometimes that happens. But much of what forms us actually happens gradually. An idea enters our world. At first, it might seem strange. Maybe even obviously wrong. But then we encounter it again. And again. And again. Something begins to happen.

The Shift

I think the process often looks something like this: Exposure → Familiarity → Plausibility → Belief → Instinct

It begins with exposure.

We encounter an idea through a television show or a classroom. Perhaps a friend believes it. A politician repeats it. An influencer builds an entire platform around it.

At this stage, we may not even agree with the idea, but we’ve encountered it.

Then comes familiarity.

We hear the idea again. Then again. Eventually, it doesn’t sound nearly as strange as it did the first time.

This matters because human beings naturally become more comfortable with ideas that become familiar. Familiarity isn’t the same thing as truth, but familiar ideas often feel less threatening than unfamiliar ones.

And familiarity can gradually lead to plausibility.

The question subtly changes. We stop asking: How could anyone believe that?

We begin asking: Could that actually be true?

The idea hasn’t necessarily become more reasonable. We may not have encountered better arguments or discovered new evidence. We’ve lived around it long enough that it now feels possible.

Plausibility can eventually become belief.

The idea that once seemed strange now seems reasonable. The idea that seemed reasonable eventually seems obvious. And when a belief becomes deeply embedded enough, it becomes something even more powerful:

Instinct.

At that point, we don’t consciously reason our way toward the conclusion anymore.

We just know. Or at least we feel like we do because the belief has moved beneath the surface. It has become part of the lens through which we interpret everything else.

That’s formation.

When Ideas Stop Feeling Like Ideas

This is why the most powerful ideas in a culture often don’t feel like ideas at all. They feel like common sense.

Consider words like freedom, identity, justice, authenticity, success, or happiness. We use these words constantly, but they each carry assumptions.

What does it mean to be free?

Does freedom mean having no external restraints? Does it mean having the ability to do whatever I desire? Or could genuine freedom sometimes require restraint?

What determines my identity?

Is my identity something I create? Something I discover within myself? Something given to me by my relationships? Or something received from the God who created me?

What makes a life successful?

Money? Influence? Comfort? Achievement? Faithfulness?

Those questions aren’t answered in a vacuum. Long before we consciously think about them, we’ve been surrounded by stories offering answers.

And stories form us. Advertising tells us what a good life looks like. Entertainment teaches us what relationships should look like. Social media teaches us what deserves attention. Political movements teach us who the heroes and villains are. Algorithms learn what keeps us watching and give us more of it.

None of this means every movie, advertisement, political idea, or social-media post is intentionally trying to indoctrinate us.

It doesn’t have to be.

Formation doesn’t require a conspiracy. It only requires consistency.

Christians Are Being Formed Too

Christians aren’t immune to this. Sometimes we act as though believing the right things protects us from being shaped by everything around us, but it doesn’t.

Paul writes in Romans 12:2:

Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind…

That warning only makes sense if conformity is possible, and apparently it is possible for people who belong to Christ.

We can affirm biblical truth while slowly developing instincts shaped by something else. We can believe that our identity is found in Christ while instinctively measuring our worth by achievement. We can believe that money cannot satisfy while organizing our lives around acquiring more of it. We can believe that every person bears God’s image while allowing a political tribe to teach us which people deserve our contempt. We can believe that Scripture is authoritative while instinctively trusting our feelings whenever Scripture contradicts them.

That’s why Christian discipleship cannot simply be about giving people correct information. Information matters enormously, but information alone doesn’t overcome formation.

If the world around us is forming our loves, desires, assumptions, and instincts throughout the week, an hour of Christian information on Sunday morning cannot be the entirety of our discipleship. We need something deeper. We need Christian formation.

The Answer

The answer isn’t to panic about culture. It isn’t to move into the woods, throw away our phones, and attempt to avoid every idea we disagree with.

Nor is the answer simply to identify everything happening around us and do the opposite, because reaction can form us too.

The Christian answer is intentional discipleship.

Scripture forms our minds. Prayer forms dependence. Worship forms our loves. Generosity forms contentment. Christian community forms our relationships.

The practices of the Christian life repeatedly place us in a different current, not so that we can earn God’s favor, but because God uses ordinary means to shape His people by grace.

Slowly. Repeatedly. Often imperceptibly.

Until truth becomes more than something we affirm.

It begins shaping our instincts. And perhaps that’s one of the most important questions Christians can ask in our cultural moment.

Not simply: What do I believe?

But: What is forming me?

What receives my attention? What stories am I repeatedly consuming? What voices have become most authoritative in my life? What ideas once seemed strange but now seem obvious? And when my instincts collide with Scripture, which one am I most likely to question?

Because everyone is being formed. The question is whether we’re paying attention to how.

The streets are full. Schools are open. Families still gather around dinner tables. People still speak of justice, kindness, equality, and human dignity. Laws still exist. Churches still stand.

But then someone quietly asks a question no one has asked in generations:

Why?

Why should people matter?

Why should the weak be protected?

Why should sacrifice be admired?

Why should truth be preferred over power?

And suddenly you realize something unsettling.

No one remembers.

The language remains, but the foundation beneath it has begun to disappear.

Like a city built over hollowed earth, everything still appears stable until the first cracks begin to spread.

Few thinkers articulated this growing crisis more clearly than Friedrich Nietzsche. Although he did not create the current that was reshaping Western thought, he became one of its earliest and most perceptive observers. Long before postmodernism questioned truth, Nietzsche was already asking what would happen to a civilization that no longer believed in the God who had once given its morality coherence.

The Pastor’s Son

Friedrich Nietzsche was born in 1844 into a Lutheran home in Prussia. His father was a pastor. His grandfather had also been a pastor. His earliest years were shaped by church life, Scripture, and the rhythms of Christian worship.

Then tragedy struck.

His father died when Nietzsche was only four years old. He was raised largely by his mother, grandmother, and aunts in a religious household.

Few people looking at the young Nietzsche would have predicted that he would become one of Christianity’s fiercest critics.

It would be tempting to view Nietzsche as a lone philosopher who rejected the faith of his childhood. But that would misunderstand both the man and his moment in history.

Ideas don’t emerge in a vacuum. Philosophers are shaped by the questions their generation is asking, the institutions they inherit, and the cultural currents surrounding them. Nietzsche was no exception. While his own intellectual journey led him to challenge the foundations of Christianity, he was also writing during one of the most significant periods of upheaval in Western history. The world around him was changing rapidly, and many of the assumptions that had quietly held Western civilization together for centuries were already beginning to loosen.

To understand why Nietzsche’s questions resonated so deeply, we must first understand the world in which he asked them.

A Century of Upheaval

Friedrich Nietzsche was not writing into a world that looked much like the one his grandparents had known.

The nineteenth century was one of the most transformative periods in Western history. Nearly every institution that had long provided stability (family, church, government, science, education, and even humanity’s understanding of itself) was being challenged or rapidly reshaped. Discoveries, new technologies, and new philosophies were altering not only how people lived, but how they understood reality itself.

For centuries, Western civilization had largely assumed that Christianity provided the framework through which life was interpreted. Questions of morality, purpose, identity, and human dignity were typically answered within a broadly Christian worldview. But by the late nineteenth century, confidence in those inherited assumptions had begun to weaken among many of Europe’s intellectuals. It was into this rapidly changing world that Nietzsche began asking some of the most unsettling philosophical questions of his age.

The Industrial Revolution

The Industrial Revolution dramatically transformed everyday life. Rural farming communities gave way to expanding cities. Families that had lived for generations in close-knit villages increasingly found themselves working in factories among strangers. Work became more specialized, more efficient, and often more impersonal.

These changes brought undeniable benefits. Technology improved production, transportation connected distant places, and standards of living rose for many people. Yet something else quietly changed as well. Traditional communities that had once reinforced shared beliefs and moral expectations began to weaken. People who had once lived within stable social structures increasingly found themselves navigating a rapidly changing world where old customs carried less authority.

As society became more industrialized, people also became more accustomed to viewing the world through the lens of efficiency, productivity, and progress. Confidence grew that human ingenuity could solve nearly every problem. The modern world seemed increasingly capable of building its own future.

Darwin and a New Understanding of Humanity

In 1859, Charles Darwin published On the Origin of Species, introducing his theory of evolution by natural selection. Although Darwin’s work addressed biological development rather than philosophy or ethics, its cultural impact reached far beyond science.

Many readers concluded that humanity itself could now be understood primarily through natural processes rather than divine creation. Questions that had once been answered by theology increasingly became questions for biology, geology, and anthropology.

It is important to note that Darwin himself did not argue that morality was meaningless or that God necessarily did not exist. Nevertheless, many thinkers used evolutionary theory to challenge traditional Christian explanations of human origins and purpose. If humanity could be explained without reference to a Creator, many wondered whether other aspects of Christian belief might also be unnecessary.

Whether those conclusions were justified or not, Darwin’s work accelerated a growing confidence that science might eventually explain what religion once had.

Rapid Scientific Advancement

The nineteenth century witnessed astonishing advances in medicine, chemistry, physics, engineering, and technology. Railroads connected nations. Telegraphs allowed communication across continents. Diseases that had once seemed mysterious increasingly yielded to scientific investigation.

Each discovery reinforced a growing confidence in human reason. Science had demonstrated an extraordinary ability to explain the physical world, and many intellectuals began wondering whether reason alone might eventually explain every aspect of human existence.

This confidence was not entirely misplaced. Scientific inquiry had genuinely improved countless lives. Yet for some thinkers, the success of science encouraged an assumption that only what could be observed, measured, or tested deserved to be considered true. Questions of meaning, morality, and purpose increasingly found themselves pushed to the margins of intellectual life.

Higher Criticism of Scripture

At the same time, the Bible itself became the subject of new forms of academic investigation. Scholars in Germany and elsewhere began applying historical and literary methods to Scripture, asking questions about authorship, sources, dates, and editorial development.

Many of these scholarly tools provided valuable historical insights. Others, however, approached the Bible with assumptions that treated it primarily as a human document rather than divine revelation. Miracles were questioned. Traditional authorship was challenged. Biblical authority increasingly became a matter of academic debate.

The result was not that Christianity disappeared, but that confidence in Scripture began to erode within many universities and among portions of Europe’s educated elite. Questions once settled by biblical authority increasingly became subjects of scholarly dispute.

Declining Confidence in Traditional Institutions

These intellectual changes did not occur in isolation. Confidence in long-standing institutions also began to weaken.

The church no longer held the unquestioned authority it once possessed. Governments faced increasing criticism. Universities became centers for new philosophical movements. Traditional social structures that had guided European life for centuries came under growing scrutiny.

Inherited authority increasingly gave way to individual inquiry. Rather than asking, “What have we received?” many people began asking, “What can we justify for ourselves?”

This shift did not immediately destroy traditional beliefs. Instead, it gradually changed where people looked for authority. Confidence slowly moved away from external institutions and toward the individual thinker.

The River Begins to Bend

By the time Nietzsche began writing, Europe was already changing. Scientific discovery, industrial progress, biblical criticism, and shifting social structures had combined to create an intellectual climate in which inherited Christian assumptions no longer seemed unquestionable to many educated Europeans.

Nietzsche did not create this climate.

He entered it.

The river does not change course all at once. It bends gradually, often so gradually that those standing on its banks scarcely notice. Looking back, however, the change in direction becomes unmistakable.

And rather than asking whether Christianity was merely true or false, he asked a more unsettling question: If Western civilization no longer believes the Christian story that shaped its morality, what will become of the morality that story produced?

That question would echo far beyond Nietzsche’s own lifetime. In many ways, the philosophical river had already begun to bend.

Nietzsche was not the first atheist.

Neither was he the first philosopher to criticize Christianity. Skepticism toward religion had existed for centuries, and many before him had questioned God’s existence or challenged the authority of the church.

What made Nietzsche different was not simply his rejection of Christianity. It was that he recognized a consequence many others seemed unwilling to face.

He believed Western civilization was attempting to keep Christianity’s moral vision while quietly abandoning Christianity’s God.

In Nietzsche’s mind, this was impossible.

A civilization might continue speaking the language of compassion, justice, equality, sacrifice, and human dignity for a time. Those ideas had been woven into the fabric of Western culture for centuries. But eventually, someone would ask a question that could no longer be ignored:

Why?

Why should compassion be considered good?

Why should every human being possess equal worth?

Why should justice matter?

Why should anyone sacrifice for another person?

For Nietzsche, these were not merely religious questions. They were philosophical ones. If God no longer serves as the ultimate source of truth and morality, then every civilization must eventually answer a difficult question:

Where do moral values come from?

That question became the great intellectual crisis of the modern West.

Nietzsche did not believe morality would disappear overnight. Rather, he believed that once its transcendent foundation had been removed, each generation would be forced to search for a new one. Some would look to reason. Others in science. Others to culture, politics, psychology, or the individual self. But everyone, whether they realized it or not, would still be searching for something capable of answering humanity’s oldest questions.

Nietzsche did not answer this question to everyone’s satisfaction. But he asked it so clearly that every major intellectual movement that followed would, in one way or another, attempt to answer it.

Friedrich Nietzsche believed he was living in the midst of that search. He looked at the Western world and concluded that it had not yet grasped the consequences of abandoning the God who had long served as its moral center. It was this conviction that gave rise to one of the most famous and most misunderstood passages in all of philosophy.

In The Gay Science, published in 1882, Nietzsche tells the story of a madman running into the marketplace carrying a lantern in broad daylight, searching for God. To the amusement of the crowd, he cries:

“‘Whither is God?’ he cried; ‘I will tell you. We have killed him—you and I. All of us are his murderers… God is dead! God remains dead! And we have killed him!’”

This was not a shout of triumph for Nietzsche, but his diagnosis of what he believed had already taken place within the spiritual and philosophical life of Western civilization. He believed that while the Western world had long operated from a shared moral vision rooted in Christianity, it was increasingly abandoning the very foundation that had once sustained it.

Where God had once functioned as the grounding point for morality, identity, and meaning, this new Western world was beginning to fracture under new questions and competing visions of truth.

Nietzsche believed we were continuing to speak Christian moral language while slowly ceasing to believe Christian claims.

For centuries, Western morality had assumed things such as: human beings possess inherent dignity, compassion is virtuous, sacrifice is noble, truth exists, the weak should be protected, and justice matters.

Nietzsche asked:

Why?

Not emotionally. Not traditionally. But philosophically.

Why should any of those things be true?

His criticism was that modern people wanted Christian morality while abandoning the Christian foundation beneath it.

In other words, people wanted the fruit while cutting down the tree.

But Nietzsche understood something significant: If God is removed from the center, morality does not immediately disappear.

Eventually, however, someone begins asking where values come from. And if the structure that once supplied a shared moral vision is removed, what will take its place?

From the late 19th century into the 20th century, the West found itself in a crisis of morality. If morality was no longer rooted in God, where was it rooted? Reason? Culture? Majority opinion? Personal preference? The list could go on. And could society actually agree on where morality was rooted?

The struggle for Nietzsche was that for any other basis of morality, other questions would also arise.

Christians have historically answered Nietzsche’s question very differently. Christianity roots morality not in human opinion, social consensus, or personal preference, but in the character of God Himself. Goodness is not arbitrary, nor is it merely the product of divine commands. God not only decides what is good; His holy character is the eternal standard by which goodness itself is measured.

But what happens when that foundation is removed? Nietzsche believed every alternative would eventually face difficult questions of its own.

If morality were to be founded in reason, whose understanding of reason? If it were founded in culture, which culture? If it rested on majority opinion, then why shouldn’t the majority oppress the minority? Personal preference, then? What happens when opposing moral visions collide? Why should my preferences outweigh yours, or yours outweigh mine?

To his credit, Nietzsche recognized these questions long before most others did.

As confidence in transcendent moral foundations weakened, it created countless complications. And once morality is detached from transcendence, ordinary assumptions begin to feel less obvious. Questions that once seemed settled suddenly require explanation.

Consider just a few examples.

Why Should Sacrifice Be Considered Good?

At first glance, sacrifice seems obviously virtuous. Parents sacrifice for their children. Soldiers sacrifice for their country. Friends sacrifice for one another.

We celebrate stories of people who endure hardship for the sake of others and instinctively call those actions noble.

But pause for a moment and ask a deeper question: Why?

Why should giving away comfort be considered better than keeping it? Why should suffering for another person be praised rather than avoided? Why should laying down your life be considered honorable instead of irrational?

From a purely self-interested perspective, sacrifice appears inefficient.

If survival, comfort, and personal fulfillment are the highest goals, then self-denial begins to look unnecessary and even foolish.

Yet, we consistently admire people who choose others over themselves.

Why?

Christianity answered that question with remarkable clarity. Sacrifice is good because reality itself is rooted in self-giving love.

At the center of Christianity is not merely a set of rules but a Person. Jesus Christ did not remain distant from suffering. He entered into it willingly and on purpose. He gave Himself. He served. He suffered. He laid down His life.

Christianity did not invent sacrifice, but it elevated sacrificial love into the highest expression of goodness because Christians believed this reflected the very character of God.

Jesus said: “Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends.”

Sacrifice, then, is not merely useful. It is beautiful. It is not merely pragmatic. It is moral. And it is not moral because it produces desirable outcomes. It is moral because it reflects ultimate reality.

But Nietzsche’s question still presses against modern assumptions.

If God is removed from the center…

If morality becomes preference…

If meaning becomes self-created…

Then why should sacrifice remain good? Why should I give up what I want for what you want? Why should your flourishing matter more than mine? Why should suffering for another person be admired instead of avoided?

Alternative answers certainly emerge: social contract, evolutionary cooperation, human flourishing, for example. But notice what has changed.

Sacrifice is no longer rooted in transcendence. It becomes negotiated. Functional. Conditional. And once sacrifice becomes untethered from something higher than the self, the question slowly returns: What obligates me to choose you over myself?

Why Should Equality Matter?

Equality feels obvious to us. So obvious, in fact, that most of us rarely stop to ask where the idea came from.

We assume people possess equal worth. We instinctively recoil at injustice. We speak naturally about human rights, dignity, fairness, and equal treatment. But beneath those convictions lies a deeper question: Why?

Why should all people possess equal worth? Why should one human life matter as much as another?

Nature itself appears unequal. Strength varies. Ability varies. Intelligence varies. Resources vary. Opportunity varies.

If value is determined by what a person contributes, produces, achieves, or possesses, then equality becomes difficult to defend consistently.

History offers plenty of examples of societies built upon precisely that conclusion. The strong ruled. The capable advanced. The vulnerable were overlooked. Entire social systems were often structured around hierarchy rather than equality.

Yet over time, Western civilization increasingly came to affirm something radically different: Human beings possess value that exists prior to achievement.

Why?

Historically, one of Christianity’s most distinctive contributions was not the observation that people differ. It was the claim that those differences do not determine human worth.

Human beings matter because they bear the image of God. Value is not earned, but it is bestowed.

That means the elderly matter. Children, the disabled, the poor, and the weak matter. The successful and unsuccessful stand on equal ground with respect to human dignity.

Equality, in this framework, is not sameness. People differ in gifts, roles, responsibilities, and outcomes. But their worth remains equal because their value comes from outside themselves.

This created a profound moral shift.

Human dignity became rooted not in ability, but in identity. Not in accomplishment, but creation. Not in usefulness, but personhood.

This is where Nietzsche’s question becomes difficult to ignore. If human value is no longer grounded in something transcendent, and if dignity is not received but constructed, then what remains to secure equality?

Why should all people possess equal worth?

Because society agrees? What happens when society disagrees?

Because individuals declare it? What happens when competing definitions emerge?

Because equality produces good outcomes? What happens when unequal treatment appears more efficient?

If human worth is not given, then who decides its value? And on what authority?

Why Should Compassion Be Moral?

Compassion is one of the few virtues that almost everyone still celebrates. We admire kindness and applaud generosity. We praise people who care for the hurting, and we tell children to include the lonely. We donate to causes and organize relief efforts. We instinctively celebrate those who give their time and resources to help people they may never even meet.

But beneath all of that sits the same question: Why?

Why should compassion be considered moral? Why should we protect the weak? Why serve people who can’t repay us? Why care for strangers? Why should someone else’s suffering become my concern?

At first glance, compassion feels self-evident. But historically, it has not always been.

Many civilizations admired strength more than mercy and power more than gentleness. The vulnerable were often tolerated, ignored, or viewed primarily through usefulness.

Compassion existed, but it was not always elevated as a central moral virtue.

Christianity introduced something distinctive. It taught that human beings do not possess value because they are productive, but that they possess value because they are created by God.

The poor, the sick, the outsider, the child, the elderly, the forgotten, and the person who can give nothing back all bear dignity bestowed by God

Christian compassion was not built merely upon emotion. It was built upon theology.

Jesus did not merely command compassion: He embodied it.

He moved toward the weak. He touched the unclean and welcomed children.

He ate with outsiders and cared for people who offered no advantage in return.

The Christian vision became:

Love your neighbor, the stranger, and your enemy.

Don’t love them because they earned it or deserve it, but because people carry value independent of utility.

That changes compassion. Compassion is no longer sentiment because it becomes an obligation.

It’s not that “I feel moved to care,“ but that “I ought to care.”

This is where Nietzsche’s question presses again.

If human value is no longer objective, and if dignity is not bestowed, and if morality becomes self-created, then why should compassion remain binding?

Why prioritize weakness or help those who cannot benefit you?

Why choose inconvenience over self-interest?

Again, Christianity offered something different.

It claimed compassion is not merely effective, but that it’s right.

People aren’t valuable only when they become useful.

People are valuable because they are made in the image of God.

And once compassion becomes detached from objective human worth, it becomes increasingly difficult to explain why anyone is morally required to care at all.

The Downstream Effect

Nietzsche didn’t create postmodernism. Nor did he invent identity politics. He couldn’t foresee social media.

What Nietzsche did was expose a tension in thinking that later generations inherited. His questions lingered.

If truth becomes uncertain, or if morality becomes self-created, or if identity becomes self-defined, then society must answer a difficult question: What unites us?

For centuries, Western civilization had largely assumed that people shared something beyond preference. Truth existed outside the self. Morality existed outside the self. Human dignity existed outside the self.

Meaning was discovered more than invented. But what happens when that center no longer holds?

If person A creates values and person B creates values, on what basis can either claim the other ought to change?

If your identity comes from within, and my identity comes from within, our visions may collide. Then what?

If morality becomes personal, on what basis do we resolve conflict? Whose values should prevail? The strongest? The majority? The loudest? The most persuasive? The most wounded? The most powerful?

These are not merely political questions, but philosophical questions. And they become unavoidable once objective foundations begin to erode.

This is not to say that people stopped believing. Human beings rarely live without belief. We still seek meaning and identity. We still long for morality and pursue transcendence.

The question is not whether people believe, but where they look to find something worthy of belief.

Nietzsche’s generation increasingly looked inward. And once meaning begins moving inward, the individual becomes the new center.

Meaning, identity, and morality become self-created, self-defined, and personalized.

This helps explain why modern moral conflict increasingly feels irresolvable. If every person becomes their own source of truth, society increasingly becomes a competition between moral visions rather than a community shaped by shared moral foundations.

This became one of the defining tensions of modern thought. Not because people rejected meaning, but because they began searching for a new place to find it. And into that uncertainty stepped a new generation of thinkers.

Some searched in the unconscious. Some searched in psychology. Some searched in structures of power. Some searched in the self.

The river had not stopped flowing; it had simply begun changing direction.

And if I’m honest, it’s shaken me more than I want to admit.

People say the best writing comes from both the head and the heart. If you lack the head, your writing lacks understanding. If you lack heart, it lacks depth. Lean too far either way, and you end up with academic boredom or emotional nonsense.

Right now, I’m definitely writing from the heart.

These past few weeks have been some of the most challenging of my life. I have wept. I have prayed. I have struggled. I have worshipped. I have lost hope and then found it again.

I would love to tell you I walked closely with Jesus through all of it. Sometimes I did. Other times, I didn’t.

My son is 16. I won’t share every detail, but I will say this: recently, there have been moments I never expected as a dad.

Everything in me wants to hide that. It’s easier to let people believe I’m a great dad with great kids who never struggle.

But that’s not true.

Being a good dad has always been my goal. And yet, I’ve failed more times than I can count.

For 16 years, I’ve tried to show my son Jesus. Sometimes I’ve done that well; other times, not so much.

I know my son is responsible for his own choices. But if you’re a parent, you know how this works. When your child struggles, it’s almost impossible not to feel like you did something wrong or could have done something better.

You fight the urge to give up. You fight the temptation to just shut down, crawl into bed, and hope it all magically fixes itself.

But then, last night, we sat on the back porch and talked for over an hour.

It was one of the best conversations we’ve had in a long time. He was kind. Open. Soft in a way I haven’t seen in a while.

Maybe we turned a corner. Maybe not fully. But it gave me hope.

And in that moment, I was reminded of four truths I’m holding onto right now:

God designed my family according to His perfect will.

This isn’t random. God knew exactly what He was doing when He placed my son in my life and me in his. He is teaching me through this. And by His grace, He is teaching my son too.

God knew I would be a sinful dad, yet entrusted me with this anyway.

God isn’t surprised by my failures. He has no regrets about putting us in the same family. He knew who I would be, how I would struggle, and He still chose this. He still delights in His plan.

God loves my son infinitely more than I ever could.

No matter what has been said or done, Jesus went to the cross for him. God saw every moment of this before it ever happened and still made a way for redemption. He is not caught off guard. He is not wringing His hands. He loves my son more than I can comprehend.

My son belongs to God.

At the end of the day, my son is not mine to control; he is mine to steward. His life, his growth, and his heart ultimately belong to the Lord. And because of that, I can trust that God will work in ways I never could.

I truly believe he’s going to be okay. Last night reminded me of that.

Does this mean I’m back to writing consistently? I don’t know. I love this space, and I’m grateful for those of you who reached out during my absence. It means more than you know.

Right now, my prayer is simple: that God would capture my son’s heart, strengthen our relationship, and help us move forward loving Him and loving each other.

So for now, I’m holding onto truth, praying for his heart, and trusting the God who loves my son more than I ever could.

One step at a time.

That’s not how it works. Drift is quiet. Subtle. Almost unnoticeable at first.

It’s more like falling asleep during a long drive. You don’t feel the danger right away. The road still looks familiar. The car is still moving. But slowly, you begin shifting ever so slightly closer to the rumble strip that snaps you out of it… hopefully.

Spiritually, the same thing is true.

Most people don’t walk away from God in rebellion. They drift away through neglect.

So how do you know if it’s happening?

Here are four signs to watch for.

You’ve Lost Your Appetite for God’s Word

You still believe the Bible is true. You’d defend it if someone challenged it. But you’re not opening it. Or when you do, it feels flat or forced. It’s as if you are checking a box instead of feeding your soul.

Jesus said that we don’t live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from God (Matthew 4:4). In other words, His Word isn’t optional; it’s essential.

So when your appetite for it disappears, something deeper is going on. You don’t lose hunger for no reason. You lose hunger when you’ve been filling up on something else.

Prayer Becomes Rare or Superficial

You haven’t necessarily quit praying. You just don’t find yourself doing it much anymore. And when you do, it’s quick. Surface-level. Mostly about what you need.

There’s little pause. Little listening. Little awareness that you’re actually talking to the God of the universe. Relationships don’t erode overnight. They erode through a lack of communication. And your relationship with God is no different.

Drift shows up when prayer becomes:

• Occasional instead of constant

• Rushed instead of relational

• Focused on requests instead of a connection

God didn’t move. You stopped drawing near.

Conviction Is Replaced with Justification

This one is easy to miss, and dangerous to ignore. Things that once bothered your conscience don’t hit the same anymore. Or worse, you’ve gotten really good at explaining them away:

“It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Everyone struggles with this.”
“God knows my heart.”

And He does.

But He also calls you to be transformed, not conformed (Romans 12:2). When you’re close to God, sin feels heavy. Not because you’re crushed by shame, but because your heart is sensitive. When you drift, that sensitivity dulls. Conviction fades. Excuses grow. And what once felt wrong starts to feel normal.

That’s not freedom. That’s drift.

You Lose Desire for God’s People and His Mission

You start to pull back.

Church becomes something you attend if it fits your schedule. Community feels more draining than life-giving. Spiritual conversations feel awkward or unnecessary. You’re still “in,” technically. But you’re not really engaged.

The writer of Hebrews warns us not to neglect meeting together, and not just for attendance, but for encouragement and growth (10:25).

God never designed you to follow Him alone.

So when you drift from Him, you almost always drift from His people and His mission, too. You stop showing up. You stop investing. You stop inviting. And over time, your faith becomes something private instead of something lived.

So What’s Really Going On?

Drift isn’t usually loud. It’s not rebellion. It’s not a dramatic exit. It’s slow neglect. It’s choosing everything else over time with God until one day you realize He’s no longer central in your life. You didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did.

The Good News

Drift can be reversed. You don’t need a dramatic restart. You don’t need to overhaul your entire life overnight. You just need to turn back. Open the Word again, even if it feels dry at first. Pray even if it feels awkward. Respond to conviction instead of explaining it away. Re-engage, even if it takes effort.

God hasn’t moved. He’s not waiting for you to clean yourself up. He’s ready to meet you the moment you turn back toward Him.

And the sooner you do, the sooner you’ll realize you were never meant to drift in the first place.

What began as a passing thought now feels like clarity. Confusion has turned into certainty. This new certainty has developed even before talking to his parents, his youth pastor, or a friend.

Social media is not just a new way of communicating. It’s not just a way of consuming content, because we are being formed by it. To believe that social media is a harmless distraction or a way for young people to stay connected is naive.

Understanding the influence of social media over young people, in particular, is critical for those of us tasked with generating gospel impact. Every platform is a tool of formation, not information. Young people are finding their identities, ideologies, and sense of belonging on these networks.

In her incredible book, Irreversible Damage, Abigail Schrier wrote about the “contagion” of transgenderism in young females. She writes, “It originates not in traditional gender dysphoria but in videos found on the internet. It represents mimicry inspired by internet gurus.”

Take the issue of transgenderism, for instance. What was once a minor issue only discussed in private or clinical settings is now a mainstream topic impacting culture at a rate never before seen. Part of the reason appears to be directly connected to the impact of social media. Dr. Lisa Littman, a physician researcher, performed a study in which she discovered that over 64% of the young females in her study who came out as transgender “exhibited an increase in their internet/social media.”

Dr. Littman also presented data highlighting what young people were finding about transgenderism online. These young people

But is it really that big of a deal? Look at the research gathered in this 2025 article from The Annie E. Casey Foundation:

So, they get online every day. What’s the big deal? The big deal isn’t that they are just getting online from time to time. A 2023 Gallup Poll stated that 51% of teenagers are spending an average of 4.8 hours every day on social media platforms.

With this level of immersion in these platforms, young people have their ideas, emotions, and identities affirmed regularly. And what is affirmed repeatedly begins to feel undeniably true.

I’m attempting to be very intentional about showing you the data rather than anecdotal evidence. Young people are being formed by social media, and the people doing the forming have their own best interests in mind, not the young people.

There are several aspects of social media forming cultural thinking you should be aware of.

On social media, identity is reinforced, not examined.

What social media does extraordinarily well is create community, a sense of belonging. It’s where anyone can find “my people.” No matter your preferences, perspectives, politics, or presuppositions, you can find a group of people on the internet who think just like you.

Often referred to as an “echo chamber,” we all have a tendency to socialize with those having similar opinions and perspectives. So, rather than challenging our belief systems, we are convinced all the more by those we trust that our ideas are right. That our ideas have been considered a mental illness for decades is irrelevant to us. We have found our tribe, and they support us.

All that we believe is validated. In fact, should anyone even dare to challenge our thinking, we will get our “crew” to go after them online and cancel them. Who needs their opinion anyway?

And if you look closely, you will see postmodernism at work again. Whether or not my ideas align with historically held absolutes does not matter. If truth comes from within one’s self, then “their truth” is upheld simply because they believe it to be true. If my identity can be constructed, no one can claim otherwise. To do so would be oppressive.

On social media, algorithms shape “your truth.”

With no friction to push back on anyone’s ideas, everyone can have their own version of the truth. Since truth is localized to your small piece of the culture, you can have your own truth, and no one can say otherwise.

In Christianity, we used to hold to the idea of a universal authority—God. It was God who was the standard by which all else was measured. But today, even within the church, that standard of measurement has often been replaced by our own versions of truth.

Each denomination or congregation now believes it can affirm or defend any number of ideas formerly condemned by the church. But since the Bible was written by a bunch of men and since the church has been historically led by white, heteronormative men, “their truth” is no longer relevant because it was used to maintain their own systems of power, right?

On social media, emotions become authority.

Social media emotions most commonly take shape in two forms: outrage or empathy.

With everyone capable of determining their own truth, it is unacceptable for anyone else to claim a form of universal truth. So, the internet erupts. All of the free-thinking postmodernists come out of the woodwork with bursts of outrage towards whoever would even dare to claim knowledge of a universal absolute.

In contrast, those who do not wish to have the internet turn against them often turn to empathy. Whether one believes in Biblical truth or not is often not the point. What is the point is that they have the right to believe what they want. In fact, I am going to feel right along with them. Why? Because it makes me a good person. I may feel with them right into the judgment of God, but since God is love, it will all be okay, won’t it?

Empathy isn’t all bad, but when it is detached from truth, it elevates emotionalism above any form of moral authority.

On social media, exposure normalizes everything.

I grew up in a family that taught that cursing was always a sin. So, I wasn’t around it much. We didn’t use that kind of language, and we didn’t watch movies or listen to music that used it. So, when I got my first job in the secular world and heard people using curse words, it was initially shocking. However, after being in that environment for a while, I honestly stopped hearing it for the most part. It was just normal.

Now, give an eleven-year-old a cell phone and access to social media. Allow them to watch unsupervised television. By the time they are thirteen, things we didn’t know anything about in our childhood are normalized for them. They don’t see homosexuality or transgenderism as something with moral weight to it. It’s just an “alternate lifestyle.” Repetition becomes acceptance. When every voice around you agrees, it stops feeling like opinion and starts feeling like truth.

This all stems back to what we discussed in chapter four about postmodernism. Postmodernism claims that truth is constructed and therefore no one can know what is absolute. It claims that identity is an internal concept that is, at times, frustrated by outward realities. It claims that authority is always suspect. Question everything. Trust no one. Don’t trust pastors. Don’t trust the church. Don’t trust the Bible. Postmodernism convinces people that language and knowledge are used as tools of oppression, so don’t give in, or you are letting the hegemony hold you down.

Postmodernism taught us to question truth. Social media trained us to replace it. Spend even a few minutes scrolling through content regarding ideas you are struggling with, and your feed will be filled with affirmations. New truths sweep in to replace the old truths. Sure, social media didn’t create postmodernism, but it sure seems to have made it unavoidable.

And now we have pastors and seminar teachers who were raised engrossed in these ideological streams. They were taught to question Scripture. Taught to question pastors. Taught to question the authoritative nature of God. Who does He think He is, anyway, to tell us how to live our lives?

Now we have theology shaped by experience. “I feel this, so it must be true.” More and more church leaders are affirming choices that have been historically considered sinful. Scripture is viewed as a concept, or a potential truth, rather than an absolute truth.

Modern pastors are afraid to confront these shifts because even though it isn’t “their truth,” that doesn’t make it untrue for the other individual. We have become part of the “Who am I to judge?” crowd. Pastors who take a stand often get blasted by their members or by their community. No one wants that. No one wants to be labeled as a transphobe, homophobe, racist, or unloving pastor.

So, what has happened? We have become more inclusive. We have welcomed into the rank and file that which Scripture condemns. We have refrained from crying “Thus saith the Lord!” We often choose the path of least resistance. We take the easy road.

I believe that in most cases, church leaders mean well. I believe they want to help people. They want to love people. They want to see people be what God wants them to be. They long for justice. They pray for others to find a place of belonging. But their view of God and His Word has been mistaken because of all of the information flowing downstream that they have swallowed hook, line, and sinker.

This hasn’t happened overnight. These postmodern ideas have been infiltrating the church for decades. Little by little, the cultural river has eroded more of the traditional and historic teachings of the church. It has happened so slowly that many churches never saw it happening. But look back at where we have been, and you will be able to see how far we have come.

This has been a process of formation; a normalizing of anti-biblical ideas over the years. Sadly, for many churches and denominations, the drift has gone very far. But not you. If you’re reading this book, there is hope.

This hasn’t happened overnight. It has been a process with ideas being repeated, reinforced, and eventually normalized. And if we don’t recognize how we’ve been formed, we won’t understand why the current feels so strong.

I’m not kidding. When someone else is preaching, I have to fight to stay awake. It doesn’t matter how good they are. Sit me down, tell me to listen, and I’m ready for a nap.

That’s actually shaped how I preach. I work really hard to make sure people don’t struggle to stay engaged because I know exactly how easy it is to check out.

But here’s the thing, I don’t think the problem is just preaching.

Let me show you what I mean.

Your week probably looks something like this:

• Forty or more hours at work.

• The commute to and from work.

• Time with your spouse.

• Helping with the kids.

• Fixing the dishwasher.

• Cutting the grass.

• Running to the grocery store.

• Trying to catch the game.

• Cheering on your kid at their event.

By the time Sunday rolls around, you’re not just tired, you’re depleted.

And when you live like that long enough, it begins to affect your soul. You can show up to church, sing the songs, listen to the message, and still feel disconnected. Not because you don’t love God. Not because something is wrong with your faith. But because you’re running on empty.

What you’re feeling isn’t just physical exhaustion. You’re spiritually exhausted.

Part of the reason this feels so heavy right now is because of the cultural current we’re all living in.

We’ve been shaped by a culture that tells us our identity is something we have to build.

We are told that our value is something we have to prove, and that our life is something we have to optimize.

Everything becomes something to manage or improve.

Without even realizing it, we start to approach our faith the same way.

• God becomes another thing to fit into the schedule.

• Church becomes something we evaluate.

• Spiritual growth becomes another area where we feel like we’re falling behind.

No wonder we’re tired.

So what do you do when your soul feels like that?

Let me give you a few simple places to start.

Spend a few quiet moments with God.

I don’t mean you need to carve out an hour-long devotional or work through a reading plan.

I mean, be with Him.

Turn the noise off. Put the phone down. Sit in the quiet. You don’t even need to have the perfect words. There’s something powerful about simply choosing His presence over the constant stream of everything else.

God is not impressed by your busyness—He desires your presence.

He’s not asking you to do more for Him.
He’s inviting you to be with Him.

So much of our exhaustion comes from trying to live for God without actually slowing down to be with God.

You don’t have to carry everything you’re carrying.

Some of what’s weighing you down was never yours to hold in the first place.

• The expectations.

• The pressure.

• The constant need to keep up.

At some point, we stop handing things over to God and just start managing everything ourselves.

No wonder we’re tired.

But here’s the good news.

God is not waiting for you to catch up.
He’s not standing at a distance, disappointed that you haven’t figured it out yet.

He’s near.

He’s not asking for more effort. He’s offering rest.
He’s not demanding performance. He’s inviting your presence.

You don’t need a better system.
You don’t need more discipline.
You don’t need to try harder.

You just need to be still.

Because the life your soul is longing for isn’t found in doing more for God.

It’s found in being with Him.

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This is my current draft of Chapter 5 of a book I am working on. For context, feel free to read the first 4 drafts on my feed.
Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

The waters we’re swimming in today have become increasingly murky. Clarity has become confusion. The obvious has become obscure. And it’s happening everywhere we look.

On Saturday, April 4th, Governor Tony Evers of Wisconsin (my home state) posted the trans flag on his Facebook page with the following comment: “I proudly vetoed five bills this week that targeted our trans and gender nonconforming kids and LGBTQ neighbors.” He was taking a stand for those he believes are marginalized and unseen. He was affirming their beliefs that there are more than two genders, and that with medical attention, one can change one’s gender, or be “nonconforming.”

On April 2nd, Action Church of Ball Ground, GA, posted an Easter promotion that included the Playboy bunny and the slogan, “Get some Action this Easter.”

The case for what is “right” and what is “wrong” has become more difficult to make. What was once considered fringe and taboo has made its way into the political arena and into our churches. Where pastors once pointed out similarities to worldliness, we now seem to bring the world’s symbols right into our intentionally provocative marketing strategies.

But why not?

The rebuttal to what I’m about to say is a line that is difficult to argue with:

“Who are you to say what is right and wrong?”

Another popular line is,

“That may be true for you, but it isn’t for me.”

That’s what makes what is happening so dangerous and why it is more important than ever that churches understand where these ideas are coming from and why they matter so much.

We didn’t arrive here randomly. These ideas can be traced back upstream, where we can take a deep dive into the tributaries that have made their way downstream and are eroding long-held beliefs.

We’ve already seen that all the way back to ancient Greece, philosophers spent centuries asking the same fundamental question: What is truth, and where does it come from? Some looked to the cosmos, believing truth was embedded in the order of the universe. Others tried to uncover it through observation of nature and early forms of science. Still others turned inward, arguing that truth was something each person determined for themselves. And while many of them proposed interesting ideas, they never arrived at a clear, unified answer. They circled the question, pushed its limits, and offered theories. In the end, they all ran up against the same wall: they could not definitively explain the true source of truth.

What we can learn from them is this: the claims of what we now call postmodernism are not new. Truth as a social construct has been developing for over 2,000 years. But since the mid-twentieth century, it’s as if the point of the pencil has been sharpened. Philosophers and intellectuals have done more in the last seventy-five years to formalize and advance what we now call postmodernism than at any other point in history.

To understand postmodernism, we need to recognize that it didn’t begin as a rebellion, but as disillusionment. It was born in the aftermath of a world that had placed so much confidence in reason, progress, and human capability, only to watch those very tools produce unprecedented destruction.

The same societies that championed enlightenment and advancement plunged into world wars, mass genocide, and the creation of weapons capable of annihilation on a global scale. In the wake of that collapse, many began to question whether truth, reason, and progress could be trusted at all. Postmodernism didn’t emerge as a defiant rejection of truth, but rather a deep skepticism shaped by disappointment and a loss of confidence in the very foundations that once promised certainty.

The Enlightenment, which existed in the 17th and 18th centuries, ushered in a new kind of confidence. Reason was no longer just a tool, but it became the foundation for ideas. If humanity could think clearly enough, observe enough, and apply knowledge consistently enough, then progress was inevitable. Science would advance. Society would improve. The future would be brighter than the past.

The idea was this: no longer was everyone looking to inherited ideas or even religion, but to human reasoning and discovery. Enlightenment thinkers believed that through observation and experimentation, truth could be discerned. They believed that authority should be questioned and put to the test in order for progress to occur. Thus, people began to question monarchs and the control of the church, which had led to political reforms and revolutions.

Not all Enlightenment thinking was bad. Because of people like John Locke and Voltaire, ideas like natural rights and free speech, along with religious tolerance, were being advanced. Our modern democracies were born out of these ideas. Literacy, education, and public debate were advanced. However, the elevation of reason often led to a questioning of faith and set the stage for later reactions like postmodern skepticism about reason itself.

But the twentieth century exposed a fracture in Enlightenment confidence. The same world that believed in progress built gas chambers. The same reason that promised clarity engineered destruction. The systems that were supposed to elevate humanity were used to dehumanize it. Nations with the highest levels of education, innovation, and organization carried out some of the most devastating acts in human history.

This wasn’t a failure of ignorance, but was a failure of trust in the very things people believed would save them. Reason had not prevented evil. Progress had not purified humanity. Knowledge had not produced wisdom. And in the aftermath of two world wars, mass genocide, and the looming threat of total annihilation, many began to ask a different question—not just what is true?, but can truth even be trusted at all?

Postmodernism, at its core, is not the denial that truth exists, but a deep skepticism about whether it can be known in any objective or universal way. It shifts the question from What is true? to Who decides what is true?

In this way of thinking, truth is no longer something to be discovered; it is something that is shaped. It is shaped by culture, by language, and most importantly, by power. What a society calls “truth” is often understood not as an accurate reflection of reality, but as a system that has been constructed and upheld by those who benefit from it.

Because of this, postmodernism places a strong emphasis on examining the structures beneath our beliefs. It asks questions like:

• Who does this idea benefit?

• Whose voice is being elevated?

• Whose voice is being silenced?

Knowledge itself is viewed with suspicion, not because knowing is impossible, but because knowing is never neutral.

This also means that language is no longer seen as a simple tool for describing reality. It is seen as something that actively shapes reality. The words we use, the categories we create, and the narratives we tell all contribute to how truth is formed and understood within a given culture.

As a result, universal truth claims begin to break down. If all knowledge is shaped by perspective, then no single perspective can claim authority over another. Truth becomes local, personal, and fluid rather than fixed and universal.

Over time, this way of thinking moved beyond observation into action. If truth and systems are shaped by power, then changing those systems, especially through language, education, and cultural influence, becomes a way of reshaping reality itself. The goal is no longer to understand the world, but to transform it.

In the end, postmodernism reframes reality through three primary lenses: perspective, power, and language. It does not begin by asking what is true, but by asking who is speaking, who is benefiting, and what structures are being reinforced.

If truth is not neutral, then it raises a deeper question: who has the power to define it? What is accepted as fact, what is considered right or wrong, and what is taught or reinforced is not seen as neutral, but as the result of systems that have been shaped by those in positions of authority. In this way of thinking, truth is not simply discovered; it is established and maintained through power. What a culture calls “truth” is often understood as a reflection of who has the influence to define it.

This way of thinking did not emerge in a vacuum. It was shaped by the events of the twentieth century. The same systems that claimed to advance humanity, governments, scientific institutions, and educated societies, were also responsible for some of the greatest atrocities in human history.

Nations with the highest levels of knowledge and organization carried out genocide. Scientific advancement led not only to medical breakthroughs but also to weapons of mass destruction. For many, this was not just a failure of people, but a failure of the systems themselves. Power, they concluded, had been used to dominate, to control, and to destroy. It was not something to be trusted.

Because of this, postmodern thought does not simply question power; it seeks to expose and, in many cases, reverse it. If truth has been shaped by those in power, then those systems must be challenged, dismantled, and restructured. The goal is no longer just to understand reality, but to change it by elevating voices that have been marginalized and questioning the structures that have long been accepted. What began as an analysis of power has become a framework for reordering society itself.

The idea of “questioning everything” was not intended to reshape thinking only, but to reshape culture itself. Initially, these ideas took on an almost playful character, intended to disrupt what were seen as unjust systems of power. Early postmodern thinkers often focused on exposing assumptions, reversing hierarchies, and challenging the structures that had long been accepted without question.

But over time, something began to shift.

If truth is not neutral, and if systems of power shape knowledge, then those systems are not merely mistaken; they are unjust. And if they are unjust, then simply observing them is not enough. They must be confronted. They must be dismantled.

What began as a philosophical critique slowly became a moral framework.

The focus moved from asking Is this true? to asking Who does this benefit? And once that shift takes place, truth is no longer the primary concern—justice is. Not justice as something grounded in an objective standard, but justice as something defined by the reordering of power itself.

In this way, the emphasis on power naturally gave rise to a deeper concern for those seen as marginalized or oppressed. If those in authority have shaped systems of knowledge and truth, then it follows that those without power have been excluded, silenced, or misrepresented. Elevating those voices, then, becomes not just an act of compassion but an act of correction.

As time went on, this shift became more pronounced. What began as an attempt to question and critique systems developed into a more defined effort to reshape them. The goal was no longer simply to understand how power operates, but to redistribute it, particularly in ways that would challenge long-standing hierarchies and elevate those who had historically been pushed to the margins.

So, they were less concerned with objective truth and more concerned with issues of social justice. The question was no longer, What is true? but What must be changed?

Ideas like these don’t stay confined to books and lecture halls. If they are going to reshape culture, they have to be passed on. And one of the primary ways this happens is through education.

It is easy to look back on schools and education with nostalgia, but those days are long gone. A postmodern thread has been woven into the system, from those who develop these ideas theoretically to those who actively put them into practice.

One of the most prolific writers and lecturers in modern universities on the subject of activism in education is a man named Henry Giroux. In the introduction to his colleague’s book, he wrote, “In the traditional worldview, schools were considered merely instructional sites. That schools were also cultural and political sites was ignored, as was the notion that they represented areas of contention among differently empowered cultural and economic groups.”

Postmodernists do not see the classroom as a place where only the “ABC’s” and “2+2” are being taught any longer. Paulo Friere was a Marxist educator in Brazil who wrote extensively on the subject of incorporating ideology into education. His books have impacted nearly every secularly educated teacher or professor. Friere believed in a utopian society that could only be brought about with a changing of people’s minds. To Friere, people were simply unaware of their oppression, and the educational system was the means to make it known to them.

Many years later, these ideas of identity and oppression have made their way from the institutions of higher learning through critical theory studies all the way down to the lower levels of education through programs like social and emotional learning. Postmodernism has infiltrated not only as an academic study, but has, in fact, become exactly what men like Friere wanted—activists educated in their own perceived oppression.

I recently ran across a social media influencer who claims she is a Bible scholar. Here is what one of her posts read: “I am a Christian and I have a high view of Scripture. And I fully support lgbtq+, pro-Palestine, pro-choice, leftism, feminism, socialism, gun reform, prison reform, and defunding the military.” I’m not saying every one of those positions is completely wrong, but several of them stand in direct tension with historic Christian teaching. She is holding perceived “theological” viewpoints that she really believes are in line with Scripture. However, two thousand years of church history and scholarly study of Scripture would disagree with so much of what she claims to believe.

Apparently, she is a new kind of scholar; a scholar who can simply read all of her personal beliefs into the Bible. But why not? Why are all of the theologians of the past wrong and she right? Who’s to say? In a postmodern worldview, Christianity has just been used to hold down the oppressed, right?

On what has come to be known as the International Day of Trans Visibility, Bishop Yehiel Curry of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA) made a statement regarding trans youth in which he stated it was “a time dedicated to celebrating the lives, gifts and contributions of transgender people, while also recognizing their ongoing struggle for safety, dignity and justice.”

The actual truth is that in the 21st century, seminaries and churches have often fallen to the language and knowledge of postmodernism. The work they have done to impact a culture is paying off. We have church leaders in mainline denominations unwilling to stand against that which the Bible clearly stands against.

Here’s the thing, though, I actually believe many of these people mean well. Part of postmodernism’s goal is to stand against real abuses of power. It challenges blind trust in institutions. It tries to ask important questions and search for the hard answers.

When the church turns from its biblical foundation, whether in belief, in teaching, or in practice, we have already begun to drift.

Truth has become optional, even in the church. We don’t find authority in Scripture, but in the self. It’s okay to have “your” version of Christianity; just let me have mine. Theology and Scripture are being removed from the pedestal and placed on the same level as philosophical thought.

In many places, preaching has drifted toward motivation rather than proclamation. Congregants want to laugh and feel good. No one wants to press too hard into Scripture, or the Holy Spirit might show up and convict. This is what the Bible predicted when it said we would gather to ourselves “teachers to suit their own passions.”

This is the current we are in. These ideas didn’t begin in our churches, but they have made their way down the tributaries into them. And if we don’t understand where they came from, we will continue to drift further downstream without even realizing it.

It’s a fair question.

And if you’ve asked it, you’re not alone.

It’s not that you’ve stopped believing in truth.
It’s not that you’ve lost your love for the church.

But something feels different.

Conversations seem more complicated than they used to be.

Things that once felt clear now feel debated.

And even within the church, there seems to be a growing gap not just in opinions, but in how people think about truth itself.

What’s changed isn’t just what people believe.

It’s the question we’re asking.

We used to ask,

“What is true?”

Now, more often than not, we’re asking,

“Who gets to decide what is true?”

And that shift changes everything.

• It changes how we read Scripture.

• It changes how we have conversations.

• It changes how we understand the world around us.

Because when the question changes, the outcome changes.

If truth is something to be discovered, then all we have to do is submit to it. But if truth is something being defined, then it becomes personal and shaped by perspective, experience, and influence.

This shift didn’t happen overnight.

In many ways, it grew out of a world that once placed great confidence in reason, progress, and human ability… only to watch those very things lead to incredible destruction.

Over time, people didn’t just start questioning authority. What they began to question was whether truth itself could be trusted.

This didn’t start in the church, but it has made its way in.

This is why you can have people who love Jesus, read the same Bible, and still come to very different conclusions. What’s happening is they’re starting from different assumptions about truth itself.

It’s not always rebellion or bad intentions.

Often, it’s something deeper. At times, it’s something people have absorbed without even realizing it.

But here’s the good news.

Truth hasn’t disappeared.

God hasn’t changed.

And His Word hasn’t suddenly become unclear.

What’s changed is how we approach it.

The confusion so many people feel right now isn’t random.

It’s not just the result of a few loud voices or shifting cultural trends.

There’s a current underneath it all that’s been forming for a long time. The term used to define this is postmodernism. Chapter five in the book I am writing is on that exact subject, and I can’t wait to share it with you on Monday.

Now he stood before the Areopagus, an ancient ruling class, preparing to address them on the reality of the truth, and they were anxious to hear what he had to say.

Then, Paul spoke, “Men of Athens, I perceive that in every way you are very religious. For as I passed along and observed the objects of your worship, I found also an altar with this inscription: ‘To the unknown god’.”

In that moment, Paul was addressing an ancient ideology passed down from the Greeks that held most of Athens in its intellectual sway. It was roughly 49 AD, and the Greek philosophers had been pondering the understanding of existence and the divine for centuries. To understand who he was addressing, we have to go back to the beginning. Back to the headwaters of the tributaries pouring into the cultural river that will eventually affect the church.

Xenophanes lived in the same region Paul was now standing, approximately 500 years earlier, and stated, “As for certain truth, no man has known it, nor will he know it.” For the next several centuries, some of the greatest minds in history began discussing what would become known as Western philosophy. These men searched for truth and meaning. Nothing about them was intellectually lazy or even spiritually indifferent. They were searchers. They were like ancient explorers on a quest for knowledge.

These were men who would discuss and debate in academic settings and in their communities. They would reason and argue. They were unknowingly formulating a philosophical agenda and system that Western philosophy has worked with ever since then. These thinkers weren’t just creating ideas that we would see as ancient history. Their ideas became the load-bearing structure of Western thought. The church, which had not yet been established, would be formed in its wake.

Each of these men was wrestling with the most fundamental questions any person can ask. What exists? How did it get here? And how, then, should we live? Every philosophy, religion, and worldview has been attempting to answer one or more of these questions ever since.

In his book, He Is There, And He Is Not Silent, Francis A. Schaeffer observed that when it comes to the question of origins, there are really only three possible answers. Either everything that exists came from absolutely nothing, or everything began with something impersonal — a force, a principle, an energy without mind or will — or everything began with something personal. Those are the only three options, and the Greeks worked their way through each one of them.

The cast of this ancient drama is long — Pythagoras, the Sophists, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, the Stoics, the Skeptics, Plotinus, and others. Each one brought a different method, concept, or temperament to the discussion. Some of them were rationalists, who trusted the mind above all else. Some of them were skeptics who doubted just about everything. Some of them built elaborate ethics. Despite all of their differences, they all shared something in common: not a single one of them arrived at a personal God who created the world freely, spoke to His creation, loved His creation, and could be known intimately by His creation.

Some of them came remarkably close. But as we will see, being close created its own kind of problem.

The story of Greek philosophy is not a straight line. It is more like a series of explorers, each setting out with confidence, and each returning with something valuable. Yet, each one still fell short of the destination.

The Early Searchers

Before Socrates and Plato became household names, a group of thinkers we call the pre-Socratics were asking the most basic question of all: what is the world actually made of, and what holds it together? They looked at the natural world and refused to be satisfied with the old mythological answers. The gods of Homer were too unstable, too human, too unreliable as an explanation for the order they observed around them. They wanted something more rational. Something consistent.

But underneath the world of the Greek gods was something even older and more unsettling. Arthur Holmes, a philosophy professor, describes it as Moira: a dark, impersonal fate lurking behind everything, including the gods themselves. There was no intelligence behind it, no will, no purpose. Just force. The earliest Greek imagination, even before the philosophers arrived, already assumed that whatever lay ultimately behind reality was impersonal. That idea would not die easily.

The Sophists — When Truth Became Negotiable

By the fifth century BC, a group of traveling teachers called the Sophists had arrived on the scene, bringing a troubling idea with them. Protagoras said that man is the measure of all things. Truth is not something discovered, but rather something each person determines for themselves. When asked directly whether the gods existed, Protagoras admitted he simply did not know. His contemporary, Critias, went further, suggesting the gods had been invented by clever men as a tool to keep the badly behaved in line.

This was not atheism exactly. It was something arguably more destabilizing. This was a suggestion that truth itself is relative, that goodness and virtue cannot be known apart from specific circumstances, that without an absolute standard, everything is negotiable. The Sophists essentially asked: What is justice without an absolute standard of justice? And yet, they still couldn’t come up with the answer.

And that question, left unanswered, would echo for centuries.

Socrates and Plato — The Closest Approach

Socrates found the Sophists frustrating. He gave his life, literally, to the proposition that truth was real, that it could be pursued, and that the unexamined life was not worth living. He didn’t write anything down, but through his student Plato, we have perhaps the most sophisticated attempt in all of ancient philosophy to reach something transcendent.

Plato believed that behind the visible, changing world there existed a realm of eternal, unchanging Forms, which were perfect ideals of which everything in our world is an imperfect copy. The highest of these Forms was the Good, which functioned as a kind of transcendent source of all order and meaning. Plato even spoke of a divine craftsman, the Demiurge, who shaped the world according to these eternal patterns.

It sounds almost theological. And in some ways it is. Plato’s ideas were fundamentally rationalist, but they reached toward a transcendent intelligence that rules and orders all things. For Plato, the mind was the transcendent source of cosmic order. He was closer than perhaps any thinker before him to the idea of a God behind reality.

But the Demiurge did not create. He arranged. He worked with material that already existed, ordering it according to patterns that existed independently of him. The ultimate reality in Plato’s universe was not a person, but an eternal rational structure to which even the divine craftsman was subordinate. There was transcendence, but no relationship. There was order, but no author.

Aristotle — The Logical Dead End

Aristotle was Plato’s most brilliant student and his most thorough critic. Where Plato looked beyond the visible world for ultimate reality, Aristotle trusted what he could observe and reason through. He was history’s first great systematic thinker of biology, logic, ethics, politics, and metaphysics. He organized them all.

And yet his logic led him somewhere remarkable. Following the chain of cause and effect backward, Aristotle reasoned that there must be a first cause; something that set everything in motion without itself being set in motion by anything else. He called it the Unmoved Mover. It was eternal. It was transcendent. It was, in his words, absolute in its perfection and the only form existing entirely separate from matter.

It sounds like God. But Aristotle’s Unmoved Mover was a philosopher’s placeholder, not a person. It did not create the world because the world had always existed alongside it. It did not know the world. It did not care about the world. It simply existed as the logical conclusion of a chain of reasoning, thinking only about itself in eternal, perfect self-contemplation. It was the most sophisticated near-miss in the history of philosophy.

The Stoics — Almost Faith

The Stoics came after Aristotle and built something that, from a distance, can look almost like a religion. They believed in a divine rational principle called the Logos. This Logos permeated and ordered all of reality. This intelligent divine force was providential, purposeful, and all-encompassing. The Stoics taught that happiness was found by adjusting one’s life and character to this all-powerful wisdom.

There is something genuinely moving about the Stoic vision. These were serious moral thinkers who believed the universe had order and purpose, and that human beings were meant to align themselves with something greater. They faced death with courage because they had convinced themselves that whatever happened was part of a larger rational design.

But the Logos of the Stoics was not a person. It was the universe reasoning through itself. There was no one to pray to, no one who heard, no one who acted in history. Their god was essentially the world itself dressed in philosophical language.

Plotinus and the Neoplatonists — Emanation Without Creation

The last great flowering of ancient Greek philosophy came through Plotinus in the third century AD, which was centuries after Aristotle, and contemporary with the early church. Plotinus taught that all of reality flows outward from a supreme, utterly simple source he called the One. The Neoplatonic cosmos, in his vision, is the result of a divine emanation from this supreme One, a reality radiating outward like light from the sun without a choice.

It is the most God-like concept in all of ancient Greek philosophy. And yet it is still not the God of the Bible. The One does not choose to create. It does not know its creation. It does not love. The world flows from it by necessity, not by the free act of a personal being. And man’s highest goal is not a relationship with the One, it is absorption back into it, the dissolution of the self into the divine source.

Over multiple centuries and dozens of thinkers, the pattern remained consistent. It’s as if every one of them hit a metaphorical wall. As one scholar puts it, the classical Greek perception was that the only truth humanly accessible and useful is immanent rather than transcendent. It’s as if they knew something was “out there.” Something existed beyond them that made sense, but they couldn’t quite get there. Aristotle gave that something a name. Plotinus was right on the edge. But not a single one of them concluded that there was an eternally existing God who created all things, loved His creation, and longed to be known by His creation.

None of them lacked intelligence. These were some of the greatest minds of their day. They were educated, resourced, and willing to have their ideas challenged. The problem was not that the concept of a personal creator God was philosophically inconceivable. It was because their method, which was a reason operating autonomously, starting from itself, accountable to nothing outside itself, was simply not built to find Him. These philosophies all seek to understand reality without the guidance of an absolute person, and therefore, they affirm the autonomy of their own reason. Dr. John Frame said it like this, “To non-Christians, to surrender autonomy is to abandon reason itself.” He takes it even further by writing, “The history of non-Christian philosophy is a history of would-be autonomous thought. And of course, if people presuppose their own autonomy, they cannot acknowledge God as the absolute-personal Creator, the Lord.”

They were not rejecting the God of Israel. They had never seriously met Him. They built their entire intellectual architecture with little to no knowledge of Him. Where did that leave them?

Continuing to search. Continuing to look for the truth. Religions “failed to compel the allegiance of many in the educated classes… yet the austere rationalism of the dominant philosophies left a certain spiritual hunger.” It’s interesting to see how what they were looking for left them constantly searching for more, not unlike our world today.

That is why this is so compelling for the church. John Frame wrote, “In philosophy itself, thinkers today discuss essentially the same questions that Plato and Aristotle did. That interesting fact suggests that the history of philosophy might be to an extent a history of wrong turns.” Wrong turns rarely announce themselves.

When we seek to understand existence apart from the Creator of all that is, we too will run into the metaphorical wall. There is no explanation apart from the God of the Bible. However, these ideas have had a major impact on Western thinking. Thus, they are significant concepts that have affected the church.

They are like tributaries that have entered the current of the river, quietly shaping Western thinking for centuries, and the church has not been immune. Most contemporary thinkers have doubled down on understanding the world the same way it was being done in Athens all those years ago. The search continues, but the wall remains.

You and I, like Paul, need to understand the nature of our world today. We need to see how ancient and modern thinking is infiltrating theological discussions. We need to be aware of how our seminaries and theological institutions are being impacted. We need to be ready to stand up against all of it and proclaim as Paul did, “For as I passed along and observed the objects of your worship, I found also an altar with this inscription: ‘To the unknown god.’ What therefore you worship as unknown, this I proclaim to you. The God who made the world and everything in it, being Lord of heaven and earth, does not live in temples made by man, nor is he served by human hands, as though he needed anything, since he himself gives to all mankind life and breath and everything. And he made from one man every nation of mankind to live on all the face of the earth, having determined allotted periods and the boundaries of their dwelling place, that they should seek God, and perhaps feel their way toward him and find him. Yet he is actually not far from each one of us.”

You can feel it in sermons.
You can see it in social posts.
You can hear it in the way people talk about truth, justice, and love.

It didn’t start in the church, but it has certainly made its way in.

And if we’re honest, part of the reason it’s made its way in is that it’s compelling.

Progressivism isn’t appealing because it’s obviously wrong.
It’s appealing because it often feels right.

The danger isn’t always in what it affirms.
It’s in what it redefines and what it quietly replaces.

Here are three reasons it resonates so deeply with the modern church.

It Feels Deeply Empathetic

Progressivism speaks the language of compassion fluently.

It sees the hurting.
It listens to stories.
It elevates voices that have been ignored.

And the church should care about so many of these things.

Jesus did move toward the broken.
He did touch the leper.
He did sit with sinners.

Empathy matters.

But here’s where the current begins to shift:

The goal subtly moves from understanding people
to never challenging people.

From weeping with those who weep
to redefining sin so no one feels discomfort.

But Biblical love doesn’t just sit with people, it leads them.

Jesus didn’t only say, “I don’t condemn you.”
He also said, “Go and sin no more.”

When empathy becomes the highest authority,
truth doesn’t disappear—it gets redefined.

It Is Action-Oriented

Progressivism doesn’t just talk—it moves.

It rallies.
It organizes.
It advocates.

And let’s be honest, this is where the church can feel convicted.

Because sometimes we’ve been long on theology and short on action.

The Bible is clear: Faith without works is dead.

We should care about the poor.
We should fight injustice.
We should be known for good works.

But here’s the tension:

The focus shifts from heart change to system change alone.

From making disciples to making statements.

From eternal rescue to temporary relief as the ultimate goal.

The church is not called to do less; it’s called to do more.
But it must do the right more.

Because you can feed someone today and still leave them starving eternally.

3. It Focuses on Equity

Progressivism is driven by a deep desire to make things right.

To correct the imbalance.
To address injustice.
To lift the marginalized.

And again, that impulse is not necessarily always wrong.

Scripture is filled with God’s heart for justice.
He defends the weak.
He calls out oppression.
He commands fairness.

But here’s where another subtle shift happens:

Instead of asking, “What is right before God?” we begin asking, “What feels fair to us?”

Instead of equal standing before God in sin and salvation, we begin sorting people into categories of moral weight based on identity.

The gospel levels the ground at the foot of the cross.

Progressivism often rebuilds hierarchies, but with different people on top.

And in doing so, it trades impartial justice for partial preference.

The Real Issue: The Current Beneath It All

This is what the book I’m writing, Downstream, is all about.

These ideas didn’t appear out of nowhere.

They are tributaries fed by centuries of thought:

• The elevation of self

• The redefinition of truth

• The shift from objective authority to personal experience

And now, they’ve reached the church.

Not as an obvious rebellion.
But as a subtle reframing.

Not as a rejection of Christianity.
But as a reshaping of it.

Final Thought

Here’s what makes this difficult:

Every one of these—empathy, action, and justice—is something the church should be known for.

But when they are redefined downstream, they don’t strengthen the gospel.

They slowly replace it.

So the question isn’t:
Are these things good?

The question is:
Who gets to define them?

Because if Scripture doesn’t define them,
something else will.

And whatever defines them will ultimately have an impact on the church.

I stood at the edge watching more than 700,000 gallons of water per second rush over the falls in Niagara. So much power! I learned about those who went over in barrels. I heard about individuals who crossed a tightrope from one end to the other. I took a boat ride into the falls, where a poncho was necessary to keep from getting soaked by the mist. The power and beauty of the scene are moving. But, as I also learned when I was there, my emotions weren’t the only thing being moved.

Over the years, the falls have literally moved several miles upstream. The massive amounts of water, along with the freezing and thawing, the Niagara River has worn away at the rocks underneath and caused a gradual erosion over time.

Modern innovations have decreased the erosion of the waterfall, and a diversion of some of the water for hydroelectric power has decreased the overall volume, affecting the erosion.

But every river, given time, cuts a pathway of least resistance. As more and more tributaries dump into a river, the volume of water increases. The river, then, finds a course around rocks, knocking out plants and trees in its way, running downhill into its final destination.

In instances of flash flooding where large amounts of water shift quickly, large amounts of damage can take place.

I remember the basement of our church plant’s rented facility as the creek just outside overflowed one spring and filled it a couple of feet high with water. While rivers, creeks, and streams can be beautiful, they can also create a lot of destruction along the way.

You see, rivers don’t just flow; they shape everything they touch. Over time, they carve into the land, slowly changing the landscape in ways that are often difficult to notice at first.

In much the same way, the tributaries flowing into our metaphorical cultural river impact the course of culture. Often, the impact is small and virtually imperceptible. At times, the impact is immediately noticeable.

Erosion is what happens when something steady and constant gradually reshapes what once seemed stable. Truth once seemed fairly stable. Reality did too. But over time, impacted by the writings and teachings of secular philosophers and even pastors and teachers with bad theology, these things have shifted. Not long ago, the idea of objective truth was called into question. Now it is all becoming increasingly unstable.

When ideas get put out into the world, they have an impact. Perhaps these ideas begin innocently enough. Either way, ideas don’t just influence how we think; they can reshape how we think. In the same way rivers reshape the land, ideas have reshaped the way we think, believe, and live.

The struggle is that the erosion we face from ideas often happens slowly. There are questions still being asked today that were asked by the likes of Plato (c. 428–348 BC) and Aristotle (384–322 BC). Those questions about justice, virtue, and happiness are questions that have been discussed by philosophers and thinkers ever since then.

And these changes are often subtle enough that we don’t even see them happening. Many churches over the years have slowly moved away from Scripture because of the subtle shifts in their belief systems. It’s not as though on one Sunday pastors were preaching first-century Christianity as passed down by the apostles, and the next they were teaching secular moralism. It was a subtle shift in beliefs; an evolution of thinking over time.

Where we once stood on “the truth,” we have shifted to “your truth”. And for so many people, they never saw it coming. You may be reading this now and still struggle to see how your own ideas have been affected. But we must be honest with ourselves if we are going to know the truth and proclaim it. Erosion has been at work since the beginning of time.

When Adam and Eve were in the garden, God gave them a very specific command. Genesis 2:17 records God’s conversation with Adam like this: “And the Lord God commanded the man, saying, ‘You may surely eat of every tree of the garden, but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat’.”

This was an objective, absolute truth. The God who had created them gave them clear and specific instructions about what they could and could not do. They were not supposed to question or waver. Their role was simply to stand on that truth.

However, in the very first verse of the next chapter, we see a serpent (the devil) approach Eve and ask, “Did God actually say, ‘You shall not eat of any tree in the garden’?” He didn’t state that God was wrong. He didn’t claim that God didn’t exist or wasn’t real. He didn’t launch a full-scale attack on truth. He simply asked a question, “Did God actually say…?”

The real tricky part about ideological or theological erosion is that it never announces itself as such. It typically slips in questioning the historic norms and provides ideas that it suggests we consider as more evolved or more enlightened.

In Eve’s case, God’s original statement was clear. It was specific. Here is what you can do, and here is what you can’t do. All she had to do was take a stand for that truth.

Instead, Eve began to defend her position rather than resting in the clear word from God. The moment she moved from standing her ground to defending her position, she shifted. And erosion begins the moment certainty becomes negotiable.

She didn’t reject God outright. She didn’t denounce Him. Eve simply engaged. She reasoned. She evaluated. She began to see the point the serpent was making. The tree did seem like it was good for food. It was pleasant to the eye. And who wouldn’t desire more wisdom?

As Eve’s framework changed, the truth she was meant to stand on eroded. She made a perfectly logical decision, but it was based on the wrong information.

When you and I are shaped by eroded truth, we aren’t necessarily making an irrational decision. We are typically making a reasonable decision from a compromised starting point.

This is how ideological erosion works. Rarely does it make the claim that something is “false.” Typically, erosion is a chipping away of the truth of something. It is finding another perspective or another way of looking at something and elevating that idea to equal value.

This shows up in questions like, “Are you sure that’s what it means?” More commonly, for me, as a pastor, I hear things like, “Isn’t that just your interpretation?” And that question is usually sincere and even humble. It comes from well-intentioned people seeking understanding. The problem, though, is that it is often a sign that certainty is in question.

That’s why we have no reason to be surprised that this is happening in our culture at all. This is the oldest strategy in existence.

There is historical evidence to back all of this up. The church has never been entirely immune to the current it swims in. And while I believe that if the gates of hell can’t prevail against the church, neither will false ideologies have done a number on creating confusion.

When erosion happens in the church, it doesn’t begin with a dramatic announcement or a formal rejection of orthodoxy. It begins with questioning and continues with small accommodations accumulated over time until the distance traveled is enormous. Typically, a single generation will not see the full drift, but will see only the small step in front of them.

Often this begins in seminaries and institutions of higher learning before it ever enters the pulpits of local churches. As pastors are being taught to study, to think, to question, the current ideological and philosophical concepts of the day get sprinkled in. The current of change often runs through seminaries and then the church.

What we see today is denominations that once stood firmly on Scripture have drifted far away from their founding confessions and theological moorings. In spite of the fact that some of this seems like a recent crisis, it has been evolving for generations.

The question is not, “Is erosion possible?” The question is, “Are we paying close enough attention to notice it?”

The effects of ideologies like postmodernism, individualism, consumerism, distrust of authority, and others are not just tributaries that exist. They are doing something to us. They have an impact.

These ideas shape how we think. They shape what feels normal today that would not have felt normal in centuries past. They even have an impact on what we believe is true.

And over time, they don’t just influence culture, they erode it.

Postmodernism erodes truth.

Think about the last time you tried to have a serious conversation about right and wrong with someone who didn’t share your framework. At some point, the conversation likely stalled — not because either of you ran out of arguments, but because you couldn’t agree on the ground you were standing on. That’s what postmodern erosion looks like in everyday life. It doesn’t announce itself. It just quietly removes the shared foundation that makes genuine conversation possible.

We are no longer able to disagree agreeably. People talk past one another when there is no shared ground to stand on.

And it goes beyond disagreement. Think about what it now costs to speak with certainty. To say something is actually, objectively wrong. To claim that Jesus is not simply a valid option but the only way. That kind of certainty isn’t just challenged anymore — it’s considered arrogant. Offensive. Intolerant. The moment you plant a flag in the ground and say, “This is true,” you’ve already lost the room in much of our culture.

What’s been eroded isn’t just our ability to agree. It’s our ability to even have the conversation. When truth is personal, there is no shared vocabulary for right and wrong, no common reference point for morality, no foundation on which to build anything together. Every conversation becomes a negotiation between competing personal realities rather than a shared search for what is actually true.

For Christians, this is where it gets personal. The gospel is a truth claim. It is not one perspective among many. It is not your truth or my truth. And when the cultural ground has been eroded to the point where truth claims themselves are seen as acts of aggression, communicating that gospel clearly becomes one of the greatest challenges the church has ever faced.

Individualism erodes identity.

Think about someone you know — maybe a family member, maybe someone in your congregation — who seems to be constantly reinventing themselves. A new identity. A new community built around that identity. A new set of values to match. And if you raise a question or express concern, you’re not being caring — you’re being oppressive.

That’s what individualism erodes. Not just stability, but the very categories that once gave people a place to stand.

It’s as if no one really knows who or what they are anymore. Or if they do, and you don’t affirm their belief, you’re being “needlessly offensive.” More and more people look past how God created them and seek to find their identity in something that they feel will give them a sense of belonging or happiness. People feel pressured to discover their identity. To “find themselves.” No longer is there an anchor to anything outside the self.

It’s no surprise, then, that so many people today feel unsettled when it comes to identity. Anxiety is on the rise. Confusion seems more common than clarity. Many are searching — trying on different versions of themselves — hoping to eventually land on something that finally feels stable.

But the problem is this: when identity is self-created, it becomes unstable, because the self is always changing. You cannot build a foundation on something that shifts with every season of life, every cultural moment, every new experience. And yet that is exactly what an entire generation has been handed and told to call freedom.

For the church, this erosion creates a profound pastoral challenge. People are not just confused about who they are — they are exhausted by the search. And exhausted people don’t need another framework or another conversation about identity politics. They need an anchor. They need to be told that who they are was settled before they were born, by a God who does not change, in whose image they were made. That is not oppression. That is the most liberating truth in the world.

But you can only offer that anchor to someone who believes there is something outside themselves worth being anchored to. And that is exactly what individualism has quietly eroded.

Consumerism erodes commitment.

Think about the last time you stayed somewhere uncomfortable. A difficult marriage season. A church going through conflict. A job that stopped being fulfilling. The moment something stops serving you, the cultural current whispers the same thing: you don’t have to stay.

And increasingly, we don’t.

It is far more rare for people to stay married “until death do us part.” We change jobs far more often than generations past. We change churches the moment the music shifts or a sermon steps on our toes. We have exchanged depth for convenience so gradually that most of us didn’t notice the trade.

This is what consumerism erodes — not just our wallets, but our willingness to remain. Commitment requires the belief that something is worth staying for, regardless of what it costs you. But a consumer mindset quietly reframes every relationship, every institution, every church as a product to be evaluated. And products get returned when they disappoint.

You can see it in the way people talk about church now. The questions people ask when looking for a congregation used to sound like “Where can I serve?” or “Where is the Word faithfully preached?” Now they sound like “Do I like the worship style?” and “Does this fit my schedule?” The transaction has replaced the covenant.

And the damage runs deeper than church attendance numbers. When commitment erodes, so does the capacity for the kind of relationships that actually form us. Shallow is easier. Optional is comfortable. But no one gets built into something by things they can walk away from.

When everything is optional, nothing deserves a commitment.

Distrust erodes authority.

Think about what it means to be a pastor today. You have given your life to studying the Word, shepherding people through crisis, and trying to faithfully point others toward Jesus. And yet you walk into a room knowing that a significant portion of the people sitting in front of you have already decided — before you open your mouth — that your authority is suspect. They will filter everything you say through their own judgment, their own research, their own preferred voices online. Not because you’ve done anything wrong. Simply because you hold a position of authority. And authority itself is no longer trusted.

That’s what distrust erodes. Not just institutions. People.

If nothing deserves commitment, nothing deserves authority. And with no authority, there are no trusted voices. We have ceased to allow anyone to speak into our lives with any weight. Employees bristle at employers. Children push back against parents not because they’ve been wronged but because resistance to authority has become a reflex. And Jesus followers in the modern church often treat the Bible less as God’s final word and more as a collection of suggestions — worth considering, but ultimately subject to personal approval.

Everyone becomes their own authority. We live in a time not much different than the time of the Judges, where Scripture records that every man did what was right in his own eyes. There was no king. No shared authority. No common truth. And the result wasn’t freedom — it was chaos.

We are not far from that. Society is fragmenting along the lines of who we agree with rather than what is actually true. And the most devastating casualty of that fragmentation is not political — it’s spiritual. When people can no longer receive truth from an outside source, they cannot be discipled. You cannot pour into someone who has decided in advance that nothing you say carries authority over their life.

For the church, this is not just a cultural inconvenience. It is a discipleship crisis. Because making disciples requires that people be willing to be formed by something outside themselves — by Scripture, by community, by the faithful teaching of those God has placed in their lives. When distrust has eroded that willingness, the entire discipleship project stalls before it begins.

And underneath all of it is this: distrust of human authority is often just the surface. What has really been eroded is the willingness to submit to God himself. Because if I am the final authority on what is true, then God is only God when I agree with him. And that is not faith. That is just another version of every man doing what is right in his own eyes.

When truth becomes unstable, identity becomes self-defined. When identity becomes self-defined, commitment becomes optional. When commitment becomes optional, authority is rejected. And when all of those things happen at once, the result is not freedom — it’s confusion. And confusion is never a foundation anyone can build a life on.

This is the river we are in. This is what the current has carved. And before we can talk about rebuilding what has been eroded, we need to understand where each of these tributaries actually came from and how they developed, not just what they do, but why they exist, how they developed, and why so many people found them so compelling. You can’t push back against a current you don’t understand. And you can’t rebuild what you haven’t taken an honest, hard look at.

The tributaries have done their work. Now it’s time to trace them to their source.

In reality?

It’s just me in my study… surrounded by books, piles of notes, pen in hand… searching for ancient, hard-to-find nuggets of truth.

But now I have a system.

And because of that, it’s not nearly as overwhelming as it used to be.

Honestly, I’m learning more by working this system than I ever could just writing about it.

Will I end up with a published book? I couldn’t tell you, but this is my process to attempt that.

And after you read this… tell me your process.

I don’t just want good ideas and systems.
I want the best ones.

I Read Actively (Pen in Hand)

I don’t read passively anymore.

I used to, and I have plenty of books on my shelf that I barely remember.

Now, every book I pick up, I’ve got a pen or highlighter in my hand.

I underline.
I circle.
I write in the margins.
I star things.

And this is important—I mark the page so I can find it later with a small post-it, or I dog-ear the corner.

Because here’s what I’ve learned:

If it’s not marked, I probably won’t remember it.

A lot of this approach was shaped by Ryan Holiday and his view of reading as engagement, not just consumption.

The goal isn’t to get through books.

The goal is to get something out of them.

I Turn Books into Notecards

After I finish reading (or sometimes while I’m still in the middle of a book), I go back through what I’ve marked.

Then I turn those highlights into notecards.

Every important idea gets its own card.

That might be:

• A direct quote

• A thought the quote sparked

• A question I want to explore later

This is where things slow down—in a good way.

Because now I’m not just reading.

I’m processing.

I’m deciding: Is this actually worth keeping?

And if it is, it earns a place in my growing stack of ideas.

I Organize Notecards by Chapter

By this point, I have a pretty good idea of the chapter outline of the book.

So, I begin sorting.

Each chapter gets a stack.

At first, I don’t organize them.
No categories. No fine-tuning.

I just put them in their appropriate piles based on the chapter.

Because my goal at this stage is simple:

Do I have enough material to build something meaningful?

If I don’t, I go back to my sources and begin looking for more source material.

The reason I love having all of these notecards is because it’s a lot harder to have writer’s block when you’re surrounded by prompts.

I Compile a Digital List

Next, I take all the notecards for a chapter and type them into a document.

No order.
No structure.
Not much thinking.

Just a data dump.

And that’s intentional.

Because the structure comes next.

(The Controversial Part) I Use AI to Build the Outline

Alright—here’s the part some people won’t like.

I use AI in my research process.

Not to write the book—but to organize it.

I think of it like a research assistant.

If you don’t like that, I get it. Honestly.

But it’s working for me.

Here’s what I do:

I take my messy document and give AI a very specific prompt:

• “Create a compelling chapter outline based on these themes…”

• “Organize this into a clear, logical flow…”

• “Use my notes and insert them where they best support the argument…”

What comes back isn’t perfect.

But it is helpful.

Because it gives me structure.

Let me be clear:

AI is not writing my book.

It’s helping me:

• See the flow

• Organize the ideas

• Spot gaps

• Arrange material in a way that makes sense

It’s not replacing thinking.

It’s accelerating my organization.

And in a world where we all have more ideas than we know what to do with—that matters.

I Write the First Draft from the Outline

Once I have a clear outline, I finally start writing.

Now I’m not staring at a blank page.

I’m building from something.

I already know:

• Where I’m going

• What I want to say

• What material supports it

And that changes everything.

Writing becomes less about figuring out what to say…

…and more about saying it well.

Why This Process Works

I used to try to do everything at once:

Read. Think. Organize. Write.

All in the same moment.

And it’s exhausting.

This process separates those steps:

• Reading

• Processing

• Organizing

• Writing

Each one gets its own space.

And because of that:

• Clarity improves

• Stress goes down

• Ideas get sharper

• Writing gets faster

Final Thought

Good writing doesn’t start with typing—it starts with thinking clearly and capturing what matters.

Or even more simply:

The goal isn’t just to read more. It’s to retain, organize, and use what you read.

If you’re writing, teaching, or building something, I’d love to hear your process.

And if you’re curious how this turns into actual chapters, I’ll share more as I go.

In the summers, we would go to the starting point of our tubing route, jump on our tubes, and float down the river for hours. The current would carry us through beautiful parts of the northern Michigan forest.

Being as young as I was, I would get a little nervous about making sure we got out at our stopping point. I knew that the river emptied into Lake Huron, and I was a little scared that if I missed the exit, I would end up all the way down in that big lake—alone.

Clearly, I survived.

One thing I know from all my time on the river is this: rivers don’t begin where you see them. What looks like a single current is actually fed by countless streams, each contributing to the flow. And if you want to understand the river, you have to trace it upstream.

Every drop of water that carried us along in our tubes came from various tributaries. For miles upstream, water from multiple sources would flow into the main river and increase its size, its strength, and its impact.

In the same way, the world we live in today is not shaped by one idea, but by many. No one is shaped by a single idea or a single source. History is filled with tributaries—streams of ideas that have flowed into the river of our thinking.

If we understand what these tributaries are, we begin to understand why we think the way we think. And once we grasp that, we are far more equipped to speak objective, biblical truth into the world we live in.

What are some of the ideological and philosophical tributaries that have affected our culture and society? That is the question we need to answer.

Tributary One: When Truth Becomes Personal

One of the most influential ideas shaping our world today is the belief that truth is not something objective, but something personal. It has become so common that it no longer feels unusual. But it is an idea we need to be aware of because it isn’t just a passing trend or a collection of random opinions. It is part of a broader way of thinking often called postmodernism.

Throughout most of history, people believed in the idea of objective truth. Two plus two equals four. Up is up and down is down. But in a postmodern world, truth is considered to be relative. In other words, I can have my truth, and you can have your truth. Neither makes one person “right” or another person “wrong” because truth can be what feels or seems right to the individual.

Think of it like this: rather than viewing truth as a standard, it is based more on one’s personal experience, perspective, or interpretation. In other words, truth is not discovered—it’s constructed. It’s constructed based on one’s own views and ideas, and to tell someone they are “wrong” is to imply that your truth is somehow better than theirs.

But if truth is personal, how could one person’s truth ever be better than another’s? You see, if reality is interpreted rather than received, my truth is right simply because I believe it is so. The individual creates meaning rather than finding meaning from something external.

In postmodernism, there is no single objective truth that applies to everyone because all truth claims are shaped by culture, language, and power. We are going to investigate authority in a later tributary, but it impacts this as well: authority is suspect in postmodernism, so institutions, religion, and tradition all get called into question.

Meta-narratives (think stories like Christianity) are rejected, and truth is localized into being my truth and your truth. So, to claim that Christianity is true is acceptable—for you. But to claim it is the truth is completely impermissible.

You hear it in everyday life:

“That’s true for you, but not for me.”

“I’m just living my truth.”

“Who’s to say what’s right?”

“All perspectives are valid.”

“Truth is relative.”

That is all postmodern thinking. And it shows up everywhere. We see it in how moral issues are framed as personal preference, how identity is defined internally rather than externally, and when people reject clear truth claims as “intolerant.”

Before postmodernism, truth was considered to be objective, external, and discoverable. People may have disagreed about truth, but they still believed it existed. As a general rule, authorities like Scripture, tradition, and most institutions were respected. Identity was largely shaped by family, faith, and community. But postmodernism has shifted the conversation from “What is true?” to “What feels true to me?”

Confidence in the objective truth began to erode, skepticism toward authority increased, and experience began to outweigh external truth claims. Failures and corruption in institutions led to distrust. There has been a rise in academic philosophies questioning truth and language. There has been a greater cultural emphasis on personal experience and identity.

Postmodernism has led to truth becoming unstable and constantly shifting. Moral clarity has become complicated. Now, disagreements feel personal, not intellectual. Authority is usually rejected or redefined.

Where has that left us? With division, a crisis of identity confusion, and emotional reasoning replacing objective reasoning. Ultimately, for Christians, it has made it far more difficult to communicate the gospel clearly.

If truth is personal, it cannot be universal.

Therefore, the gospel is fine for you, but maybe not for me.

This is one of the strongest tributaries feeding our cultural river because it influences how people think, how they speak, and how they interpret reality. It’s a tributary that has quietly reshaped the way we view truth itself.

But this tributary doesn’t stand alone. It is only one of the many that impact culture.

Tributary Two: The Rise of the Self

You will likely notice a theme with these tributaries. Each one quietly moves the individual to the center and pushes external authority — including God — to the margins. The rise of the self is no different.

This concept is referred to as Individualism, and it claims that a person’s identity, purpose, and truth are primarily defined by the individual rather than by external authorities like family, tradition, or religion.

Within the concepts of individualism, we find ideas that claim the individual has the right to define their own identity. This means that personal freedom and autonomy are the highest values. I can be anything I want to be. No one, not a church, not my family, and certainly not the government, can or should limit the individual. Any attempt to do so would hinder one’s search for fulfillment that they believe is found inward, not outward.

In individualism, you don’t discover who you are, you decide who you are.

Again, we hear it all the time:

“Follow your heart.”

“Be true to yourself.”

“You do you.”

“Don’t let anyone tell you who you are.”

“Live your best life.”

In the world of individualism, life decisions are typically framed around “what makes me happy.” Responsibility and social order are often pushed aside because the individual becomes the primary concern. You must resist any and all authority that challenges your personal desires.

In the past, people often saw themselves as a part of something bigger: a family, a community, a tradition, or a faith. They would ask things like “Who am I within this larger story?” But no longer. With just a glance at social media, we see that the question has shifted to, “What story do I want to tell about myself?”

The problem with individualism, or the rise of the self, is that identity becomes unstable—constantly shifting and increasingly difficult to define.

As it relates to the church, commitment becomes a problem because the self comes first.

But as with so many of these ideologies, they often are not all bad. For example, there is an element of individualism within Biblical Christianity. We stand, as individuals, before God. We are called to be separate from the world.

There is a kind of individual conviction that is not only good—but necessary.

One of the greatest examples of individual conviction is found in the life of Martin Luther, known as the great reformer. Though Luther was a part of the Roman Catholic Church, he began to find heresy in the teachings of Catholicism. In October of 1517, Luther nailed his 95 Theses to the Castle Church door in Wittenberg, Germany. He took a stand. But notice what grounded that stand — not his feelings, not his personal truth, but his conviction that Scripture alone was the final authority. Luther didn’t follow his heart. He followed the Word.

Individualism in submission to God is a beautiful thing. In today’s culture, though, individualism has gone to an extreme with no sign of God. As philosophers and thinkers began to search for meaning apart from God, reason and skepticism replaced God as authoritative. Now people believe that their identity comes from within.

Authenticity becomes the highest value.

Being “true to yourself” has become the defining cry of the 21st-century individual.

And, once again, we have a tributary running into our cultural river that shapes how people see themselves, make decisions, and define purpose. It’s a stream that has reshaped how we understand who we are.

When the self becomes central, something else follows.

Tributary Three: When Everything Becomes a Product

When the self becomes central, the way we see the world around us begins to change. Rather than simply participating in life, we begin to assess it based on what we get out of it. We begin to see everything as something we want, something we think we need, or something we reject because it does not serve us.

We call this consumerism, and it is incredibly pervasive in our Western culture. It has placed products, brands, and marketing in front of us so constantly that we are consumed with having more. It shows up in subtle ways, often without us even realizing it.

Consumerism promises satisfaction, but it can only survive on our dissatisfaction.

As I walked through a department store years ago, a pair of really ugly shorts caught my attention. I pulled them from the rack, laughing at how bad they were. As soon as I pulled them out and saw that the label was from a major brand, I sensed myself shifting to wondering if I could actually like them. In that moment, I was falling for years of marketing that had fed me the line that this brand was worth it, even if the product was hideous. Fortunately, I realized that and put them back on the shelf.

But this obsessive need for more stuff may have kept more people from surrendering their lives to the call of Jesus than probably anything else. We don’t live generously because we have too many payments. We don’t leave for the mission field because we can’t bring our homes and our stuff with us.

G.K. Chesterton is often attributed as saying, “There are two ways to get enough. One is to continue to accumulate more and more. The other is to desire less.”

Consumerism is a mindset that simply says, “Everything exists to serve me.” It believes that the world exists to meet my needs, preferences, and desires.

We find consumerism in phrases like:

“What do I get out of this?”

“That church just isn’t for me.”

“That just doesn’t meet my needs.”

“This isn’t for me.”

We pick and choose based on whether institutions or individuals align with our systems of belief, regardless of objective truth and reality. This leads to church shopping based on preferences like music, programs, and convenience. It creates relationships built on personal fulfillment. And consumerism has moved people from participation to consumption; from commitment to comparison.

A consumer mindset is the habit of approaching people, institutions, and experiences primarily in terms of what they provide for me, rather than what I contribute or commit to.

We have shifted from “I belong, therefore I contribute” to “I consume, therefore I decide.”

Prior to a consumer-driven society, identity was tied to belonging. You were known by where you were from, who your family was, what you contributed. Life wasn’t perfect, but it was rooted. People were participants in something, not just consumers of it.

As society shifted, people became less rooted in local communities and more shaped by systems, markets, and options. Once the Industrial Revolution hit, we became cogs in the wheel; workers in a system; less tied to a community. With the explosion of advertising and brand culture, we were given a massive number of choices. We were suddenly able to become whoever we wished to become.

All of this has led to an inability of people to commit. Where, once, people would retire from a job they spent forty years at, people are moving from place to place. Loyalty is on the decline. Depth is replaced by preference. People move on quickly when they are no longer immediately fulfilled.

All of us have dealt with this in one way or another. Some of us have evaluated churches based far more on preferences rather than a move of God. Many marriages end because the spouse ceases to make them happy.

Much like the tributary of individualism, consumerism revolves around the self. This stream affects how we view everything in life.

And as we continue to follow the tributaries dumping into our cultural river, we find that if everything is optional, then even authority can be questioned.

Tributary Four: Distrust of Authority

Once authority is questioned, trust is not far behind. If authority does not align with how I see truth, and if it does not serve me, distrust becomes the natural progression.

The preceding tributaries all lead to a similar conclusion: “No one should have the right to define anything for me.” Distrust of authority is the assumption that leaders, institutions, and systems are likely flawed, self-serving, or untrustworthy. And why wouldn’t they be? If we are all individualistic, relativistic, consumer-driven individuals, wouldn’t it stand to reason that anyone in authority would be as well and are thus looking out only for themselves?

Let’s be honest, politicians will claim anything to get our vote. CEO’s will often say what they think needs to be said to keep us working and earning. We see the self-serving nature of authority regularly. Therefore, institutions can’t be trusted. Truth claims from authority figures are suspect.

And with these lines of thinking, it makes sense. If we are postmodern, individualistic consumers who think truth is personal, then authority cannot define truth. If our identity is actually personal, then authority can’t define us. This tributary is a natural outcome of the previous three.

Distrust of authority is heard in common phrases:

“You can’t trust the media.”

“All institutions are corrupt.”

“Question everything.”

“I don’t trust organized religion.”

I may not be very old, but I can remember a time when pastors and priests were widely trusted on spiritual matters. The media was generally seen as a source of information, and teachers were viewed as guides for learning. Today, trust in all of these areas has noticeably eroded.

As a society, we have moved from a place of trust to a place of suspicion. Where we once had submission, we now find skepticism. What was once viewed as authoritative is now seen as oppressive or judgmental.

But what do we expect? It seems like a regular occurrence to hear about a pastor needing to leave the ministry due to a lack of integrity. We see failures and scandals in abundance thanks to mass media outlets. And with the heavy emphasis on postmodernism, individualism, and consumerism in our society, of course, people will tend to press into individual autonomy.

Thus, we have a society that increasingly believes institutions are corrupt and should be torn down and rebuilt. In some cases, that’s true. But total distrust is dangerous.

Since we have moved from “Authority is necessary and generally trustworthy,” to “Authority is suspect and must prove itself constantly,” we have a culture constantly at odds with government, schools, employers, and even the church.

All of this makes sense. With no shared authority, we have no shared truth. Of course, that is going to lead to confusion and people becoming their own authority. We should expect an increase in societal division.

Churches are massively affected. It is incredibly difficult to teach an authoritative Scripture today. People see the Bible as archaic and more of a guide rather than the absolute truth, which leads to picking and choosing the parts they want to follow. And when people are unwilling to recognize the Scripture as authoritative, where does that leave the church in her call to make disciples?

When authority collapses, confusion arises.

Do you ever find yourself defaulting to questioning authority? Do you naturally struggle to trust leadership or institutions? Do you tend to rely more on your own understanding rather than an external source of truth?

This tributary has reshaped much of modern society. And while it does not exist in a vacuum, but rather exists in line with these other tributaries, it has pulled many into its current and away from a healthy understanding of authority.

When truth is personal, identity is self-defined, everything is evaluated, and authority is questioned, we begin to see the river we are living in more clearly. These tributaries are not isolated. They are all shaping the river of culture. They are shaping our belief systems.

The good news is that now that we’ve traced the streams, we can begin to understand the river.

Being told what to read was the worst. It was usually a topic I didn’t care to read about. Sometimes, I think my stubborn nature just didn’t like being told what to do, so that played a part.

But now? Now you will rarely find me without a book close by. I read nearly 50 books last year. For some people, that isn’t a lot, but coming from where I started, it’s a massive amount!

This year, I’m worried less about the number of books and focusing on consistent reading, and then adding up the number of pages read. In large part, that’s because I am reading bigger books this year, and it is slowing down my quantity.

Along my journey, I have learned a few disciplines (I hesitate to call them tricks) that have helped me engage in books far more than I ever imagined I would. Perhaps some of these ideas can help you.

Always have a book with you.

No matter where I am going, I usually have a book nearby. Sometimes I don’t get to do anything with it, but I would rather have it with me and not need it, than need it and not have it.

Waiting for the doctor? Read instead of scrolling.

Getting the oil changed? Read

Sitting at a red light? Not really… don’t read then.

Read multiple books at once.

I usually have one book at my office and one at home. If I have too many more than that, I can get to where I never finish any of them.

But find a rhythm and an amount that works for you. The goal isn’t to finish a lot of books quickly, but to enjoy the process of reading and engaging with ideas and stories.

Keep a book closer than the remote control.

I love a good show as much as anyone. However, if I really want to get through some books, I have to set myself up for success by making it easier to read. Choosing your book over your show has to become a priority. Trust me, you will almost always get more out of a good book than you will from television.

Use a pen or a highlighter.

I am addicted to having a pen in hand when I read. I use it to track underneath the line and keep my eyes moving forward. It helps me read a little more quickly, but it also helps me when I want to mark or underline something.

Treat your book like a tool.

Books aren’t meant to stay pretty. Write in it. Dog-ear it. Shove it in your work bag. It’s okay if it gets a little dirty or messed up. My last book has wrinkled pages from my Coke Zero! And all of my books have key moments highlighted and my thoughts written in margins.

You will enjoy your books more if you don’t try to keep the spine just right. Fold that baby over and dive into it!

Track what you read.

I use an app called Goodreads. It allows me to mark what books I have read and keep a list of books I want to read. Even if you keep it private so no one else knows what you are up to, it is helpful too. It’s fun to look back and see your progress and accomplishments.

Read what you enjoy.

Call me crazy, but I started the Lord of the Rings books a while back. I read The Hobbit and thought it was great. I read book one of the series, and almost didn’t finish it. I started book two, and, you guessed it, I left off in the middle and will likely never start it again. Guess what, that’s okay! It just wasn’t for me.

I have found my niche. Where I once couldn’t find a single book I wanted to read, I now have an Amazon list a mile long, I can’t wait to get through! But it’s because they are books I love.

Permit yourself to quit a book.

Early on in my reading journey, I felt like I had to read from page one until the very end of every book I started. The truth is, some books suck. Some of them aren’t worth my time. Some books aren’t what I thought they were or aren’t what I needed. Whatever the case, you don’t have to finish it if you don’t like it. No one is checking in on you!

Use noise-canceling headphones.

I can’t handle reading with distractions. Usually, I have my AirPods in with the noise-cancelling feature on. But here is the real secret—I don’t listen to music. It’s way too distracting for me.

Typically, I play brown noise, and sometimes, I will play rain sounds (but these can put me to sleep a little faster).

Blocking out the dog barking or the TV in the other room allows me to focus and truly get into the subject matter at my fingertips.

Stop scrolling!

This is the hardest one. Get off YouTube. Abandon TikTok. Forget about Instagram. The world will still be spinning later.

Those apps are designed to keep you addicted. That’s why you like it so much. It takes a little more time for the dopamine to hit in a book. I get that. But the feeling of closing the back cover on a really amazing book is deeply satisfying!

You don’t have to read fifty books a year. You don’t have to read twenty. You just have to start. Pick one idea from this list, put down your phone, and open a book. The rest takes care of itself.

However, early in my dad’s pastoral ministry, he was asked to baptize someone in a fast-flowing, strong current river. He made one critical mistake. Rather than leaning the person back into the current, he dunked them with the current so that when he went to get them back up, the current was too strong. Don’t worry, the person survived the ordeal, but a lesson was learned. When you are in the middle of a river, you are, to some degree, at the mercy of the current.

You and I are, metaphorically speaking, living downstream of generations of ideas, philosophies, and religions. We were born into a point along the river. Our great, great grandparents were part of those upstream of us, and our children’s children’s children will be even further downstream. Neither you nor I started the river.

We’re in it. We are, at some level, caught up in the currents of thinkers, philosophers, pastors, and influencers of old. So, while we like to view ourselves as totally independent, we aren’t as neutral as we want to think. Our environment, our upbringing, our parents, our schools, and so much more have had an impact on how we see the world.

And to top it all off, we didn’t get to choose the river we were born into. It is most likely that the average person reading this is part of Western civilization. That’s a pretty big river. But statistically speaking, the majority of you are likely from the United States of America, and you are likely a Christian, and there is a good chance that many of you were born into all of those things. In other words, your river is not as broad as you might think.

You didn’t pick that “river.” You didn’t choose its direction. You didn’t choose its speed. You didn’t choose the ideas already flowing through it. But you are still carried by them. And over time, something else happens. You stop noticing the current. And that’s what makes this so difficult to recognize. The most powerful influences in your life are often the ones you don’t notice. You rarely question what feels obvious.
You rarely examine what feels normal. Not because you’re unwilling to think, but because you’ve never had a reason to.

And when something has always felt true, it doesn’t feel like an idea at all. It just feels like reality. So, what once felt unfamiliar or uncomfortable, in time, begins to seem totally normal.

Perhaps you have even gotten to the place where you don’t question ideas anymore. You don’t resist them. You simply follow along the current of the ever-flowing river. And the longer you remain in it, the more difficult it becomes to recognize that you are being carried at all.

But if you didn’t choose it and you are being swept up in the current, what can you do about it? For starters, you need to understand that this is where the sovereign God of the universe placed you.

And because God placed you in this river at this time in history, you didn’t get to choose which ideas were upstream from you. You didn’t get to pick whether or not you would learn about capitalism or socialism; a democratic republic or a dictatorship. You are at the mercy of what is upstream from you. You have developed many of your ideas and opinions based on the information you have had access to. Where did that information come from? Upstream.

Here is the really interesting part: you didn’t even choose the assumptions you would carry that would feel totally normal to you before you ever questioned them. You just believed what you had learned. You are, in part, a product of the upstream ideas.

Think about it: where do your ideas come from? Whether you are mired in the ideas passed down to you from your loved ones, or if you have read and researched a multitude of varying resources, you are influenced and have thoughts based on what you learn and who you learn from.

The reality is that we can only know what has been made available to us. And, we don’t even know what we don’t know. I don’t understand ancient Eastern religions because I’ve never been downstream of their teachings. I don’t understand auto mechanics or quantum physics for the same reason. I can only know that which has been made available to me. So, we must discover and learn the most important source of knowledge, the Word of God, to compare everything else to it.

In Plato’s Apologia, we find a man unique in his abilities to understand the very concept of knowledge.

Socrates was known in Athens for being wise, but he didn’t believe it. So he began investigating. He asked questions of everyone he encountered—politicians, poets, craftsmen, young and old alike.

He would ask simple questions:
“What is justice?”
“What is virtue?”
“What is wisdom?”

What he discovered was unsettling.

Most people were confident, but shallow in their understanding.

An individual would claim to know something. Socrates would begin asking questions. Eventually, their answers would fall apart.

He came to a surprising conclusion: he was, in fact, wiser than others—not because he knew more, but because he recognized what he didn’t know.

As he later said:

“I am wiser than this man; neither of us probably knows anything worthwhile, but he thinks he knows something when he does not, whereas I do not think I know what I do not know.”

The Athenians didn’t appreciate this.

Socrates exposed their false confidence and revealed their assumed knowledge. He confronted their intellectual pride. He didn’t attack them as individuals—but he did challenge the way they thought.

And they hated him for it.

They accused him of corrupting the youth and rejecting the gods of Athens. So, at his trial, standing before the council as a man over seventy years old, Socrates made something clear: He would not stop.

He believed truth mattered more than anyone’s comfort. He desired truth more than approval. And for that, they sentenced him to death.

Much like the Athenians, people today believe their thoughts are entirely their own. But often, they are unaware of how much they don’t understand. That realization is unsettling.

Socrates discovered something surprising—not that people knew too little, but that they were unaware of how little they actually understood. And if we are going to reach the world today with the gospel, we must understand not only what people believe… but why they believe it.

We like to believe that our thoughts are our own—that our beliefs are the result of careful thinking, personal reflection, and independent reasoning. But what if that’s not entirely true? What if many of the things we feel most certain about… were never carefully examined at all?

Much of what feels “normal” to your ideological perspective isn’t normal for someone else. That’s why there can be two totally well-meaning individuals with dramatically different viewpoints. Two people at two different points in the river would likely have two very different experiences in the river.

Often, we see finger-pointing and arguing regarding truth or reality based on an individual’s personal experience. Who is right? Who is wrong? This is where it gets tricky. Both individuals believe they are right because they are both very grounded in their personal experience from their spot in the river. So, can we know and understand what is really true? Yes. But we’ll come back to that.

Much of what we believe wasn’t formed in isolation—it was inherited. We don’t just think—we think within a framework we didn’t create. What feels natural to us was shaped long before we ever stopped to question it. Whereas we might think that we have original and unique ideas, in actuality, most of us are products of what we have been impacted by—whether that’s good or bad. And the reality is that much of what we have come to believe historically in Western civilization has been strongly impacted by non-Christian assumptions.

The truth is, what feels normal to us today would not have felt normal to someone living just a few generations ago. That’s not because people in the past were less intelligent or less informed. It’s because they were shaped by a different set of ideas, assumptions, and influences. And if we’re honest, many of the things we take for granted today are not timeless truths—they are cultural conclusions.

Consider just a few examples.

Truth: From Discovered to Defined

Today, it is common to hear phrases like:

• “That may be true for you…”

• “Everyone has their own truth”

• “Who’s to say what’s right?”

Truth, for many people, is no longer something fixed or external. It is something personal—something shaped by experience, perspective, or identity. But this has not always been the case.

For most of history, people assumed that truth existed outside of them. It was something to be discovered, not created. You might disagree about what was true, but the assumption was that truth itself was real, stable, and binding.

Now, that assumption has shifted. Truth has become fluid. And when truth becomes fluid, everything built on it begins to shift as well.

Identity: From Given to Created

We also see this shift in how people understand identity. Today, identity is often viewed as something deeply personal—something that must be discovered within and expressed outwardly.

The message is clear:

Look inside yourself. Find who you truly are. Then live that out.

But historically, identity was not primarily something you created—it was something you received.

It was shaped by:

• family

• community

• tradition

• faith

People asked:

“Who am I within this larger story?”

Now we ask:

“What story do I want to tell about myself?”

That shift changes everything—from how we view purpose, to how we define fulfillment, to how we relate to others.

Church: From Central to Optional

The same pattern shows up in how we think about the church.

For much of history, the church was not one option among many—it was central to life. It shaped rhythms, relationships, identity, and understanding of the world. Today, the church is often viewed very differently.

It is one choice among many:

• one voice among many

• one influence among many

• one preference among many

People don’t just attend church—they evaluate it.

They ask:

• “Does this meet my needs?”

• “Do I like the style?”

• “Does this fit my schedule?”

In other words, the church is no longer primarily something people submit to—it is something they consume.

But none of these shifts happened overnight. They were shaped over time by ideas, movements, and assumptions that have gradually worked their way into everyday life. And because they developed slowly, they feel normal. But normal is not the same as neutral. And it’s definitely not the same as true.

And these shifts didn’t just change what we believe. They changed what feels obvious.

If what feels normal to us has been shaped over time, then the question becomes: Where did these ideas come from?

In much the same way as the Athenians, we like to believe we know all that we need to know. We don’t want our ideas to be questioned. However, at times, our thinking falls apart when asked the simplest questions: Where did our knowing come from? Did you and I think up all of these realities?

This is what Socrates was exposing. People weren’t lacking intelligence—they were unaware of the assumptions shaping their thinking. And we’re not as different as we might like to think.

We think what we think because of the influences and environments we were brought up in and continue to be a part of. There is no escaping outside influence. What matters is thinking critically about what those outside influences are and how much space to give them in our thinking.

The reality is that we’re not as different as we might like to think. We inherit language, values, assumptions, and beliefs long before we ever begin to question them. We accept as truth much of what we’ve been taught by those we know, love, and trust. We don’t start from neutral—we start from somewhere.

This book is, in a sense, an apologia—not just a defense of what we believe, but an explanation of how we got here. Socrates wanted to understand the world around him. He sought clarity. He attempted to find a thoughtful response to his ponderings.

In today’s culture, many people don’t want their ideologies questioned at all—particularly with empirical evidence. We are often perfectly content to dwell inside our echo chambers of information with our eyes closed and our ears plugged, perfectly content to keep on believing whatever it is we want to believe.

All of these ideas like “follow your heart,” “tear down the systems,” and “consumer driven church hopping” are not random—they are downstream ideas born out of generations of questioning the status quo and the Bible. If we misunderstand this concept, we won’t just misunderstand cultural issues. We will completely misunderstand people. We will misunderstand how they are shaped and formed in their thinking. Most importantly, we will misunderstand how to reach them with the gospel of Jesus. And that is what really matters.

This is where the church often struggles. We assume people are rejecting truth, when in reality, many have never understood it in the first place. We assume they are resisting the gospel when in reality, they are interpreting it through a completely different framework. We speak clearly, but we are not always heard clearly. Not because the message is unclear, but because the lens through which it is received has already been shaped.

The goal is not to win arguments or prove that we are right and others are wrong. The goal is to understand why people think the way they do—so we can speak the truth of Jesus into their lives in a way that actually connects.

What’s interesting is that none of this is a new idea. Long before modern psychology, long before cultural analysis, Scripture was already addressing this reality. This isn’t a new insight—it’s a Biblical one. In Romans 12:2, Paul writes: “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind…”

That word conformed carries the idea of being shaped, molded, pressed into a pattern. In other words, the assumption of Scripture is not that we are neutral—but that we are being formed.

The question is not if we are being shaped…but by what.

Rivers don’t begin where you see them. They are fed by sources you cannot see from where you stand. All of the ideas and ideologies flowing through history are like tributaries feeding the river you and I were born into. Some of those tributaries are amazing and helpful. Others of them need to be understood so that we can be careful not to be caught up in them.

The reality is that the current of the river you are in comes from somewhere. Knowing where gives you so much more ability to withstand the current. So the question isn’t just: What do you believe? The deeper question is: Why does it feel so obvious to you that it’s true? And even more importantly: Where did that certainty come from?

Perhaps you haven’t spent much time thinking about it, but what shapes your mind is important. You see, this isn’t just about culture. This is about you. The way you think. The things you assume. The beliefs you’ve never questioned. You are not standing outside the current. You are in it. And if you don’t recognize that, you will never fully understand yourself, or who God has created you to be, either.

Every one of us is shaped by what has come before us. We are part of what has often been called the “Great Conversation”—a centuries-long dialogue about truth, identity, and meaning. In other words, none of us exists in a vacuum.

Yet, somehow, the concept of truth feels less stable. What once underpinned our shared beliefs now seems shaken. It’s as if everyone is allowed to have “their truth” with no real regard for “the truth.” Now, with something as foundational as a universal truth in question, everything seems fluid. If we are capable of questioning our individual identity, can we have any hope of a corporate identity? How do we develop a sense of belonging if we can’t even decide who (or in some cases, what) we are?

And if we’re honest, this isn’t just something happening “out there.” We feel it too.

The pull to define ourselves.
The hesitation to speak with certainty.
The instinct to evaluate everything.
The quiet skepticism toward authority.

These ideas haven’t just shaped culture—they’ve shaped the way we think.

You can see it in everyday conversations.

A children’s cartoon that tells them to “follow their heart.” A conversation about truth that quickly ends with, “Well, that’s just your perspective.” A family choosing a church not based on doctrine or conviction, but on preference—what feels right, what meets their needs, what fits their schedule. A growing hesitation to trust leaders, institutions, or even long-held beliefs without suspicion.

These aren’t isolated moments. They are the normal patterns of thought shaping how people see the world.

And, unfortunately, looking to the experts doesn’t seem to provide much hope. Is it because they are wrong? Maybe, but more often, it’s because we no longer trust authority itself. Authority is often assumed to be oppressive or abusive. Rather than yield ourselves to a general understanding, we look inward. But how can we have both the problem (a confused sense of truth and identity) and the solution within ourselves?

I know! Let’s turn to the church. Here is an institution that has existed for over 2,000 years. Certainly, there is a unified understanding of these issues, right? One would imagine that if there is any place we can find the source of truth, it would be by walking into the doors of a local church in our neighborhoods.

But which one?

For many people, stepping into a church today doesn’t resolve confusion—it often deepens it. Instead of clarity, they encounter differences. Instead of unity, they see divergence. And for someone genuinely searching for truth, that raises an unsettling question: If this is where truth is supposed to be found… why does it feel so difficult to identify?

Do you walk through the one flying the pride flag? Or, do you walk into the ornate one where the leadership is wearing liturgical vestments? What about the one with the really good band that puts on a great show every week?

A glance at church signs across America reveals just how complex things have become—different traditions, different emphases, and often very different conclusions about truth and identity. Just take a look at some of the church signs you might see in any city or town in America: United Methodist Church, Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, Episcopal Church, Presbyterian Church, Baptist Churches, and many more!

These shifts didn’t happen randomly. They were shaped over time by powerful ideas—ideas about identity, truth, purpose, and authority.

Ideas like individualism teach us to look inward for identity.
Ideas like relativism reshape how we think about truth.
Ideas like consumerism train us to evaluate everything based on what we get out of it.
And a growing distrust of authority causes us to question every institution, including the church.

These ideas have not only shaped culture—they have shaped us. And if we don’t recognize that, we risk misdiagnosing the problem entirely.

We may assume people are simply choosing differently when in reality they are starting from a completely different understanding of truth, identity, and authority.

And if we misunderstand the starting point, we will struggle to clearly communicate the gospel in ways that connect.

Where does this leave Christians? We’re trying to follow Jesus in a world shaped by different assumptions. We’re discipling people who have been formed by ideas we may not fully understand.

In this book, we’re going to explore how the past has shaped the present. Once we understand the philosophies impacting our thinking today, we will stand a much better chance of impacting the culture with the gospel of Jesus Christ.

This is not a political rant, nor is it merely an academic or historical exercise. It is about connecting the echoes of our past to the implications of our present to release Jesus followers into their God-given role of making disciples.

Before we can help people understand what is true, we need to understand what they currently believe. Before we can understand what they believe, we need to understand how those beliefs were formed.

Because none of us is standing at the beginning of the story.

We are all living downstream.