There is a version of Heaven most people carry in their imagination that feels strangely small compared to the promises of God. It is often reduced to clouds, harps, endless white light, and a kind of spiritual floating existence that feels disconnected from the ache and substance of real life. For many, Heaven has become either a sentimental comfort at funerals or a vague religious reward for good behavior. Yet when we slow down and honestly ask what the Bible really says about Heaven, something far more powerful, grounded, and breathtaking begins to emerge.

Heaven in Scripture is not an abstract escape from reality. It is not a spiritual retirement home for disembodied souls. It is not a celestial waiting room where eternity is spent in passive stillness. The Bible presents Heaven as the fulfillment of everything God has been building from the beginning. It is not the abandonment of creation but the restoration of it. It is not the rejection of the physical but the redemption of it. It is not less real than this life. It is more real.

From Genesis to Revelation, Heaven is woven into a larger story about God dwelling with His people. In the opening chapters of Genesis, humanity does not begin in Heaven but in a garden. God walks with Adam and Eve in the cool of the day. The picture is not of humans escaping earth to find God, but of God coming near to His creation. Sin fractures that intimacy, and the rest of Scripture unfolds as the story of God restoring what was lost.

When people speak of going to Heaven, they often picture leaving earth behind forever. Yet the final vision in the Bible, found in Revelation 21 and 22, does not describe believers ascending into the sky. It describes the New Jerusalem descending. “Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man.” That is the climax. Not that humanity escapes earth, but that God makes His home with us. The holy city comes down. Heaven and earth are joined. The separation is removed.

This changes everything about how we understand eternity.

Heaven, according to the Bible, is not merely a location. It is the unfiltered presence of God. Wherever God’s glory is fully unveiled, that is Heaven. In the Old Testament, Heaven is described as God’s throne room, His dwelling place beyond the visible sky. The prophets glimpse it in flashes of overwhelming glory. Isaiah sees the Lord high and lifted up, the train of His robe filling the temple. Ezekiel sees a vision of radiant fire and living creatures surrounding a throne. These are not cartoon images. They are attempts to describe something beyond human language.

In the New Testament, Heaven becomes even more intimate. Jesus speaks of His Father’s house with many rooms. He tells His disciples He is going to prepare a place for them. Yet He also says the kingdom of Heaven is at hand. It is near. It is breaking in. Heaven is not only future. It is intersecting with the present through Him.

This is where many believers miss the depth of what the Bible teaches. Heaven is not simply a distant reward. It is the ultimate reality that begins now. Eternal life is not something that starts after death. Jesus says eternal life is knowing the Father and knowing Him. That relationship begins here and continues beyond the grave. Death does not create eternal life. It cannot. It only transitions the believer into the fullness of what has already begun.

So what actually happens when someone dies according to Scripture? The apostle Paul writes that to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord. He speaks of departing and being with Christ as far better. There is a conscious, immediate presence with Jesus for those who belong to Him. This is sometimes referred to as the intermediate state. Yet even this is not the final picture.

The final hope of the Christian faith is not merely Heaven as a spiritual realm. It is resurrection. The same Jesus who walked out of a sealed tomb in a glorified body is the pattern for believers. First Corinthians 15 makes it clear that the resurrection of the body is central to the gospel. If Christ is not raised, faith is futile. But He is raised, the firstfruits of those who sleep.

This means that Heaven is not the permanent abandonment of physical existence. It is the transformation of it. The Bible promises a new heaven and a new earth. Not a replacement that discards the old like a broken toy, but a renewal. The language echoes Romans 8, where creation itself groans, waiting for liberation. The earth is not disposable in God’s plan. It is destined for redemption.

Imagine a world without decay, without injustice, without death. Not a ghostly realm, but a tangible one where righteousness dwells. Scripture describes trees bearing fruit each month. It describes nations bringing their glory into the city. It describes work without frustration and worship without distraction. The curse is lifted. The river of life flows clear as crystal.

Heaven, in its final form, is life as God always intended it.

There is continuity and discontinuity. We are not turned into angels. That is a common misconception. Angels are a separate order of beings created by God. Humans remain human, yet glorified. Jesus after His resurrection eats fish, invites Thomas to touch His wounds, and yet passes through locked doors. His body is physical but transformed. It is recognizable yet radiant.

The Bible also tells us that relationships endure in some form. When Jesus speaks of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob in the kingdom, He presents them as living, not dissolved into anonymity. The book of Hebrews describes a great cloud of witnesses. Revelation speaks of martyrs crying out for justice. Heaven is not the erasure of identity. It is its purification.

One of the most comforting truths about Heaven is the absence of sorrow. Revelation says He will wipe away every tear. Death shall be no more. Neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain. The former things have passed away. This does not mean we become numb or unaware of our earthly story. It means that whatever grief or injustice marked our lives is healed in the presence of perfect justice and love.

Heaven answers the deepest longings of the human heart because those longings were placed there by God. C.S. Lewis once observed that if we find in ourselves a desire nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world. The Bible affirms that instinct. Ecclesiastes says God has set eternity in the human heart. There is a homesickness in us that no success, relationship, or achievement can quiet.

Heaven is not escapism. It is fulfillment.

Yet it is important to confront a sobering truth. Not everyone experiences Heaven as Scripture describes it. The Bible is equally clear about judgment. Jesus speaks more about Hell than anyone else in the New Testament. He describes a separation, a place prepared for the devil and his angels, a realm of outer darkness. These are not comfortable teachings, but they are present in the text.

Heaven is not automatic. It is not inherited by default. It is received through Christ. Jesus says, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.” The cross stands at the center of the path to Heaven. Without the atonement, there is no reconciliation. Without the resurrection, there is no victory over death.

This exclusivity is often criticized, but it is rooted in love. If sin separates humanity from God, then a bridge must be built. Christianity declares that God Himself built that bridge through the sacrifice of His Son. Heaven is not earned by moral effort. It is granted by grace.

This has profound implications for how believers live now. If Heaven is real, if resurrection is promised, if eternity stretches beyond this life, then our choices matter. Paul writes that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed. He also writes that our labor in the Lord is not in vain. There is continuity between faithfulness now and reward then.

The Bible speaks of crowns, of varying rewards, of treasures in Heaven. These are not incentives for selfish ambition. They are acknowledgments that God sees. Every act of obedience, every hidden prayer, every sacrifice made in love carries eternal weight. Heaven is not a bland uniformity where individuality disappears. It is a kingdom where justice and generosity are perfectly balanced.

When we reduce Heaven to sentimental imagery, we strip it of its transformative power. But when we see it as Scripture presents it, everything shifts. Fear of death loosens its grip. Suffering finds context. Injustice does not have the final word. The believer’s hope is not wishful thinking. It is anchored in a historical event: the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

Consider how the early church lived in light of this hope. They faced persecution, imprisonment, and martyrdom. Yet they rejoiced. They sang in prison cells. They forgave their executioners. Why? Because they were convinced that death was not defeat. It was passage. Heaven was not fantasy. It was certainty.

In Philippians, Paul writes that our citizenship is in Heaven. That does not mean disengagement from earthly responsibility. It means allegiance. Believers belong to another kingdom even while living in this one. Their values, priorities, and identity are shaped by eternity.

This perspective guards against despair and against idolatry. If Heaven is the ultimate home, then no earthly success can define us, and no earthly loss can destroy us. Wealth fades. Beauty fades. Influence fades. But the soul, redeemed by Christ, endures.

There is also a communal dimension to Heaven that is often overlooked. Salvation is personal but not private. Revelation describes a multitude from every nation, tribe, people, and language standing before the throne. Heaven is not homogenous. It is diverse. Cultures are not erased but redeemed. The unity is centered on worship of the Lamb.

Worship itself is central to Heaven’s description. This does not mean an endless church service in the way people fear. Worship in Scripture is not confined to singing. It is the full expression of delight and obedience toward God. In the restored creation, every task becomes worship because it flows from love. There is no division between sacred and secular. All is sacred because God is fully present.

The imagery of the New Jerusalem includes gates that are never shut. Light that never fades. A city that needs no sun because the glory of God illuminates it. These symbols communicate security, permanence, and joy. Nothing impure enters. Nothing threatens. Nothing corrodes.

One of the most overlooked truths about Heaven is its relational center. The greatest joy is not the absence of pain or the presence of beauty. It is God Himself. “They will see His face.” That is the promise. In the Old Testament, to see God’s face was unthinkable. Even Moses could only glimpse His back. In eternity, the barrier is gone.

The human heart was made for that encounter.

Many people fear that Heaven will be boring. This fear reveals more about our limited imagination than about God’s creativity. The One who designed galaxies, oceans, and the intricacies of the human mind is not preparing a monotonous eternity. If this fallen world contains such wonder, what will an unfallen one hold?

The Bible hints at responsibility and purpose in the age to come. Jesus speaks of faithful servants being entrusted with cities. Paul writes that believers will judge angels. These statements suggest activity, growth, and meaningful engagement. Eternity is not static. It is dynamic, yet free from corruption.

At the same time, Heaven resolves the tension between justice and mercy that we wrestle with now. Every wrong is addressed. Every hidden motive is exposed. Every act of cruelty is accounted for. For the believer, judgment has already fallen on Christ. Therefore, there is no condemnation. For those who reject Him, judgment remains.

This dual reality should not produce arrogance. It should produce humility and urgency. Heaven is not a badge of superiority. It is a gift. If it is truly a gift, then it is meant to be shared in proclamation and invitation.

Another misconception is that Heaven erases memory. Scripture gives no indication that believers forget their earthly lives. In fact, the continuity of identity suggests the opposite. Yet the memory of pain is transformed. It is viewed through the lens of redemption. Scars become testimonies. Wounds become reminders of grace.

Think of Jesus’ resurrected body. The scars remained. They were not removed. They were glorified. In the same way, the story of each redeemed life becomes part of the tapestry of worship. Nothing is wasted.

When the Bible says that no eye has seen and no ear has heard what God has prepared for those who love Him, it is not exaggeration. Language strains to describe the indescribable. Gold like transparent glass. Gates made of single pearls. Streets reflecting light. These images are not meant to fuel materialistic fantasy. They communicate value and beauty beyond comprehension.

Heaven is the reversal of the curse introduced in Eden. The tree of life, once guarded, reappears. The river flows from the throne. Access is restored. What was lost through rebellion is regained through redemption.

Understanding what the Bible really says about Heaven reshapes how we endure suffering. When Paul speaks of light and momentary afflictions preparing an eternal weight of glory, he is not minimizing pain. He is magnifying eternity. In comparison to forever, even decades of hardship are brief.

This does not trivialize grief. Jesus wept at Lazarus’ tomb even though He knew resurrection was moments away. But it does anchor grief in hope. For the believer, goodbye is not final.

Heaven also reframes ambition. Jesus teaches His followers to store up treasures in Heaven where moth and rust do not destroy. He is not condemning productivity or excellence. He is redirecting it. Investment in eternity means loving people, advancing truth, and living in obedience.

In the end, Heaven is not primarily about location. It is about restoration of relationship. The story that began in a garden culminates in a city-garden where God dwells with humanity. The distance caused by sin is permanently removed. The voice that walked in the cool of the day once again speaks openly among His people.

The question is not merely what Heaven is like. The question is whether one is ready for it. The Bible’s description is not intended to satisfy curiosity alone. It is meant to awaken faith. Jesus’ invitation is simple yet profound: repent and believe the gospel.

Heaven is not earned through religious performance. It is received through trust in the finished work of Christ. The thief on the cross had no time for good deeds, no record of righteousness to present. Yet Jesus said, “Today you will be with Me in paradise.” Grace opened the door.

If the Bible is true, then Heaven is more solid than the ground beneath our feet. It is the future toward which history moves. Empires rise and fall. Civilizations flourish and collapse. But the kingdom of God endures.

There is a day coming when faith becomes sight. When hope becomes experience. When love remains the atmosphere of existence without interruption.

Heaven is not a myth to comfort the weak. It is the promise of a faithful God who does not abandon His creation. It is the inheritance secured by a risen Savior. It is the home for which every restless heart longs, whether it knows it or not.

And it is far greater than we have been taught to imagine.

If Heaven is as Scripture describes, then it is not simply the conclusion of a story. It is the unveiling of the story’s true meaning.

From the beginning, God has been moving history toward a moment when everything fractured by sin is made whole. The prophets pointed toward it. The apostles anchored their courage in it. Jesus secured it. Yet modern conversations often shrink Heaven down to sentiment or speculation. The Bible does neither. It presents Heaven as concrete, intentional, and inseparably connected to the character of God.

One of the most misunderstood aspects of Heaven is time. We think in terms of endless duration because that is the only framework we know. But eternity in Scripture is not just infinite extension of minutes and hours. It is a different quality of existence. It is life fully aligned with God, unthreatened by decay, unburdened by entropy, unshadowed by death. Eternal life is not merely long life. It is restored life.

This matters because it changes how we see the present. If Heaven is simply endless time, then it can feel distant and abstract. But if Heaven is the perfected state of what God is already beginning in those who belong to Him, then eternity is closer than we think. The transformation that will one day reshape the cosmos is already at work in the redeemed heart.

Scripture speaks of believers as new creations. That phrase is not poetic exaggeration. It is the beginning of Heaven’s architecture inside the human soul. The Spirit of God dwelling within a believer is described as a deposit, a guarantee of what is to come. The same power that raised Christ from the dead is at work now. The resurrection is not only future hope. It is present reality in seed form.

This is why Heaven cannot be separated from holiness. The Bible does not describe Heaven as morally neutral bliss. It is a realm where righteousness dwells. That does not mean Heaven is restrictive. It means it is free from corruption. In this world, even our best intentions are tangled with pride or insecurity. In Heaven, motives are purified. Love flows without distortion. Joy is no longer fragile.

When Revelation describes nothing impure entering the New Jerusalem, it is not describing elitism. It is describing protection. Sin destroys. Pride fractures. Greed corrodes. Heaven is the permanent removal of what poisons joy. It is not God withholding pleasure. It is God removing the very things that make pleasure collapse.

The presence of God in Heaven is described as light. There is no need for sun or lamp because the glory of God gives it light. Light in Scripture represents truth, purity, and revelation. There are no hidden corners in Heaven. No deception. No shadow. Everything is fully known and fully safe.

This raises a profound truth about identity. In this life, many people build identities on fragile foundations. Achievement. Reputation. Appearance. Influence. These structures crumble under pressure. In Heaven, identity is anchored in being known by God and belonging to Him. The name written on the forehead in Revelation is not branding. It is belonging. It is intimacy without fear.

The Bible also hints that Heaven includes recognition and continuity of self. When Jesus is transfigured, Moses and Elijah appear and are recognizable. In the parable of the rich man and Lazarus, both retain awareness of their earthly lives. These glimpses suggest that personality and memory are not erased. They are redeemed.

Think about that carefully. The talents you developed. The gifts you stewarded. The passions you cultivated under the lordship of Christ. These are not wasted. Heaven is not the flattening of individuality. It is its purification. The artist still creates, but without ego. The leader still leads, but without pride. The thinker still explores, but without arrogance. The craftsman still builds, but without frustration.

The curse introduced toil and futility. Heaven removes futility but not purpose.

The New Jerusalem is described as a city. Cities represent culture, community, and structure. The Bible does not end with a return to isolated wilderness. It ends with redeemed society. The gates are open. The nations bring their glory into it. Culture itself is purified and offered back to God.

This speaks directly to the fear some have that Heaven erases diversity. Revelation explicitly celebrates diversity. Every tribe and language stands before the throne. Unity does not require uniformity. It requires a common center. That center is the Lamb who was slain.

The Lamb is central to Heaven’s imagery. Not merely as a symbol of sacrifice, but as the enthroned King. The scars remain visible. The throne is occupied by One who conquered not through domination but through surrender. This shapes the atmosphere of eternity. Authority in Heaven is not coercive. It is cruciform. It is love demonstrated at infinite cost.

The cross is not forgotten in Heaven. It is celebrated. Worship surrounds the memory of redemption. Worthy is the Lamb who was slain. The anthem of eternity is not self-congratulation. It is gratitude.

This confronts another misconception. Some imagine Heaven as human achievement rewarded. Scripture presents it as grace received and magnified. Even the crowns believers receive are cast before the throne. Reward does not inflate ego. It fuels worship.

What about those we love? This question rises in every honest heart. Will we know one another? Scripture suggests recognition and relational continuity. Yet the relationships are transformed. Marriage, for example, is described as a shadow of Christ and the church. In eternity, the greater reality eclipses the shadow. This does not diminish love. It expands it. No relationship is lost in selfish exclusivity. Love is universal, yet still personal.

There is no jealousy in Heaven. No competition. No insecurity. Imagine celebrating another’s joy without comparison. Imagine loving without fear of betrayal. Imagine trusting without hesitation. That is relational life in the presence of God.

Another important dimension of what the Bible says about Heaven involves justice. In this life, justice is partial at best. Crimes go unpunished. Lies distort narratives. The innocent suffer. Heaven does not ignore these realities. Revelation shows martyrs crying out for justice. God does not silence them. He responds in His timing.

Heaven includes the vindication of truth. Every hidden act comes to light. For the believer, condemnation is removed because it has already fallen on Christ. For the unrepentant, accountability remains. The final judgment is not arbitrary wrath. It is perfect justice administered by a perfectly holy and loving God.

This is why the gospel is urgent. Heaven is not universalism. It is invitation. The door stands open now through Christ. The book of Revelation ends with an invitation: “Let the one who is thirsty come.” That invitation is extended in the present.

It is also important to understand that Heaven is not earned by accumulating spiritual merit. Ephesians declares that salvation is by grace through faith, not by works, so that no one can boast. The Bible is unambiguous. Human effort cannot secure Heaven. Only Christ can.

That truth dismantles both pride and despair. Pride cannot boast in moral superiority. Despair cannot conclude it is too broken. The ground at the foot of the cross is level. Heaven is a gift purchased at infinite cost.

What about the fear of boredom? That question often reveals a view of eternity shaped by limited imagination. God’s creativity is boundless. The complexity of a single human cell testifies to His ingenuity. The vastness of galaxies speaks of His scale. If this fallen world contains such wonder, the renewed creation will surpass it in ways language cannot capture.

Scripture hints at ongoing exploration and responsibility. Faithful servants are entrusted with more. The parables of Jesus imply growth and stewardship. Eternity is not static stagnation. It is expanding joy rooted in unchanging security.

The river of life flows from the throne. Trees bear fruit every month. These images suggest continuity of seasons, rhythm without decay, movement without loss. Eternity is not endless repetition. It is unfolding revelation.

Heaven also reshapes our understanding of suffering. The Bible does not promise believers exemption from pain. It promises redemption of it. Paul calls present suffering light and momentary compared to eternal glory. That statement is not denial. It is perspective. In light of forever, even decades are brief.

This perspective empowered martyrs to face execution with peace. It enabled persecuted believers to forgive. They were not detached from reality. They were anchored in a greater one.

If Heaven is real, then courage is rational. Generosity is wise. Forgiveness is powerful. Risking comfort for obedience makes sense. Eternity reframes calculation.

The Bible repeatedly encourages believers to fix their minds on things above. That is not escapism. It is alignment. When priorities are shaped by eternity, earthly anxieties lose dominance. This does not eliminate responsibility. It clarifies it.

One of the most moving descriptions of Heaven is simple: “They will see His face.” In the Old Testament, the face of God was unapproachable. Even Moses was shielded. In eternity, the barrier is gone. The longing for unmediated presence is fulfilled.

Every human pursuit of beauty, truth, and love is a shadow of that longing. Heaven is not merely the absence of Hell. It is the fullness of God.

This raises the most important question. Are we prepared for that fullness? Heaven is not simply a change of address. It is the completion of transformation. Those who resist God now would not find His unveiled presence comfortable. C.S. Lewis observed that Heaven would feel like torment to a heart bent on rebellion.

Preparation for Heaven begins with surrender. Repentance is not humiliation. It is alignment. Faith is not blind optimism. It is trust in the One who conquered death.

The resurrection of Jesus is the cornerstone of Heaven’s promise. If He did not rise, the hope collapses. But historical testimony, eyewitness accounts, and the explosive growth of the early church testify that something happened that transformed fearful followers into bold witnesses. They did not die for metaphor. They died for conviction rooted in encounter.

Heaven stands on the empty tomb.

The Bible closes with a prayer: “Come, Lord Jesus.” That prayer is not escapist longing. It is desire for completion. It is yearning for the day when faith becomes sight.

Until that day, believers live between promise and fulfillment. The Spirit is present. The kingdom has begun. Yet the world still groans. This tension can feel heavy. But it is temporary.

Heaven is not fragile hope. It is guaranteed inheritance for those in Christ. Peter describes it as imperishable, undefiled, and unfading. Stored in Heaven. Guarded by God’s power.

Imagine an inheritance that cannot be stolen, diluted, or destroyed. Imagine a home where the foundation never cracks. Imagine joy untouched by anxiety. Imagine love without fear.

This is not fantasy. It is promise.

The Bible does not give exhaustive detail about Heaven because its purpose is not to satisfy curiosity but to cultivate trust. We are given enough to anchor hope, enough to inspire perseverance, enough to awaken longing.

The final chapters of Revelation close the loop opened in Genesis. The serpent is defeated. The curse is reversed. Access to the tree of life is restored. God dwells with His people. The story that began in a garden ends in a city-garden radiant with glory.

And at the center stands Jesus.

Heaven is not primarily about streets of gold. It is about the presence of the One who gave Himself so that humanity could be restored. It is about seeing the face that bore thorns. It is about hearing the voice that calmed storms. It is about standing in a reality where love has no rival.

When we ask what the Bible really says about Heaven, the answer is far richer than sentimental imagery. It says Heaven is God’s restored creation. It says it is resurrection life. It says it is justice fulfilled, sorrow healed, identity redeemed, purpose renewed, worship unhindered, and love perfected.

It says Heaven is home.

And home is not reached by moral effort. It is entered by grace.

May we live now in light of that promise. May our priorities reflect eternity. May our courage be shaped by resurrection. And may our hope remain anchored in the One who declared, “Surely I am coming soon.”

Until that day, we walk by faith. But faith is not fragile. It rests on a risen Savior and a coming kingdom that cannot be shaken.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

Watch Douglas Vandergraph’s inspiring faith-based videos on YouTube https://www.youtube.com/@douglasvandergraph

Support the ministry by buying Douglas a coffee https://www.buymeacoffee.com/douglasvandergraph

Warning: Contains some spoilers

#books #fiction #feminism

Something is rotten in the Republic of Korea. Its shining reputation as a miracle of post-war economic development obscures deeply troubled gender relations. Misogyny is more prevalent and firmly entrenched than in most other parts of the developed world, fueled by a combination of strong patriarchal traditions and increased economic insecurity. This is the backdrop against which Han Kang’s The Vegetarian, winner of the 2016 Man Booker Prize and superbly translated by Debora Smith, emerges.

At under 200 pages and written in a minimalist style evoking the surrealism of Kafka and Murakami, The Vegetarian describes the events that take place after Yeong-hye, a young woman, stops eating meat. The seemingly simple decision to adopt a vegetarian diet is met with increasingly aggressive incomprehension by her family, and their attempts to ‘cure’ Yeong-hye of her deviation have calamitous consequences. The Vegetarian is a powerful story of a woman who refuses to be an object and against all odds tries to eke out some agency in a world that is set against her.

There are three parts to The Vegetarian, none of which are narrated by Yeong-hye herself. We see her evolution first through the eyes of her husband, then her brother-in-law, and finally her sister. All three respond in different ways to Yeong-hye’s actions, and can be read as representing different perspectives on South Korean gender dynamics.

The husband, ‘Mr. Cheong’, is a singularly unpleasant character, who takes objectification to a whole new level. He relates to his wife in the way one might relate to a toaster or a toothbrush, and so responds to Yeong-hye’s conversion with about as much tact, understanding and interest as one would show a malfunctioning household object. At no point does Mr. Cheong refer to Yeong-hye by name, instead only thinking of her as ‘her’ or ‘his wife’. Fully absorbed in his own petty ambitions, Mr Cheong inevitably simply discards Yeong-hye once she no longer serves his mundane needs.

Part two shows us Yeong-hye through the eyes of her sister In-hye’s artist husband, who is pathologically sexually obsessed with her. His fixation only intensifies after she converts to her deviationist vegetarianism. Possessed by a vision of himself and Yeong-hye having sex while covered in painted flowers, he feels compelled to turn his fantasy into a reality. The brother-in-law may despise Mr. Cheong for his callousness towards Yeong-hye, but is singularly blind to his own objectification of her. If Mr. Cheong represents men treating their wives as property, the brother-in-law personifies the male gaze.

In the third and final chapter we experience the novel’s conclusion through In-hye. For In-hye, relating to Yeong-hye’s refusal to conform challenges her own sense of self and the roles she has played for her family and society, and the harms she has suffered as a result. Positioning In-hye’s perspective after the two male parts is a brilliant move, and Han Kang very carefully and sympathetically evokes the sisterhood and comradeship that can blossom between two dissimilar women who may not fully comprehend one another, but nonetheless come to see that they share a bond forged from the same patriarchal oppression.

Weaving together its story from these three parts, The Vegetarian executes something like a reverse-Kafka manoeuvre. In Kafka’s novels, it is the protagonists who make sense, but find themselves fatally stranded in surreal worlds governed by ineffable logics of their own. The Vegetarian appears to do the opposite: it is the world that we recognise and Yeong-hye who is impelled by a irrational motives. But it is only an apparent opposition, because Han Kang’s superb writing shows us that it is actually Yeong-hye’s world that does not make sense, and against which her actions are undeniably logical. What alternative is there for a woman, crushed beneath stifling conformity and murderous objectification, but to drastically rebel, even if it means renouncing who and what she is? If there is no way out, the only escape is inwards, into an alien state where we might finally be free of the strictures placed on us by society.

Yeong-hye’s withdrawal from society and eventual incarceration in a psychiatric asylum are reminiscent of Mark Fisher’s argument that what we call ‘mental illness’ can be a logical reaction to the unbearable demands placed on us by a hostile world. A refusal or an inability to conform to the impositions of neoliberal capitalism or traditional patriarchy. Even prefigurative revolutionary praxis cannot save us from emotional exhaustion, as we saw in Hannah Proctor’s Burnout. There is no way to be whole in a sick world.

The Vegetarian is a magnificent and unflinching illustration of the harms inflicted on countless women. Similar to Kafka, Han Kang’s pared-down, detached and factual writing style enhances the surrealist atmosphere of her story, and is more merciless in its evisceration of its male characters than any overt outrage, albeit its existentialist view on the nigh impossibility of human communication will not appeal to readers seeking rounded psychological development. If one is willing to accept that the characters are archetypes, The Vegetarian is however utterly compelling, though it would be difficult to call it enjoyable, with its harrowing and visceral abuse and aggression against women, and the dismissive, uncaring banality of the men perpetrating them.

I wonder what the impact of The Vegetarian has been on debates on feminism and gender in South Korea. It is maybe not surprising that the book had a better reception in the Anglophone world than in South Korea itself, which remains riven by gender conflict and where accusations of feminist thought routinely result in violent backlash. How many Mr Cheong’s are still out there? We can only hope that some might dislike their reflection in Han Kang’s mirror enough to shake off their entitlement and learn to treat and respect women as equals.

Notes & Suggestions

• South Korea’s endemic misogyny has found some very specific expressions, not only in direct violence against women, but also for example the unconsensual and covert recording of women using spycams hidden in innocuous objects. In response, it has also given rise to specific forms of feminist organising, such as the 4B movement.
• In-hye’s struggles to keep her life together put me in mind of the excellent song ‘labour’ by Paris Paloma.
• Consider supporting or joining a feminist or women’s organisation. Alternatively, broader campaigning organisations such as Amnesty International or trade unions also have spaces for feminist organising.

Connie Caskett works in the library and is a death metal fan…

Connie Caskett stamped the return date on a copy of Introduction to Thermodynamics. She did it with a rhythmic, percussive thud that would have made the drummer of Rotting Corpse proud. Her Doc Martens tapped a syncopated beat against the leg of the issuing desk. Today’s ensemble featured a cropped tee. Decorated with a skull that spat snakes. Wearing a leather mini-skirt that broke the library’s dress code. And fishnets that had seen many mosh pits. Her septum piercing glinted under the fluorescent lights.

The double doors swung open. In marched Mrs Humber-Smithers, a woman made of tweed and exuding disapproval. She stopped. Her eyes scanned the desk, bypassing the “Librarian on Duty” sign to search for a cardigan or a pearl necklace. Finding only skulls and heavy eyeliner, her lips pursed into a thin, white line.

“I wish to speak with Mrs Higgins,” Mrs Humber-Smithers announced. “The proper librarian.”

Connie offered a smile that showed a surprising amount of genuine warmth. “Mrs Higgins is on holiday in Mallorca. I am running the desk this week.”

The older woman clutched her handbag. Her gaze drifted down to Connie’s fishnets, then up to the snakes on the t-shirt. She sniffed. “This is quite unusual.” A place of learning requires a certain… decorum. One expects professionalism, not a costume party.”

“I assure you, I know the Dewey Decimal System better than the fretboard of a Flying V guitar,” Connie said. “How may I assist?”

Mrs Humber-Smithers looked around the empty foyer. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. The haughty posture crumbled. “I have got a reservation.”

Connie tapped the keyboard. “Name?”

“Humber-Smithers. It should be under the counter.”

Connie reached below the desk. Her hand brushed past a leather-bound history of The Black Dahlia Murder. It landed on a pile of mass-market paperbacks. The covers showed shirtless men holding swooning women. She pulled them out: The Duke’s Forbidden Caress, Ravished by the Stable Boy, Passion in the Pantry.

The cover of the top book showed a Fabio-like figure. His shirt had given in to gravity. Connie slid the stack across the counter.

Mrs Humber-Smithers snatched them, her face flushing a deep, violent crimson.

“Excellent choices,” Connie said, her tone deadpan. “I hear the stable boy has a very compelling character arc in the third act.”

Mrs Humber-Smithers shoved the books into her tote bag. Burying them beneath a sensible wool scarf. She mumbled something about “research” and dashed for the exit. The squeak of her sensible shoes echoed in the quiet. Connie watched her go, then turned up the volume on her headphones. Slayer began to play. It was going to be a good shift.

There is something unsettling about Luke 14. It does not read like a gentle devotional meant to soothe fragile emotions. It reads like an invitation that feels more like a confrontation. It begins in a house filled with religious power and ends with a crowd thinning under the weight of truth. It moves from a dinner table to a construction site, from a wedding feast to a battlefield, from polite hospitality to crosses and renunciations. Luke 14 is not comfortable, and that is precisely why it matters so much. It exposes the silent calculations of the human heart and asks a question that cannot be avoided: do we truly want the Kingdom of God, or do we only want its benefits?

The chapter opens with Jesus entering the house of a prominent Pharisee on the Sabbath. The setting is deliberate. It is the Sabbath, the day of rest, the day guarded by religious interpretation. It is the house of a leader, not a sinner, not a tax collector, but someone respected for outward obedience. And there, in that house, stands a man suffering from dropsy, a condition of swelling that would have been visible, uncomfortable, and socially awkward. The religious leaders are watching. The sick man is present. The tension is thick.

Jesus asks a question before performing a miracle. “Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath or not?” Silence follows. It is not the silence of ignorance but the silence of calculation. If they say yes, they concede authority. If they say no, they appear heartless. So they say nothing. And Jesus heals the man.

Luke 14 begins by revealing something profound: religion without compassion is not righteousness. The Pharisees knew the law. They guarded the Sabbath. They were serious about obedience. But they missed the heart of God standing in front of them. Jesus reminds them that if their son or ox fell into a well on the Sabbath, they would pull him out immediately. Why? Because love overrides legalism. Value overrides ritual. Relationship overrides regulation.

The first lesson of Luke 14 is that God’s Kingdom is not defined by rule-keeping divorced from mercy. It is defined by a heart that reflects the Father. The Sabbath was made for restoration. Healing was not a violation of rest; it was its fulfillment. But the religious leaders could not see that because their identity was entangled with control.

This is where the chapter quietly turns the mirror toward us. It is easy to criticize ancient Pharisees. It is far more difficult to examine the ways we guard our systems, our reputations, our theological comfort zones, while missing the suffering person standing in front of us. Luke 14 exposes how quickly spiritual pride can masquerade as faithfulness.

From there, Jesus shifts the scene from healing to humility. As He observes guests choosing places of honor at the table, He tells a parable about seating. When invited to a wedding feast, do not take the place of honor, because someone more distinguished may arrive. Instead, take the lowest place, so that the host may say, “Friend, move up higher.” For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted.

This is not social advice. It is Kingdom revelation. In the ancient world, seating reflected status. Honor was currency. To sit closer to the host meant importance. Jesus dismantles this instinct. In God’s economy, self-promotion is spiritually dangerous. The Kingdom does not advance through grasping but through surrender.

Humility in Luke 14 is not a personality trait; it is a posture of trust. When you refuse to fight for the highest seat, you demonstrate confidence that God sees you. When you choose the lower place, you are not diminishing your value; you are placing your value in the hands of the Host. This is radical because the world teaches constant positioning. Build the brand. Claim the spotlight. Secure the seat.

Jesus says take the lowest seat.

The irony is that those who fight hardest for recognition often reveal insecurity, while those who are secure in the Father can afford obscurity. Luke 14 invites believers to release the exhausting pursuit of human approval and to rest in divine affirmation. Humility is not weakness; it is freedom from comparison.

Then Jesus turns to the host himself and challenges cultural hospitality. When you give a banquet, do not invite your friends, brothers, relatives, or rich neighbors, because they may repay you. Instead, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. You will be blessed because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.

This instruction disrupts every transactional instinct. Most of us give strategically. We invest in relationships that can return something. We network. We align. We cultivate circles that enhance our influence. Jesus dismantles reciprocity as a motive for generosity.

True Kingdom hospitality is given without expectation of return. It seeks the overlooked. It blesses the inconvenient. It dignifies the marginalized. It refuses to measure generosity by social advantage. And the reward, Jesus says, is not earthly applause but eternal resurrection.

Luke 14 is slowly building a case. First, compassion over legalism. Second, humility over self-exaltation. Third, generosity without repayment. Each movement presses deeper into the interior life. Each exposes subtle pride.

Then someone at the table makes a pious comment: “Blessed is everyone who will eat bread in the Kingdom of God.” It sounds holy. It sounds safe. It sounds like distant celebration. And Jesus responds with one of the most sobering parables in Scripture.

A man prepared a great banquet and invited many. When the time came, he sent his servant to tell the invited guests that everything was ready. But they all alike began to make excuses. One bought a field and needed to inspect it. Another bought five yoke of oxen and wanted to test them. Another had just married and could not come.

These excuses are not sinful on the surface. Land is not evil. Business is not evil. Marriage is not evil. But each represents a legitimate good elevated above the invitation of the host. That is the danger of distraction. Rarely does rejection of God come in the form of blatant rebellion. It often arrives disguised as reasonable responsibility.

The invited guests were not uninterested in the banquet. They simply had something else to attend to. They did not insult the host; they postponed him. And postponement, in the Kingdom, can become rejection.

The master of the house becomes angry and sends his servant into the streets and lanes of the city to bring in the poor, crippled, blind, and lame. When there is still room, he sends the servant to the highways and hedges, compelling people to come in so that the house may be filled. Then comes the chilling statement: none of those originally invited shall taste my banquet.

Luke 14 reveals that proximity to invitation does not guarantee participation. Religious familiarity does not equal response. The Kingdom is offered, but it is not forced. And excuses, even respectable ones, can close the door.

The parable exposes a sobering truth: those who assume they belong may exclude themselves through indifference. Meanwhile, those who never expected a seat are gathered in. The outcasts become guests. The marginalized become celebrated. The unqualified become honored.

This reversal is central to Luke’s Gospel. God’s Kingdom disrupts social hierarchy. It exalts the humble and humbles the proud. It gathers those aware of their need and bypasses those confident in their sufficiency.

The banquet imagery points forward to the Messianic feast, to the culmination of redemption, to the joy of restored communion. And yet the seats are filled not by entitlement but by surrender. The invitation is wide, but the response must be willing.

As the chapter progresses, large crowds begin traveling with Jesus. Popularity is rising. Momentum is building. And in what may be the most counterintuitive move in ministry history, Jesus turns to them and says, “If anyone comes to Me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be My disciple.”

The language is severe. It demands attention. In the Hebrew context, “hate” is a comparative term. It does not command emotional hostility but radical prioritization. Allegiance to Christ must eclipse every other loyalty. Family ties, cultural expectations, personal ambition, even self-preservation must bow to discipleship.

Luke 14 does not present a diluted version of faith. It confronts shallow enthusiasm. The crowd is growing, but Jesus thins it by clarifying cost. He refuses to build a movement on half-hearted followers.

Then He adds, “Whoever does not bear his own cross and come after Me cannot be My disciple.” In the first century, the cross was not symbolic jewelry. It was an instrument of execution. To carry a cross meant walking toward death. It meant public humiliation. It meant irreversible commitment.

Jesus is not inviting admirers. He is calling disciples. He is not recruiting fans. He is forming followers willing to die to self. The cross represents surrender of control, surrender of ego, surrender of comfort.

Luke 14 forces a reckoning. Do we want Jesus as an accessory to our lives, or as Lord over our lives? Do we want inspiration without transformation? Do we want blessing without obedience?

To illustrate this, Jesus presents two metaphors: a builder calculating the cost of a tower and a king considering war against a stronger opponent. In both cases, wisdom requires honest assessment before commitment. No one begins construction without ensuring sufficient resources. No king goes to battle without evaluating strength.

The implication is clear. Following Christ is not impulsive emotionalism. It is deliberate surrender. It requires counting the cost. It demands understanding that discipleship will confront comfort, relationships, priorities, and identity.

The tragedy, Jesus implies, is not that the cost is high. The tragedy is starting without understanding it and abandoning the journey halfway. An unfinished tower becomes a monument to miscalculation. A retreating king becomes a picture of unpreparedness.

Luke 14 does not exist to discourage believers but to anchor them. A faith built on convenience will collapse under pressure. A faith rooted in surrendered allegiance will endure.

The chapter concludes with an image of salt. Salt is good, Jesus says, but if it loses its taste, how shall its saltiness be restored? It is fit neither for the soil nor for the manure pile. It is thrown away. He who has ears to hear, let him hear.

Salt in the ancient world preserved and flavored. It prevented decay. But salt that lost potency was useless. The warning is subtle but serious. Disciples who dilute devotion become ineffective. Commitment that evaporates under cultural heat ceases to transform anything.

Luke 14 is not primarily about etiquette, banquets, or seating charts. It is about allegiance. It is about whether we prefer respectable religion or costly discipleship. It is about whether we accept the invitation on the Host’s terms or insist on our own schedule.

And this is where the chapter becomes deeply personal. It asks whether our faith has been reduced to inspiration without obedience. It asks whether our generosity seeks repayment. It asks whether our humility is performative. It asks whether our excuses are masking resistance.

The beauty of Luke 14 is that it does not leave us in condemnation. It leaves us with invitation. The banquet is still prepared. The table is still set. The cross, though heavy, leads to resurrection. The lowest seat becomes the place of honor in due time. The unqualified are welcomed.

But the cost remains real.

Discipleship in Luke 14 is not transactional. It is transformational. It reshapes priorities. It reorders loves. It dismantles pride. It confronts distraction. It demands totality.

The world offers countless invitations promising fulfillment without surrender. Jesus offers a banquet that requires everything and gives more than everything in return.

Luke 14 is a chapter for serious hearts. It strips away sentimentality and calls for substance. It reveals that following Christ is not an add-on to life; it is the redefinition of life itself.

And the question lingers long after reading it: when the servant announces that everything is ready, will we still be busy? Or will we come?

When Jesus finishes speaking about salt that has lost its flavor, He ends with a sentence that echoes through centuries: “He who has ears to hear, let him hear.” It is not a poetic flourish. It is a summons. Luke 14 demands more than casual reading. It requires reflection. It requires response. It asks whether we are merely impressed by Christ or whether we are prepared to follow Him wherever obedience leads.

By the time we reach the end of the chapter, the pattern is unmistakable. Luke 14 is structured like a slow unveiling of the heart. It begins with religious leaders observing Jesus. It moves to guests positioning themselves for honor. It shifts to a host calculating invitations. It expands to a crowd following at a distance. And finally, it narrows to the individual conscience. Every scene exposes a subtle form of self-preservation. Every teaching peels back another layer of self-interest. And at the center of it all stands Jesus, not accommodating these instincts but confronting them.

The healing on the Sabbath reveals that compassion outranks ritual. The lesson on seating exposes the illusion of self-exaltation. The instruction about inviting the poor dismantles transactional generosity. The parable of the great banquet uncovers the danger of distraction. The call to carry the cross reveals the cost of discipleship. The metaphors of construction and war emphasize sober commitment. And the warning about salt confronts diluted devotion.

Luke 14 is not a collection of disconnected teachings. It is a unified vision of Kingdom life.

One of the most profound threads running through this chapter is the reversal of human assumptions. The honored become humbled. The overlooked become invited. The powerful are exposed. The unqualified are welcomed. Those who think they are secure find themselves outside, while those who know they have nothing find themselves seated at the feast. The Kingdom of God does not mirror earthly systems. It overturns them.

This reversal is not accidental. It is rooted in the character of God. Throughout Scripture, God consistently chooses the unlikely. He calls shepherd boys to defeat giants. He selects fishermen to proclaim the Gospel. He speaks through prophets who tremble. He exalts those who confess weakness. Luke 14 fits perfectly within this pattern. The banquet of God is filled not with those who think they deserve it but with those who know they need it.

Yet there is tension in this grace. The invitation is wide, but the allegiance required is total. That is where many struggle. We celebrate the inclusivity of the banquet but hesitate at the exclusivity of the cross. We rejoice that the poor and crippled are welcomed, but we hesitate when Jesus says that even our closest relationships must take second place to Him. We love the image of the feast but resist the image of the crossbeam on our shoulders.

Luke 14 refuses to separate grace from cost.

The parable of the great banquet is often read primarily as a story about Israel’s rejection and the Gentiles’ inclusion. While that dimension exists, the personal application is equally urgent. The excuses offered by the invited guests reveal how subtle avoidance can be. None of them openly reject the host. They simply prioritize something else. That is how spiritual drift begins. Rarely does someone wake up and decide to abandon faith outright. More often, faith is crowded out by legitimate pursuits.

A field must be inspected. Oxen must be tested. A marriage must be enjoyed. Responsibilities accumulate. Careers expand. Schedules fill. Invitations from God feel less urgent. The servant’s announcement, “Everything is now ready,” collides with our internal calendars. And without realizing it, we begin to live as though the banquet can wait.

Luke 14 challenges that assumption. The banquet is not secondary. It is ultimate. It is not one invitation among many. It is the invitation. And to decline it is not neutral; it is consequential.

When the master sends the servant into the streets and highways, compelling people to come in, we see both urgency and generosity. The house must be filled. The celebration must proceed. God’s redemptive plan does not stall because of human hesitation. There is a sobering truth here. The Kingdom moves forward. The invitation will reach someone. The question is whether we will be among those who respond.

This is not written to produce fear but clarity. Luke 14 is clarity embodied. It reveals that discipleship is not passive. It is not accidental. It is intentional and wholehearted.

The statement about hating one’s own life for the sake of discipleship is perhaps the most misunderstood portion of the chapter. Jesus is not commanding emotional cruelty toward family or self-loathing. He is demanding reordering. The loyalty to Christ must be so supreme that every other loyalty pales by comparison. In a culture where family bonds defined identity, this was radical. It still is.

There are moments when obedience to Christ will conflict with expectations from those closest to us. There are seasons when faithfulness will require standing alone. There are decisions where cultural approval must yield to Kingdom conviction. Luke 14 does not romanticize these moments. It acknowledges them and insists that Christ’s authority surpasses all.

Carrying the cross is not a metaphor for mild inconvenience. It is surrender of the right to self-rule. It is daily alignment with Christ’s will over personal preference. It is trusting that resurrection follows crucifixion.

When Jesus speaks about counting the cost, He dignifies the listener. He does not manipulate emotion. He does not obscure difficulty. He invites honest evaluation. Faith is not blind enthusiasm. It is informed commitment. The builder calculates resources. The king assesses strength. Likewise, the disciple recognizes that following Christ may involve loss of reputation, comfort, or security.

But here is the paradox. The one who loses life for Christ’s sake finds it. Luke 14 does not explicitly state that promise, yet it echoes throughout the Gospel. The cost is real, but so is the reward. The surrender is complete, but so is the restoration.

Salt that loses its saltiness becomes useless. This final image serves as both warning and invitation. Devotion that begins fervently but fades into cultural compromise loses its distinctiveness. The world does not need diluted disciples. It needs faithful witnesses whose lives preserve truth and reflect grace.

Salt functions quietly. It does not demand attention. It simply changes the environment it touches. That is the vision of discipleship in Luke 14. Not spectacle, but substance. Not status, but surrender. Not performance, but perseverance.

As we step back and consider the entire chapter, a theme emerges that cannot be ignored: God is preparing a banquet, but He is also preparing a people. The feast and the cross are inseparable. The invitation and the cost are intertwined. The Kingdom is both gift and calling.

For many, Luke 14 feels demanding. It is meant to. It exposes the tension between admiration and obedience. It reveals how easily we can attend religious gatherings while withholding allegiance. It confronts the illusion that we can add Jesus to an already crowded life without rearranging anything.

But beneath the confrontation is profound love. The master desires a full house. Jesus desires authentic disciples. The warnings exist because the invitation is real.

There is a beautiful irony in the structure of the chapter. It begins with a man suffering from swelling, physically bloated with fluid, and it ends with a warning about salt losing its substance. One image reflects excess without health. The other reflects emptiness without potency. Between those two images stands the path of discipleship, neither swollen with pride nor hollow with compromise, but filled with surrendered allegiance.

Luke 14 calls us to that path.

It asks whether we are willing to release the need for recognition and choose humility. It asks whether we are willing to bless those who cannot repay us. It asks whether we are willing to respond promptly to God’s invitation rather than offering polite excuses. It asks whether we are willing to prioritize Christ above even our most cherished relationships. It asks whether we are willing to carry the cross daily, knowing that surrender leads to life.

This chapter does not end with applause. It ends with ears to hear.

Hearing, in the biblical sense, is not passive. It implies obedience. To hear is to act. To hear is to align. To hear is to follow.

Luke 14 is not merely a historical account. It is a present invitation. The banquet is still prepared. The cross is still offered. The cost is still real. The reward is still eternal.

And perhaps the most comforting truth in the entire chapter is this: those brought into the banquet from the highways and hedges did not qualify themselves. They did not earn their seat. They responded to grace. The same grace that calls for surrender also empowers it. The same Christ who demands allegiance provides strength to live it.

The world measures life by accumulation. Luke 14 measures life by surrender. The world prizes elevation. Luke 14 prizes humility. The world builds monuments to self. Luke 14 builds altars of obedience.

In the end, the chapter leaves each reader standing at a crossroads. The servant announces that everything is ready. The invitation is extended. The excuses are forming. The cross is visible. The cost is calculable. The seat at the banquet is waiting.

The question is not whether the feast exists. The question is whether we will come on the Host’s terms.

May we not be among those who politely decline. May we not be among those who begin and do not finish. May we not be salt without substance.

May we be among the unqualified who accept the invitation, count the cost, carry the cross, and discover that the banquet of God is worth everything.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

Watch Douglas Vandergraph’s inspiring faith-based videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@douglasvandergraph

Support the ministry by buying Douglas a coffee: https://www.buymeacoffee.com/douglasvandergraph

I had already posted this once before but I lost my blog and hadn't run the back up where that post was located.

So! What is this? Awhile ago I realized that with the way the internet is, people being caught off guard by things, I realized that it would be important to have some sort of safety for those who use writefreely and may have NSFW images on their blog.

What this code does is allow you to add to an image a nsfw class that blurs the image and makes it visible if it clicked on.

NOTE: This only works on the website itself. If you post the link to your social media, it'll show the nsfw image if that is your primary image.

How do you do this? Try this out! There are two methods. One for the selfhosted instance and the other is if you have an account with write.as.

Self-host Method

This is going to be how you will add the NSFW image filter on your selfhosted writefreely instance. You'll need to edit the following files:

• collection.tmpl
• collection-post.tmpl
• chorus-collection.tmpl
• chorus-collection-post.tmpl

When you set it up, make sure you put the css in the header of the document and the javascript after </body>.

Too use either of these methods, you'll want to add the class="nsfw" to the image. For example, it would look like <img src="image.ext" alt="FileName" class="nsfw" />

Javascript

	<script>
		document.addEventListener("DOMContentLoaded", () => {
			const nsfwImages = document.querySelectorAll("img.nsfw");

			nsfwImages.forEach(img => {
				// Create wrapper
				const wrapper = document.createElement("div");
				wrapper.classList.add("nsfw-wrapper");

				img.parentNode.insertBefore(wrapper, img);
				wrapper.appendChild(img);

				// Create overlay
				const overlay = document.createElement("div");
				overlay.classList.add("nsfw-overlay");
				overlay.textContent = "NSFW — Click to Reveal";
				wrapper.appendChild(overlay);

				wrapper.addEventListener("click", () => {
					wrapper.classList.toggle("revealed");
				});
			});
		});
	</script>

CSS

<!-- NSFW ADDITION --> 
	<style>
	.nsfw-wrapper {
		position: relative;
		display: inline-block;
	}

	.nsfw-wrapper img.nsfw {
		filter: blur(20px);
		transition: filter 0.3s ease;
		cursor: pointer;
	}

	.nsfw-wrapper.revealed img.nsfw {
		filter: blur(0);
	}

	.nsfw-overlay {
		position: absolute;
		inset: 0;
		background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.45);
		color: white;
		font-size: 1.1rem;
		font-weight: bold;
		display: flex;
		justify-content: center;
		align-items: center;
		pointer-events: none;
		border-radius: 4px;
		transition: opacity 0.2s ease;
	}

	.nsfw-wrapper.revealed .nsfw-overlay {
		opacity: 0;
	}
	</style>
	<!-- END OF NSFW -->

Write.as method

This is the easiest one to do as Write.as already has a place that you can put your javascript.

All you need to put in the javascript section is:

(function () {
  function initNSFW() {
    document.querySelectorAll("img.nsfw").forEach(img => {
      // Prevent double-wrapping
      if (img.parentElement.classList.contains("nsfw-wrapper")) return;

      const wrapper = document.createElement("span");
      wrapper.className = "nsfw-wrapper";

      const overlay = document.createElement("div");
      overlay.className = "nsfw-overlay";
      overlay.textContent = "NSFW. Please click to view";

      img.parentNode.insertBefore(wrapper, img);
      wrapper.appendChild(img);
      wrapper.appendChild(overlay);

      wrapper.addEventListener("click", () => {
        wrapper.classList.toggle("unblurred");
      });
    });
  }
  initNSFW();
  document.addEventListener("DOMContentLoaded", initNSFW);
})();

And the CSS you want to add in the CSS section is:

/* ==============================
   NSFW Labels
============================== */
/* NSFW image blur system */

.nsfw-wrapper {
  position: relative;
  display: inline-block;
  cursor: pointer;
}

.nsfw-wrapper img {
  filter: blur(18px);
  transition: filter 0.25s ease;
  display: block;
}

.nsfw-wrapper.unblurred img {
  filter: none;
}

.nsfw-overlay {
  position: absolute;
  inset: 0;
  display: flex;
  align-items: center;
  justify-content: center;
  background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.6);
  color: #fff;
  font-family: sans-serif;
  font-size: 16px;
  font-weight: bold;
  text-align: center;
  padding: 0.5em;
  pointer-events: none;
}

.nsfw-wrapper.unblurred .nsfw-overlay {
  display: none;
}

Ending

There you go! Enjoy!

There are moments in the life of every believer when doubt does not whisper politely in the background but steps forward and raises its voice. It does not ask for permission. It does not knock gently. It interrupts prayer. It interrupts worship. It interrupts confidence. And in those moments, a question forms that many are afraid to say out loud: what if my doubt is bigger than my faith?

This is not a question of rebellion. It is not a declaration of disbelief. It is a confession of internal tension. It is the sound of a heart that still wants God but feels overwhelmed by uncertainty. And if we are honest, it is a question that has echoed through the minds of some of the most faithful men and women in history. Doubt has never been proof that someone has walked away from God. Very often, it is proof that someone is still reaching for Him.

We have been conditioned to believe that faith must always feel strong, confident, and emotionally secure. We imagine that real faith looks like unshakable certainty, like a person who never hesitates, never questions, never trembles. But that picture is incomplete. Faith is not the absence of questions. Faith is the decision to keep walking toward God even while carrying them.

When doubt feels bigger than faith, what is actually happening is not the destruction of belief but the stretching of it. Muscles do not grow in comfort. They grow under resistance. In the same way, spiritual maturity does not develop in seasons where everything makes sense. It develops when life presses against our understanding and forces us to decide whether we will lean on our own logic or trust a God whose ways are higher than ours.

There is a difference between doubt that leads to distancing and doubt that leads to deeper seeking. The first says, I am unsure, so I will step away. The second says, I am unsure, so I will lean in closer. One builds walls. The other builds intimacy. The kind of doubt that asks, what if my doubt is bigger than my faith, is usually the second kind. It is the kind that still cares deeply enough to wrestle.

Wrestling has always been part of faith. Wrestling means there is engagement. Wrestling means there is desire for resolution. Wrestling means there is still relationship. Apathy does not wrestle. Indifference does not wrestle. Only someone who still values the relationship continues to struggle toward clarity.

When doubt grows loud, it can distort perspective. It can make small uncertainties feel enormous. It can make unanswered prayers feel like permanent silence. It can make delayed breakthroughs feel like denial. But feelings are not final authorities. Emotions are real, but they are not ultimate truth. Faith is not built on how loudly we feel something; it is built on who God has proven Himself to be.

Consider how often faith in scripture coexisted with fear. Courage was never the absence of fear. It was action taken in spite of it. In the same way, faith is not the absence of doubt. It is obedience taken in spite of uncertainty. You can feel unsure and still move forward. You can feel questions rising and still pray. You can feel confusion and still worship. Faith does not require emotional perfection; it requires directional commitment.

The reason doubt can feel bigger than faith is because doubt is loud. It is analytical. It repeats itself. It imagines worst-case scenarios. It searches for inconsistencies. Faith, on the other hand, is often quiet. It is steady. It does not shout. It anchors. When you stand in a storm, you hear the wind. You do not hear the anchor. But the anchor is what is actually holding you in place.

There are seasons when heaven feels silent. Prayers seem to rise but not return with immediate answers. Doors remain closed longer than expected. In those moments, doubt begins to ask if God has forgotten, if God has moved on, if promises were misunderstood. The human mind tries to fill in gaps when answers are delayed. But delay has never been proof of absence.

Silence can feel like abandonment, but it can also be an invitation to deeper trust. If every prayer were answered instantly, trust would never mature. It would remain transactional. Real trust is formed when we continue to believe in someone’s character even when we do not yet see their hand moving.

Faith is ultimately trust in character. It is confidence in who God is, not control over what He does. When doubt questions circumstances, faith returns to identity. Who is God? Is He faithful? Is He consistent? Has He carried you before? Has He sustained you in previous storms? When you trace your life honestly, you will see patterns of provision that were not obvious in the moment but undeniable in hindsight.

Often, doubt grows when we compare our timeline with someone else’s. We see others experiencing breakthroughs and assume something must be wrong with us. Comparison magnifies insecurity. It makes private battles feel like personal failures. But faith journeys are not identical. They are deeply personal. What looks like delay may actually be preparation.

If doubt feels larger than faith, it may be because your faith is being invited to grow. A seed does not look impressive. It looks small and fragile. But inside that seed is potential that has not yet broken the surface. When buried in soil, a seed experiences pressure, darkness, and isolation before it ever sees light. From the outside, nothing appears to be happening. Beneath the surface, transformation is underway.

Doubt can be that soil. It can feel dark. It can feel pressing. It can feel lonely. But if you remain planted in God instead of uprooting yourself at the first sign of discomfort, growth begins in places you cannot see yet. Faith that survives doubt becomes deeper, not weaker. It becomes rooted rather than surface-level.

There is also something important to understand about spiritual maturity. Faith that has never faced questions is fragile. Faith that has wrestled and remained becomes resilient. When your belief has been tested, examined, challenged, and still chosen, it becomes yours in a way it never was before. It is no longer borrowed. It is no longer inherited. It is owned.

Doubt often exposes what kind of faith we actually have. If faith has been built solely on emotion, it will collapse when feelings shift. If faith has been built solely on community, it will weaken when isolation comes. But if faith has been built on relationship with God, it can endure emotional valleys and lonely seasons because it is anchored in something deeper than circumstance.

Sometimes doubt becomes louder because life has hurt more than expected. Pain can shake assumptions. Loss can destabilize confidence. Trauma can cause questions to multiply. And when suffering enters the story, faith can feel fragile. But fragility does not equal failure. It equals humanity.

Faith does not require pretending that pain does not exist. It invites you to bring pain into the presence of God instead of hiding it. Honest prayer is not disrespectful. It is relational. God is not intimidated by your questions. He is not surprised by your confusion. He is not offended by your struggle. He is a Father who understands that growth often involves wrestling.

When doubt rises, it is tempting to withdraw from spiritual practices because they feel ineffective in the moment. Prayer may feel dry. Scripture may feel distant. Worship may feel mechanical. But these disciplines are not dependent on emotion to be powerful. They are like daily nourishment. You may not feel immediate results from eating one meal, but consistency sustains life.

In seasons where doubt feels overwhelming, consistency matters more than intensity. You do not need dramatic declarations. You need daily direction. A quiet prayer whispered honestly can be more powerful than an eloquent speech delivered without heart. Faith grows through repetition of trust, not through a single emotional high.

There is also wisdom in remembering that doubt often attacks identity before it attacks doctrine. It whispers questions about worth, belonging, calling, and purpose. It suggests that perhaps you are overlooked, forgotten, or unqualified. When identity feels uncertain, belief about God can wobble as well. But your identity is not established by your current emotional state. It is established by who God says you are.

If you are still seeking, still asking, still turning toward Him even in confusion, that alone is evidence that faith remains alive. Doubt may feel larger, but it has not erased your desire for God. And desire is powerful. Desire keeps you engaged. Desire keeps you open. Desire keeps you moving forward when certainty is absent.

There is a quiet strength in continuing to show up. Showing up in prayer even when answers feel delayed. Showing up in worship even when emotions feel numb. Showing up in obedience even when outcomes are unclear. Every act of showing up is a declaration that doubt will not dictate your direction.

The truth is that faith was never meant to eliminate every question. It was meant to anchor you while you carry them. If you wait for doubt to disappear completely before moving forward, you may wait forever. Growth often requires stepping forward while still holding unanswered questions.

Imagine a traveler crossing a bridge covered in fog. The traveler cannot see the entire span. Only a few steps are visible at a time. Doubt focuses on the hidden distance. Faith focuses on the next visible step. You do not need clarity about the entire journey to continue walking. You need trust for the step directly in front of you.

When doubt feels bigger than faith, return to small steps. Pray short prayers. Read small portions. Practice gratitude for simple mercies. Look for evidence of God’s presence in ordinary moments. Faith does not always grow through dramatic miracles. Often it grows through quiet consistency.

There is also freedom in understanding that faith is not measured by emotional intensity but by directional loyalty. Where are you pointed? Toward God or away from Him? Even if you are crawling rather than running, direction matters more than speed.

In many ways, doubt can refine faith. It can strip away superficial beliefs and force you to confront what you truly trust. It can push you to study more deeply, pray more honestly, and depend more fully. Faith that emerges on the other side of doubt is often stronger because it has been tested.

So if doubt feels larger than faith right now, do not panic. Do not assume you are failing. Do not assume you have been disqualified. Instead, recognize that you may be in a season of deepening. Roots grow downward before branches reach upward. What feels like heaviness may be preparation for expansion.

You are not alone in this experience. Many have stood where you stand and discovered that doubt did not destroy their faith. It reshaped it. It purified it. It strengthened it. And when the season shifted, they realized that faith had been growing quietly beneath the surface the entire time.

This is not the end of your belief. It may be the beginning of a more mature one. In the second part of this legacy reflection, we will go deeper into how to navigate prolonged seasons of uncertainty, how to rebuild confidence when faith feels fragile, and how to anchor your heart in truth when emotions fluctuate. Doubt may feel loud, but it does not have the final word.

If doubt feels bigger than faith, the most dangerous assumption you can make is that something is wrong with you. The enemy of your soul would love to convince you that real believers never struggle, never question, never wrestle. That lie isolates. It creates shame around something that has been present in the lives of faithful people for generations. But doubt is not proof of spiritual failure. It is often proof that you are standing at the edge of growth.

There is a difference between abandoning faith and examining it. Abandonment walks away without looking back. Examination leans in closer. Examination asks hard questions because it wants something real, something solid, something unshakeable. If your doubt is pushing you to examine what you believe and why you believe it, then your faith is not dying. It is maturing.

Faith that has never been examined is fragile. It can be knocked over by a single disappointment. It can collapse under one unexpected loss. But faith that has been examined and still chosen becomes resilient. It becomes anchored in conviction rather than convenience. It becomes personal rather than inherited.

One of the reasons doubt feels larger than faith in certain seasons is because life becomes more complex. When you were younger in your faith, answers may have seemed simpler. As experience increases, so do questions. You encounter suffering that does not fit neatly into formulas. You watch prayers that are not answered the way you expected. You witness injustice that shakes assumptions. And suddenly, faith requires more than surface-level explanations.

This is not regression. This is depth. Shallow waters are easy to navigate. Deep waters require trust. When you cannot touch the bottom, you must rely on something beyond yourself. Doubt often surfaces when we realize we cannot control outcomes. It reminds us that we are not sovereign. But that realization can either drive us toward fear or toward surrender.

Surrender is not weakness. It is alignment. It is the decision to trust that God’s perspective is larger than yours. It is the acknowledgment that you see in part while He sees the whole. Doubt grows when we try to carry knowledge that was never meant to be ours. There are mysteries that belong to God. There are timelines that belong to God. There are outcomes that belong to God.

Your responsibility is faithfulness, not omniscience.

When doubt feels heavy, one of the most powerful responses is remembrance. Remember who God has been. Remember moments of provision that once felt impossible. Remember doors that opened at the right time. Remember strength that carried you when you thought you would collapse. Memory fuels confidence. It anchors you in evidence that your current uncertainty is not the whole story.

Another way to navigate seasons where doubt feels larger than faith is to distinguish between feelings and foundations. Feelings shift daily. Foundations are built intentionally. If your faith is built only on how you feel in a particular moment, it will fluctuate constantly. But if your faith is built on the character of God, it can remain steady even when emotions swing.

God’s character is consistent. He is not moody. He is not unstable. He is not absent because you feel uncertain. His faithfulness does not shrink when your confidence does. In fact, Scripture reveals a pattern: God often proves Himself most powerfully in moments where human strength is weakest.

It is important to understand that doubt does not grow in a vacuum. It grows in silence, in isolation, in unspoken fear. Bringing doubt into the light reduces its power. Speaking honestly in prayer reduces its weight. Confessing struggle to trusted believers diffuses its intensity. What feels overwhelming in private often becomes manageable in community.

Community matters because it reminds you that faith is not a solo journey. When your strength feels thin, someone else’s testimony can sustain you. When your perspective feels clouded, someone else’s clarity can guide you. God often answers doubt not only through revelation but through relationship.

You may also find that doubt intensifies when expectations are misaligned. Sometimes we expect God to operate according to our timeline, our preferences, or our definitions of success. When reality does not match those expectations, doubt whispers that something is wrong. But faith is not about controlling God’s methods. It is about trusting His wisdom.

There will be moments when you do not understand what He is doing. There will be seasons when silence feels long. There will be chapters that seem confusing. But confusion is not abandonment. Delay is not denial. Silence is not absence.

If doubt is loud, return to the essentials. Return to the cross. Return to the resurrection. Return to the promises that have sustained believers for centuries. The foundation of Christianity is not built on your emotional stability. It is built on the finished work of Jesus Christ. That foundation does not move when your feelings do.

There is also a refining process that occurs when doubt is confronted rather than ignored. When you bring your questions to God instead of burying them, you create space for revelation. When you search Scripture with sincerity instead of suspicion, you discover depth. When you pray honestly instead of performing spiritually, you experience authenticity.

Faith becomes stronger when it is honest.

Some of the most powerful spiritual growth happens when you stop pretending to be certain and start choosing to trust. Certainty and trust are not identical. Certainty is intellectual clarity. Trust is relational confidence. You may not have intellectual clarity about every issue, but you can still have relational confidence in a faithful God.

Trust says, I do not understand everything, but I know who You are. Trust says, I cannot see the entire picture, but I believe You are good. Trust says, my doubt is present, but it will not determine my direction.

Direction is everything.

If you continue moving toward God, even slowly, even hesitantly, your faith is alive. If you continue praying, even briefly, your faith is alive. If you continue reading Scripture, even when it feels dry, your faith is alive. If you continue choosing obedience in small decisions, your faith is alive.

Doubt does not cancel that.

There is a powerful truth that often goes unnoticed: faith is not about how tightly you hold onto God. It is about how securely He holds onto you. Your grip may weaken, but His does not. Your confidence may fluctuate, but His commitment does not. The security of your relationship with Him is not dependent on the size of your faith but on the strength of His faithfulness.

When doubt feels bigger than faith, it can help to reframe the question. Instead of asking whether your doubt outweighs your belief, ask whether you are still willing to choose God in the middle of uncertainty. Faith is not measured by emotional volume. It is measured by loyalty.

Loyalty is quiet. Loyalty shows up consistently. Loyalty remains when feelings fade.

There will be seasons where faith feels effortless and seasons where it feels costly. Both are part of the journey. The mountain-top experiences are inspiring, but the valley seasons are formative. In the valley, roots deepen. In the valley, resilience develops. In the valley, you discover whether your faith is based on blessings or on relationship.

Doubt often surfaces in valleys, but valleys are not permanent. They are passages. They lead somewhere. They shape you for what is ahead. The faith that emerges from a valley is different from the faith that existed before it. It is less naive. It is more grounded. It is more compassionate toward others who struggle.

If you are in a season where doubt feels enormous, let this truth settle into your spirit: God is not measuring the size of your faith. He is looking at the posture of your heart. A heart that still turns toward Him, even in confusion, is a heart that belongs to Him.

Your doubt does not scare God. Your questions do not threaten Him. Your struggle does not disqualify you. In fact, your willingness to keep seeking Him in the middle of uncertainty is evidence that faith, however small it may feel, is still present.

Mustard-seed faith moves mountains not because the seed is impressive but because the God it trusts is powerful.

You may feel like your faith is tiny. You may feel like doubt is shouting. But if there is even a small part of you that still believes, still hopes, still reaches, that is enough for God to work with. He has always specialized in small beginnings. He has always transformed fragile faith into firm conviction.

Do not underestimate what God can do with your honest, imperfect, questioning heart.

Keep showing up. Keep praying. Keep reading. Keep trusting. Even if the trust feels thin. Even if the prayers feel short. Even if the clarity feels distant.

This is not the end of your faith story. It is a chapter in which depth is being formed. It is a chapter where roots are growing in soil you did not choose but that God is using. It is a chapter that will one day become testimony.

One day you will look back at this season and realize that doubt did not destroy your faith. It purified it. It stripped away what was superficial and revealed what was real. It forced you to decide whether you would believe only when it was easy or whether you would trust when it was hard.

And that decision, made quietly and repeatedly, is what builds unshakeable faith.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

Watch Douglas Vandergraph’s inspiring faith-based videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@douglasvandergraph

Support the ministry by buying Douglas a coffee: https://www.buymeacoffee.com/douglasvandergraph

Tandis qu’ailleurs déferlent des torrents de violences ; Les pyromanes d’hier tentent de s’improviser pompiers. Lançant d’hypocrites appels à la tempérance ; Ils semblent craindre le feu qu’ils ont eux-mêmes allumé.

Les colères des peuples ne sont jamais sans fondement ; Mais elles empruntent des raccourcis surprenants. Malheur à ceux qui ont nourri le ressentiment ; Honte à ceux qui vivent s’en nourrissant.

Plongés avec effroi dans les turpitudes de l’histoire ; Nous qui rêvions de beauté, d’harmonie et de paix ; Sommes-nous les gardiens de la flamme ténue de l’espoir ? Ou les ultimes reliques d’un monde révolu désormais ?

My college basketball game of choice tonight will have the Syracuse Orange men's team playing the Duke Blue Devils. I'll happily listen to whatever streaming radio feed I can latch onto bringing me this game. And if I can't find one, there are lots of other college games tonight from which I can choose with the same early start time.

And the adventure continues.

When it comes to my writing schedule I have it set in stone (for the most part). One week I’ll post on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. The next week I’ll post on Tuesday and Thursday. The weeks will cycle.

Sometimes, I’ll post a prayer related article on a Sunday. If a holiday falls on a posting day or if I’m sick, I’ll take the day off. Finally, I’ll let you know if I need a hiatus.

Thanks for your support and patience.

#writing #rest #schedule

Part one is here. Part two is here.

At this point, I suppose it’s worth asking why I continue to write about this. I should start by saying that I really had no resentment of Danny Hillis from my time as his employee. One of the things his company did that probably led to their downfall was to hire overqualified people for low-level jobs. Which was how I found employment during the Bush The Elder recession. I rarely interacted with Hillis—he played the part of the absent-minded professor who didn’t own any professional clothing and would slouch around the joint in old t-shirts. Even then I recognized this as a flex— “I’m so important I don’t have to dress as nicely as the people who answer my phone”—but while there were some horrible people at Thinking Machines, I never thought of Hillis as one of them.

So I’m not motivated by long-simmering resentment. I am of course motivated by anger at Epstein’s crimes and the fact that he and his associates seem to have committed atrocities with utter impunity for so long. But, as I’ve said, I don’t believe Hillis participated in the crimes.

He just didn’t care about them.

And this, ultimately, is what motivates me. That a guy who has built an entire life around being a Professional Smart Guy has such an obvious void where his conscience should be. I believe that Hillis’ disregard for what most of us consider centerpieces of morality—that children should be protected, not exploited, that people with power have a responsibility to look out for the less powerful, not prey on them—calls into question pretty much everything he’s ever done or said.

Not that Hillis’ life’s work should necessarily be thrown out, but it should be re-examined with the knowledge that his moral reasoning is deficient, if not absent.

Which can’t happen unless Hillis’ association with Epstein is widely known. If you were thinking about inviting Hillis to speak at your event, his association with Epstein won’t come up immediately unless you search the two names together.

Ultimately, I’m a guy with a blog that has extremely limited reach, and so there’s only so much I can do. About 600 people have read my first post. About 150 have read the second. At this rate I’ll be lucky to get 37 views on this one.

Fortunately, though, people with far greater reach than me have an opportunity here to correct the historical record. Hillis has been written about (and interviewed) for years in exclusively complimentary ways. I’m not saying the journalists invovled should have known better—there was no way for them to have access to Hillis’ emails, and he only started consorting with Epstein around 2010, as far as the emails I’ve found suggest.

Still, now that we know, I think if you wrote a puff piece about Hillis or hosted an interview with him that helped build his reputation, you now have an opportunity to correct the historical record.

So here are some people I’ve found who wrote very nice articles on Danny Hillis in the past or hosted them on their platform. I’d like to encourage any and all of them to add to our collective knowledge about this man in the light of new information.

Podcasters:

Tim Ferriss

Steve Mersky

Kevin Scott

Suze Kundu

Youtube:

Web of Stories

The Anyas Crypto

Norman Foster Foundation

Ross School

And of course, TED

Print, web, and broacast journalists (listed by where they worked when the article came out because I do not have time to chase down journalist job changes!):

Chris Jones, Esquire.

Scott Kirsner, Boston Globe.

Po Bronson, Wired.

Steve Mirsky, Scientific American.

Steve Inskeep, Morning Edition.

Cara Maines, NBC.

Hans Ulrich Obrist

Robert Matthews, New Scientist.

There was a reason I chose to work in IT and not in plumbing. I am honestly not that good with my hands or the logical side that comes with thinking through things like plumbing, carpentry, etc.

Friday, my youngest child came to me saying he is hearing the sound of a shower running in the hall closet but there is no one in the shower. Unfortunately, that closet also held our water heater. Upon opening the door, I was met by Lake Closet and a pin hole leak in the blue expansion tank and it was sending this nice stream of water into the wall and directly on my face. Of course, I had no clue what to do so I texted my father in law, and he told me how to locate the valve to shut it off but also how to relieve the pressure by turning on the hot water faucet.

With these done, I was met with a completely confusing thing. What do I do? How the hell am I supposed to fix this? If this was a server that had gone bad, I knew how to troubleshoot it and figure out what to do about it but not a water heater. All I could think was: “This is gonna be super expensive if I have to replace it.” Obviously, in hindsight, I rent so that would have been the responsibility of the landlord...who happens to also be my father in law. Thanks to him, I got sent a link to J-B Weld Water Expoxy Putty and a quick trip to Walmart, I was able to get some.

This should be easy, I told myself like a fool. Now, to point out a few things. When I was younger, I had the opportunity to work as a brick mason's apprentice for two years and also with a lot of epoxies while in the military. So, the basic concept on how to apply it was not unfamiliar to me. I actually thought it was pretty nifty how it was one chemical surrounded by another chemical that I could squish together, blend, and it would start working (not to mention I could feel the heat of the chemical reaction through my nitrile gloves).

So, here I got happily sticking putty to it, smearing it into the whole I just making sure that damn leak is covered up. I let it cure the time that it needed, and then turned off the faucet so the pressure would start to build again and what do you know. The water starts leaking quickly out of this little cure.

Goddammit, now I have to do that over again.

This turned out to be my entire weekend. I have literally had to place putty, let it cure, and then turn it on to see where the water was coming from next. Nice thing was that each damn time, there was a lot less. So I'm building on the previous dried putty making my own Olympus Mons, waiting for it to do the full cure hoping against hope that it would work. Yeah, the bottle was going to need to be replaced but:

• My father in law is already taking care of it.
• I don't have the money to get one on short notice let alone the skills to replace it myself. _(that would have been a disaster).

Now, I'm writing this up with the last bit of putty added, as the little hole was shooting water up but it's the tiniest amount. I hope to god that this isn't going to be leaking more because I have to go to work tomorrow and my father in law isn't going to be back from his trip for a few more days.

All I can do is laugh at my admittedly funny situation and meditate an extra ten minutes to keep my brain from lose it. Which reminds me, I gotta go take my meds.

I see a green plant, it almost died from the ruthless storage in car while we were grocery shopping in this dead winter!!

Indeed all of the green leaves were shed only one or two green umbrellas of life protruded from the once majestic plant

But with my strong love and careful act of putting it in the kitchen by the window and then watering it carefully, now new buds are sprouting!!!

I feel the same way myself!

What the Network Reveals About American Institutions

By Publius (of the 21st Century)

The release of millions of pages from the Jeffrey Epstein files presents Americans with an uncomfortable question that transcends the crimes at their center. While the sexual abuse of minors rightfully commands moral outrage, the documents reveal something perhaps more threatening to the Republic: a cross-ideological, cross-sectoral elite network that operated with remarkable impunity across our most trusted institutions. As we approach the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence in 2026, these files force us to confront how far we have drifted from the Republic's founding principles—and whether those principles can be restored.

The question is not whether Jeffrey Epstein was a criminal. He was convicted in 2008 and died facing additional charges in 2019. The question is how such a figure could maintain intimate connections spanning Goldman Sachs and the Obama White House, Harvard and JPMorgan Chase, leading Democrats and prominent Republicans, for years after his conviction—and what this reveals about power in contemporary America.

A Network Without Ideology

What emerges from the files is not a partisan scandal but evidence of what journalist Anand Giridharadas calls a “deeper solidarity” beneath surface political divisions. Steve Bannon coordinating with Epstein to secure Augusta National Golf Club access for establishment lawyers. Former White House Counsel Kathryn Ruemmler—tasked under President Obama with ensuring procedural fidelity and identifying legal risks—seeking Epstein's advice on whether to become Attorney General, after his conviction, while joking about his crimes. Larry Summers describing Epstein's world as “lucrative and louche” and seeking his counsel on personal matters.

The network crossed every conventional boundary: progressive academics and right-wing provocateurs, tech billionaires and traditional financiers, media figures and government officials. This diversity masked functional unity. As Giridharadas observes, “if you're sitting at home, watching cable at the end of the day and you're seeing these two talking heads fight, that's the spectacle for you at home, to keep you entertained. What they're actually doing is revealed in these files—which is hanging out, breaking bread, colluding, sharing information.”

The complicity extends to the highest levels of government across administrations. In recent congressional testimony, Attorney General Pam Bondi pointedly noted that the Biden administration's Justice Department, under Attorney General Merrick Garland, had failed to release the Epstein files despite having authority to do so. Whatever one makes of Bondi's combative performance before the Judiciary Committee, the substantive point stands: the previous administration, which positioned itself as restoring democratic norms and institutional integrity, chose not to expose a network that implicated figures across the political spectrum. The files were released only after a change in administration—and even then, as Representatives Ro Khanna and Thomas Massie have documented, with millions of pages still withheld and extensive redactions protecting “six wealthy, powerful men.” The pattern suggests that protecting elite networks transcends party loyalty.

The founders anticipated faction and designed a system of checks and balances to contain it. They did not anticipate—could not have anticipated—a transpartisan elite operating through informal networks that transcend and effectively neutralize formal institutional boundaries.

The Vulnerability of Networked Power

Traditional sources of power in America were local and rooted: land ownership, family name, standing in one's community, position in church or civic organizations. These created multiple, independent bases of authority. A newspaper publisher in 1850 derived power from property, community respect, perhaps family lineage—sources that could sustain dissent against other power centers.

Contemporary elite power operates differently. It consists primarily of position within networks and the density and quality of one's connections. The Epstein files illuminate this transformation with unusual clarity. His power derived almost entirely from his network position—his ability to broker connections between otherwise disconnected high-value nodes. JPMorgan banker Jes Staley stated this explicitly: “Epstein relied on his network for his legitimacy. And I, as running the largest investment bank in the world, was part of that network for him.”

The self-reinforcing nature of such power explains much that appears inexplicable. How could JPMorgan continue doing business with Epstein after flagging over $1 billion in suspicious transactions? How could Harvard and MIT maintain relationships after his conviction? The answer lies in what network theorists call preferential attachment: those already well-connected gain disproportionate benefit from each new connection. Cutting ties with someone deeply embedded in valuable networks becomes professionally costly even when morally warranted.

This creates a profound problem for republican government. Courage—the willingness to stand against power on principle—becomes structurally more difficult when power itself consists of network position. To be courageous is to sever ties. When ties constitute the essence of power, courage threatens complete exclusion. As Giridharadas notes, “in an age of network power, courage becomes harder... the more exponentially valuable more ties become, the more exponentially expensive it is to cut off that tie.”

The founders built a system assuming that ambition would counteract ambition, that competing power centers would check each other. But what happens when elite ambition aligns across traditional boundaries? When the common interest lies not in principle but in maintaining network access?

The Atrophy of Institutional Independence

The Epstein phenomenon exposes the degradation of institutional independence. Consider the trajectory: Dalton School employment, Bear Stearns position (despite fabricated credentials), managing Les Wexner's fortune, cultivating relationships across academia, finance, media, and government. At each stage, institutional gatekeepers failed.

More troubling than individual failures is institutional capture. These were not isolated decisions by rogue actors but systemic patterns. Harvard and MIT accepted donations and provided intellectual legitimacy. JPMorgan maintained banking relationships despite internal warnings. Law firms managed his affairs. The Justice Department reached an extraordinarily lenient plea agreement in 2008. Each institution's decision was arguably rational from its narrow perspective—but collectively catastrophic for institutional integrity.

The founders understood that republican government requires virtue—not perfect virtue, but sufficient civic virtue that citizens and officials place public good above private interest often enough to sustain the system. They debated whether such virtue could be reliably maintained or whether institutional design alone could substitute for it. The Epstein files suggest the answer: institutional design cannot fully compensate for systematic moral failure across elites.

The Question Before Us

As we approach 2026 and the Republic's 250th anniversary, we face a question the founders would recognize: Can republican government survive when those who control key institutions pursue private advantage through informal networks that transcend and effectively nullify formal checks and balances?

This is not a question with obvious partisan valence. The network exposed in the Epstein files included committed progressives and movement conservatives, Trump associates and Clinton associates, advocates of globalization and economic nationalism. The common denominator was not ideology but elite status and a transactional approach to relationships and institutions.

The files reveal what Giridharadas terms “concentric circles of enablement.” At the center, criminal conduct. Surrounding that, those who knew and facilitated it. Further out, those aware but indifferent. Then institutions that accepted money and provided legitimacy. Finally, a broader elite culture in which such connections were normal, even valued. Virginia Giuffre, one of Epstein's victims, died by suicide—the ultimate cost of speaking truth about power.

The Analytical Work Required

The path to republican renewal requires specific analytical work, not aspirational statements. Three concrete initiatives must begin immediately:

First, systematic network mapping. Academic institutions—particularly those with some independence from elite capture, such as state universities and historically Black colleges—should undertake comprehensive mapping of elite networks. This means identifying overlapping board memberships, advisory positions, philanthropic relationships, and social connections across finance, technology, media, academia, and government. The methodology exists: network analysis tools developed for understanding terrorist organizations and criminal enterprises can be applied to legal but problematic power structures. The work should be funded by foundations committed to democratic accountability and published in accessible formats, not merely academic journals. If state legislatures or Congress lack the will, state attorneys general investigating antitrust issues possess both the authority and tools to compel disclosure.

Second, forensic institutional analysis. Each institution that maintained relationships with Epstein after his 2008 conviction should face mandatory external review. Not criminal investigation—most behavior was legal—but systematic examination of decision-making processes. How did Harvard's administration justify continued association? What internal debates occurred at JPMorgan? Which Goldman Sachs partners objected to employing Ruemmler given her documented relationship with a convicted sex offender? These reviews should be conducted by independent panels with subpoena power, modeled on corporate special committees in litigation, and published in full. The goal is not punishment but understanding: what institutional mechanisms failed, and how?

Third, conflict-of-interest auditing. Federal agencies, beginning with those least captured by current networks, should develop comprehensive conflict-of-interest databases. Not just formal financial conflicts—those already require disclosure—but network conflicts. If a regulator's former law partner now represents the regulated entity, that's disclosed. If that regulator's spouse sits on a philanthropic board funded by the regulated entity's CEO, that should be disclosed. If they share memberships in the same invitation-only conferences, disclosed. Technology enables tracking these connections; political will determines whether we do so.

Who Initiates the Debate?

Credit belongs to journalists like Ezra Klein, whose decision to dedicate substantial airtime to Giridharadas's analysis demonstrates what institutional courage actually looks like in media. Klein operates within networks that include many figures discussed in the Epstein files. His willingness to platform systematic critique of elite power structures, rather than treating the story as mere scandal, exemplifies the editorial independence that makes democratic accountability possible. More such efforts are needed.

But journalism alone cannot drive institutional reform. The debate must be initiated by actors with specific institutional positions:

State attorneys general possess unique authority. They can investigate under state nonprofit laws (universities), banking regulations (financial institutions), and professional responsibility rules (law firms). They answer to state electorates, providing some insulation from national elite networks. A coalition of AGs from states with major universities or financial centers could initiate coordinated investigations that federal authorities might hesitate to pursue.

University faculties at institutions implicated should demand internal reviews. Faculty governance bodies—where they retain actual power—can compel administrations to answer questions about decision-making. The Harvard Faculty of Arts and Sciences forced President Larry Summers to resign in 2006. Similar faculty action regarding institutional relationships with Epstein remains possible, though it requires professors willing to confront colleagues and administrators.

Institutional investors managing pension funds for teachers, public employees, and union members should demand governance reforms at corporations where they hold shares. CalPERS, the California public employees' pension fund managing $440 billion, and similar public pension funds have both fiduciary duty and political accountability to beneficiaries. They can require that corporations like Goldman Sachs explain their employment decisions and conflict-of-interest policies regarding network relationships.

State legislatures can act where Congress will not. They can require disclosure of elite network connections for anyone doing business with state government, serving on state boards, or receiving state funding. They can condition state pension fund investments on corporate governance reforms. They can fund the network mapping research that federal agencies decline to support.

Checking Current Networks: Mechanisms That Might Work

Network power cannot be eliminated—human organization requires networks. But it can be checked through counter-networks and structural reforms:

Mandatory cooling-off periods between positions in different sectors must be extended and enforced. Not the current revolving-door rules (one or two years), but meaningful periods—five to seven years—between serving in government and joining industries one regulated, or between academic positions and corporate boards in related fields. This reduces the value of maintaining cross-sector network ties for immediate personal benefit.

Structural separation within institutions can disrupt problematic network effects. Universities should separate fundraising from academic decision-making through institutional walls, not just policies. Those who solicit donations should not influence faculty hiring, research funding, or honorary degree decisions—ever. Investment banks should separate asset management from investment banking through structural subsidiaries with distinct leadership, not merely “Chinese walls” that senior executives routinely cross.

Counter-elite development requires deliberate effort. Public institutions—state universities, military service academies, labor unions, religious institutions with genuine autonomy—must consciously develop alternative leadership pipelines. This means funding and prestige flowing to institutions whose leaders do not participate in the same networks as Harvard/Yale/Stanford graduates. It means state governors appointing federal judges from state schools, not just elite law schools. It means corporate boards actively recruiting directors without Ivy League credentials or elite conference attendance.

Transparency through technology can expose network relationships faster than institutions can adapt. Open-source databases tracking board memberships, event attendance, philanthropic relationships, and professional connections—built and maintained by civil society organizations—can make elite network structures visible to journalists, prosecutors, and citizens. The technology exists; it requires only coordination and modest funding.

What Institutional Courage Actually Means

Institutional courage is not individual heroism. It is structural: building institutions that reward truth-telling over network maintenance. Specifically:

Economics departments showing courage would hire faculty studying elite capture and network power, even when that means offending donors. They would grant tenure to scholars whose work implicates powerful actors. MIT's economics department has not, to my knowledge, conducted any systematic internal research on how Epstein gained influence at MIT—despite obvious research opportunity. That would be institutional courage: directing scholarly attention to one's own institutional failures.

Law firms showing courage would decline lucrative clients whose business model depends on regulatory capture or whose principals maintain relationships that compromise the firm's integrity. This means sacrificing revenue. Skadden Arps or Kirkland & Ellis turning away clients worth tens of millions in fees because partnership with them undermines institutional integrity—that would be institutional courage. It has not happened.

News organizations showing courage would decline to hire commentators whose network relationships compromise journalistic independence, even when those figures attract audiences. They would investigate elite institutions including those their own executives attended or where they serve on boards. They would continue coverage of stories like Epstein's network even after initial clicks decline. The New York Times and Ezra Klein's decision to sustain focus on this story's implications, rather than treating it as scandal that fades, demonstrates what this looks like in practice.

Universities showing courage would return donations from compromised sources and investigate how those donations influenced institutional decisions. They would deny honorary degrees to the wealthy connected rather than the accomplished accomplished. They would tenure faculty who alienate donors by telling uncomfortable truths. None of the major institutions involved with Epstein has done this.

The mechanism for developing such courage is adversarial: institutions develop it when external pressure—from faculty, from journalists, from prosecutors, from pension funds, from competing institutions—makes network maintenance more costly than principle. This requires building alternative power centers with resources and authority to impose costs.

Beginning the Work

The 250th anniversary of the Declaration provides temporal focus. Congress should establish a Commission on Republican Government for the 21st Century, modeled on major historical commissions (the 9/11 Commission, the Warren Commission), but with analytical rather than investigative mandate. Its task: assess whether current institutional arrangements can sustain republican self-government given the transformation in how elite power operates.

But commission findings mean nothing without implementation. State-level action offers the most promising path. A coalition of state attorneys general, working with independent scholars and funded by foundations insulated from the networks under examination, could initiate the mapping and auditing work described above. State legislatures could enact transparency and cooling-off requirements. Public pension funds could demand governance reforms.

The work will be opposed by those whose power depends on current arrangements—which is to say, most powerful actors. Success requires building coalitions across traditional divides: progressives concerned about economic inequality and conservatives concerned about cultural elite capture, labor unions and small business organizations, state institutions and religious communities, all united by recognition that the current system serves networks rather than citizens.

The Epstein files are not merely evidence of one man's crimes and enablement. They are a window into how power operates when formal institutions decay into networks of mutual advantage. As Giridharadas notes in his conversation with Klein, “this outrage could be harvested for clickbait” or “could actually lead to transformative places.” The difference lies not in anger but in analysis, not in denunciation but in deliberate construction of institutional checks on network power.

The founders built a Republic for their time. They gave us tools—amendment processes, federalism, separation of powers—to adapt it. Whether we possess sufficient civic commitment to undertake that work will determine whether the American experiment continues or becomes a cautionary tale about republics that could not adapt to new forms of oligarchy.

Note: English & Serbian below.

19 февраля в 19:00 Адмирала Гепрата 10, Белград

В независимом культурном пространстве КП Радионица состоится презентация международного проекта Shared Visions — инициативы по созданию транснационального кооператива визуальных художников. Проект направлен на формирование демократической и солидарной структуры, способной изменить условия жизни, труда и самоорганизации художников на Балканах, в Восточной Европе и в более широком международном контексте.

Shared Visions объединяет художников, культурных операторов, исследователей гуманитарных наук, специалистов в области web3 и активистов в долгосрочном процессе, который продлится с января 2025 по октябрь 2028 года. Проект возник как ответ на растущую нестабильность художественного труда, сокращение пространства автономии и ограниченный доступ к рынкам, особенно в странах Восточной Европы.

В качестве альтернативы существующим институциональным и рыночным моделям предлагается создание международного кооператива со штаб-квартирой в Сербии. Кооператив будет находиться в коллективной собственности и демократическом управлении самих художников и культурных работников. Полученная прибыль будет направляться на общие нужды — мастерские, юридическую поддержку, пенсионные механизмы — а также на развитие форм сотрудничества, выходящих за пределы рыночной логики.

Проект реализуется при поддержке программы Креативная Европа под руководством Фонд B92 (Сербия) в партнерстве с организациями из Бельгии, Нидерландов, Италии, Черногории, Украины и Португалии.

КП Радионица есть независимом культурном пространстве в центре Белграда, ориентированном на междисциплинарные практики и коллективные формы взаимодействия. Пространство сочетает выставочную и рабочую функцию, уделяя особое внимание процессу создания искусства и открытому диалогу между художниками и публикой.

Shared Visions Project Presentation at KP Radionica

19 February at 19:00 Admirala Geprata 10, Belgrade

KP Radionica will host a presentation of Shared Visions, an international initiative dedicated to establishing a transnational cooperative for visual artists. The project aims to build a democratic, solidarity-based structure capable of reshaping how artists live, work, and organize, particularly in the Balkans and Eastern Europe, while remaining connected to broader international networks.

Shared Visions brings together visual artists, cultural operators, humanities scholars, web3 practitioners, and activists in a long-term process running from January 2025 until October 2028. It responds to the growing precarity of artistic labour, shrinking public support, fragmented infrastructures, and limited access to markets—especially for artists working outside dominant Western centers.

As an alternative to conventional institutional and profit-driven models, the project proposes the formation of an international cooperative headquartered in Serbia. The cooperative will be owned and democratically governed by its members—artists and cultural workers themselves. Rather than prioritizing profit maximization, revenues will be reinvested into collective needs such as studios, legal support, and pension systems, while also strengthening non-market forms of collaboration and mutual aid.

Supported by the Creative Europe Programme and led by Foundation Fund B92 (Serbia), the project is developed in partnership with organizations across Belgium, the Netherlands, Italy, Montenegro, Ukraine, and Portugal.

KP Radionica is an independent cultural space in the heart of Belgrade dedicated to interdisciplinary artistic practices and collective experimentation, where artistic processes are made visible and shared with the public.

Prezentacija projekta Shared Visions u prostoru KP Radionica

19. februar u 19h Admirala Geprata 10, Beograd

U nezavisnom kulturnom prostoru KP Radionica biće održana prezentacija međunarodnog projekta Shared Visions, inicijative usmerene na osnivanje transnacionalne zadruge vizuelnih umetnika. Projekat ima za cilj izgradnju demokratske i solidarne strukture koja može da promeni uslove života, rada i organizovanja umetnika na Balkanu i u Istočnoj Evropi, u povezivanju sa širim evropskim i međunarodnim kontekstom.

Shared Visions okuplja vizuelne umetnike, kulturne radnike, istraživače iz oblasti humanistike, web3 praktičare i aktiviste u dugoročnom procesu koji traje od januara 2025. do oktobra 2028. godine. Projekat nastaje kao odgovor na rastuću prekarizaciju umetničkog rada, smanjenje javne podrške i ograničen pristup tržištima, naročito u zemljama van dominantnih zapadnih centara.

Kao alternativu postojećim institucionalnim i profitno orijentisanim modelima, projekat predlaže formiranje međunarodne zadruge sa sedištem u Srbiji. Zadruga će biti u kolektivnom vlasništvu i pod demokratskim upravljanjem svojih članova – umetnika i kulturnih radnika. Ostvareni prihodi biće reinvestirani u zajedničke potrebe, poput ateljea, pravne podrške i penzijskih mehanizama, kao i u razvoj nemarketnih oblika saradnje i uzajamne podrške.

Projekat se realizuje uz podršku programa Creative Europe, pod vođstvom Fondacije B92, u partnerstvu sa organizacijama iz Belgije, Holandije, Italije, Crne Gore, Ukrajine i Portugala.

I see the sun shining to through the blinds, like slices of egg of sunlight on the walls of the apartment, indeed!

And behind my left eye, some sort of headache is lurking, (nothing compared to what this guy of game of thrones must feel (take a pick)).

But I’m feeling petty good all things considered

I just need to finish work for today and then I have grandiose dinner plans in the shape and form of fish fingers

I hope there will be no fingernails in there he he he

Fishes don’t even have fingers

But anyway

I’m really really exhausted

フードコートのざわめきの中、俺は紙コップのストローをくわえながら、向かいの席にいる友人のケイタに切り出した。

「友達がバンドやっててさあ。今度ライブをやるって言ってて、で、その運営をするんだけど」

ケイタはポテトをつまみながら、気のない返事をする。

「そうなんだ」

俺は身を乗り出した。

「お前、そのライブの警備やってくんない？」

ケイタの手が止まった。

「警備？そんな身内のライブの警備なんていらんだろ。どの規模のやつ？」

「学校が体育館貸してくれててさ。そこに……十五人くらい客が来る」

「少ねえ…いらねえって警備」

俺は気にせず続ける。

「まあまあ。体育館って正門から入り口があって、で、横に三つずつ出入り口があるじゃん」

「うん」

「出入り口が計七つあるんだけど、もう六つは地元の子供達がやってくれることになってるのね」

「はあ」

「どうしてももう一人子供が集まらなくてさ。お前、どうしてもやってくれねえかな」

ケイタはテーブルに肘をつき、俺を睨む。

「なんで俺が子供に混ざって体育館守らないといけないんだよ」

「バンドは九時入り、警備は六時入りな」

「早すぎる」

「ちゃんと正門守らせてやるから」

「いらねーよ」

「ボーカルのトークパートがあってさ。そこで『今日この子達が守ってくれてまーす』って呼び込むから、そしたら走って前出てきて」

ケイタは頭を抱えた。

「そこが一番恥ずかしいだろ。警備横並びさせられて、俺だけでかいんだから」

俺はにやりと笑う。

「じゃあ頼むね」

「絶対やらねー」

フードコートのざわめきの中、ケイタの沈んだ声がそこに重く溶け込んだ。