Dwain Northey (Gen X)

One of the arguments I hear over and over from some Christians is, “You can’t deny Jesus was the Messiah because He fulfilled every Old Testament prophecy.”

Really?

That’s presented as though it’s the end of the conversation, when in reality it’s the beginning of one.

As someone who enjoys writing, I know one simple truth about storytelling: you don’t start writing without knowing where you’re going. Every good author writes toward a conclusion. Characters are introduced because they’ll matter later. Details are planted because they’ll pay off in the final act. Foreshadowing only works because the author already knows the ending.

So when someone tells me the New Testament proves Jesus was the Messiah because it quotes prophecy after prophecy, I can’t help but ask a simple historical question: who chose those prophecies, and when?

The books that eventually became the Christian Bible were not bound together during Jesus’ lifetime. The canon developed over centuries through debates, disagreements, and church councils. The New Testament itself was written decades after Jesus’ death by authors who believed He was the Messiah and were writing to convince others of that conclusion. They naturally interpreted the Hebrew Scriptures through that lens.

That isn’t an insult. It’s simply how literature and theology work.

The Hebrew Bible itself is also the product of centuries of writing, editing, and compilation. Christians refer to it as the Old Testament, but Judaism understands those same texts as part of the Tanakh, interpreted within a much broader tradition that includes centuries of rabbinic scholarship. Christians and Jews often read the very same passages and arrive at very different conclusions—not because one side is stupid, but because they begin with different assumptions and different interpretive traditions.

Which raises another obvious question.

If the prophecies are supposedly so overwhelming and so undeniable, why are there millions of deeply religious Jews—people who have spent their entire lives studying these scriptures in their original languages—who do not accept Jesus as the Messiah?

It’s not because they’ve never heard the argument.

It’s because they read the same texts differently. Many point to messianic expectations that they believe were not fulfilled, such as universal peace, the gathering of all exiles, and a transformed world. They don’t simply ignore Christian claims; they evaluate them through a different theological framework.

That doesn’t automatically make Christianity false, nor does it make Judaism false.

It simply means the issue is far more complex than a bumper sticker apologetic.

Yet some Christians act as though anyone who disagrees must either be ignorant or deliberately rejecting obvious truth. That’s an astonishing level of confidence considering most of them have never read the Hebrew Bible outside the passages selected for Sunday sermons, let alone explored Jewish commentaries or the broader body of ancient Jewish literature.

Many Christians proudly proclaim, “The Old Testament proves the New Testament.”

Of course it does—if you’re reading it through the interpretive framework established by the New Testament.

That’s circular reasoning.

It’s like reading the final chapter of a mystery novel first and then declaring every clue in the earlier chapters obviously points to the killer. Well, yes. The author knew the ending before writing the beginning.

Faith doesn’t require pretending history is simpler than it is.

Belief doesn’t require dismissing centuries of Jewish scholarship.

And intellectual honesty certainly doesn’t require claiming that every question has already been answered.

If your faith is true, it should be able to withstand historical inquiry, textual criticism, and difficult questions. It shouldn’t depend on pretending there is only one way to read ancient texts or that every scholar who disagrees simply hasn’t “accepted the truth.”

Perhaps the greatest irony is that the same Christians who tell everyone else to “read the Bible” often have little curiosity about the scriptures, traditions, and historical context from which their own Bible emerged. They are content with the verses that support the conclusion they already believe, while dismissing the broader conversation that has existed for more than two thousand years.

Faith is a choice.

History is an investigation.

Confusing one for the other doesn’t strengthen either.

Dwain Northey

When Exactly Was “Again”?

Whenever someone asks me what trend I wish would disappear, my answer is simple: MAGA.

Now before anyone immediately reaches for the keyboard to accuse me of hating America, let me stop you. I’m an American. I’m a veteran. I love this country enough to believe it can always become something better. Patriotism isn’t believing your country has never made mistakes. Patriotism is loving it enough to acknowledge its failures and demanding that it live up to the ideals it proudly proclaims.

I have absolutely no problem with the phrase “Make America Great.”

Who wouldn’t want America to be great?

In fact, even Ronald Reagan—whose policies I disagreed with on many fronts—understood the distinction. His campaign message was “Let’s Make America Great.” Whether you supported his policies or not, his slogan was aspirational. It was about striving to improve the nation. It looked forward.

Donald Trump added one word.

Again.

That single word changes everything.

It isn’t just a slogan anymore. It’s a historical claim. The word “again” carries a timestamp. It assumes there was some point in our past when America had already reached greatness and that our mission is simply to return there.

So I ask the same question every time I hear someone proudly proclaim, “Make America Great Again.”

When?

Give me the year.

Not when America was great for people who looked like me.

Not when it was great for wealthy Americans.

Not when it was great for straight white Christian men.

Tell me when America was great for everyone.

When was it great for white men, Black men, brown men, white women, Black women, brown women, Native Americans, Asian Americans, immigrants, LGBTQ Americans, and transgender Americans—all at the same time?

Because if your answer begins with, “Well, it was great for…” followed by one particular group, then you’ve already answered my question.

It wasn’t great for everyone.

Was it when slavery was legal?

When women couldn’t vote?

When Native Americans were forced from their lands?

When Chinese immigrants helped build the railroads while being treated as second-class citizens and later excluded by law?

When Japanese Americans were imprisoned in internment camps?

When Black Americans lived under Jim Crow and were denied the right to vote through intimidation and violence?

When interracial marriage was illegal?

When LGBTQ Americans had to hide who they were to keep their jobs, homes, and families?

When transgender Americans were treated as though they didn’t even deserve to exist?

Exactly which version of America are we trying to return to?

History isn’t a Norman Rockwell painting.

It’s complicated.

America has always been a work in progress.

And that’s actually one of the things I admire most about this country.

Compared to civilizations that have existed for thousands of years, we’re barely 250 years old. In the grand scheme of human history, we’re teenagers. We’re still growing up. We’re still making mistakes. We’re still trying to figure out what it actually means to live up to the ideals we wrote down in 1776 and codified in the Constitution.

Growth is messy.

Our Constitution wasn’t perfect, which is why it has amendments.

Our laws weren’t perfect, which is why generations fought to change them.

Our society wasn’t perfect.

It still isn’t.

That isn’t weakness.

That’s the American experiment.

America’s greatest achievements have never come from trying to recreate the past. They’ve come from expanding the circle of who gets included in the American promise. Abolishing slavery. Expanding voting rights. Civil rights legislation. Marriage equality. Every generation has challenged the previous one to make this country more faithful to its own ideals.

None of that happened because we looked backward.

It happened because we moved forward.

That’s why I can enthusiastically support the idea of making America great. Every patriot should want that. Every veteran who has worn the uniform should want that. Every citizen should want that.

What I cannot support is pretending there was some mythical golden age that worked for everyone.

Nostalgia has a funny way of editing history.

It remembers cheap gas but forgets redlining.

It remembers booming factories but forgets who wasn’t allowed to work in them.

It remembers strong families but forgets the families that had to hide who they loved.

It remembers prosperity while ignoring who was excluded from it.

If your definition of greatness only worked for certain Americans, then it wasn’t greatness.

It was privilege.

As a veteran, I didn’t swear an oath to a political party or to a campaign slogan. I swore an oath to defend the Constitution—a living document designed to be strengthened by each generation. That oath wasn’t about preserving nostalgia. It was about preserving the possibility that tomorrow could be better than yesterday.

So yes, let’s make America great.

Absolutely.

But don’t ask me to make it great again until someone can answer one simple question honestly.

Again… when?

Show me the year.

Show me the decade.

Show me the moment in our 250-year history when America was genuinely great for everyone—not just for those who held the most power.

Until someone can answer that, I’d rather keep working toward an America that has yet to exist than spend my life chasing one that never did.

Because the true promise of America has never been that we were perfect.

It’s that we always had the capacity to become better.

That’s the America worth fighting for.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Christian Capitalism: The Bible Seems to Have Missed the Memo

I am continually amazed at how people can weld two completely different ideas together, slap a flag on it, put a cross next to it, and declare that they are inseparable. Recently someone confidently informed me, “This is a Christian capitalist country.”

I’m sorry… what?

Those aren’t synonyms. They’re not even naturally compatible philosophies. One is an economic system. The other is a religion centered around the teachings of a first-century Jewish rabbi who spent an awful lot of time warning people about wealth.

Capitalism is built around markets, competition, private ownership, profit, investment, and the accumulation of capital. Whether you think that’s wonderful or terrible is beside the point. That’s what capitalism is.

Christianity, if we’re actually talking about what Jesus taught instead of what modern politics wishes He taught, repeatedly warns about the dangers of wealth becoming an idol.

Jesus didn’t tell the rich young ruler, “Excellent portfolio. Diversify your investments.”

He told him to sell what he owned and give to the poor.

He didn’t praise the money changers in the Temple for providing valuable financial services.

He flipped over their tables.

He didn’t say, “Blessed are the shareholders, for they shall maximize quarterly returns.”

He said, “Blessed are the poor.”

He didn’t tell people to build bigger barns to store more wealth.

He told parables warning against exactly that mindset.

He didn’t preach, “Greed is good.”

He preached generosity.

He preached humility.

He preached caring for widows, orphans, strangers, and the least among us.

And then there’s that famously inconvenient camel-and-the-eye-of-a-needle passage. Christians have spent nearly two thousand years trying to explain that one away because, frankly, it’s uncomfortable. Apparently it’s easier to invent elaborate theological gymnastics than simply admit Jesus was pretty skeptical about wealth becoming the center of one’s life.

None of this means capitalism is inherently evil. It means capitalism is an economic tool. It has strengths. It has weaknesses. It creates innovation, but it also requires regulation because markets don’t possess a conscience.

Christianity, on the other hand, is supposed to be about conscience.

Those are different categories.

You can certainly be a Christian living in a capitalist society. Millions are.

You can believe capitalism is the best economic system currently available while also believing it should be tempered with compassion, charity, and protections for the vulnerable.

But calling capitalism itself “Christian” requires ignoring an astonishing amount of what Christ actually said.

It’s fascinating that many of the loudest voices proclaiming America a “Christian capitalist nation” are often the same people who accuse others of cherry-picking Scripture. Yet they somehow skip over nearly every sermon Jesus gave about wealth, possessions, generosity, and caring for the poor.

It’s almost as if they like the cross as a symbol but find the actual teachings attached to it… economically inconvenient.

If we’re going to invoke Jesus in our political or economic arguments, then we should probably start by reading what He actually said instead of assuming He’d be ringing the opening bell on Wall Street.

Christianity and capitalism are not the same thing.

One asks, “How do we create wealth?”

The other asks, “What do we owe one another?”

Confusing those two questions doesn’t strengthen either philosophy. It simply creates a version of Christianity that seems oddly more comfortable quoting stock prices than the Sermon on the Mount.

Perhaps the greatest irony is this: if Jesus walked into many of today’s churches preaching exactly the words recorded in the Gospels, some of the same people insisting this is a “Christian capitalist country” might accuse Him of sounding suspiciously… socialist.

That should probably give us pause.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

I have to admit, I must have missed the chapter in economics where tariffs magically extinguish wildfires.

Canada is battling massive forest fires. Smoke drifts thousands of miles across the border, degrading air quality throughout the Midwest and down the East Coast. It’s a reminder that Mother Nature doesn’t stop at customs checkpoints. Smoke doesn’t pause at the border to show a passport. Carbon monoxide doesn’t ask whether you’re a Democrat or a Republican. Air pollution doesn’t care whose flag is flying.

And yet, instead of asking, “How can we help our neighbor contain these fires before they get worse?” the response seems to be, “Maybe we should punish Canada.”

Really?

If your neighbor’s house is on fire, do you hand them a garden hose, or do you send them a bigger bill?

Leadership has always been about recognizing that some problems are bigger than politics. Forest fires don’t respect international boundaries. Neither do hurricanes, pandemics, earthquakes, or volcanic ash. The atmosphere is shared by everyone. That’s why countries have historically cooperated when disasters strike. Today it’s Canada. Tomorrow it could be California, Oregon, Washington, Arizona, or any other state asking the international community for assistance.

Imagine if California were experiencing another catastrophic fire season and Canada announced, “Since your smoke is drifting into British Columbia, we’re imposing tariffs on American goods.” Americans would rightly ask, “Why aren’t you sending firefighters instead?”

That would be the rational response.

The irony is that helping Canada suppress the fires isn’t charity. It’s enlightened self-interest. Every acre extinguished means less smoke crossing into the United States. Every fire contained means fewer pollutants entering the air Americans breathe. Assisting with aircraft, equipment, logistics, or firefighters isn’t simply helping Canada—it’s helping ourselves.

That’s what leadership looks like.

Real leaders recognize that international cooperation isn’t weakness; it’s practical. They understand that not every problem can be solved by economic punishment or political theater. Sometimes the answer is as simple as asking, “What do you need, and how can we help?”

Tariffs don’t extinguish flames.

They don’t lower air pollution.

They don’t improve visibility.

They don’t help people with asthma breathe easier.

They don’t protect crops or wildlife.

They certainly don’t change the direction of the wind.

The smoke will continue drifting wherever atmospheric currents take it, blissfully unaware that someone decided to raise import taxes.

Nature has a remarkable way of exposing the limits of political slogans. You can tariff lumber. You can tariff steel. You can tariff maple syrup.

But you can’t tariff smoke.

You fight smoke by fighting the fire.

Everything else is just political performance while the sky fills with haze.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

The Masculinity Olympics

For an administration that seems perpetually terrified of anything that might be labeled “woke,” “effeminate,” or “not masculine enough,” they sure spend an astonishing amount of time talking about… men.

Not policy. Not infrastructure. Not healthcare. Men.

Muscular men. Tough men. Young men. High-testosterone men. Men who apparently embody some mythical vision of American masculinity that was forged somewhere between a recruiting poster from 1943 and the cover of a bodybuilding magazine.

It’s almost become government policy.

Every speech seems to include praise for the physical strength, toughness, or appearance of soldiers, athletes, or law enforcement officers. Every cultural complaint somehow circles back to masculinity supposedly being under attack. Every problem in America apparently has the same prescription: more testosterone.

Now enter the Secretary of Defense—or perhaps, given the increasingly hawkish rhetoric, the Secretary of War.

The latest obsession? Testing troops over thirty for low testosterone and aggressively pursuing testosterone replacement therapy wherever it’s deemed appropriate. It’s presented almost as if America’s military readiness hinges not on training, logistics, strategy, or technology, but on everyone’s hormone levels.

You almost expect the next Pentagon budget to include a line item for protein powder and squat racks.

The irony is impossible to ignore.

This is an administration that rails endlessly against LGBTQ Americans, treats discussions of gender identity as existential threats to civilization, and acts as though simply acknowledging diversity is somehow dangerous.

Yet they’re utterly captivated by an incredibly narrow image of masculinity.

Everything becomes about muscles.

Everything becomes about testosterone.

Everything becomes about proving who’s the toughest guy in the room.

It’s as if they believe the Constitution came with a required bench press minimum.

Real strength has never been measured by biceps.

History’s greatest military leaders weren’t remembered because they had the highest testosterone levels. They were remembered because they understood strategy, logistics, diplomacy, discipline, and leadership.

Likewise, great presidents aren’t judged by how “alpha” they appear. They’re judged by whether the country is stronger, safer, and more prosperous after they leave office.

America has never required every citizen—or every soldier—to fit into one cartoonish stereotype of masculinity.

Our military succeeds because it recruits people with different skills, different backgrounds, and different strengths. Intelligence analysts don’t win wars by deadlifting. Cybersecurity experts don’t defend networks with bigger biceps. Pilots don’t fly better because their hormone levels fit some arbitrary ideal.

Competence beats machismo every time.

Perhaps that’s the strangest part of all this.

For a movement constantly accusing everyone else of “identity politics,” they seem remarkably consumed by one particular identity: a highly stylized, exaggerated version of masculinity.

It’s politics as a high school locker room.

The obsession isn’t strength.

It’s the performance of strength.

Because genuinely confident people don’t spend every waking moment trying to convince everyone else how masculine they are.

They simply get the job done.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Donald Trump took to the airwaves in prime time once again to relitigate the 2020 election. Once again, we’re told there were shadowy forces, foreign interference, mysterious ballots, and somehow China lurking behind the curtain. Once again, we’re told our elections need to be “cleaned up” because the only election that apparently counts as legitimate is the one where Donald Trump hears the words, “You win.”

Here’s the part that has always fascinated me.

In 2016, Barack Obama was president. Democrats were in the White House. The federal government oversaw the election. Trump won. Miraculously, our voting system worked beautifully. Democracy prevailed. The republic was saved.

Fast forward to 2020.

Donald Trump was president. His administration oversaw the election. His Attorney General was Bill Barr. His Department of Homeland Security was responsible for election security. Republican governors, Republican secretaries of state, Republican election officials, and thousands of local volunteers ran elections across the country.

Trump lost.

Suddenly, the entire system was corrupt.

Then comes 2024.

Joe Biden was president. Democrats were back in the White House. The same basic election infrastructure existed. States still ran their own elections. Paper ballots were still counted. Republican officials still certified Republican counties. Trump won.

And just like that…

Election integrity was back!

So let me see if I’ve got the formula right.

If Democrats are in charge and Trump wins, elections are fair.

If Republicans are in charge and Trump loses, elections are rigged.

If Democrats are in charge and Trump wins again, elections are fair again.

At some point you stop examining the voting machines and start examining the consistency of the argument.

The common denominator isn’t who occupied the White House.

It isn’t who controlled the Department of Justice.

It isn’t who was Secretary of Homeland Security.

It isn’t even which party administered the election.

The only variable that seems to matter is whether Donald Trump won.

Of course, there was one major difference in 2020 that conveniently gets ignored.

We were in the middle of a once-in-a-century pandemic.

COVID-19 changed everything. Polling places had to adapt. States—many of them led by Republican governors and legislatures—expanded absentee and mail-in voting so people didn’t have to risk standing shoulder-to-shoulder in long lines during a public health emergency. Military members had been voting by mail for generations. Seniors had been voting by mail for years. Several states had successfully conducted elections primarily by mail long before COVID ever existed.

The difference in 2020 wasn’t that some sinister foreign power suddenly figured out how to infiltrate thousands of county election offices across America.

The difference was participation.

People were home. They were paying attention. Politics wasn’t background noise anymore; it determined whether schools were open, whether businesses survived, whether family members got sick, and whether loved ones lived or died. Millions of Americans who had never bothered to vote before suddenly had both the time and the motivation to do so. Making voting by mail more accessible meant millions of eligible voters who might otherwise have skipped the election actually cast a ballot.

And apparently, according to Donald Trump, that’s the suspicious part.

Think about that for a moment.

The accusation isn’t really that election officials secretly changed enough votes to alter the outcome. The implication is that because more Americans voted, somehow that itself is evidence of fraud. As if higher voter turnout is inherently suspicious.

That’s a strange argument for someone who constantly says he wants every legal vote counted.

More people voting isn’t proof of a stolen election. It’s proof that more people voted.

Yet the narrative became that because there were millions more mail-in ballots—a system expanded largely because of a global pandemic—the only explanation must be foreign interference, mysterious ballot dumps, China, or some elaborate conspiracy.

Or maybe the simpler explanation is the correct one.

A global pandemic fundamentally changed how Americans voted, not who counted the votes.

Believing every victory proves the system is perfect while every defeat proves the system is corrupt isn’t election integrity.

It’s scoreboard integrity.

We’ve spent nearly six years replaying this movie. Court cases. Audits. Recounts. Republican election officials. Conservative judges. Trump’s own administration. None produced evidence of fraud on the scale required to overturn the election.

Yet here we are again, listening to the same script with a few new villains added to the cast.

It’s almost as if the election system has one incredibly complicated feature built into it:

Sometimes your candidate wins.

Sometimes your candidate loses.

That’s how democracy works.

The theory only works if you begin with the conclusion that Donald Trump couldn’t have legitimately lost. Every fact after that has to be bent until it fits the story.

When he wins, the system is secure.

When he loses, the system is broken.

That’s not a principle.

That’s not evidence.

That’s not election integrity.

That’s simply refusing to accept that in a democracy, sometimes the other guy gets more votes.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Before we get started, let me point out one of the oldest traditions in American foreign policy: we absolutely love international law… right up until someone suggests it might apply to us.

For decades, American leaders stood at podiums around the world explaining that no nation should be above international law. We helped build a post-World War II order rooted in the simple idea that there are rules civilized nations follow, especially in war. The Geneva Conventions weren’t written as suggestions. They were written because humanity had already seen what happens when governments convince themselves that military necessity excuses everything.

Now comes Marco Rubio, declaring that the International Criminal Court should be dismantled because it has the audacity to investigate Americans.

Really?

So the problem isn’t whether crimes occurred. The problem is that someone dared ask the question?

That’s an interesting definition of justice.

Apparently the ICC was perfectly acceptable when it investigated African dictators, Serbian war criminals, Russian officials, or anyone else America happened to dislike. Then it was proof that the civilized world could hold tyrants accountable.

But the moment the court looks in our direction?

Suddenly it’s a “rogue court.”

Suddenly it’s “unelected judges.”

Suddenly international law has become an outrageous attack on American sovereignty.

That’s not a legal principle. That’s the diplomatic equivalent of yelling, “The referee is fine until he calls a foul on my team.”

Let’s be honest about what the ICC was created to do.

It wasn’t established after the horrors that culminated in the postwar Geneva Conventions so powerful nations could use it as a club against weaker countries. It exists because the world decided that some crimes are so serious—war crimes, crimes against humanity, genocide—that no nation should simply get to investigate itself and declare, “We checked. We found nothing wrong.”

That principle only works if it applies universally.

Otherwise, it’s not justice.

It’s empire.

The current outrage centers on allegations involving Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth and broader decisions surrounding military operations, as well as inflammatory rhetoric from Donald Trump about striking civilian infrastructure in Iran. Whether any individual ultimately bears criminal responsibility is precisely the kind of question courts are supposed to evaluate based on evidence and law—not political loyalty or cable news ratings.

That’s how justice is supposed to work.

Notice that the ICC doesn’t sentence people because politicians dislike them.

It investigates.

It gathers evidence.

It hears arguments.

It follows legal procedures.

You know—the exact process conservatives usually tell everyone else to respect.

Unless, apparently, the defendant has an American passport or lives at Mar-a-Lago.

Then due process suddenly becomes foreign interference.

This exposes an uncomfortable truth.

For years America projected itself as the indispensable defender of the rules-based international order. We lectured other nations about accountability, human rights, and the rule of law.

Those were admirable ideals.

But ideals mean very little if they’re only intended for other people.

If international law only applies to countries too small to object, then it isn’t international law.

It’s selective enforcement.

And selective enforcement breeds cynicism around the globe.

Donald Trump has long operated under a remarkably simple philosophy: laws exist for everyone else. Whether it’s criminal indictments, civil judgments, constitutional limits, or now international law, every institution that questions him suddenly becomes corrupt, weaponized, illegitimate, or part of some vast conspiracy.

The pattern never changes.

If the court agrees with him, it’s brilliant.

If it doesn’t, abolish the court.

If an election goes his way, democracy works.

If it doesn’t, the election was stolen.

If prosecutors investigate him, dismantle the prosecutors.

If international judges investigate potential war crimes, dismantle the international court.

It’s remarkable consistency, if nothing else.

And now Marco Rubio appears to be extending that philosophy onto the world stage.

Imagine the precedent.

China could dismiss international courts.

Russia could dismiss international courts.

Iran could dismiss international courts.

Israel could dismiss international courts.

America could dismiss international courts.

At that point, why even have international law?

Why have the Geneva Conventions?

Why have treaties?

Why pretend that any rules exist at all?

Because once every nation decides that accountability is only for somebody else, the entire framework collapses.

The irony is impossible to ignore.

America helped champion a world where might wasn’t supposed to make right.

Now some of our leaders seem determined to prove that if you’re powerful enough, accountability is optional.

That’s not American exceptionalism.

That’s just exceptional arrogance.

The real test of believing in the rule of law isn’t whether it applies to your enemies.

It’s whether you’re willing to let it apply to yourself.

Because if your first instinct whenever someone investigates you is to destroy the institution doing the investigating, then you never believed in justice.

You only believed in immunity.