Jesus Christ is the Chief Shepherd. Every faithful pastor serves under Him and will give an account to Him. That is a sobering reality.

But it is also a gift to the Church.

If you are not under shepherding, you are exposed. Not because you are incapable, but because God never designed His people to live untethered.

Most Christian parents know they are supposed to teach their children to obey. Few feel confident they are doing it well.

For many families, daily life feels like a cycle of repeated commands, rising frustration, bargaining, and eventual blowups. Parents feel guilty for being “too harsh” one moment and ashamed for being passive the next. Children learn to delay, negotiate, and push boundaries, while peace in the home feels elusive.

Scripture offers us something better.

God does not command obedience to burden families but to bless them. Obedience is not about control for control’s sake. It is about joy, order, safety, and preparing children to live faithfully under God’s authority.

If we want our homes to reflect the goodness of God’s design, we must recover a biblical vision for obedience training.

Andrew Rappaport was raised Jewish, trained to argue, and taught to reject Jesus. But when the gospel confronted him, he couldn't argue his way out. He followed the truth of Christianity—and lost his family in the process.

Death is not the end. For the Christian, it is the doorway to glory. But how we handle the body after death still matters. It matters more than most Christians realize.

Today, many believers casually opt for cremation. It’s cheaper. It’s faster. And the culture tells us it doesn’t really matter. “It’s just a shell,” they say. “The soul is gone.” But that thinking is not Christian. It is secular and often rooted in paganism.

There’s a rising idea spreading among post-liberals and frustrated young men online: the claim that you can’t save the West by having a family. According to this argument, marriage and children only weigh men down, distract them from the “real fight,” and dilute the army of single, angry warriors needed to storm the gates of political power.

It sounds bold. It sounds strategic. It even sounds—at first—like realism. But it’s wrong. Not just slightly wrong, but fundamentally, civilizationally, biblically wrong.

The idea that you must abandon marriage and children to save the West is the ideological equivalent of George W. Bush saying he had to “abandon free-market principles to save the free-market system.” It’s self-defeating. It destroys the very foundation of what it claims to protect.

If you abandon the family, you abandon civilization.
If you abandon civilization, what exactly are you fighting to save?

In this article, I want to speak plainly to men who feel the weight of cultural decay. You feel the pull to do something. You want to fight. Praise God for that. But hear me clearly:

Imagine standing on a battlefield. Smoke rising. Chaos in the air. An enemy charging. Another man jumps into the trench beside you, rifle pointed in the same direction. You don’t start the conversation by asking where he went to seminary. You don’t quiz him on baptism. You don’t demand his entire doctrinal statement. You’re just glad he’s not aiming at you.

That’s the instinct behind the popular idea of “No Enemies on the Right.”

But instincts, if left unchecked, turn into blind spots. And blind spots are where men die.

In the latest episode of The Patriarchy Podcast, Jon Harris and I walked through the real, biblical, manly framework for thinking about alliances—political, cultural, and personal.

This blog post applies those principles directly to your life, your leadership, and your responsibilities as a Christian man.

Roe v. Wade is gone. The headlines said “victory.” The pro-life movement threw parties. Politicians took their victory laps.
But the blood still flows.

Abortion is still legal in all fifty states. The clinics still hum. Chemical abortions are quietly taking more lives than ever before.
So we have to ask the hard question: have we really won?

And maybe the harder question: why can’t Christian men who claim to love the truth actually work together to end this evil?

Every man wants the crown. Every man wants respect. But the path to kingship doesn’t run through comfort. It runs through caves—through sleepless nights, betrayal, hunger, and silence. That’s where God does His best work.

King David didn’t become a man after God’s own heart on the throne. He became that man in the dirt, with blood on his hands and tears in his beard, deciding whether to trust God when it looked like God had left him.

And you, modern man, church man, angry man, working man—you will face the same tests. These are the trials that reveal what you really are when the crown isn’t in sight and the only thing you’re holding is a sword and a prayer.

In this first part, we’ll look at the first five tests. They’re not theory. They’re your life.

The American church is overrun with eschatological escapism. For decades, Christian men have been taught that the faithful path is one of passive waiting, eyes to the sky, hands in their pockets, hearts disengaged from the world they were commissioned to disciple. This is not biblical hope. It is cowardice dressed up as theology.

In a recent episode of The Patriarchy Podcast, Rusty Thomas and I tackled the lie of modern rapture theology. What we uncovered should disturb every Christian man who claims to love Christ and His Kingdom.

They shot him in the neck.

That’s how the story ends for some men who speak too clearly in an age that hates truth. When Charlie Kirk was gunned down, some said it was just political. They’re wrong. It was spiritual. It was religious. It was martyrdom.

The church needs to wake up.

In the days following Charlie’s assassination, many pulpits fell silent. A few muttered something vague about “the tragedy” or tried to find blame on “both sides.” But the truth is, most pastors said nothing—nothing—while bold men bled and wolves howled at the door.

And that silence is its own kind of betrayal.

The term Christian Nationalism has become a lightning rod—sparking debate, confusion, and in some corners, outright panic. For some, it's a hopeful vision for rebuilding Christian civilization. For others, it's a bogeyman conjured up to label faithful men as dangerous extremists.

In our most recent episode of The Patriarchy Podcast, I sat down with Pastor Richard Lusk to cut through the hysteria and speak plainly about what Christian Nationalism is, where the battle lines are, and why so many people—even within the church—are afraid of it.

When Roe v. Wade fell, many Christians thought the war was over. Headlines screamed victory. Politicians claimed credit. Churches cheered. And yet, babies are still being murdered every single day under the protection of law.

Why? Because compromise has rotted the foundation of the so-called “pro-life movement.”

I was eight or nine the first time my dad set me alone in the woods before dawn.
It was pitch black. Cold. Quiet. The kind of quiet where every crack of a twig makes your heartbeat thump in your ears.

The night before, my dad and uncles had been swapping stories about bears and mountain lions—because of course they did. So when the growling started behind me, I was sure this was it. Something big. Something deadly.

I was frozen, too afraid to move. The growl got louder. Closer.
When the sun finally crept over the ridge, I could just make out a shape moving in the shadows. I braced myself for the attack.

Somewhere along the way, a dangerous idea crept into the Church—an idea that says if you're not selling your house, moving overseas, and blogging from a jungle hut, you're not a real Christian. That to truly follow Christ, you must go to the nations, or you're disobeying His call.

Let’s be honest—Christian men are full of opinions.

They post memes. They read books. They listen to podcasts (thank you, by the way). They rant about the state of the world, complain about the government, and gripe about the church going soft.

And most of them will die having done absolutely nothing.

No action. No risk. No sacrifice. Just noise.

But every now and then, God raises up a man who isn’t content to sit in the bleachers.

I’m bored of education.

Not because learning is boring—but because the modern education system has become a factory of fools. It produces weak men and bitter women. It catechizes children to hate their fathers, their faith, and their heritage. The public school system is not neutral. It is not passive. It is a discipleship program run by the state, and its chief aim is to shape your children into servants—not of Christ, but of the regime.

As a pastor, a father of eight, and a man under the authority of God, I refuse to hand my children over to Pharaoh. And I believe you shouldn’t either.

The very mention of the Crusades sends many modern Christians into a theological tailspin. Say the word and watch the pearl-clutching begin. “But what about the indulgences?” “Didn’t they sack Constantinople?” “Wasn’t it just Roman Catholic superstition?”

A couple of summers ago, Mark Cox, Aaron Sabie, and I stood on the hot asphalt of downtown Indianapolis, Bibles in hand, as the Pride parade marched past. The air was thick with humidity and the smell of sunscreen and cheap perfume. Rainbow banners flapped from every float. Half-naked men waved to the crowd. Mothers held toddlers on their hips, clapping as drag queens blew kisses from the back of trucks.

We were there to preach the gospel. To plead with people who, whether they realized it or not, were celebrating their own destruction.

We stood on the curb, holding out tracts and calling out scripture as float after float passed by. A few people heckled us. Some just smirked and looked away. Others stopped to argue. Almost nobody wanted to talk about what this all costs. What it costs the body. What it costs the soul. What it costs a nation.

But near the end of the parade, there was one float that didn’t dance or blare pop music. It was a hearse. A funeral home had decided to participate, to show their support, and on top of the hearse was a casket draped in a rainbow flag.

That image stuck with me—more than any of the glitter or slogans. Because if there was ever an unintentional confession, that was it. The parade ends in death.