It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad World

It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World

If you are old enough, you probably remember the 1963 comedy It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. I’m not old enough to have seen it, but I do remember it;) The title was intended to be ridiculous. It was an exaggeration.

Today… the title of that show feels more like a documentary.

Every morning we wake up to another crisis. Another outrage. Another reason we’re told to panic. Another reason to be furious. Every headline screams that democracy is ending, civilization is collapsing, your children are under attack, your freedoms are disappearing, or the other side is about to destroy everything you hold dear.

Fear has become a business model.

Anger has become a marketing strategy.

The more afraid we become, the longer we watch. The angrier we become, the more we share. Every click, every view, every retweet, every outrage-filled comment fuels an ecosystem that profits from our emotions. Politicians raise money from it. Media organizations build audiences with it. Activists recruit with it. Even well-meaning leaders sometimes discover that frightened people are easier to motivate than thoughtful people.

None of this is new.

Thousands of years ago, Scripture warned us about the very emotions that now dominate our news feeds.

“Fear not.”

Those two words echo throughout the Bible more than almost any other command. God was never surprised by uncertain times, yet His instruction to His people was remarkably consistent: don’t let fear become your master.

The same is true of anger.

“Be angry, and do not sin.” (Ephesians 4:26)

Notice that Paul doesn’t pretend anger will never come. Some things should make us angry. Injustice should. Abuse should. Evil should.

But anger is a terrible foundation for building anything.

James takes it a step further:

“Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry, because human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires.”

That’s an uncomfortable verse in an age where being the quickest to react is celebrated and creating rage is the MO.

Modern psychology isn’t saying anything dramatically different from Scripture on the subjects of anger and fear.

Mental health researchers have consistently found that chronic anger changes us. It elevates stress hormones. It impairs judgment. It narrows our thinking. It increases anxiety, damages relationships, contributes to heart disease, and leaves us perpetually on edge. Anger literally rewires our brains to expect conflict.

Perhaps that’s why outrage is so addictive.

Eventually we stop looking for truth.

We start looking for enemies.

The frightening part is that anger feels like strength. Fear feels like vigilance. In reality, both often leave us easier to manipulate.

That doesn’t mean we should ignore problems.

It doesn’t mean we should abandon convictions.

It doesn’t mean every issue has two equally valid sides.

It simply means that followers of Christ should refuse to let fear and anger become the engines that drive our decisions.

Here’s a better approach in three simple words.

Listen. Logic. Love.

Listen. Really listen. Not just long enough to formulate your rebuttal. Listen to understand and build trust. Every person has a story. Every position has assumptions. Listening doesn’t require agreement, but it almost always produces understanding and a groundwork for cooperation.

Logic. God gave us minds for a reason. Test every claim. Verify facts. Ask questions. Resist the temptation to outsource your thinking to the loudest voice in your political tribe or your favorite news channel. Truth has never been afraid of scrutiny. Often those who attempt to influence by fear and anger do so because the truth isn’t in their favor. Beware!

Love. This is the one our culture struggles with most. Love isn’t surrender. It isn’t weakness. It isn’t pretending differences don’t matter. Love means recognizing that the person across from you bears the image of God before they wear the label of Democrat, Republican, conservative, progressive, activist, or skeptic.

Jesus never commanded us to win every argument.

He commanded us to love our neighbors.

Those are not the same thing.

The world has enough people shouting.

It has enough people who are perpetually offended.

It has enough people trying to convince you that outrage is a virtue.

Maybe what it needs is more people who refuse to be manipulated by fear, who refuse to be consumed by anger, and who quietly pursue truth with courage, humility, and love.

It may be a mad, mad, mad, mad world.

But Christians were never called to reflect the world.

We were called to be light in it.

​

Freedom is LOUD

​Freedom Is Loud

I’ve never heard freedom before… until I stood on the flight deck of the USS Eisenhower

https://youtu.be/1cmeSvgawfw?is=Qtc24Eka4xF8yCKq

I’ve heard fighter jets before. I’ve watched them streak across the sky at airshows. I’ve seen videos of aircraft carriers launching aircraft into the darkness.

None of that prepared me for standing on the flight deck of the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower.

You don’t just hear it. You feel it!

The deck trembles beneath your feet. The blast of jet engines presses against your chest. Every launch is a carefully choreographed explosion of power, precision, and purpose. It is deafeningly loud. The kind of loud that demands your full attention and reminds you just how small you really are.

Standing there, watching sailors move with calm confidence in the middle of controlled chaos, one thought settled into my mind:

Freedom is loud.

Most of us think freedom sounds like peace and quiet.

It sounds like children laughing in the backyard. It sounds like conversations around the dinner table. It sounds like churches gathering to worship without fear. It sounds like neighbors disagreeing over politics and then waving to each other across the fence the next day.

Those are the sounds of a free people. But they are not the sounds that preserve freedom.

As America celebrates the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, it is worth remembering that our liberty has never been secured in silence.

Its story began with the crack of muskets at Lexington and Concord. It echoed through the thunder of artillery during the Revolution. It marched across battlefields from Gettysburg to Normandy. It roared through the skies over Europe and the Pacific. It flew over Korea, Vietnam, the Persian Gulf, Afghanistan, and countless places most Americans will never see.

Today, it still echoes from the deck of an aircraft carrier somewhere on the world’s oceans.

The sounds have changed. The mission has not.

As I stood on the Eisenhower, my mind drifted to words I’ve sung hundreds of times.

And the rockets’ red glare,
The bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night
That our flag was still there.

Those words are eyewitness testimony.

Francis Scott Key wasn’t watching a peaceful sunrise. He spent the night anxiously searching through smoke, darkness, and explosions for the American flag over Fort McHenry.

Every rocket illuminated the sky. Every bomb briefly pierced the darkness. Every flash answered the same question.

Is the flag still there?

The “rockets’ red glare” and the “bombs bursting in air” weren’t interruptions to peace. They were the terrible sounds required to preserve it.

The same is true today.

The thunder of afterburners on the deck of the Eisenhower is not the opposite of peace. It is one of the reasons peace exists for millions of Americans who will never set foot on a warship.

The irony is almost beautiful. The loudest places on earth often exist so the quietest places can remain quiet.

Tonight, many of us will gather with family and friends to celebrate Independence Day. We’ll watch fireworks illuminate the night sky. Children will laugh. Neighbors will grill hamburgers. Churches will pray. Families will hug. Flags will wave.

Those are wonderful sounds.

But they are possible because somewhere, someone is making a different kind of noise.

Someone is standing watch.

Someone is launching into the darkness.

Someone has willingly accepted extraordinary responsibility so the rest of us can enjoy ordinary life.

As we celebrate 250 years of American independence, may we never confuse the quiet blessings of freedom with the noisy sacrifices required to protect them.

I’ve never heard freedom before…

Until I stood on the flight deck of the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower.

Now, every time I hear a fighter roar overhead or sing the words of our National Anthem, I’ll hear something different.

I’ll hear the sound of freedom.

And it is wonderfully, unapologetically loud.

 

Storms Outside. Joy Inside.

Twenty-seven years ago, on June 26, 1999, Sondra and I stood before God, our families, and our friends and promised each other forever.

It was a stormy day.

Sheets of rain fell from the sky. Thunder shook. Lightning flashed through the darkness. If you judged our wedding by the weather, you might have wondered whether it was an omen. In many ways, it was.

Not because our marriage would be dark or miserable, but because that day became a picture of the life we would build together.

Outside, there was every indication that the day would be gloomy. But inside, every room was filled with something entirely different. Family gathered. Friends laughed. There was joy, anticipation, celebration, and the quiet confidence that something beautiful was beginning. The weather outside never determined the atmosphere inside.

Looking back over twenty-seven years, I realize our marriage has followed much the same pattern.

Jesus promised His followers, "In this world you will have trouble." He never promised storm-free living, and He certainly didn't promise storm-free marriages. We've experienced disease, death, broken relationships, personal attacks, career disappointments, financial struggles, and seasons that tested us in ways we never anticipated. The storms have been real, and at times they've been fierce.

But by God's grace, the storms have mostly remained outside and inside our home, the overwhelming story has been one of joy.

God entrusted us with three incredible children, each one uniquely reflecting His creativity. Our Jaybird is now in Wichita Falls pursuing his dream of flying fighter jets. This year God expanded our family even more by giving us our wonderful daughter-in-law, Emma, and our first grandson, James Wade Hinton III. Watching Jay become a husband and now a father has been one of the greatest joys of our lives.

Josie is a sophomore at Ole Miss with aspirations of becoming a criminal prosecutor. She has always possessed a strong sense of justice, and it has been a joy watching that calling mature as she prepares for the future God has for her.

Then there's our thirteen-year-old caboose. Louie. He's an old soul with a perspective on life that keeps us laughing almost every day. He has a delightful way of seeing the world and has brought a unique joy to our family.

Together, our children have given us countless memories through ballgames, school programs, church events, recitals, family vacations, ordinary dinners around the table, and a thousand moments that didn't seem extraordinary at the time but have become some of our greatest treasures. We have been blessed to create them, raise them, and now begin launching them into the world like arrows from a quiver. And now, by God's grace, we get to watch another generation begin.

Through all of those years, our marriage has remained remarkably steady. It has required work, intentionality, humility, forgiveness, and constant adjustment, but it has never felt crushing. Christ's words about His yoke being easy and His burden being light have proven true in ways I never understood as a young husband. Marriage has not been effortless, but walking together has made even the heaviest seasons bearable.

Over the past few weeks, I've found myself asking a simple question: after twenty-seven years, who is this woman I married?

Peter instructs husbands to "live with your wives in an understanding way." I've spent nearly three decades trying to do just that. The funny thing is that while I know Sondra infinitely better than I did on our wedding day, she has somehow become infinitely more mysterious, more fascinating, and more alluring at the same time. The deeper I've gotten to know her, the more I realize there is still more to discover.

As I've tried to distill her into a single word, one keeps coming back to me.

Fierce.

At first glance, that word can sound harsh, but I mean it as one of the highest compliments I know how to give.

Sondra is fiercely loyal. Once you're hers, you're hers. She loves her family and friends with a steadfastness that refuses to let go.

She is fiercely determined. Obstacles don't discourage her. They become another challenge to overcome.

She is fiercely protective. She has spent twenty-seven years creating a home where our children have always known they were loved, defended, and believed in.

She is fiercely resilient. I've watched her endure heartache, disappointment, exhaustion, uncertainty, and loss without allowing those things to define her.

And yes, she is fiercely stubborn. Anyone who knows her will smile at that one. But I've come to realize that her stubbornness is conviction in action. It has anchored our family when circumstances tried to move us.

She is a powerful force of life.

When the storms have raged outside our walls, she has been one of the primary reasons there has continued to be laughter, peace, warmth, and hope inside them.

If I had to choose one person to stand beside while the wind howls, the thunder crashes, and the rain falls, I would choose her every single time.

Because that's what twenty-seven years have taught me.

The goal of life isn't to eliminate the storms. Jesus already told us they were coming.

The goal is to build something on the inside that the storms cannot reach.

Build a marriage where grace is abundant. Build a home where laughter is common. Build a family where Christ is the foundation beneath every decision and every season. Build relationships that become shelter for one another when life becomes difficult.

The rain will come. The thunder will roll. There will be seasons of darkness. But storms don't have to define the atmosphere of your home.

Twenty-seven years ago, we were married on one of the stormiest days I can remember.

Looking back now, I wouldn't change a thing.

The weather was telling the truth all along.

There would be storms outside.

But because Christ has been faithful, there has been joy inside.

Happy 27th Anniversary, Sondra.

Thank you for standing beside me through every storm, for building a home that has always been warmer than the weather outside, and for being exactly the kind of woman I would want with me when the skies grow dark.

I'd marry you all over again.

Walk Humbly with God in an age that worships self

 

Walk Humbly With God In an Age That Worships Self

“…and to walk humbly with your God.” — Micah 6:8

There is a progression in Micah 6:8 that I don’t think is accidental.

First, we learn to do what is right according to God’s standard rather than our own.

Then, once we begin to understand how often we ourselves fall short of that standard, we begin to understand mercy — not merely receiving it, but loving it.

And eventually, both truths lead us somewhere unavoidable:

Humility.

Because anyone who truly understands God’s righteousness and God’s mercy eventually comes to the realization that His ways are higher than ours and His thoughts are higher than ours and you stop placing yourself at the center of the universe. You stop assuming your perspective is perfect. You stop believing your judgments are infallible. You stop acting as though you are qualified to sit on the throne that belongs to God alone.

That may be one of the greatest spiritual problems in our culture today.

We have not merely drifted away from God’s standards. We have increasingly attempted to replace Him as the standard altogether.

Modern culture constantly encourages people to determine truth for themselves, define morality for themselves, construct identity for themselves, and then pronounce judgment on anyone who fails to affirm their conclusions.

In many ways, we have elevated ourselves into the role of judge, jury, and executioner. But those roles were never ours to begin with.

When human beings become their own highest authority, humility disappears.

And once humility disappears, cruelty is usually not far behind.

That progression works in reverse just as clearly as it does in Micah 6:8.

When people do what is “right in their own eyes,” they inevitably begin measuring everyone else by their own constantly shifting standards. Mercy becomes scarce because self-righteousness always demands punishment for those who fail its test.

That mentality thrives in outrage, vengeance, public humiliation, and eager condemnation of others. And perhaps most dangerously, it often disguises itself as moral superiority.

People become quick to pronounce judgment and slow to recognize their own need for grace.

But walking humbly with God changes the posture of the heart.

Humility is not weakness. It is proper perspective.

It is recognizing that God alone fully defines what is right, judges perfectly, sees motives, and God alone possesses both perfect justice and perfect mercy.

Walking humbly with God means living with the awareness that we are not Him.

It means approaching others with less arrogance and more grace.
Less outrage and more patience.
Less self-exaltation and more surrender.

The humble person understands something prideful people often forget:

If God dealt with us strictly according to what we deserved, none of us would stand.

Humility grows when we recognize that every breath we take, every kindness we receive, every second chance we are given, and every hope we possess ultimately rests upon the mercy of God.

And perhaps that is where Micah 6:8 was always leading us all along.

Doing what is right according to God’s standards.
Learning to love mercy because we desperately need it ourselves.
And finally, recognizing that both truths leave no room for pride before a holy God.

Love Mercy!!

Love Mercy — In a World That Prefers Revenge

“…and to love mercy…” — Micah 6:8

A few days ago, I ran a red light.

Not intentionally. I zoned out. I glanced to my left, saw that the cross traffic had a green light, and somehow my brain completely failed to process what that meant for me. I just carried on through the intersection like everything was fine and nearly collided with another vehicle.

The other driver made his displeasure known, which was completely justified and probably exactly what I would’ve done in his position.

My first instinct was to raise my hand in the universal “I’m sorry” gesture.

My second instinct was to check my mirrors and look around for blue lights flashing somewhere behind me.

My third instinct was relief that I was apparently going to receive mercy for my transgression.

As I filtered that experience through Micah 6:8 later, something uncomfortable occurred to me.

The man I nearly hit was probably hoping there were blue lights nearby. He probably wanted justice. Honestly, if the roles were reversed, I probably would have too.

And that realization exposed something deeper in me. I love mercy when I receive it. I’m just not always sure I love it quite as much when other people receive it.

That’s what makes Micah’s wording so challenging. The command is not simply to show mercy occasionally. It is to love mercy.

That changes the conversation entirely.

Most of us love mercy when it benefits us.
When we make the mistake.
When we need the second chance.
When we hope consequences are softened.
When we want understanding instead of punishment.

But loving mercy means something deeper than appreciating forgiveness for ourselves. It means rejoicing when mercy is extended even to people we think deserve the hammer.

That is much more difficult.

Even justice without mercy is cruelty.

And if we’re honest, there’s something in human nature that enjoys seeing people “get what’s coming to them.” We may not say it out loud, but we feel it. We celebrate public failures. We feed on outrage. We quietly enjoy seeing arrogant people humbled, reckless people punished, or enemies exposed.

Yet the Gospel consistently moves in the opposite direction.

Jesus demonstrated a kind of mercy that frustrated both the religious and the rebellious. He forgave sinners. He restored failures. He ate with people society despised. Even while hanging on the cross, He prayed for the people killing Him.

Mercy does not mean pretending evil is good.
It does not mean removing accountability.
It does not mean consequences disappear.

But mercy does mean refusing to let vengeance or even a thirst for justice harden our hearts.

The truth is, each of us deserve the wrath of a Holy God which means we all are shown his mercy more than we realize.

We all want grace for our own failures while quietly demanding stricter justice for everybody else’s. But Micah calls us higher than that. He calls us to become people who genuinely love mercy because we recognize how desperately we depend on it ourselves.

Maybe the clearest evidence that we understand the mercy of God is not how grateful we are when we receive it…

…but how willing we are to celebrate when others receive it too.

 

Do Justly! In a World That Makes Up Its Own Rules

“He has shown you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justly…” — Micah 6:8

We live in a culture that increasingly treats “right” and “wrong” as flexible ideas.

What is acceptable changes depending on the moment, the audience, or the advantage to be gained. One person’s truth becomes another person’s offense. Standards shift. Lines move. Morality becomes negotiable.

But Micah reminds us of something foundational: God has already shown us what is good.

The command is not to invent morality for ourselves. It is not to reshape truth around preference, politics, convenience, or personal desire. The command is much simpler — and much harder:

Do justly.

Act right.

Not according to our own shifting standards, but according to God’s.

That sounds simple until acting right costs us something.

Doing justly means telling the truth when lying would benefit us. It means honoring commitments when breaking them would be easier. It means treating people fairly even when we dislike them. It means refusing to manipulate, exploit, flatter, or deceive for personal gain. It means doing the right thing even when nobody notices.

The opposite of acting justly is not merely criminal behavior. Most often, it is compromise. Small compromises. Quiet compromises. Respectable compromises.

The kind we justify because “everybody does it.” The kind we excuse because they seem beneficial. The kind that slowly reshape our character over time.

Human beings have always had a tendency to redefine righteousness according to what feels good, profitable, popular, or convenient. Scripture repeatedly shows what happens when people abandon God’s standard and replace it with their own:

“Everyone did what was right in his own eyes.”

This verse from Book of Judges is not presented as freedom. It is presented as collapse because when every person becomes their own moral authority, truth eventually becomes impossible to find.

Micah pulls us back to something stable.

God’s character defines what is right. Not culture. Not emotion. Not power. Not majority opinion. Not personal preference.

And because His character does not change, His standard does not change either.

Doing justly is ultimately about integrity and aligning our actions with what God says is good, even when it seems every one around us is choosing otherwise.

The real challenge is not whether we know what is right most of the time.

The real challenge is whether we are willing to do it.

How well do we know ourselves? Why is that important?

A few months ago, I had a conversation with a friend about the difficulty of being authentic and letting people REALLY get to know you.

Afterward, I walked away thinking about two questions:

Who really knows me? And maybe more importantly… How well do I even know myself?

We spend a lot of time trying to simplify ourselves. We create manageable versions of who we are for social media, for work, for church, for politics, for friendships, even for family. We like neat categories and understandable narratives because they make life easier to process.

But human beings are rarely simple.

Walt Whitman wrote, “I contain multitudes.” That line resonates because it’s true of me and I believe we are all contradictions at times. Strong and insecure. Confident and uncertain. Compassionate and selfish. Faithful and doubtful. Brave and afraid. Sometimes all in the same day.

The truth is, most of us are far more complicated than we are willing to admit and that complexity is not necessarily hypocrisy. Often, it’s just humanity.

And yet, many of us spend our lives carefully controlling access to who we really are. We let people see the polished version. The capable version. The version that feels safe. We protect weaknesses, insecurities, failures, fears, and the parts of us that still feel unfinished.

Maybe that’s pride? Maybe it’s fear? Maybe it’s self-preservation? Probably some combination of all three. I'm still trying to find out the answer to these questions myself.

But there’s a cost to never letting people all the way in.

It is impossible to maximize our potential if we do not honestly know our strengths. At the same time, it is impossible to truly grow if we don't know our weaknesses. Growth requires exposure.

That’s why Scripture says, “As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.” But iron only sharpens iron through CLOSE contact, friction, and pressure. Real sharpening does not happen at a distance. It happens when people are close enough to challenge us, question us, encourage us, correct us, and sometimes even wound our pride.

The problem is that many of us want the benefits of deep relationships without the vulnerability required to create them. We want to be understood while hiding pieces of ourselves. We want accountability without transparency. We want growth without discomfort.

But the people who have shaped me the most in life are the people who were willing to ask hard questions — and the people I trusted enough not to run from those questions.

That kind of honesty is rare. And valuable.

One of the things I’ve learned is that self-awareness rarely happens in isolation. Sometimes other people can see patterns in us long before we can see them ourselves. Trusted voices help reveal blind spots, strengths, fears, motivations, and habits we would otherwise ignore.

That is why intentional leadership development and personal refinement matter.

Because at the end of the day, the goal is not simply to be known by others. It is to become honest enough to truly know ourselves — and courageous enough to let the right people walk that journey with us.