Bread and Circuses

My best friend and I were riding the bus home from school one day when he told me that next year, when we entered middle school, he would be joining the football team. He then asked if I would be playing football as well.

“Um, well, I’m not sure. I’ve never really thought about football before,” I replied.

It was true. I did not grow up in a home where football was on the TV—ever. I’m sure I had seen a game or two, but knowledge of how the game was played escaped me. After talking with my friend at length on that bus ride, I decided I would attempt to join him in the sport.

Fast-forwarding a couple of years, the school district made the decision to switch from 11-man to 8-man football my freshman year. We were a smaller school, and the change better fit our capabilities. In an effort not to relive the glory days, I’ll speed this timeline right up to my junior and senior years of high school. I found myself at the top of the state for total tackles and sacks both years, all-conference my junior year, all-state my senior year, and nominated Best Defensive Lineman in our district.

The coolest part of this story is that my best friend was right there with me. We both made the all-state team our senior year and made the trip to La Junta, Colorado, to compete—together—just like that bus ride so many years before.

What I am about to say next might confuse you. After reading all of that, you probably think football has a lot of meaning to me. Nope. While it meant the world to me in high school, I soon began to see how the sport slowly sucked the life out of the everyday American in adulthood. I watched as it consumed people, often without their awareness—taking their money, their attention, their spouses, their children, and even their identity. A man who could have been known as Christopher the dad, Christopher the banker, or Christopher the teacher simply became Chris the Steelers fan—hat and jersey sold separately.

As a cattle rancher, I acknowledge it is easier for me to be removed from the everyday hustle and bustle of a “normal” person’s life, but I see how distracting this sport—and many others—can be. While I have zero time to flip on a game Sunday afternoon, I watch people rush out of church, scarf down their lunch, and sprint to the living room so they won’t miss a kickoff they could have easily recorded. I hear complaints about grocery prices, about almost missing mortgage payments, about wishing they could give more to those in need—all while they sport the latest team merchandise. This is not coincidence; it is by design.

Sir John Glubb, a name you may not be familiar with, was a British military leader and scholar who analyzed over 3,000 years of history and concluded that the average empire lasts roughly 250 years. He proposed that empires pass through six distinct stages: the Age of Pioneers, Conquest, Commerce, Affluence, Intellect, and finally, the Age of Decadence. I encourage you to explore these on your own, as there is not enough space here to unpack them fully. Glubb hoped his observations would help modern nations avoid self-destruction, but I fear the Age of Decadence is inevitable.

While still on the topic of great empires, the most influential one that comes to mind is Rome. Nearly 30 percent of recorded history occurred under the shadow of this legendary superpower, and its influence remains visible today—if you know where to look. One of Rome’s greatest achievements was the Colosseum, a massive amphitheater capable of seating between 50,000 and 80,000 spectators. Roman emperors understood the importance of winning the hearts of the masses and were skilled manipulators. They hosted grand spectacles of entertainment, most famously gladiatorial games. During times of economic struggle, emperors would provide these games along with bread and wine, distracting the public from financial hardship.

The similarities between the Colosseum and the modern football stadium are uncanny. Take Levi’s Stadium, for example—capable of seating 68,500 spectators and set to host the 2026 Super Bowl. There will be a kickoff, not unlike the opening spectacle of gladiator and beast combat; a halftime show, echoing the entertainment once used to publicly execute criminals; and finally, the winning touchdown—perhaps even overtime. The moment everyone has been waiting for: the victorious gladiator. There will be no free bread and wine, but the crowd will still be gathered, chanting, distracted, and ignoring reality. For a more modern version of this distraction, one can become immersed in fantasy from a friend’s or family member’s living room, consuming bread and wine from the couch.

Just as Roman emperors diluted silver coins with copper, the U.S. government prints money as though it has an endless supply of green ink and paper. Gold no longer backs our currency, and we are told simply to trust that inflation is low and we have never been stronger. Beef prices reach record highs, yet the money I earn buys less each time. My money grows weaker, and my government says, “Here—have a circus and cheap bread,” while behind closed doors, the Roman Senate is reborn and plots as our empire declines.

Super Bowl LX—funny how we still use Roman numerals, isn’t it?—is right around the corner. I myself will get up in the morning, feed cows and horses, attend church and return home to the ranch to spend time with my wife and kids; perhaps we will saddle some horses and go hunt for deer sheds. If you yourself choose to enjoy the spectacle, good on you. Spend time with friends, coworkers, and family. Cherish those moments—but don’t forget to eat the bread too.

Not of this world

As a cattle rancher, I’m often presented with ample opportunities to ponder some of life’s greater questions. One of the most persistent is the meaning of life itself. While driving to the lease pastures the other day, I found myself thinking about heaven and hell, and what ultimately leads a person to one or the other. These places—if assumed to be real—are abstract, yet the outcomes of ending up in either are anything but. What follows is my attempt to put those thoughts on paper.

I’ve often heard it said that only a cruel God would send humans to hell, or that “hell is just made up; if God is all-loving, He wouldn’t actually send any of us there.” As usual, ignorance shines through in these statements. While hell is a man-made name we’ve given to this “place,” it’s important to note that it was not created for humans. Scripture teaches that it was created for the fallen ones and for those who choose to align themselves with them—commonly referred to as “the devil.” Humans only end up there by their own choosing.

Scripture often references—or assumes familiarity with—period-appropriate literature and culture, because context matters. I say all of that to say this: when you read the Bible, make sure you understand the words you’re reading. Only then can the teachings be applied in a meaningful and practical way. It’s difficult to “be in the world but not of the world” if you don’t understand what that phrase actually means.

A common example of this misunderstanding shows up in discussions about alcohol. Some argue that drinking is inherently sinful because Biblical wine “wasn’t fermented.” In reality, wild yeast was so prevalent in that time period that bakers and brewers didn’t need to add it to their recipes the way we do today. Fermented drinks were also safer than water, as the fermentation process killed harmful bacteria. Drinking water mixed with wine was not only common practice but also encouraged.

In keeping with the importance of context, when Jesus speaks of being “lukewarm” and warns that He will “spit you out,” He’s referencing a very practical problem: unpleasant, lukewarm water. It is neither cold and refreshing nor hot and useful for healing or cleansing. This passage is often reduced to the phrase, “You must always be on fire for God—don’t be a lukewarm Christian.” I believe the meaning is much deeper, rooted in honest self-reflection about the direction of our spiritual walk. If the souls we influence are what truly matter, then our interactions with others should carry real weight. Are we cold and refreshing? Hot and healing? Or simply repulsive?

If we’re honest, many of us prefer to remain lukewarm as a form of self-protection—out of fear of losing some part of our identity as a “peacemaker.” We stay silent when we should speak and remain passive when action is required, all in the name of keeping the peace. On a cattle ranch, when it’s time for action, you’d better show up—because the situation is often a matter of life or death. The moment itself may not be peaceful, but when the outcome is life over death, who really cares?