Thoughts cannot be reduced to chemical reactions in the brain. To say otherwise is to greatly undermine the multifaceted nature of cognition and consciousness. Let’s take terms like “thoughts,” “consciousness,” and “mind” for example. To a substance dualist like me, who believes the mind is a metaphysical substance just as real as the material brain,…

Christmas for Ginny has always been the most important day of the year. It’s a magical day when anything is possible, like the unprecedented miracle of God taking on human form; it’s when a supernatural star led the Magi to the infant God-man, lying helplessly in a symbolic feeding trough; and it’s when men met God face-to-Face in a humble manger to worship him and feed from him. Ginny loves Christmas for both its majestic beauty and historical truth. She understands, however, that this sacred day has been tainted with folklore and commercialism, but experience and wisdom enable her to see these gilded traditions as a way to bridge the gap between the sacred and the profane. For Ginny, a gift for someone special on Christmas is a reminder of the greatest Gift ever given. So naturally Ginny wants to give Brad something special for Christmas. But she, too, finds herself without two pennies to rub together. Then, suddenly, an idea flashes across her mind that makes her eyes water, feeling the internal warmth that comes with giving wholeheartedly.

Ten years ago, my parents, Robert and Sheila, were killed in a car accident on Christmas Day. A head on collision with a drunk driver took them away from me. It turned out that both front airbags were defective. They were coming back from looking at Christmas lights. My seven-year-old daughter was in the back seat. She was not wearing her seatbelt. She was thrown from the wreckage. She died instantly.

“You need me! Without me … you’re nothing! I keep you alive.” “Are you kiddin’ me? This isn’t living.” “How dare you interrupt me! You entitled, insecure, unappreciative little brat! I give you hope. I give you purpose. I give you meaning. If you leave me now, you’ll die. You’ll have nothing to get you…

He speaks from the heart: “I have to say—I’m impressed with your sense of community and respect for leadership. But that’s nothing without Activism!” he finishes by dropping the clipboard and slamming his fist onto his open hand. “What is justice without action? Action is the meat of true justice. Words are the side salad.” He pauses. “There are no vegetarian activists. Only carnivore’s with claws. But I can see that not all of you have what it takes to be exceptional individuals. Only those of you who are willing to be led and rise to action above your current state of unbelief.”

“I’m single-minded. I’m deceptive. I’m obsessive. I’m selfish.” Shamelessly, he continues, “I have no empathy. I don’t respect you. I’m never satisfied. I have an obsession with power. I’m irrational. I have zero remorse. I have no sense of compassion. I’m delusional. I’m maniacal.” He finally ends the transvaluation of vices with slogans such as “I think I’m better than everyone else,” “I want to take what’s yours and never give it back” and “What’s mine is mine and what’s yours is mine.” The commercial finally concludes with bright red words in all caps: “WINNING ISN’T FOR EVERYONE.”

Occam’s father shares a rite of passage with his son, who’s now of age to shave with a straight razor. As Occam learns the intimate art of holding the blade at an acute angle while performing short strokes against the grain to match the sharp curves of his face, he opens up about life choices….

Christian apologetics exists to defend the faith from erroneous although imaginative arguments. It’s no wonder why apologists hold human imagination with severe suspicion. But as implied, it’s not the imagination itself that should be held in question, it’s the irrational and/or unscrupulous use of it, which has a tendency to smuggle in self-serving desires, which…

No sooner than he closes his eyes, he feels a sharp pain in the frontal cortex of his brain. His training has begun. The pain remains in the frontal lobe for over three hours with fluctuating degrees of intensity. Mentally, physically, and emotionally, he’s depleted of energy and patience to the point of insanity. He feels conflicted, wanting to proceed with his transhumanist project in order to be perfect and live forever, but his suffering is unbearable.

This short story plays off Kierkegaard’s parable of “The Happy Conflagration” with assistance from Douglas Groothuis’s book Philosophy in Seven Sentences, primarily his focus on the Dane’s extrapolation of sin in its two forms.