Ryan Goede

When Thinking Right Becomes a Crime I was scrolling past headlines. A YouTube short caught my eye. Just a man talking into a camera. Nothing flashy. But what he said froze me mid-scroll. “The new racism is thoughtism.” I sat with that. Let it dig in. Because he was right. You’re not called dangerous for your skin anymore. You’re called dangerous for your thoughts. You didn’t celebrate what they told you to celebrate. You didn’t bow to the new creeds. You didn’t pretend God had changed His mind. And now you’re a problem. They call you judgmental. Rigid. Bigoted. Unfit for polite society. Not because you did harm. But because you believed the wrong thing. This is thoughtism. And it’s everywhere. They won’t burn your books. They’ll delete your platform. They won’t exile you from the temple. They’ll shadowban your conscience. Because in this new order, righteousness is rebellion. Obedience is extremism. And if you still believe the old truths, you’re treated like a relic or a threat. I didn’t expect to find that kind of clarity in a thirty-second video. But the longer I stared at the screen, the more I heard a familiar voice and not from YouTube, from Scripture. Micah. Standing in the ruins of a religious people who had the vocabulary of faith but the values of rebellion. A prophet sent not to the pagans, but to the worshipers. To those who wore the robes, lit the incense, sang the psalms. “He has shown you, O man, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly. To love mercy. And to walk humbly with your God.” (Micah 6:8) A Courtroom Where Mountains Listen The prophet doesn’t begin with advice. He begins with a lawsuit. God calls creation as His courtroom. Mountains take the witness stand. The foundations of the earth lean forward, ready to hear the charges. “Hear, O mountains, the Lord’s accusation… For the Lord has a case against His people.” (Micah 6:2) This is not God speaking to Babylon. This is not wrath against Egypt. This is God pressing charges against His own people. You want to weep reading it. They had deliverance stories. They had Red Sea memories. They had Scripture and shepherds and songs. And they traded it for religion without righteousness. They made justice negotiable. They made mercy selective. They made God manageable. And when conviction started to press on their conscience, they tried to buy Him off. “Shall I come before Him with burnt offerings? With calves a year old? Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams? With ten thousand rivers of oil?” (Micah 6:6–7) The absurdity builds. Maybe if we throw more money at the altar. Maybe if we sacrifice our firstborn. Maybe if we perform louder, God will stay quiet. But God doesn’t want a louder stage. He wants honest lives. He doesn’t want sacrifices that reek of self-justification. He wants obedience. And He reminds them of something they already know. “He has shown you…” The problem was never confusion. It was rebellion. This Is What God Wants Micah 6:8 is a standard. It is the plumb line dropped in a crooked generation. And it is stunning in its simplicity. “To act justly. To love mercy. To walk humbly with your God.” These are commands. They are the dividing line between the people of God and the people of fashion. Act justly. Not just in court. In emails. In private conversations. When no one is watching and no one will clap. Justice is not a political brand. It is the very character of God. It is calling things what they are even when the cost is your reputation. It is refusing to lie, even in silence. Love mercy. Not tolerate mercy. Not perform mercy for photo ops. Love it. Mercy is delighting in the chance to lift someone who cannot pay you back. It is the joy of giving when there is no return. It is walking toward the weak instead of away. It is feeding the hungry because you love feeding the hungry. It is visiting the prisoner because you love the prisoner’s humanity more than you fear their past. Walk humbly with your God. This is not a vague spirituality. This is daily dependence. It is praying before the phone call. It is repenting for what you thought in the car. It is walking slowly enough to notice the broken person in front of you. It is knowing you are not the point. To walk humbly is to walk under the gaze of God, not the spotlight of the world. And to call Him not just God, but your God. Thoughtism Will Not Win Micah’s world collapsed. Crops failed. Commerce crumbled. The rich starved. The poor cried. And Judah bore the scorn of the nations. Thoughtism had won for a time. But it could not outlast the holiness of God. Today we live surrounded by another version of the same rebellion. Justice has been gutted and repackaged. Mercy has been privatized and sold. Humility has been replaced with virtual signaling and applause-seeking. The truth is no longer shouted down. It is slowly starved. And yet Micah still speaks. And Christ still reigns. Because there is one man who fulfilled Micah 6:8. One man who acted with perfect justice. One man who loved mercy so deeply He let it bleed out of His hands. One man who walked humbly with His Father from the dusty paths of Galilee to the cold shadow of a Roman cross. Jesus never bent to thoughtism. They did not just cancel Him. They crucified Him. But He rose. And now He calls His people to think clearly, live boldly, love freely, and walk closely with Him. The Mountains Are Still Listening Micah’s words are not archived. They are live ammunition. The courtroom still stands. The mountains still hold their breath. God still requires the same three things. Not one more. Not one less. You don’t need to create a new ethic. You don’t need to guess. You don’t need to buy your way out of failure. You need to walk. So start now. Walk away from compromise. Walk toward the cross. Walk into your city with a Bible open and your eyes wide. Walk into conflict with courage. Walk into sorrow with mercy. Walk into prayer with no pretense. Walk humbly with your God until your feet reach the mountain that does not move. He has shown you what is good. So go do it.

"I forgive him" Erika Kirk stands at a podium during her husband Charlie Kirk’s packed memorial service, tears in her eyes, as she publicly forgives the man accused of taking his life. The stadium is silent. Her words echo across a sea of mourners. The stadium is packed. Under the bright floodlights, sweat and dust stick to tongues. The roar of the crowd dies as the pulpit’s microphone cracks. Erika Kirk stands at center stage, body trembling. The memorial hangs in the air like a dark cloud. Her husband Charlie’s name is on every pair of lips. She lifts her eyes, the hush pressing against her as if the wind itself is waiting. And she says, firm yet fragile, “I forgive him.” The words fall like stones. They scatter something inside the crowd. They echo off steel beams, bounce from seats. The scent of hot concrete and thousands of hearts pounding together mix in the heat: grief. Rage. Compassion. All braided together. She could have left the anger alive, let it coil like a serpent around her spine. Her retribution register ringing. She could have let the fire burn until her own skin was scorched. Many would. Many do. But there beneath the stadium lights, she trades rage for mercy. She trades shouts for words. She trades debt for grace. Jesus walked into a synagogue once. He saw a man who could not use his hand, withered. He felt the weight of that man’s pain. He glared into the hardness of surrounding hearts and did not retreat. In Mark, his anger was holy because it was born of love. He reached out. He healed. Erika’s anger lives, but it is not in charge. Something else carries her forward. Because forgiveness does not erase the wound. It does not silence the ache. But it pulls the poison out of blood, even if the scar burns. In forgiving, she does not pretend justice does not matter. She assumes it does. She rests it in a larger story. Peter asked Jesus: How many times must I forgive? Seven? Jesus said seventy times seven. It is a refusal to count offenses. Not a scoreboard. A surrender. In the parable: a debt so monstrous that the figure collapses. From being kissed by grace to choking a man over coins. He demands payment. The King, seeing all, rages. Because if you have known mercy, how do you refuse it? That gives shape to what’s happening tonight. This forgiveness is not soft. It is a weapon drawn in surrender. It bears the mark of the cross. There is blood. There is blight. Charlie is gone. Yet forgiveness declares that even death does not have the final word. In my living room watching, you can feel it. The hush presses into rib‑cages. Someone swallows. Someone weeps. A thousand hearts tremble. Some faces are pale. Some eyes shine with tears. The crowd leans in. As if hearing the Gospel not in pat theology, but latched to bone. As if seeing the shape of love in her silhouette under light. Christ commanded: “Be angry, sin not.” Do not sleep angry. Let no sunset tug bitterness into your soul. Let anger die with the day. Do not feed resentment with memory. Do not fashion a coffin for hope with your own hands. Resentment tells you things about yourself. That the gospel may still lie distant in your bones. That you have tasted forgiveness and not swallowed it. That your heart, soft at times, is edged with cold. That you need again to look to Calvary. See the nails. Feel the crown. See the Innocent bleeding. Hear him cry: “Father, forgive them.” Erika is not acted by sentiment. She is acted upon by gospel. The weight of her grief hammered into something incomprehensible: courage. Love. Mercy. She is the echo of that cross‑cry. She took the stones of grief and set them down. There is sorrow here that demands voice. There is longing that resists easy comfort. There is the justice system turning its gears. There is the possibility: forgiveness may take time to root. May ache in the earth before blooming. But under stadium lights she plants it. She tastes hot metal in her throat when she says “I forgive him.” Her hands tremble. Her heart wants to recoil, wants to scream…tears fall. But she bows instead. She opens the door of her heart. She trusts something greater. And you: who reads this. Who carries your own wound. Who corners yourself with memory. You are invited: come take your feet out of the gravel. Shake them. Feel ground under skin. Let forgiveness be your step forward, not your burden. So here is my challenge: in your darkest room, when your voice is raw, say the name. Speak it. Whisper: “I forgive you.” Let the air charge. Let the weight crack. Be afraid, tremble. But step anyway. Because of what Erika did, we see the cross awkwardly alive. Because of what Christ endured, we understand forgiveness is not retreat. It is surrender. It is facing hell and singing resurrection. It is taking loss and playing it into melody. It is the bravest love. We were not made for bitterness. We were made for forgiveness. Taste it. Say it. Live in it. Tonight.

The Day the Prince of Darkness Died Ozzy Osbourne’s Final Appointment with Eternity I was 16 the first time I heard “Mr. Crowley.” The way it began…haunting organ, crashing guitar…grabbed me by the throat. I didn’t know what the lyrics meant. I didn’t care. I was angry, curious, spiritually empty, and Ozzy Osbourne sounded like someone who had seen behind the curtain. He felt untouchable. Immortal. A man who drank from the shadows and laughed. But today, Ozzy died. And I need to talk to you about that. Not about music. Not about controversy. Not even about Ozzy himself, really. I need to talk to you about what happens when someone dies. Because whatever else you believe about Ozzy, this is now true: The man who called himself the Prince of Darkness has stepped into a kingdom he can no longer define. I Was 42 When the Light Finally Found Me I admired Ozzy long before I feared God. I wasn’t raised in church. I wasn’t hardened either. Just… unanchored. I floated through my teens and twenties chasing noise, like so many do. Music filled the void. Metal was a friend that never judged. By the time I reached my early 40s, I had built a life, but not a soul. I was married. Employed. Civil. I could smile in public and curse in private. I knew how to hide the emptiness. What I didn’t know was how to heal it. Then Jesus Christ found me. He didn’t improve me. He rescued me. He came with the truth about life, and death, and judgment and I was smart enough, by sheer mercy, to bow. So understand: I write this not as a critic of Ozzy, but as a man who once walked toward the same cliff. What Happens When We Die Ozzy’s death is not symbolic. His soul has separated from his body. His blood cooled. His lungs quit. But Ozzy didn’t disappear. He went somewhere. And so will you. You are not just biology. You’re not a collection of carbon, nerves, and brainwaves. You are soul and body, breath and clay. Death tears the two apart, but it doesn’t end you. The Bible says it plainly: “It is appointed for man to die once, and after that comes judgment.” Ozzy kept his appointment. You will too. When you die, you will be awake. Aware. Unmistakably conscious. Not in some floating mist, but in a state of full, terrifying clarity. You will either enter the presence of Christ or the horror of separation from Him. And it will be immediate. There is no purgatory. No tunnel with a light. No do-overs. You will stand…spiritually, then one day bodily…in the place where your life’s choices carried you. The Resurrection Is Not a Myth There is a resurrection coming. One resurrection. All will rise. Some to joy. Some to shame. Ozzy will rise. So will I. So will you. Your body may be buried, burned, or lost at sea. It does not matter. The God who fashioned Adam from dust can call your atoms back with a word. Scripture says our resurrection will be like the planting of a seed. The body you place in the ground is not the one that comes out. Just as a sunflower is not a carbon copy of the seed that birthed it, your resurrection body will be a glorified version, fit for eternity. The believer will rise with a body like Christ’s. Immortal. Incorruptible. Built for worship. The unbeliever will rise too with a body not to behold glory, but to endure judgment. This is certainty. When the Music Stops: Ozzy Osbourne’s Death and the Courtroom of Eternity Every word you’ve spoken, every secret you’ve carried, every mask you’ve worn will be laid bare. Not before your therapist. Before your Creator. The books will open. And nothing will be missing. You won’t get to defend yourself. You won’t be compared to someone worse. You won’t be able to lie or hide or charm your way out. If you lived without Christ, you will die without Christ. And if you die without Christ, you will face the wrath of a holy God who offered you mercy and was ignored. But if you are in Christ, if His blood has covered your guilt, if His name is written over your story…then the judgment will not break you. It will crown you. Not because you lived well. But because He died well. Because your record has been swallowed up in His righteousness. Eternity Will Be Your Forever Home I don’t know if Ozzy Osbourne ever repented. I pray that he did. But I cannot speak for him. I can only say this: the lyrics he once sang are now irrelevant. Whatever jokes he made about hell, whatever symbols he wore, whatever darkness he flirted with…it is no longer stagecraft. It is verdict. And one day, it will be yours too. Heaven is not a feeling. It is a place. A place where God is not just worshipped, but enjoyed. Hell is not a metaphor. It is a prison. A place where mercy has ceased to be offered and every moment burns with regret. Some will read this and roll their eyes. Others will scroll past and go back to their lives. But someone—maybe you—feels the weight. You know this is true. You have pushed God off long enough. You have numbed yourself with distractions and convinced yourself that judgment is for other people. Not for you. But you’re wrong. The road ends. Every life ends. And only one name saves. Ozzy’s Death Is Not About Ozzy It’s about you. The news of his death is not a tabloid event. It is a trumpet blast to the living. The man who once stood on stage and howled at the moon is now silent. The crowd is gone. The lights are off. And he is face to face with eternity. So ask yourself: if the curtain fell tonight, would you be ready? Do not play games with your soul. Do not wait to become a better version of yourself. Do not pretend that God is still deciding what to do with you. He already has. He sent His Son. He opened the door. And He promised…if you will repent and believe…you will be saved. Not improved. Not reformed. Saved. You will still die. But death will lose its power. It will become a doorway, not a sentence. And when the trumpet sounds, and your body rises, you will see Him—Christ—and He will not be your Judge. He will be your Joy. The Last Song There are no encore performances in the afterlife. When the music stops, the truth speaks. Not your truth. The truth. The Son of God was crucified for sinners. That includes you. That included me. I was 42 when I bowed the knee. Forty-two years of wandering and noise and pride. Forty-two years on the edge of hell, smiling like it wasn’t real. But now I’m a pastor. A husband. A follower of Jesus. I live to preach the gospel I once ignored. So believe me when I tell you: the only song worth singing is the one that ends with Christ on the throne. And the only death worth dying is the one where you rise again.