Disturbing The Peace with John Amanchukwu

"Weak pulpits create weak Christians."
 
John Amanchukwu preaching at Freedom House Church in Cornelius, North Carolina, on the night his book Erased released — followed by a live Q&A with Pastor Troy Maxwell and NC House candidate Michael Anderson.
 
The text is Jeremiah 5:30–31. A shocking and horrible thing has happened in the land: the prophets prophesy falsely, the priests rule by their own means — and my people love to have it so.
 
His reading walks all three failures. Prophets who won't simply repeat what God said, because they'd rather write their own rulebook. Priests who govern God's house by their own preference, which he traces to the idea that everyone gets their own truth. And then the part he says is worst — a people who prefer it that way, because if nobody's telling the truth from the pulpit, nobody has to live up to it in the pew.
 
His line for it: if there's a mist in the pulpit, there will be a fog in the pew. What starts up front spreads out there.
 
Then the illustration the sermon is built on.
 
Stockholm, 1973. Jan-Erik Olsson walks into a bank, fires into the ceiling, and takes hostages. Six days later something strange has happened — the hostages are on a first-name basis with their captor. They're worried about his health. When police finally free them, they leave looking backward, asking whether he's going to be okay.
 
John's argument is that a version of that has happened to a lot of people politically, and he applies it first to his own community before anyone else's.
 
Also in this message: why he says the church went silent when Roe was overturned, and what he calls fetal emancipation. Why the sickness the church should have is high blood pressure and not diabetes — we're called to be the salt of the earth, not the sugar of the world, and we keep putting sugar where salt belongs. Why he says the five-steps-to-a-better-you sermon is a step away from the Word. And his position on racism, stated plainly: it isn't a color, it's a sin — which means it can't be fixed by a theory, only repented of.
 
His line on white guilt is the one people will argue about: if you have white guilt, then I'd have to have black shame — and there is nothing shameful about God giving him melanin.
 
The Q&A is where the story comes out.
 
Summer of 2020, at one of the busiest abortion clinics in the Southeast. Most of the people outside trying to talk women out of it were white. Most of the people inside were black. A father in a BLM shirt walked up to John — six foot four, 265 pounds — and asked him why he was out there fighting a white man's issue.
 
His girlfriend was inside.
 
John says that man couldn't have defined critical race theory if asked. But in that moment he was a walking illustration of it, because he'd been taught to see race in everything — even in a black man trying to save black babies. That encounter is where the book came from.
 
He also talks about his father-in-law, Bishop Patrick L. Wooden Sr., and the dinner table where a hungry NC State football player who came for the fried chicken kept trying to out-research the man and kept losing. And his answer to a pastor's question about softening the message for different audiences: Christians aren't called to be nice. We're called to be faithful. Nice lies to spare your feelings. Faithful tells the truth to help them.
 
His closing charge is about which one you are. A wimp watches but won't warn. A watchman stays in the tower and tells you what's coming.
 
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Nine percent of Christians surveyed said they would trust artificial intelligence over their own pastor.
 
Troy Miller thinks that number tells you something — and not primarily about AI.
 
Miller is president and CEO of National Religious Broadcasters, the nation's largest association of Christian communicators. He joins John Amanchukwu for an hour on what the church has outsourced, what it's afraid to say, and what it's going to take to get it back.
 
His diagnosis for the CEO pastor problem starts in the 1990s.
 
He traces it to the program-driven and seeker-driven movements — well-intentioned, evangelistic, and in his read they dumbed the church down to its lowest common denominator. What came out the other side is a pastor who thinks like a CEO, looks at his congregation like consumers, and won't say anything that might upset the revenue model.
 
His example is specific. Plenty of pastors won't touch the sexuality questions because they've concluded the younger generation has already decided, and addressing it means losing them to the church across town. Miller's answer: that isn't the assignment. Pastors are called to teach the full counsel of God.
 
And his image for what the job actually is: any father who has married off a daughter understands you want the bride as beautiful and as prepared as she can possibly be for that day. That's the work — sanctifying the bride of Christ for the wedding. We're more worried about what society thinks of us than what the groom does.
 
John's question in return is the one that opens it up: what happens when a shepherd becomes afraid of his own sheep? Miller, who grew up on a Nebraska farm, says a frightened shepherd can't lead — he's too busy worrying about being trampled. And then the biblical version: do we fear God, or do we fear man? He goes to John 12, where many believed but wouldn't confess, because they were afraid of being put out of the synagogue.
 
"There is no such thing as a neutral worldview." Miller argues that when pastors don't actively shape the worldview of their congregations, somebody else's fills the vacuum — and in a culture this saturated, it will. He frames shepherding as protection, not just teaching.
 
Also in this conversation:
 
What NRB actually does — FCC deregulation that Miller says has cut administrative burden roughly 30%, two won cases against the FCC, an active case involving the Johnson Amendment, and the AM in Every Vehicle effort. Plus the Barna State of Christian Media findings: about two-thirds of Americans engage Christian media at some point, and the two largest audiences are Gen Z and millennials. Asked about trust, respondents rated Christian media well ahead of mainstream media.
 
How the church outsourced charity, then education, then morality — and why Miller says the pilgrims came for the individual conscience, not for a state that would set the moral direction.
 
Why Christian persecution is at historic highs globally and barely covered. What Miller says about AI's supposed neutrality, given that it's built by humans on the output of humanity — and why he says any bias against Christianity in these systems reflects the corpus more than the programmers.
 
And the John Bunyan answer John calls a mic drop. Someone asked Bunyan whether sin in his life meant he wasn't saved. Bunyan's response: sin in your life is an indication of your salvation, because the sinner cares nothing for his sin. It should bother you. It should bring you to repentance.
 
Miller's answer for the greatest threat facing Christian communicators isn't censorship, hostility, or technology. It's self-censorship. Churches in America are 501(c)(3) organizations — and he says the C too often stands for cowardice.
 
It needs to stand for courage.
 
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Delano Squires is back for part two.
 
Squires is director of the Richard and Helen DeVos Center for Human Flourishing at the Heritage Foundation and author of The Vanishing Black Family: How Welfare and Feminism Made Marriage Optional and Children Vulnerable. Part one covered how the family broke down. This one is about who will fight you when you try to rebuild it.
 
He calls them the Sinister Six — and his point is that none of them will admit to malicious intent. It doesn't matter. Sinister intent and sinister impact aren't the same thing.
 
Feminists, who'll argue that a focus on marriage rolls back the clock on women. Abortionists, because — as Squires cites — the overwhelming majority of women who seek abortions are unmarried, which means a weaker family structure is good for business. LGBT activists, who'll say one man and one woman for one lifetime isn't inclusive enough. Anti-racists, the Kendi types, who'll say the issue isn't family structure at all, it's systemic racism. Paternalists, the big-government liberals, who'll say the issue is insufficient spending. And the one nobody sees coming: functional atheists — professing Christians, often married and raising their own children well, who quietly hold every value in the book and will not say a word of it out loud.
 
He starts with BLM, and not for the reason you'd expect.
 
Squires looked at their guiding principles back around 2014. One was titled Black Villages. Most people would assume that meant something about it taking a village to raise a child. What it actually said was that they were committed to disrupting the Western-prescribed nuclear family structure. It was published. It wasn't hidden.
 
And his argument about what people got wrong is the sharp part: most people think BLM was infiltrated and corrupted, and that the scandal was the money. He says if you don't understand that the ideology was the worst part, the next organization will trick you just as easily — it'll just have better accountants and better PR.
 
Then the image that gives the episode its title.
 
Slavery, he argues, was an external threat, and people band together against external threats. Someone breaks in at two in the morning and you grab something and go meet him. But an internal threat comes as a neighbor. It knocks politely with a nicely baked pie and says welcome to the neighborhood. You take off your shoes and you let it in — and you don't know what's in the pie.
 
All six groups, he says, come passing themselves off as friends of the black community. They present as angels of light. That's exactly why they're hard to resist.
 
On feminism, he makes the case that if feminists were honest revolutionaries they'd change the slogan from smash the patriarchy to mission accomplished. They won. Colleges are majority women. Several professions are majority women. Squires cites that single women in America own 2.72 million more homes than single men. The cost was everything on the family side — a pattern of delay and defer that puts a woman at war with her own nature.
 
On abortion, page 140: that the most destructive impact feminism has had on the black family since the 1960s has been convincing black women and men that aborting their offspring is an act of empowerment. He walks through the civil rights organizations that partnered with abortion providers after Roe was overturned, and then asks the question nobody answers — whether laws leading to more black children being born should really be described as anti-black.
 
His parallel is about language: the pro-slavery side never said chattel slavery, they said our peculiar institution. When you can't justify something plainly, you soften the words first.
 
And on the black church, he quotes his own page 147 — that Senator Raphael Warnock's dual vocations epitomize an archetype that is socially conscious, politically active, civically engaged, and spiritually dead. His explanation of what he means by that, and why he says networks only visit black churches every four years to figure out how to get souls to the polls rather than souls to heaven.
 
Plus the moment he says he hasn't shared on any other podcast: what he thinks happened to the black community's operating system in the late 1960s and early '70s — and what replaced it.
 
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It has been 120 years since Azusa Street.
 
Pastor Will Ford has been praying about that number — because 120 is also how many were in the upper room. His question: is there still an upper room in the church in the Black community?
 
Ford pastors Mercy Culture Church in East Fort Worth and founded 818 The Sign with his wife. He posted a carousel that got a lot of attention, and it opens with a claim: the lid is coming off.
 
His argument goes back to 1906. Revival breaks out at Azusa Street under William Seymour, and it raises up prophetic voices — C.H. Mason, who founded the Church of God in Christ, who was surveilled by the FBI for what he said, and who took a hard public stand against Freemasonry. Mother Lizzie Robinson had rocks thrown at her and was jailed for speaking against the lodges.
 
Ford's contention is that something else began the same year, and that it wasn't a coincidence.
 
He walks John through the history he's spent thirty years studying: Charles Finney, the Second Great Awakening revivalist who had been a Grand Lodge Freemason before renouncing it and writing a book against it — and Finney's own observation that revival lingered over regions where people repented of two things, slavery and Freemasonry.
 
Then the Anti-Masonic Party, America's first third party, which ran William Wirt for president in 1832, preached the gospel at its own conventions, and gave both modern parties the nominating convention system we still use. Ford's read: those men became the leaders of the Republican Party and took the stand against slavery. Transformation first, then reformation.
 
And the story of how it entered the Black church, which is the most compelling stretch in the hour. Prince Hall, refused entry by a colonial lodge because of his color, chartering African Lodge No. 459 from England instead. Richard Allen, who came to faith through a white circuit rider named Freeborn Garrettson, who had freed his own family's slaves after his conversion — and who later walked out of St. George's Church to found the AME, was sued by the Methodists, and paid $10,000 for a building he already owned.
 
Two men who had both been humiliated by the same church. Ford's line about what brought them together: the thing that united them was the pain.
 
John stops him there for the application, and it's the best exchange in the episode. When you're at your lowest, be careful who you link up with. There are people as low as you or lower, and you can find yourself united in the hurt and drifting from God without noticing.
 
Ford also connects it to abortion. Margaret Sanger's December 1939 letter to Clarence Gamble about the Negro Project, and the line about not wanting word to get out. The eugenics sermon contests of the 1920s and '30s, where pastors were paid up to $1,000 to preach in favor. And the Birth Control Review itself — including passages written by prominent Black figures of the era about the "unfit" and about quality over quantity.
 
The historical claims in this episode reflect Pastor Ford's research and framework. Where he describes internal rituals of specific organizations, he is recounting documents and testimony provided to him.
 
Also in this episode: a viral video of a high school teacher weeping on the second day of class because his seniors couldn't complete a four-word sentence stem. John and Ford on the school-to-prison pipeline, why the policies bear the blame and why parents still can't be let off the hook, and the three-legged stool John says holds a life up.
 
Plus the story of Ford's youngest son, who accused his father of putting too much pressure on him — and what Ford told him about an enemy named average. Two years later the boy was reading at twice his grade level. Ford asked what turned it around. Daddy, you told me I had an enemy.
 
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A mother went shopping for her ten-year-old and found nothing. Newborn, toddler, then a jump straight to teenager and grown woman. No pre-teen clothes. No pre-teen music. No summer camps for nine to twelve. Her line: they go from third grade to thirteen.
 
Stacy Washington's answer: then you build it yourself.
 
Stacy hosts Stacy on the Right on SiriusXM. She joins John Amanchukwu for an hour on raising kids in a culture that isn't going to help you do it.
 
Her argument is that everything you're missing already existed and is still available. Buy the vintage clothes. Buy the toys from your own tween years off eBay and at estate sales, and teach her how to play with them. Get the old cartoons on DVD. And if the summer camp doesn't exist, call the other mothers and make one.
 
Then she tells the story that makes the case. Her younger daughter, about ten, said she didn't want to get her cycle — not because of the biology, but because I don't want to stop being a kid. I'm having a really good time. Stacy told her there's no rule about when you stop playing with dolls. That night she prayed and thanked God her daughter had a childhood she wanted to stay in.
 
Her framing: in 2026 you can customize your coffee and your phone and your house. Why wouldn't you curate your child's childhood?
 
Also on discipline, authority, and phones. Stacy makes the case that a child has to respond to a parent's voice before that voice can protect them — the yell before the street, the command near the outlet. She talks about the aunt who called out of nowhere and changed how she and her husband parented, the books she went and got from the library, and why she believes scripture memorization civilizes a child from the inside out. Plus the flip-phone standoff with twenty other mothers, and the overnight charging station rule that outlasted every one of them.
 
Boosie. The rapper went viral talking about growing up in church — his grandfather the preacher, the picture still hanging on the wall, and getting criticized on Instagram for paying his tithes. Stacy's response isn't dismissive. He remembers the music, the mannerisms, the wheezing. But what scripture was applied? And her larger point: every generationally wealthy person she's met, of any faith, gives. There's a principle underneath that.
 
Mississippi. A 29-year-old mother of four, Kanautica Fortune, was found hanging from a tree outside an abandoned home in Jackson. Two other men were found hanging in Mississippi in recent months; both were ruled suicides. Police have not called Fortune's death suspicious and have not named suspects. The mayor said they aren't jumping to conclusions.
 
Stacy's argument is that the imagery is doing work the facts haven't established yet — that just because something happens in the South doesn't make it racially motivated, and that this is 2026, not 1955. Her plea is for people to ask what else is in the story before deciding what it means. The medical examiner's report was still pending at the time of this recording.
 
Plus: John on the night in college he'd been drinking cheap wine and squared up with a man who went upstairs and came back with a gun in his pocket. What he says the alcohol was doing to his judgment, and why he's still here.
 
And the $300,000. Andrew Wilson has confirmed sending Candace Owens $300,000 to appear for a debate about Charlie Kirk's death. Stacy's take is blunt
 
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Jamal Bryant said on a podcast that his ministry was shaped by black liberation theology and a diasporic worldview — frameworks he traces to his father, and his father traces to James Cone.
 
Bishop Patrick L. Wooden Sr. has a response, and it's the sharpest thing he's said on this show: you can be no more a pure gospel preacher preaching black liberation theology than you can preaching white supremacy.
 
It's Wooden Wednesday.
 
The episode starts with Cone himself, in his own words, and then with what he actually taught — that theology in a society where people are oppressed for being black must become black theology, unreservedly identified with the goals of the oppressed community. That historic Christianity is an expression of white American theology. That whiteness functions as a symbol of the Antichrist.
 
Wooden's answer is that this is a limited man calling God into question from inside one lifetime, and that men who elevate a philosophy of their own to equal standing with Scripture are dangerous — not because their observations are wrong, but because the framework can't hold. If you follow it to its conclusion, the white man is the devil, and you can never be at peace in the country you were born in.
 
Then the comparison he keeps returning to: is that not exactly how the Klan read Scripture? Did they not see their own whiteness as superior? He says the collective is making the same mistake in reverse.
 
His alternative is Romans 10. Whosoever. No difference between Jew and Greek. The same Lord over all, rich unto all who call on Him. As John puts it: Christ, not Cone.
 
Also in this conversation:
 
Generational curses. Wooden says flatly he doesn't believe in them and that Ezekiel 18 removed the proverb — the fathers have eaten sour grapes and the children's teeth are set on edge. The son shall not bear the iniquity of the father. He explains why that verse mattered to a young preacher whose own father was in the streets, sitting in rooms full of men with ministry pedigrees.
 
Whether you can inherit a theology. Wooden talks about the moment he had to ask whether what his own spiritual father taught him was actually true — not to contradict him, but because he knew he couldn't stand up and say Elder Turner said. He needed to know what the Lord said.
 
The communion clip. A service at Bryant's church where the pierced side of Christ is preached as a promise about your pocketbook — that season of being pinched is over. Wooden, fifty years in ministry, is momentarily lost for words. His concern isn't the pastor. It's the young man visible in the congregation being taught that communion guarantees he'll never struggle financially again.
 
The cannabis proposal, and why Wooden — who has carried millions in church debt and moved his family into one hotel room — understands the desperation and still says he'd never sell something that poisons the community.
 
And James Talarico, the Texas Senate candidate whose own church, in his telling, was active in LGBTQ advocacy in the nineties and let an atheist join in the 2000s. Two black pastors welcomed him to their pulpits. One gave him a standing ovation and said his full and complete weight is behind him. Wooden's question is what that endorsement says about what happens in that church the other fifty-one Sundays.
 
And the challenge he says nobody has answered: name one position he holds now that he didn't hold before Donald Trump entered politics. He's still waiting on the email.
 
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Leah Carson wasn't living in rebellion. She didn't curse, didn't drink, didn't sleep around. She'd led Bible studies, served on the prayer team, done missions work. People looked up to her faith.
 
And in her late thirties, God told her she wasn't His.
 
Leah is an author, evangelist, and award-winning photographer. Her new book is The One: Having God's Heart for People, with a foreword by Dr. Rod Parsley. She joins John Amanchukwu in studio.
 
Thirteen years ago her life fell apart and God moved her across the country — no job waiting, no man, no family, no logical reason. She asked why. The answer: I could never do in you what I'm going to do while you were comfortable and distracted. Not a revised version of you. A new thing.
 
Then a woman in a healing class told her something she didn't want to hear. Unhealthy attracts unhealthy. She got in her car ready to dismiss it, and the Holy Spirit repeated it the entire hour-long drive home. She sat down on her couch and said: I think she's completely wrong, Lord — but if she's even one percent right, show me.
 
What she heard back: until you let Me uproot the pride that runs deep in your family, you'll never be the woman I've called you to be.
 
She slid off the couch onto the floor, spread her arms out, and said do it. And she says it felt like a host of angels over her left shoulder said: we have waited your whole life for you to say that.
 
What followed wasn't comfortable.
 
Two years with no friends — for an extrovert who could make one in five minutes. She says God wouldn't let her replicate anything old, wouldn't let her fill the void with anything temporary. Jesus plus nothing

Mattel released the Barbie Signature Angel Reese doll on August 3 — pink jersey, number 5, leg sleeve, headband, signature Reebok sneakers. She's the first Black WNBA player to get one.
 
Then at the launch she explained why it mattered: she didn't have a lot of dolls growing up, because she didn't have dolls that really looked like her.
 
Angel Reese was born in 2002.
 
Marien Richardson checked.
 
Mattel introduced Christie — a Black character in Barbie's world with her own face mold — in 1968. The first official Black Barbie followed in 1980, designed by Kitty Black Perkins. In 1998, four years before Reese was born, Mattel was selling officially licensed African-American NBA Barbies in team uniforms, packaged with basketballs. American Girl's Addy Walker arrived in 1993. And in 2000, Life-Size put Tyra Banks on screen as a Black Barbie who comes to life in Lindsay Lohan's bedroom.
 
Marien's own childhood: nothing but Black dolls. Nurses, veterinarians, moms, fashionistas. Her point isn't that racism doesn't exist — it's that inventing it where it isn't belittles the places where it is.
 
Marien Richardson is a conservative cultural commentator and one of the sharpest online voices working right now. She joins John Amanchukwu to work through a week of it.
 
The flagrant foul. DiJonai Carrington was ejected after a hard foul on Indiana Fever guard Sophie Cunningham — arm around the head, follow-through, Cunningham on the floor with blood in her mouth. Then came the white privilege framing. Marien's response: the only privilege she can identify is that Sophie got up and walked away.
 
She makes the case that it isn't white privilege at all — it's class privilege, and always has been. Her example: a blue-collar white man in Alabama does not have more privilege than Beyoncé or Barack Obama. And her business argument is blunter. If the WNBA's viewership is overwhelmingly not Black women, what exactly is the strategy in alienating the audience keeping the league afloat?
 
Then the harder question John puts to her: are we teaching young people to examine what happened to them, or to examine the race of the person on the other side?
 
The satire. Former NBA player Royce White went on Fox News, straight-faced, and announced he's having a blast in his feminine era — that upon further review he's identifying as a transgender woman, and it's only fair he gets a shot at playing alongside his queens in the twilight of his career. Marien's question is why the bit lands so hard, and why institutions keep treating the underlying position as beyond question when a joke can collapse it in thirty seconds.
 
She's serious about the people caught in it, though — including a woman she follows who came to Christ, later married, had a baby, and posted herself sobbing because surgeons left milk ducts behind and she can't nurse her child.
 
And the closer. AOC posted a video of herself starting the process of freezing her eggs. Marien's argument isn't a joke at her expense — it's that a generation of women were sold a sequence that doesn't work. Her grandmother was one of twelve and worked as a maid in South Carolina. Her father is one of seven. The Proverbs 31 woman ran a business, made the clothing, and took it to market with a house full of children.
 
Her advice: have the children young, get a husband who works with you, keep grandparents in the fold. And her line for husbands — if the trash isn't out, the lawn isn't mowed, the oil doesn't get changed, and every conflict between the kids ends with go ask your mom, you are part of the problem.
 
John closes on the difference between the corporate ladder and the kingdom ladder.
 
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A 29-year-old Secret Service agent is under house arrest facing three felonies over an alleged hazing at a Kappa Alpha Psi alumni chapter in Miami. According to the arrest warrant, two pledges were beaten with paddles and canes over four nights after missing questions about fraternity history. One required skin grafts and, per authorities, would have died of kidney failure. Another was intubated.
 
Today, two men who lived it.
 
Pastor Ted Wensley pledged Kappa Alpha Psi and spent years inside it before renouncing it. He is now a pastor, chaplain, and speaker on faith, family, and biblical manhood.
 
His first reaction to the charges wasn't shock. It was recognition. It's part of the culture, he says — and it won't stop until the culture is dismantled.
 
Then he tells his own story, and it's the reason to watch this one.
 
On turn-back night, his chapter took 121 strokes. Not at once — ten at a station, back in line, ten more, and between the stations other things were done to you. At one of them a cane came down across his hand, severed the nerve and the tendon, and he didn't notice until the next morning because of the adrenaline. He shows the hand on camera. Thirty years later, he still can't grip properly with it. He wore the cast afterward as a badge of honor.
 
Then he explains what it bought him. On campus he'd walk around in a suit carrying a briefcase with nothing in it, and skip class so people could see him. And the night after he crossed, when a brother finally showed him the secret grip, it was three squeezes on the hand. He asked: that's it? And the brother told him yes — now you have to pretend it's more than it is.
 
A briefcase with nothing in it. A grip that isn't a grip.
 
He walks John through what pulled him in at nineteen — a good father who worked full-time and wasn't hands-on, a second-grade teacher who was the first man to call him "son," a blood brother sixteen years older who one day told him to leave the room because they had business he couldn't hear. And what pulled him out: a night he heard an audible voice telling him three times he was about to go somewhere he wouldn't come back from, a Bible study he walked into that same evening, and the woman teaching it, whom he married.
 
And then leaving. He argues the strongholds were oaths — so he told his wife the meaning of Phi Nu Pi, the secret he'd sworn to keep. His best friend, the dean of his line and godfather to his only child, called and warned him: I'll have to tell your brother, I'll have to tell everyone on the yard, and you'll have to watch your back.
 
Wensley's answer: For the next four hours I'll be in a lawn chair in front of my house, in a t-shirt, jeans and Timbs. Anybody has an issue, come see me as a man.
 
Nobody came.
 
Then Stefan Height, a former youth pastor and real estate professional who also pledged Kappa Alpha Psi and has since renounced it.
 
He knew he'd pledge before he finished high school. His uncle pledged at Georgia Tech — successful, good to his wife, a family man — and at seventeen he assumed the fraternity was where that came from. He says now it was his uncle's own character and work ethic all along.
 
He talks about the years after, what he calls the dark path and the womanizing, the morning he woke up in a young woman's bed and heard a voice ask what he was doing there, and the second year of his marriage when he says the Lord finally broke it. His term for what the fraternity was: spiritual prostitution. A golden calf.
 
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For eleven seasons America watched one family sit around one table. They laughed together, worked together, prayed together, and stayed together. Jep Robertson thinks the reason millions tuned in wasn't the ducks or the beards. He thinks people were hungry for something.
 
Jep is the son of Phil Robertson, younger brother of Willie and Jase, and one of the stars of Duck Dynasty. He and his wife Jessica now star in a new series on Great American Pure Flix — Jep & Jess: Beyond the Bayou, premiering August 13 — following their move to Texas, their family life, and a ranch renovation.
 
He tells John what he heard over and over from people who stopped him: thank you for making something I can watch with my kids without reaching for the fast-forward button. And thank you for praying on television. He says praying on camera never occurred to them as a decision. He'd never once eaten a meal in his family's house without it.
 
He was baptized at 18 in the Ouachita River — in the same spot where he'd watched his father baptize thousands of people. His earliest memories are of standing on that bank as a boy while people came up out of the water and everyone sang the old hymns and then ate a meal together.
Ryan is Vice President of Communications and Public Engagement at Liberty University, founding executive director of the Standing for Freedom Center, and host of Give Me Liberty. He joins to talk about a headline that's drawn more than seven million views: stay-at-home boyfriends and husbands are on the rise as women overtake men in U.S. payroll jobs.
 
His argument is that this isn't only economics. He traces it from the Industrial Revolution through the 19th Amendment to what he sees as a cultural inversion — and argues that alongside the toxic masculinity everyone discusses, there's a toxic passivity nobody does. His name for it: loser theology. Men who have already accepted defeat in their own hearts.
 
He goes to Genesis 3 for it, and makes a point about that text worth sitting with. The serpent tempts the woman. And Adam, who was standing right there, says nothing. Ryan's read is that the first failure wasn't deception — it was a man who refused to take responsibility.
 
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