Quinta do Vallado Douro Tinto 2022

Red Blend Other from Douro, Portugal

Touriga Nacional, Touriga Franca, Vinhas Velhas, Tinta Roriz, Tinta Barroca, Sousão

Purchase Price $18.99

Wine Enthusiast 91, Robert Parker 90, Wine Spectator 90, Cellar Tracker 89, ElsBob 90

ABV 13.5%

A deep purple medium-full bodied wine with aromas of florals, spice and red fruits. Tastes of plums and bright tannins. Nice balanced, structure with a medium finish. This wine will pair well with hearty meats and pasta dishes.

An excellent table wine at a reasonable price. Current prices range from $19-23.

Trivia: The Douro Valley was officially demarcated as a wine region in 1756, making it the oldest legally defined wine region in the world. The demarcation was established to combat merchants who diluted Port with inferior wines: unscrupulous scurvy dogs of questionable sobriety. This system of quality control ensured authenticity and became the model for wine denominations worldwide.

Sheol, Hades, Gehenna, and Hell

“What I am going to say is not a dogma of faith but my own personal view: I like to think of hell as empty; I hope it is.”  Pope Francis, 14 January 2024.

Few utterances from the papal class have landed with more confusion than Pope Francis’s remark. It is muddled, misleading, and ultimately misconstrued, though with two thousand years of ecclesiastical history, one might find other contenders. To be fair, only two papal statements have ever been deemed infallible: Pius IX’s definition of the Immaculate Conception and Pius XII’s proclamation of the Assumption of Mary. Nearly everything else falls under the category of secular opinion. So secular opinion will have to stand along with my slightly pedantic philosophical flourish on the topic.

The trouble with Francis’s remark is not that it expresses hope in an infinitely merciful God. It does, and God is. Humans are extravagantly hopeful when it comes to their own stake in the hereafter. But the Pope’s phrasing seems to remove the ultimate incentive to live a moral life. If there is no hell, then there are no boundaries to one’s actions. On its surface, the statement reduces moral teaching and punishment for sin to negligible outcomes. Two millennia of urging humans to keep their souls pure dissipate in an instant. It treats hell as if it were a place one might stroll into and find as empty as a modern mall, then decide to shop elsewhere; Amazon, perhaps. It blurs the line between our desire to avoid suffering and the eschatological reality in which immorality and punishment are tied to free will. Judgment remains inevitable, for better or worse, and forever. The qualifier “I hope it is” reduces judgment to a wish for mercy rather than a real consequence of one’s actions. It also suggests that the Pope is worried not only about your soul but his own. A merciful God will save a repentant sinner, but hoping is an insecure measure of remorse.

In short, Francis managed an exceptionally muddled rendering of the Augustinian and Thomistic view that hell is the final state of a person who refuses the good and closes themselves off to God’s love. To be fair, clarity is difficult when the very word “hell” carries millennia of conflicting meanings, teachings, and eschatological traditions.

This confusion is inevitable because the Christian vocabulary of the afterlife is a translucent overlay of older worlds, cultures, and languages. The Hebrew Scriptures speak of Sheol, a shadowy realm of the dead with no inherent moral judgment, not a prison for the wicked, but simply the condition of being dead. In Christian theology, “[Jesus] was crucified, died, and was buried. He descended into hell.” The “hell” in this line refers to Sheol (often rendered as Hades), the realm of the dead into which Christ entered. His descent breaks open the barrier between death and divine life. In Sheol, He liberates the righteous dead and inaugurates the post‑biblical landscape of heaven, purgatory, and the final hell of separation from God’s love. After this event, Sheol becomes vestigial in Christian thought, a name without a continuing function. Christianity judges the soul immediately and resurrects the body later, whereas Judaism gives the soul varied post‑death experiences but reserves final judgment for bodily resurrection.

In the ancient Greek world, Hades begins much like Sheol: a neutral underworld where all the dead reside. Only the exceptional are diverted: heroes to the Elysian Fields, mythic offenders to Tartarus. Plato’s Myth of Er overlays this older realm with Socratic soulfully infused moral vision: judgment, reward, punishment, and reincarnation. Over time, mythic Hades and Platonic moral Hades blend into a single, more complex vision. Early Judaism and early Greek religion both had neutral underworlds, but the Greeks moralized theirs first. Socrates’ preoccupation with the soul made him less a secular philosopher than a theological pioneer or prophet if you will.

Hell does not take on its later punitive shape until the New Testament’s use of Gehenna, a metaphor drawn from a real valley outside Jerusalem associated with corruption and divine judgment. In the Gospels, Gehenna is a warning, not a mapped realm. Jesus uses it as prophetic shorthand for the consequence of a life turned away from the good. A moral and relational judgment rather than the later imagery of fire, demons, or descending circles. Gehenna is not the fully developed hell of medieval imagination but a symbol of what becomes of a life that refuses the shape of love.

Augustine, in the 4th century, further develops hell as a condition rather than a location. Hell is self‑exclusion: the soul turns away from God and locks itself into disordered love. Suffering arises from the consequences of one’s own choice; separation from the source of all goodness. This state is eternal not because God withholds mercy but because the will can become fixed in refusal. Fire is both real and symbolic: suffering is real, though its mode lies beyond language and expression.

Aquinas in the 13th century builds on Augustine by grounding hell in Aristotelian metaphysics. Hell is the definitive state of a rational soul that dies in mortal sin. The soul’s refusal of God is not only moral failure but a failure of rational nature. Aquinas distinguishes poena damni (the pain of loss) and poena sensus (the pain of sense). At death, the soul’s direction becomes fixed; eternal destiny is determined not by divine wrath but by the soul’s own settled choice. At the resurrection, the body joins the soul in its suffering. William Blake captures this Thomistic vision in his illustration of Dante conversing with the heretic Farinata degli Uberti in the fiery tombs of the sixth circle.

Aquinas provided his near‑contemporary Dante with the moral architecture that allowed hell to shift from concept to vividly imagined landscape. In the Inferno, Dante transforms that architecture into a descending spiral of circles, each calibrated to a deeper distortion of the good and a harsher form of alienation. At the frozen center lies the absolute loss of God’s presence and love. Dante’s genius is giving spatial form to moral trajectory. Sin becomes architecture.

Modern Christians often imagine hell through Dante’s nine circles without realizing it. Levels, tailored punishments, structured descent, these are Dante’s inventions, not biblical categories. Yet his poetic vision has become the default mental picture of what it means to lose God’s love. His circles are not doctrine, but they express a truth the tradition affirms: the more a soul rejects the good, the more it collapses inward, freezing into itself; a thermodynamic loss not of heat but of God’s presence. Dante’s afterlife remains a symbolic map of the soul’s self‑chosen distance from God, shaping imagination long after its theology has been forgotten or more likely, ignored.

By the modern era, hell has traveled a long road: from Sheol and Hades, through Gehenna, into Augustine’s self‑chosen alienation, Aquinas’s metaphysical finality, and Dante’s architectural imagination. Each stage sharpens the moral stakes, but none claims to know the final census of the saved and the lost.

It is here that Hans Urs von Balthasar, the 20th‑century Swiss theologian, offers a different starting point: beauty as the mode of God’s self‑revelation. God becomes visible through form, radiance, and splendor; beauty is the shape of truth and goodness. For Balthasar, salvation is participation in God’s dramatic love: the drama in which God and humanity meet in freedom. Christ is the central actor whose obedience, self‑gift, and descent into the depths of human abandonment open the way for every person to enter divine life. Salvation is aesthetic: God is Beauty, Christ is Beauty made visible, and salvation is the soul learning again to see the Beauty that is God.

Balthasar insists that Christ’s descent into Sheol means no place remains where God is not. Hell remains a real possibility, but God’s love hopes for every person, even as human freedom is never overridden. Salvation is the soul being drawn freely, dramatically, and beautifully into the radiant self‑giving love of the Triune God.

Balthasar offers a final, chastened note: Christians may hope that all will be saved, but they may never presume it. Hope is a virtue; presumption a trespass. Hell remains real, possible, and bound to freedom, yet the Christian stance toward final judgment is not certainty but reverent uncertainty. We may hope that no soul ultimately refuses the good, but we may not claim to know the mind of God. This hope is not optimism; it is the trembling aspiration of the penitent, something beyond the insecure measure of remorse that opened this essay.

In the end, tradition leaves us with a paradox: hell is the consequence of free-will, yet hope is the proper response to divine mercy. Between those two poles, freedom and mercy, the human soul stands. And perhaps that is the only place it can stand: not in presumption, not in despair, but in the narrow space where hope remains possible without ever becoming a certainty. Perhaps this is what Pope Francis, in his inelegant phrasing, was reaching for.

By the time afterlife dogma and secular imagination knock on our modern door, “hell” is less a settled place or concept than a linguistic suitcase and atlas stuffed with conflicting contents and branching paths toward judgment. Hope without presumption is allowed; hiding never is.

Graphic: Chart of Hell by Sandro Botticelli, c1480. Vatican City. Public Domain.

Keep Anxiety at Bay in a Stressful World with These Smart Strategies

The following is a guest post by Emilia Ross. She is a life coach who specializes in helping individuals navigate their personal and professional lives. Visit her site at Schedule-Life.com)

Mental resilience is the capacity to adapt, recover, and grow when life feels uncertain or overwhelming. For people who experience anxiety, the future can feel like a moving target—plans shift, news cycles churn, and the nervous system stays on high alert. This article explores practical ways to steady your mind and build resilience without pretending uncertainty doesn’t exist.

A quick grounding snapshot: Life is unpredictable. You can’t control every outcome, but you can train your responses. By cultivating openness to change, approaching uncertainty with curiosity, and committing to lifelong learning—alongside mindfulness, emotional agility, and supportive relationships—you build a mind that bends instead of breaks.

When Uncertainty Triggers Anxiety (The Problem)

Anxiety thrives on “what ifs.” When the brain scans for threats, ambiguity gets labeled as danger. The result? Rumination, avoidance, or a frantic search for certainty that doesn’t exist. This pattern exhausts the mind and narrows your options.

The shift isn’t to eliminate uncertainty—it’s to relate to it differently.

Curiosity Beats Fear (The Core Reframe)

Curiosity interrupts the threat response. Asking “What can I learn here?” engages the prefrontal cortex, widening perspective and loosening anxiety’s grip. Curiosity doesn’t deny risk; it invites exploration without panic.

Try this micro-reframe: When anxiety spikes, replace “What if this goes wrong?” with “What’s one small thing I can understand or test right now?

Openness to Change, Practiced Gently

Openness isn’t reckless change. It’s flexibility with guardrails. People with anxiety often do better with small, reversible experiments rather than big leaps.

Test new routines for a week, not forever.

● Gather data (How did I sleep? Focus? Mood?).

● Keep what works; discard the rest.

This trains your brain to see change as information—not a verdict.

Lifelong Learning as Mental Armor

Learning keeps the mind agile and confident. It reinforces a growth mindset: skills are built, not bestowed. Continuing education—especially flexible, online options—lets you adapt at your own pace. For example, pursuing online IT programs can help you stay adaptable in fast-changing fields while strengthening curiosity and self-trust. Learning doesn’t just open doors; it steadies your inner narrative: I can learn my way forward.

Mindfulness & Emotional Agility (Tools, Not Vibes)

Mindfulness isn’t about emptying your mind. It’s about noticing thoughts without obeying them. Emotional agility adds a second step: choosing actions aligned with values even when emotions are loud.

A simple sequence: Notice → Name → Choose. Notice the sensation. Name the emotion. Choose the next small, values-aligned step.

The Quiet Power of Supportive Relationships Resilience is relational. Anxiety shrinks when it’s shared with safe people—friends, family, therapists, or peers. Ask for specific support (“Can you check in on Tuesdays?”). Clarity reduces the stress of asking.

Balance Optimism with Realism

Optimism works best when grounded. Practice realistic optimism: acknowledge risks, prepare modestly, and keep room for positive outcomes. This prevents the crash that comes from forced positivity.

How-To: A Weekly Resilience Checklist

Use this checklist once a week—10 minutes is enough.

☐ One curiosity question I explored

☐ One small change I tested

☐ One learning action (article, lesson, practice)

☐ One mindfulness check-in (2–5 minutes)

☐ One connection I nurtured

☐ One realistic plan for a known stressor

A Snapshot Table: Skills → Practices → Payoffs

SkillPracticePayoff
CuriosityAsk one “how/why” daily Reduced threat response
OpennessRun small experimentsConfidence with change
LearningWeekly skill micro-goalMental agility
Mindfulness3 mindful breathsNervous system reset
ConnectionSpecific support asksEmotional buffering
RealismIf-then planningFewer surprises

FAQ

Isn’t focusing on uncertainty just making anxiety worse? Not when done skillfully. Curiosity and planning reduce ambiguity by turning it into manageable steps.

What if I don’t have time for all this? Start with one practice. Consistency beats intensity.

Can learning actually reduce anxiety? Yes. Learning builds agency and reframes challenges as solvable.

A Helpful, Evidence-Based Resource

If mindfulness resonates, explore the Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) program from UMass Medical School. It’s a well-researched approach for stress and anxiety.

Future-proofing your mind isn’t about predicting what’s next—it’s about preparing how you’ll respond. With curiosity, gentle openness to change, lifelong learning, and steady supports, anxiety loosens its hold. Small practices, repeated, create a resilient mind that meets uncertainty with clarity and care.

Fed Independence or Not

For more than a century, the independence of the Federal Reserve has been treated as the holy grail of policy dogma. Economists defend it as the firewall shielding monetary policy from the passions of electoral politics and politicians. Journalists speak of it with the same reverence they reserve for constitutional rights. Yet beneath this vow of righteousness and infallibility lies an implicit assumption. That fiat money is a stable, coherent, self‑sustaining system. Once this assumption begins to decay, the entire debate over Fed independence reveals itself as no more than a side-show distraction; a nonsensical argument about who gets to captain a grounded ship.

To understand why, one must begin with the nature of fiat itself. Fiat money is often described as being “backed by the full faith and credit of the government,” and faith is the key word. Fiat is a belief system. Not belief in metaphysical truths or moral principles, but belief in a story. A narrative about competence, stability, continuity, and trust. Fiat works when people believe that the institutions issuing it are capable stewards of their money and future. It works when inflation is low enough to ignore, debt stays at acceptable levels, political institutions appear stable, and the public assumes that tomorrow will be much like today. And, a really big and, above all, the Fed must appear to know what it’s doing. “Forever QE” and transitory inflation are not words of assurance, but policy choices to mask underlying problems.

Belief is the core mechanism to fiat. It is the glue that holds the system together. And it is very, very fragile. Fiat has no basis in physical reality. It is not tied to energy, or production, or land, or gold, or work, or any measurable capacity of the world. It exists entirely on expectations. And the expectations are inherently psychological and political. When the story is coherent and the holders feel safe, fiat, like Plato shadows on the wall remain acceptable and real. When the story becomes visibly illogical with inflation and high debt coming into sharp focus, belief drifts from acceptance to catastrophic loss. Gradually at first, and then suddenly, as Hemingway described bankruptcy. Bankruptcy of everyone all at once.

The Federal Reserve’s role is to maintain the story of competence and solvency. Its tools: interest rates, liquidity operations, forward guidance, balance‑sheet adjustments, do not directly control the real economy. They shape expectations. The Fed is, in a very real sense, the narrator of the monetary story. Its independence is meant to signal that the narrator is trustworthy, competent, that the story is objective, that the governing institution stands above politics. Cutting the federal funds rate on the eve of an election can shatter that trust and illusion of independence in an instant. And when the story itself begins to lose coherence, the independence of the narrator becomes irrelevant. The problem is not who tells the story. The problem is that the story no longer matches people’s experience. At that point, belief collides with reality, and reality wins: holders of paper lose.

Over the past several decades, the narrative foundation of fiat has weakened precipitously. Inflation, once subdued after the Fed Chairman Volcker era, has returned in unpredictable waves. Sovereign debt has grown to levels that strain the imagination. Political polarization has eroded institutional trust and effectiveness. Global supply chains have been revealed as suppressors of the middle-class and gross vulnerabilities to national resilience. Geopolitical tensions have dissipated the assumption of a unified global monetary order. And digital alternatives, however imperfect, have demonstrated that fiat’s monopoly is not certain. Crypto’s rise is not evidence of crypto’s strength; it is evidence of fiat’s weakness. Gold’s relentless upward march mirrors fiat’s decline. Gold is a search for monetary stability: an anchor to stop loss of value in a monetary system. BRICS nations are attempting to offer an alternative narrative, but their proposals remain variations on the same theme. The world is searching for a different narrative, a new anchor, something beyond blind faith.

Both the United States and BRICS are trapped in the same deception: that the future will be won by whoever controls the existing fiat narrative. Each is fighting to preserve a version of monetary primacy that no longer commands the world’s confidence. The deeper problem is not mismanagement but design: fiat systems decay because their value depends on political restraint, institutional credibility, and collective belief. All these factors erode over time. Fiat invites the very forces it claims to contain: short‑termism, opportunism, fiscal excess, and the slow erosion of incentives. Whether issued by Washington or by BRICS, a fiat regime remains vulnerable to the same pressures of politics, greed, and narrative manipulation. The real challenge is not choosing the next steward of fiat but recognizing that the architecture itself guarantees monetary decline and eventual failure.

Gold once provided stability but lacked liquidity; it could not expand fast enough to support a growing credit economy. Fiat solved the liquidity problem but forfeited stability, allowing credit to expand faster than real output. The mechanism changed, but the boom‑and‑bust cycles did not. A century of data shows that recessions occur with almost the same frequency as before. The tools of modern central banking: interest‑rate adjustments, balance‑sheet expansion, crisis intervention, can shape expectations temporarily, but they cannot alter the deeper forces that drive credit economies.

This is why the debate over Federal Reserve independence is the wrong question. Independence gives the Fed room to act, but it does not give it the power to cure the system’s structural instability. Modern monetary policy resembles a doctor endlessly adjusting a patient’s blood‑pressure medication: the dosage changes constantly, the treatment never ends, and the underlying condition remains untouched. When inflation rises, the Fed tightens; when markets wobble, it loosens. These actions contradict each other because they target symptoms, not causes. The Fed cannot control the human impulses that generate leverage, speculation, fear, political pressure, and herd behavior. It can only dampen the consequences, usually at the cost of accelerating fiat’s long‑term decline.

The persistence of recessions before and after the Fed reveals the deeper reality: the problem is not the monetary mechanism but the nature of a credit‑based economy itself. Gold failed because it was too rigid; fiat struggles because it is too flexible; Bitcoin, more commodity than money, will fail for the same reasons gold failed, its supply is perfectly inelastic and its price too volatile. And Stablecoins add nothing new; they are simply fiat in a crypto wrapper. Every architecture confronts the same contradiction: money must be stable enough to be trusted yet elastic enough to support lending, investment, and crisis response. No system has ever resolved this conflict because the real driver of instability is not gold, fiat, or Bitcoin. It is the cycle of human behavior interacting with credit. Until that changes, the mechanism will change its shape, but the outcomes will remain the same.

If fiat is losing its narrative monopoly, what replaces it? Crypto attempted to answer this question with mathematics and a limited supply. Gold answered it with geology and limited supply. Commodity baskets answered it with diversification around hard assets. But none of these fully solve the problem. Crypto is digital gold. Gold is rigid and insufficient for a modern credit economy. Commodities are volatile and become incoherent during panics. Attempting to replace human need with symbols fails every single time.

A deeper insight emerges when you step back and view civilization as a physical system rather than a financial abstraction. The true foundation of economic value is not mathematics, geology, or diversification. It is the capacity to perform work. Work is force or energy moving mass.

Civilization runs on energy generation, energy storage, energy transmission, industrial capacity, logistics networks, and computational infrastructure: organic or silicon. These are the engines of real productivity. They are scarce, measurable, auditable, and grounded in physics. They cannot be printed, inflated, or conjured by policy. They are the physical substrate of economic life. Without energy, life reverts to the stone age before fire. And energy is the force that moves economies. In the financial world, economic work is an incentive force (wages, etc.) producing goods and services.

Money is not merely a measuring stick; it is an incentive field. People work because they receive something in return. Money is barter with flexibility, a universal IOU that aligns human behavior with the physical work civilization requires to survive. Any monetary system that ignores incentives collapses (socialism), because incentives are the bridge between physics and behavior (selfishness). They determine whether capacity is created, maintained, or abandoned.

A monetary system fastened to work‑capacity. The ability of a civilization to perform work in the future. It solves the core problem fiat cannot: it ties money to something the world cannot fake. You can fake a balance sheet. You can fake a narrative. You can fake a token. You cannot fake a gigawatt. That is a first principle: neither arbitrary nor rigid, but physically independent of human interpretation. It scales with civilizational growth. It reflects real productivity. It resists political manipulation. And fraud becomes easy to detect. But only if there is the will to detect it. Most importantly, it aligns incentives with reality: you earn money by increasing the world’s capacity to perform work, not by manipulating symbols.

But a work‑anchored system adopted by even one sovereign does not remain a domestic experiment. It immediately creates pressure elsewhere. A currency tied to audited work‑capacity becomes harder, more credible, and more stable than fiat, and capital begins to migrate toward it. Exchange rates shift. Trade balances distort. Governments that rely on narrative management find their monetary sovereignty constrained by physics. They cannot negotiate with a watt. The result is geopolitical conflict, not because the system is coercive, but because it exposes the gap between a nation’s stories and its real productive base.

In such a system, money becomes a claim on future work. A power plant, a data center, a steel mill, a logistics network, each can issue claims proportional to its audited capacity to perform work. These claims circulate as money. They settle against actual output. Fraud becomes self‑defeating because it cannot survive contact with physics. A plant that over‑issues claims cannot deliver the promised work. A grid that misreports capacity is exposed by its own output. A ledger that attempts to rewrite history is contradicted by the physical world it purports to represent. In this architecture, cheating is not impossible, but it is unprofitable.

The transition from fiat to a work‑anchored system is evolutionary, not revolutionary. It occurs through parallel adoption. A second monetary base emerges alongside fiat. Institutions adopt it for long‑term contracts. Governments recognize it for infrastructure financing. Savings and credit migrate. Fiat becomes a convenience layer, not the foundation. This is not Bitcoin’s adoption curve. It is slower, quieter, and more stable because it is tied to real infrastructure, not speculative enthusiasm. Governments do not adopt it because they want to. They adopt it because the old system stops working for them. They do not lose control. They lose the illusion of control. And that is the real political friction.

Once money is anchored in work‑capacity, the Fed’s role changes fundamentally. It no longer manages inflation, steers the business cycle, manipulates expectations, or performs narrative maintenance. It becomes a clearinghouse, a standards body, a referee, an auditor. Its job shrinks from managing the economy to ensuring the measuring stick is honest. In that world, the debate about Fed independence becomes meaningless. One does not argue about the independence of the Bureau of Weights and Measures. One does not politicize the definition of a kilogram. One does not campaign on the governance of the volt. When money is anchored in physics, not narrative, the central bank becomes a notary, not a priesthood. And the question of its independence becomes as irrelevant as arguing about who should steer the boat when the rudder is missing.

The pointlessness of Fed independence is not a critique of the Fed. It is a recognition that the architecture it manages is reaching the end of its narrative life. Fiat’s fragility is not a failure of policy. It is a failure in its foundation. A work‑anchored monetary system, grounded in the ability of civilization to perform work, offers a path out of the cave of shadows. It replaces narrative with physics, belief with capacity, and discretion with measurement. And once money is anchored in reality, the independence of the storyteller becomes irrelevant. Because the story no longer holds the system together. Reality does.

In the end, every monetary architecture is a story about how a civilization chooses to coordinate work. Fiat coordinates through narrative. Gold coordinates through rigidity. Crypto coordinates through code. A work‑anchored system coordinates through physics and incentives. It does not promise perfection; it promises honesty. It does not eliminate politics; it limits the damage politics can do. And it does not replace human behavior; it aligns it with the real constraints of the world. When money measures capacity instead of belief, the system no longer depends on the storyteller. It depends on the civilization itself.

Fiat creates symbols. Work creates reality.

Postscript: In a work‑anchored system, generators of capacity become profit centers, users become cost centers, and currency becomes a digital ledger of claims and redemptions tied to the physical delivery of work. Taxes take the form of a pure consumption tax or a drawdown of civilization’s work‑capacity. The only form of taxation that aligns incentives, physics, and public finance.

Sur de los Andes Reserva Cabernet Sauvignon 2021

Cabernet Sauvignon from Mendoza, Argentina

Purchase Price $16.99

Vinous 91, James Suckling 90, Wilfred Wong 90, Wine Enthusiast 87, ElsBob 88

ABV 14.0%

A deep ruby to deep purple full-bodied wine. Black fruit and oak on the nose and cherries on the tongue. A lasting tannic finish.

A very good fine wine but don’t pay more than $12-13. Current prices range from $18-34.

Trivia: Today Mendoza evokes vineyards and wine. But before the grape, before the Jesuits, before the Spaniards, before the Incas, there were the Huarpe people. In the Andean shadows of the setting sun, settlement was about water, trade, and brute survival on the high plains of an arid frontier.

The Huarpes lived in the Huentota Valley (modern Mendoza), the Uco Valley, and parts of San Juan. Masters of irrigation, they engineered acequias: canals that diverted river water to sustain maize, beans, squash, and, through trade, potatoes. Their skill made agriculture possible in an otherwise dry landscape, and the legacy of those canals still shapes Mendoza’s tree‑lined streets today.

These acequias, often several feet deep, were carved in the pre‑metal age with bone and wooden digging sticks: a testament to persistence and communal labor in a harsh environment.

End Times

Isaac Newton (1642–1727), remembered as one of the greatest mathematicians and architect of modern physics, devoted more time to theology and biblical study than to science. Among his vast unpublished papers lies a remarkable calculation: Newton believed that the End of Times would not occur before the year 2060. His thesis was not a prediction of hell on Earth, but rather a forecast of the corrupt secular and spiritual powers giving way to the establishment of Christ’s kingdom on earth.

Newton’s notes on prophecy and chronology survive in the Yahuda manuscripts, now housed at the National Library of Israel. For more than a century, these papers were considered “unfit to print” and remained hidden in the English Earl of Portsmouth’s family archives. In 1936, Sotheby’s auctioned off Newton’s theological and alchemical writings for just over 9,000 British pounds or about $1 million in today’s dollars. Abraham Shalom Yahuda, a Jewish polymath and collector, recognized their importance and purchased a large portion, including Newton’s calculations on the End of Times.

Newton was deeply engaged with biblical prophecy, especially the Books of Daniel and Revelation. He believed these texts contained coded timelines of history on into the future. In Observations upon the Prophecies of Daniel (published posthumously in 1733), he wrote: “The prophecies of Daniel are all of them related to one another, as if they were but several parts of one general prophecy… The Apocalypse of John is written in the same style and language with Daniel, and hath many of the same figures.”

In Daniel 7:25 and 12:7, and again in Revelation 12:14, “a time” is taken as one year, “times” as two years, and “half a time” as half a year—an interpretation rooted in the Aramaic/Hebrew idiom in which “time” means “year.” Revelation 11:2 and 13:5 describe the same period as 42 months, which equals 3½ years (42 ÷ 12). Revelation 11:3 and 12:6 express it again as 1,260 days, using the Jewish symbolic 360‑day prophetic year (360 × 3.5 = 1,260). Across Revelation 11–13, these expressions appear interchangeably, reinforcing the equivalence.

The 3½‑year duration itself is symbolic: it is half of seven, the biblical number of completeness, and thus represents a period of incompleteness or tribulation deliberately cut short. Cut short because in Matthew 24:22 Jesus states, “Unless those days had been cut short, no flesh would be saved; but for the sake of the elect those days will be cut short.” A full seven would symbolize evil completing its course, but Scripture portrays God as limiting evil’s duration, preserving a some but not all, and interrupting the “full seven” before it reaches completion.

Later interpreters extended this further. Drawing on Numbers 14:34: “a day for a year”; and Ezekiel 4:6, where God again assigns “a day for a year,” they applied the day‑year principle to the 1,260 days, transforming them into 1,260 years.

Newton then sought a historical anchor, a year to start the clock to End Times. He identified 800 AD, when Charlemagne was crowned Emperor of the Romans by Pope Leo III, as the beginning of ecclesiastical corruption. For Newton, this coronation marked the fusion of secular and papal power: the fulfillment of Daniel’s prophecy of a blasphemous authority ruling over the saints. Adding 1,260 years to 800 AD produced the year 2060. In his notes, Newton wrote: “The period of 1260 days, if dated from the complete conquest of the three kings A.C. 800, will end A.C. 2060.” (Newton preferred A.C., Anno Christi, in the year of Christ over A.D., Anno Domini, in the year of the Lord.)

Newton also considered 2034 as an alternative. Anchoring the calculation in 774 AD; the year of Charlemagne’s conquest of the Lombards and alliance with Pope Adrian I: 774 plus 1260 equals 2034. The year 774 also coincided with a massive solar storm, sometimes referred to as the Charlemagne Event (stronger than the Carrington Event of 1859), with auroras reaching deep into southern latitudes and temperatures dropping a few degrees. Yet 2060 remained the most consistent date in his manuscripts.

Newton believed that the corrupt powers that would bring about the End of Times was both the papacy and the secular rulers who supported the church. In his manuscripts he clearly identified the papacy as the “little horn” and the “man of sin,” a corrupt ecclesiastical power that had usurped apostolic Christianity. At the same time he perceived that secular rulers were equally part of the apostate system destined to collapse. The ten horns of the Beast were the European kingdoms. Their political power upheld the papal system and thus shared in its guilt and its eschatological fate.

Importantly, Newton did not envision annihilation at the End of Times. He saw 2060 as the end of corruption and the dawn of a new divine order. He cautioned it may end later, but said “I see no reason for its ending sooner. This I mention not to assert when the time of the end shall be, but to put a stop to the rash conjectures of fanciful men…”

Newton feared that false predictions would undermine faith. His calculation was meant as sober interpretation, not sensational prophecy. He emphasized that only God knows the appointed time: “It is not for us to know the times and seasons which God hath put into his own breast.”

Newton’s calculation of the End of Times flows logically from the biblical text, and he treats the prophetic numbers with strict literalism. Yet he interprets the tribulation not as a final, catastrophic episode at the end of history, but as a long historical decline. Slow corruption within secular and ecclesiastical institutions. All culminating in the restoration of true Christianity.

Although Newton’s prophetic writings remained unpublished during his lifetime, the rediscovery of the Yahuda manuscripts in the 1930s revealed the full scope of his vision. He saw the End Times not as annihilation but as transformation: the fall of apostate Christianity, the renewal of true religion, and the establishment of Christ’s kingdom of peace.

Newton’s restrained timing aligns with Christ’s teaching in Matthew 24:36: “But of that day and hour no one knoweth, not the angels of heaven, but the Father alone.” In Christian eschatology, the Second Coming is likened to a Canaanite or Jewish wedding: the Father alone knows the day, the Son prepares a place, and the bride: the Church, must remain watchful. Newton’s calculations were an attempt to glimpse the architecture of prophecy, yet he humbly accepted the unknowable will of God.

Graphic: Isaac Newton by Godrey Kneller, 1689. Issac Newton Institute. Public Domain.

Santa Julia Natural La Vaquita Clarete 2024

Other Red Blends from Mendoza, Argentina

Malbec 80%, Torrontes 20%

Purchase Price $17.99

James Suckling 93, Robert Parker 90, ElsBob 90

ABV 13.5%

A pale ruby wine with a pink rim. Aromas of fresh cherries. Medium bodied with subtle tannins and a medium acidity that provides for a nice refreshing, but short, finish.

An excellent table wine at a remarkable price. Current price is around $20.

Trivia: Trivia: “La Vaquita” translates from Spanish to English as “the little cow.”

Cheese maker La Vaquita was established in Houston, Texas, in 1971 by Mexican immigrant María Castro.  Known for Mexican-style dairy products such as queso fresco, crema, and butter, the company began as a kitchen-scale project and eventually became Castro Cheese Company. It was acquired by Dairy Farmers of America (DFA) in 2009, and in 2025 DFA opened a second Hispanic cheese plant in Monroe, Wisconsin.

Additional trivia useful mainly on Jeopardy is that Wisconsin produces more cheese than any other U.S. state, churning out over 3 billion pounds annually. California comes in second at about 2.5 billion pounds, dominated by mozzarella production.

Basin in the Meantime

Maybe there’s nothin’ happenin’ there
Or maybe there’s somethin’ in the air  —
John Hiatt – Memphis in the Meantime

The operation in Caracas did not inaugurate a new doctrine so much as enforce an old one: The Monroe Doctrine or as the new moniker that is sweeping social media: The Don-roe Doctrine, The DDs. It demonstrated that, when the United States chooses to act in its near abroad, it can do so quickly, decisively, and without the prolonged escalation that once defined hemispheric interventions. The speed mattered less than the silence that followed.

What stretches south from the U.S. southern border is not a collection of isolated states so much as a single basin of changing fortunes. A shared space of currents and constraints where energy, food, money, people, and power circulate unevenly. In that basin, geography compresses time, stretching from long somnolence to sudden, decisive action in prestissimo. Decisions made in one port quickly reverberate into another; scarcity in one system bleeds into the next. When a major node fails, the effects do not remain local, they resonate in a loose, syncopated jazz time

The removal of Venezuela as a patron did not merely end Maduro’s dictatorship, it likely altered the flow of reality in the basin itself. What followed from adjacent confines and distant hegemons alike was not immediate confrontation but boilerplate as hesitancy or visa-versa. Borders were secured. Procedural condemnations were issued. The United Nations will hear of this! Behind the statements, positions were analyzed and reassessed. Cards were checked. No one raised. Everyone counted their chips. Everyone kept their cards, except Maduro, but no one pushed the pot.

In the meantime: the basin holds it breath, the alternatives have no luster, and time has taken on a velocity beyond the speed limits of the usual diplomatic stall. In the basin, survival at all costs no longer promotes stability of government nor docility of the populace. In the basin, the strength of will is now measured in meals, watts, and months: maybe. The Venezuela operation lasted 3 hours.

The absence of a Venezuelan military effective response was not the lack of detection of the opposing force or bribery of key personal to look the other way. It was the predictable outcome of a hollowed-out command structure confronted more attuned to loyalty rather than ability. Selective strikes against decision‑making nodes, combined with degraded communications and uncertainty about leadership status, collapsed the chain of authority before it could cohere into action. In a system likely conditioned to await orders from the top rather than exercise initiative, paralysis was the rational response. No one bucks the top…North Korea redux. A thirty‑minute operation leaves no room for deliberation; it ends before the system can decide what it is seeing. Maduro wasn’t answering his phone.

And the operation was not just the removal of a bad actor; it was also about who was watching.

The Iranian strike was never just a counter‑proliferation exercise. Reducing nuclear capability was the mechanism, not the message. The message was capability itself. It was designed to be seen not by Tehran, which already understood the risks, but by Moscow and Beijing. The flight profiles, the munitions used, the coordination, the timing, the public naming of the operation, all of it communicated U.S. reach, patience, and the ability to act unilaterally at scale without triggering uncontrolled escalation. It was deterrent by demonstration, not a declaration for further action.

The Venezuela operation carries the same scent, even if the target is less world‑ending. Different theater, different tools, same audience. There were other tells. In Moscow, state‑adjacent channels reverted to cultural filler, Swan Lake on shortwave. A gesture with a long memory. In Russian political language, it has historically marked moments of uncertainty at the top: authority suspended, clarity withheld, everyone instructed to wait. It was not a declaration, but it was not nothing either. Less foreknowledge than recognition. An acknowledgment that something irreversible was unfolding, inferred from U.S. posture rather than anything concrete.

That recognition itself would not have gone unnoticed. Intelligence services watch each other as closely as they watch targets, and awareness on one side becomes signal on the other. A brief pause, publicly attributed to weather or timing around the holidays, need not imply any hesitation. It can just as easily reflect confirmation: that inference had not translated into possible interference, that compromised channels would remain compromised, and that recognition would stay passive. In that sense, the music was not a warning, and the delay was not a feint. Both were acknowledgments that the hand had changed, and that no one intended to show their cards before the next move was made.

The unrest in Iran reads differently. Less recognition than diversion. When leverage is limited in one theater, pressure migrates to another. Iran’s internal volatility has long been a known fault line. One where agitation carries asymmetric cost. Disruption there absorbs Iranian authorities’ attention, resources, and narrative bandwidth, reducing the capacity for coordinated response elsewhere. Whether by design or exploitation, the effect is the same: consequences are diluted across theaters rather than concentrated at the point of action. Hezbollah and Hamas in the Caribbean remain isolated and neutered.

This does not require coordination to function. Systems under strain respond predictably to stress applied at their weakest seams. Iran’s unrest filled the information space with noise at precisely the moment clarity elsewhere would have been costly.

In Venezuela, the point wasn’t regime change as an ostentatious show of force or a shot across the bow. It was proof of access, intelligence dominance, and decision‑speed inside a space long assumed to be cluttered with foreign influence. The absence of a name matters. So does the brevity. So does the lack of follow‑on rhetoric, which, for Trump, is really saying something.

Regional reactions reflected this reality. The message, delivered without verbiage, was understood immediately. Except in Congress. Colombia’s troop movements were defensive and stabilizing, aimed at spillover rather than confrontation. Mexico and Colombia’s appeals to multilateral condemnation preserved diplomatic cover without altering facts on the ground. China and Russia issued ritualized objections. Entirely predictable, restrained, and notably unaccompanied by action. Iran’s rhetoric filled space where leverage was absent. Across the board, states assessed their stacks of chips and chose not to raise.

This collective hesitation revealed the deeper shift. The Caracas operation likely removed Venezuela as a structural patron and sanctuary, not just a regime. That removal matters less for ideology than for logistics. It collapses the external framework that allowed other systems: most notably Cuba, to remain in the game, even without chips.

Cuba’s predicament is not strategic; it is temporal and tactical. The island lacks indigenous energy beyond biomass, cannot sustain its grid without imported fuel, and faces chronic food insecurity dependent on foreign exchange. Its export of human capital: doctors, engineers, security personnel, once generated influence and cash, but those returns have diminished, and the population left behind is aging and shrinking. Tourism and remittances no longer provide reliable buffers. Scarcity does not need to become catastrophic to destabilize a system; it only needs to become unpredictable. Revolution is three meals away.

In this context, the familiar options narrow. Refusal to accept the obvious with re-engerized brutality can delay outcomes but the path ahead remains the same. Partial opening risks unleashing forces that cannot be re-contained. A managed transition preserves continuity but requires acknowledging mistakes and ultimately exhibiting weakness. Waiting for the irrational rescue likely recreates Ceausescu execution at the hands of an exhausted populace. Time is now a luxury. And there is no Che Guevara left to pretend this is about anything other than power.

The broader hemispheric picture reinforces this compression. Panama’s strategic assets favor quiet realignment rather than confrontation. Colombia’s incentives point toward containment. Mexico’s long‑standing safety valves, outward migration and remittance flows, have narrowed as borders tighten and returns increase. At the same time, cartel finances face pressure from heightened surveillance, financial enforcement, and disrupted logistics. When money tightens, patience evaporates. Ambiguity and neutrality become expensive.

The external powers, beyond the basin, face their own constraints. Russia’s tools in the hemisphere are limited to smoke signals, narrative, and opportunistic cyber and communication disruption; it cannot project sustained force near U.S. logistics without unacceptable risk. China’s leverage is financial and infrastructural: think Peru’s deepwater port, but money loses persuasive power when leaders weigh it against personal liability. Loans cannot guarantee immunity. Infrastructure cannot extract individuals from collapsing systems. A Berlin‑style airlift to sustain Cuba is implausible: geography, energy requirements, and visibility make sustained resupply untenable without escalation. A step that neither Beijing nor Moscow appear willing to risk.

What emerges instead is a less noisy contest. The real currency becomes safe passage for the unwanted and the management of transitions rather than bids for loyalty. Ports, telecom, finance, and migration policy, to and from the U.S., become the levers. Intelligence exploitation encourages action against cartels, rolling up networks of crime rather than staging battles.

In this environment, public speeches matter less than demonstrated capability. Respectful language toward leaders paired with relentless focus on non‑state threats: cartels, preserves diplomatic niceties while narrowing the options. The message is conveyed not through ultimatums but through persistence: neutrality becomes costly; alignment allows for tomorrows.

The western hemisphere has entered a meantime: not a moment of dramatic conquest, but a period where waiting is the most dangerous strategy. Outcomes will be shaped less by declarations than by which pressures are allowed to accumulate, and which are relieved. The Caracas operation did not end the game; it thinned the table and moved the stakes to the final table.

Chateau Pey La Tour Bordeaux 2022

Bordeaux Blend from Bordeaux, France

Merlot 83%, Cabernet Sauvignon 7%, Cabernet Franc 7%, Petit Verdot 3%.

Purchase Price $18.99

James Suckling 90, Wine Enthusiast 88, ElsBob 88

ABV 15%

A deep ruby wine with aromas of smokey fruits and cherry flavors on the palate. Full-bodied, dry, slightly acidic and tannic but balanced. A fresh short finish. Will pair well roasted beef and sharp cheese.

A very good fine wine but underwhelming and on the pricey side. This is an AOC Bordeaux, entry-level red for the producer. Current price is about $20.

Trivia: The wine estate dates to the 1700s and was originally called Clos De la Tour. In 1990 it was purchased by the Dourthe group, a major Bordeaux negociant (merchant), which expanded the original vineyards from about 62 acres to 620 acres but only about 335 acres are planted in grapes. The vineyard is roughly 95% Merlot with minor amounts of grape varieties as shown above. It produces about 85,000 cases per vintage.

Solution in Search of a Problem

…[God] commanded him, saying: Of every tree of paradise thou shalt eat:  But of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat. For in what day soever thou shalt eat of it, thou shalt die the death. Genesis 2: 16-17.  …And the woman saw that the tree was good to eat, and fair to the eyes, and delightful to behold: and she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave to her husband who did eat. Genesis 3: 6.  …And to Adam he said: Because thou hast hearkened to the voice of thy wife, and hast eaten of the tree, whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldst not eat, cursed is the earth in thy work; with labor and toil shalt thou eat thereof all the days of thy life. Genesis 3: 17.

The command. The Original Sin. The yoke of punishment.

Within the Christian narrative, the Garden of Eden; whether read as fact or parable, is not a catastrophe that condemns humanity but a pedagogical interval in which freedom, purpose, and morality first become visible. Eden is the place where God teaches that a being with a soul cannot thrive in effortless abundance; that freedom requires choice; that purpose emerges only through effort–trial and error, consequence, responsibility, and growth. Original Sin is not an accident but the awakening of the human soul, the moment the lesson begins.

Against this backdrop, William Dembski’s (1960-present) The End of Christianity advances a far more far‑reaching claim: that God imposed suffering and death across the entire 4.5‑billion‑year history of Earth in response to Adam’s sin; an event that, even on the most generous timelines, occurred only a few tens of thousands of years ago. The difficulty with this theory is not merely its scale but its direction. Within the Christian understanding of God’s eternal now, Eden is not an isolated moment but a teaching environment whose possibilities: temptation, failure, growth, are already present to the divine mind. Dembski’s proposal, however, requires suffering to be imposed on the epochs that precede the sin itself. Adam has no predecessors whose guilt could be inherited, and the only antecedent in the narrative is God Himself. This reversal of moral sequence renders the thesis difficult to sustain.

His theodicy survives only at the level of abstraction; once the brush narrows to a single creature or a single moment, the logic collapses. A brontosaurus sinking into Jurassic mud is not a moral agent, nor is a trilobite crushed in a Cambrian landslide. To treat their deaths as the retroactive consequence of a human sin that has not yet occurred is to impose moral causality where no moral subject exists. The moment the argument touches the concrete world: an ecosystem, a predator’s hunger, a tectonic shift, it demands that nature behave like a courtroom, assigning guilt and punishment across epochs that cannot bear such categories.

Nor does the appeal to the serpent resolve the difficulty. To identify the serpent as the origin of evil is to mistake a narrative instrument for a metaphysical explanation. The question is not who tempted Adam, but how the possibility of temptation exists at all within a creation held in the eternal knowledge of God. If evil can arise only through the serpent’s intrusion or Adam’s misstep, then the divine eternity becomes strangely porous, as though God were surprised by a contingency He did not foresee. A coherent theodicy must account for the possibility of evil within the very structure of creation; reducing it to a reptile or a human choice leaves the deeper metaphysical question untouched.

Additionally, he treats death itself as a sin and the result of sin, redefining a creaturely condition as a moral indictment and thereby forcing all pre‑human death into the ledger of Adam’s guilt. Once these premises are set, the argument can proceed only by inverting causality, collapsing divine eternity into creaturely time, and assigning retroactive guilt to a world that existed long before humanity appeared.

A further difficulty remains unaddressed. If God is placed within a temporal sequence, as Dembski’s model requires, then any retroactive application of punishment collapses into divine causation. A temporal God cannot reach backward in time without becoming the direct agent of the suffering He imposes. If Adam’s sin occurs after millions of years of natural history, then all pre‑human suffering occurs before the sin; and if that suffering is nevertheless treated as punishment for Adam, the only possible source of it is God Himself. The attempt to preserve a literal reading of Genesis thus forces the blame for natural evil onto the Creator, a conclusion Dembski never acknowledges and cannot escape.

As the argument unfolds, the incoherence deepens. Dembski appeals to Rabbi Harold Kushner, who resolves the problem of suffering by limiting God’s power, and to Tony Campolo, who suggests that God voluntarily cedes power to human freedom; positions incompatible with a thesis that requires God to exercise maximal power across billions of years to impose retroactive suffering on creation. He suggests that God created a perfect world, that the Son of God somehow disrupted that perfection, and that God was then forced to rewrite the story while it was being undone. Such a view divides the Trinity into competing agents and reduces God’s eternal now to a sequence of creaturely reactions. In attempting to preserve a literal reading of Genesis, Dembski abandons the very doctrines of divine eternity, unity, and immutability that Christianity has always affirmed.

His treatment of Chronos and Kairos only compounds the confusion. He proposes that God creates in Kairos and implements in Chronos, as though the eternal act of God could be divided into a timeless planning phase and a temporal execution phase. But Kairos and Chronos are categories of human experience, not metaphysical compartments within the divine life. By splitting God’s creative act into stages, Dembski collapses divine eternity into creaturely sequence, producing a picture of God who drafts outside of time and then steps into time to carry out the plan. It is a scheme that contradicts both classical doctrine and the logic of his own argument.

The result is a proposal that feels less like a coherent theological model and more like a solution in search of a problem; an attempt to preserve a preferred interpretation rather than a conclusion arising naturally from the metaphysics he invokes. His argument depends on a literal, historical Adam whose single act introduces moral disorder into the entire cosmos, yet he never defends this premise or engages the long tradition that treats Adam as archetype rather than biological progenitor. Nor does he address the scientific evidence that humanity emerged from a population rather than a solitary pair. The entire structure stands on an unexamined foundation.

By contrast, a more coherent theological reading sees Eden as a deliberate environment constructed to teach humanity its telos. God did not create paradise for idle comfort but to reveal that abundance without purpose is not paradise; that safety without responsibility is not fulfillment; that comfort without growth is tedium. The expulsion from Eden is not divine vindictiveness but the extension of the curriculum: a life in which effort–trial and error, consequence, and responsibility become the conditions for virtue. Original Sin is not a permanent stain but the beginning of moral adulthood, an inherited condition whose guilt is washed away in baptism. God does not abandon humanity after the Fall; He immediately promises redemption and sets further boundaries to guide the soul toward righteousness.

In this light, Eden is not the site of global catastrophe but the first classroom of the human spirit. Eden and Adam are not the problem but the beginning of the solution. It is the place where freedom is defined, purpose is revealed, and the long winding road of redemption begins.

Graphic: The Expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise by Benjamin West, 1791. Public Domain