Our ancestors built cathedrals over centuries. They crossed oceans to carve out futures they wouldn’t live to see. Who is doing things like this today? Debt strangles half the country because we’d rather feel rich today than be free tomorrow. Marriages collapse when the grind gets hard. Politicians sell quick fixes because we’ve lost the stomach for sacrifice. We’ve become a people allergic to the weight of legacy, chasing the shadow of “YOLO” (You Only Live Once) while the substance of life evaporates. This isn’t freedom—it’s a slow-motion suicide of the soul. We need to recover the lost discipline of delayed glory, the holy defiance of living for what outlasts us.
The older generation, raised in an era of unprecedented prosperity, now clings to its wealth with a quiet ruthlessness. Having benefited from affordable education, booming job markets, and pensions that no longer exist, many have chosen to spend their golden years hoarding resources rather than stewarding them. They’ll drop $80k on a luxury RV to tour national parks but balk at helping their children with a down payment on a first home. They’ll lecture about “financial responsibility” while leveraging reverse mortgages to siphon equity from family homes, leaving nothing but debt for heirs. This isn’t frugality—it’s a betrayal of the very intergenerational compact that built their comfort. By refusing to pass on tangible blessings—whether wealth, wisdom, or a stable nation—they’ve pulled the ladder up behind them, then blamed younger generations for not climbing faster.
Yet the younger generations, drowning in student debt and gig-economy precarity, have responded with a dangerous fatalism. “If the system’s rigged, why play the game?” They’ll drop $8 on artisanal coffee daily but shrug at saving for retirement, joking, “I’ll just work until I die.” They’ll chase bucket-list experiences and “self-care” splurges while ignoring the storm clouds of entitlement-program insolvency and their own personal pile of debt. Social media fuels this, turning life into a highlight reel of curated moments—while 401(k)s gather dust and credit card balances balloon. This isn’t living “in the moment”; it’s a surrender to despair disguised as liberation. When the future feels like a collapsing tunnel, hedonism becomes the anesthesia.
Together, these postures form a doom loop. The older generation, fixated on self-preservation, drain reservoirs of generational wealth that took lifetimes to build. Meanwhile, younger adults, convinced there’s no reservoir left to fill, puncture the pipes altogether. Families fracture over inheritances; communities starve for long-term investment; politicians kick fiscal time bombs down the road. The result? A society with no one planting orchards—just two generations arguing over who gets the last ripe apple. Fixing this demands a moral revolution: the older generation must recover the lost art of legacy, viewing wealth as a bridge, not a bunker. The young must reject the lie that foresight is futile, trading cynicism for gritty, stubborn hope. Without both, we’ll keep racing toward the cliff all wondering who killed the horizon.
The Bible is a manifesto of radical long-term vision. Joseph didn’t hoard grain for a week—he stockpiled it for seven years to save nations from starvation. Abraham followed God into the unknown, trusting a promise that would unfold over millennia. Jesus spoke of vineyards and vineyards and fig trees, of investments that compound across generations. Scripture doesn’t whisper about patience—it roars. It dares us to see time as God’s gift, not our enemy. Every parable of sowing and reaping, every prophet who stood alone for truth, every martyr who chose death over compromise shouts this: There is sacred power in what grows slowly. The Kingdom isn’t built by the hurried, but by the steadfast—those who dig wells in deserts they’ll never drink from, who plant oaks in storms they’ll never take shade under.