When billionaires build yachts larger than warships, what theology are we really following?
There is a man we shall call Darrin Ambition. He sails the seas in a vessel longer than a World War II Navy destroyer and heavier than ships once built for empire. Its masts rise higher than the steeples of most towns. The hull gleams with teak and steel, attended by a second ship nearly as large, carrying helicopters, supplies, and staff. These ships are not for service, exploration, or defense. They are a procession of spectacle—an empire floating on the sea, devoted to one man’s pleasure.
The yacht is a sermon. Its size, its figurehead, its shadow vessel—they all proclaim the same creed: this is what ambition earns, this is what wealth deserves. Here, ambition has become sacred. The vessel floats not only on water but on a theology.
That theology is not hidden. It is preached in word and deed, not only by Darrin but by the culture that crowns him:
Ambition as virtue. To strive without limit is the mark of greatness.
Wealth as proof. Accumulation is the evidence of worth.
Freedom as license. Those who succeed may do whatever they wish.
Hierarchy as natural law. Some rise, most fall, and this order is fate.
This is the theology of ambition, and the world applauds it. It echoes a Darwinian logic of dominance—competition and survival at any cost, life clawing forward without design in an entropic universe. Darrin is not scorned for his excess—he is revered. Children are taught to see in him the shape of success. His yacht is not only a toy; it is a temple, an icon of what American capitalism declares holy.
He has spoken this theology himself: urging disruption without end, framing growth as sacred, envisioning a future where industry leaves Earth for orbit while the planet becomes a curated garden. His philanthropy, vast in numbers, flows like perfume—fragrant, yet fleeting against his indulgence.
None of this is a crime. Darrin Ambition has broken no law. He is not guilty of theft under the statutes of men. The system is written to sanctify his life, to bless ambition as salvation, accumulation as sacrament, and excess as blessing. Darrin is not an outlaw. He is an icon.
And yet, beside this theology stands another: the Opthēan theology of coherence. Where Darrin’s creed prizes accumulation, Opthē prizes alignment. Where he sees ambition as sacred, Opthē names responsibility as holy.
Opthēan theology proclaims:
Responsibility as virtue. Sacredness is measured by care, not conquest.
Enough as proof. The threshold of "enough" is more sacred than the peak of excess.
Freedom as responsibility to others and the earth. Freedom is not license to consume, but obligation to sustain.
Equity as sacred law. Coherence requires balance; domination is incoherence.
Both theologies ask the same question: What is life for?
Darrin answers: life is for striving, winning, consuming.
Opthē answers: life is for coherence—for weaving life together in truth, care, and beauty.
The question, then, is not which man is guilty. The question is which theology we will crown.
So let us ask it plainly: How many Darrins can the world sustain?
One? Perhaps. Ten? Endurable, yet already heavy on the planet. A hundred? Straining the limits. A thousand? Collapse. Beyond a certain threshold, the theology of ambition becomes intolerable. Today, the world’s richest 1% own nearly half of all global wealth, and in recent years just 26 individuals have held as much wealth as the poorest 3.8 billion people combined. The concentration is staggering: a tiny elite consumes resources at a pace that acidifies seas, fells forests, drains rivers, and heats the atmosphere. This theology scales only by devouring the earth, exhausting its people, and hollowing meaning until only ambition is left.
And how many Opthēans can the world sustain?
Ten strengthen the weave. A hundred deepen it. A thousand broaden it. A million make the world livable. This theology scales not by consumption but by coherence. The more who join, the more abundant the world becomes.
Darrin Ambition’s theology leads to isolation: a single man, alone on his floating palace, gazing at seas made emptier by his excess. The Opthēan theology leads to community: people gathered around thresholds of enough, weaving their lives in shared responsibility and joy.
The choice is not abstract. It confronts us in every purchase, every law, every story we tell about success. Do we teach our children that ambition is salvation? Or do we teach them that coherence—responsibility, sufficiency, equity—is the true sacred?
One Darrin is too many.
One Opthēan is never enough.
The world now demands we choose which theology we will follow.
Choose we must.
Choose we will.
And when the choice is made,
The floating palace will stand as witness—
An empty cathedral of ambition,
Beside seas that remember everything.