Jan 21st, 2026
I’ve always had a bit of a love–hate relationship with Las Vegas.
On one hand, it’s an engineering marvel. No matter how many times I’ve been here, the sheer size and scope never ceases to amaze. You could examine this place through almost any lens—logistics, architecture, technology, art, human organization—and come away with a sense of awe.
From a logistical standpoint alone, it’s hard to comprehend what it takes to keep this city running. The infrastructure required to support a population that never sleeps are staggering. Behind every meal served, every room cleaned, and every flashing marquee, there are layers of coordination—hundreds of thousands of people doing their jobs so seamlessly that most visitors never give it a second thought.
From a technology standpoint, it’s almost surprising that it works at all. The electricity demands alone are immense. Entire systems exist solely to move fresh air through massive indoor spaces. Laundry operations run at an industrial scale. Food must be trucked in at a rate that rivals most armies. The systems in place for waste removal alone carries a complexity that few will ever pause to appreciate. And all the while, enormous flows of people move between buildings, shows, restaurants, and events with a coordination that feels almost effortless on the surface.
Architecturally, the buildings feel almost unreal. Walking through places like the Luxor, I often stop just to take in the scale. Vast interior spaces stretch farther than seems possible, designed so you can walk and walk and still feel like you’ve barely scratched the surface. It reminds me of that moment in Gladiator when Juba looks at Rome and says, “I didn’t know man could build such things.” These aren’t just buildings—they’re self-contained environments, entire cities engineered to churn away within a larger city.
In many ways, Las Vegas stands as a testament to human cooperation and capability—what we can accomplish when engineering, design, labor, and organization align. Every type of food, entertainment, trinket, and experience is there for consumption, at a scale that is hard to even conceptualize. “It’s Babylon”, observes my friend, Jeff.
Indeed, this scale comes at a price. Lurking behind the veneer of the themed hotels, something else is evident. There is much more being sold here than a meal or a stay in a luxury suite. This city sells possibility. It tells you that you can be anyone, that you can have anything, that you’re just one lucky break away from something life-changing. Inside the casinos, you see endless people pulling levers and pressing buttons on machines engineered to keep dopamine flowing. But the promised payoff almost never comes. The illusion is carefully maintained, and amidst the flashing lights, the same well thought out infrastructure that caters to your needs also plots to quietly take more than it gives.
Walking toward the Venetian today towards my convention, I passed block after block filled with homeless people. One woman in particular caught my attention. She appeared to be in her early to mid-40s, pretty, and physically not all that different from women I see every week at church back home in Idaho. In a different life she could have been my neighbor. But here, her clothes were worn, her face dirty, and her posture alone suggested how narrow her prospects had become. There could be entire books written on this, but a harsh truth is undeniable: This city leaves many people behind.
Perhaps she was consumed by the constant presence of excess. The smell of marijuana lingers everywhere. People openly hand out pornography and advertise prostitution. Every appetite has a vendor, and nothing here seems designed to say “enough.” Moderation is foolishness in a place like this. Did this place simply consume her?
As a Christian, it would be easy to simply condemn all of this—and in truth, much of it should trouble us. This place is called “Sin City” for good reason. But I’m reminded of something deeper: I will never pass a single person who doesn’t matter to God. Not the tourist chasing a feeling. Not the gambler clinging to hope. Not the young woman looking for fame, who later may become the woman sitting on the sidewalk with everything stripped away. Every person here bears the image of God, each with their own fears, longings, wounds, talents, and stories.
That realization tempers judgment with humility. It’s easy to talk about what a city should be in the abstract. It’s much harder to look at real people and remember that Christ did not come for systems, skylines, or spectacles—but for souls. He met people where they were, not where they should have been. That’s why I have trouble outright condemning it.
In that way, Las Vegas feels less like an anomaly and more like a mirror. It reflects our achievements and ambitions, but also our insecurities, our appetites, and our tendency to look for meaning in places that can’t sustain it. It shows us what happens when desire is amplified, when “more” is always available, and when nothing is allowed to say “enough.” It reveals to me my own desires.
This city brings about the realization that the same duality exists in our own lives. We are capable of building extraordinary things, and we are just as capable of letting those things shape us in ways we never intended. Las Vegas simply illuminates that truth under brighter lights than most places dare to use.
Soon I will leave here, perhaps with the quiet reminder it offers: not just to marvel at what we can build, but to ask what we are building our lives upon—and whether it will ultimately give back what it promises.