I don’t have to keep it a secret anymore! After long discussions with Robbie Davidson, I’m thrilled to be included in the third annual Flat Earth International Conference in Dallas, Texas. And I’ll be bringing the whole family too. As always, my objective isn’t one in which everyone needs to agree with my conclusions. Rather, I hope those who listen to my presentation can at least walk away saying, “Wow, I didn’t agree with everything Noel said, but I learned something!” Though I’m delighted to share a glimpse of my own research, I’m most excited to meet those of you who will be attending. I hope to get around and converse with as many of you as possible.

Just look for the middle-aged guy helplessly chasing his five year-old twin boys down through the hotel lobby. That’s me.

THIS PARTICULAR INTERVIEW WAS CONDUCTED in a 17th century barn in Normandy, France. It was the dark before the dawn. During the commercial break, I went on a bug killing spree. Meanwhile, Robbie Davidson was stuck on a flight, having spent the last several weeks in New Zealand due to passport issues, desperately hoping to touch ground and call in. My family hadn’t been in the country long.  I was somewhat disoriented and hungry for a conversation in English. As soon as our conversation was over, I’d wake the family and drive to Paris for the first time ever. Paris was on my mind. New Zealand and North America and everything in-between was on Robbie Davidson’s mind. And Pastor Nate Wolfe did a marvelous job of holding the pieces together. I thoroughly enjoyed this interview. Thanks for having me Wolfe and Davidson.

For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.

Matthew 12:34





I HAVE A CONFESSION TO MAKE. I’ve always wanted to be interviewed by Patricia Steere. Ever since coming over to the flat earth community in its toddler months, I’ve often fancied the inevitable invite that would never come. For the record, there is a high probability that somebody out there, notably a flat earthist, has only just now spit out their coffee and is pausing, without having yet read this far, to wipe off their screen with a napkin. I mean, generation of vaginas will go dry for penning this very article. That is what I was told, at least, when I had announced my intention to write it. Oh, haven’t you heard the news? It’s all over YouTube.

Patricia Steere has a penis.

Their weapons were ready, the mockers were trained, the prowlers were waiting.

Tom Gordon, Space Prison.





“ROB SKIBA IS THE DEVIL,” my friend said. Bunyan. For the remainder of this article, that’s what we’ll call him—Bunyan (though I don’t really suspect he’ll come into it often). And if I were to dial him up on the phone, the devil that is; then our friendship, Bunyan’s and mine, would come to an abrupt and immediate end. No more late night doctrinal discussions, bleeding our intellectual inquiries into one speaker and out another receiver while sipping on coffee, reciting Scripture verses. Rob Skiba may have been a flat earthist, just as Bunyan and I were, but that was non-circumstantial evidence at best. Rob Skiba enticed reprobate minds, and I listened in to the tune of the Pied Piper. GOODBYE. I was cooking dinner over the stove, parmesan chicken with Brussel sprouts, when he inscribed his warning in a private message, and my fingers shook. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard Bunyan describe Skiba in such dastardly terms, and so I knew he was serious.

Then again, Bunyan wasn’t the only one.

IF THERE WAS EVER A TIME AND PLACE to pick up a book, it was the 1960’s in Greenwich Village. Joe Taylor grew up on the Bible. His dad was a minister, and his grandfathers were deacons, the results of which garnished him with a thorough New and Old Testament education. And then one day in 1967, while paying the bills in New York City, he stumbled upon a book about giants. Joe Taylor had always known about giants, he said. But this—this was Biblical.

THIRTY THOUSAND YEARS AGO CRO-MAGNON MAN made the final move from our treetop origins to live in caves, and though we coldly refer to them today in bland stepping stone terms, seeing as how the barbecue wasn’t invented yet, even going so far as to name our granddaddy ancestors Homo erectus, thereby accrediting their only meaningful accomplishment to posture, they gave their children such intimate names as Krog and Thag. Blah, blah, blah…You know how the rest of the story goes. A murderous monkey-man beats Cain to the punch, where after he tosses a bone up into the sky and, with a little help from Nietzsche and Zarathustra, it becomes one of Stanley Kubrick’s space ships.

WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS. Moments before showtime our vacuum cleaner died, we discovered a nail in our truck tire, the air conditioner broke, and we had to evacuate our children to the living room for a camp out, once a dust bomb exploded upstairs. And we’re leaving for Europe in a couple of days. Regardless, I think we still managed alright in the end.