Category: Gospel
What Christmas says to tyrants
As we come to the end of 2025, peace feels hard to find. We are surrounded by news of barbaric terrorism once again — most recently in Australia — erupting in violent displays of prideful, ethnic hatred. We watch regional wars grind on, prolonged by an implacable tyrant bent on self-glorification and the expansion of his own wealth and power.
At such a time, it is good to remember that 2,000 years ago, a child was born for whom there was no room at the inn — a child laid instead in a stable because there was nowhere else to go. Jesus spent his childhood in the simplest of households and his adulthood accounting for every penny, for the life of a carpenter brought little money.
Let us set aside the calamities of the world, if only for a moment, and celebrate the birth of the most extraordinary child ever born — the one who offers eternal love and shelter from the storm.
When Jesus left his home to serve the world, his life became unlike that of the foxes, who have dens, or the birds, who have nests. The Son of Man had no place to lay his head. He rejected the paths of wealth, power, and pride, choosing instead humility, love, and suffering.
His ministry began when he read from the prophet Isaiah: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor.” That good news was revolutionary. God was not, as the Greeks imagined, a distant and uncaring master of abstractions. Nor was he, as many expected, a cold and exacting judge.
The good news was that God is filled with love for humanity — and that was cause for celebration.
So Jesus’ first miracle was not an act of conquest or condemnation, but joy: the transformation of water into wine at a wedding in Cana.
When Jesus chose his companions, he chose people like himself — humble, ordinary, and yet extraordinary. He welcomed women into his ministry, from his mother Mary to Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Susanna, and many others, treating their womanhood as sacred. As F.R. Maltby observed, Jesus promised his followers three things: that they would be completely fearless, absurdly happy, and in constant trouble. Wherever they went, they brought hope, kindness, and cheer, and when Jesus spoke, his words carried the breath of heaven.
Jesus welcomed everyone he encountered — Jews and Romans, Greeks and Samaritans. He spoke with rabbis, tax collectors, and sinners alike. But he devoted his deepest attention to those who suffered: the blind, the deaf, the lame, the lepers. He touched those no one else would touch and loved those no one else would love.
When disciples of John the Baptist asked who he was, Jesus answered simply: “Tell John what you have seen and heard: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them” (Luke 7:22).
Even more radical was his teaching. “Love your enemies,” he said. “Bless those who curse you. Do good to those who hate you. Pray for those who mistreat you. As you would have others treat you, so must you treat them.”
And above all: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your strength, and with all your mind, and your neighbor as yourself” (Luke 10:27).
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Jesus taught through parables, stories anyone could understand. Perhaps the most famous is that of the prodigal son — a young man who squandered his inheritance on gambling, drink, and excess, only to be welcomed home with celebration rather than condemnation. Jesus explained it this way: “If a man has a hundred sheep, and one of them has gone astray, does he not leave the ninety-nine on the mountains and go in search of the one that went astray?” (Matthew 18:12).
God, in his love, was searching for a lost humanity, and Jesus was the shepherd sent to bring it home.
When the Pharisees asked when the kingdom of God would come, Jesus answered, “The kingdom of God is within you” (Luke 17:21). It is entered freely — not by force, not by empire, not by the power of Caesar. There exists a realm where Caesar’s writ does not run, a domain belonging wholly to God.
To bring us into that kingdom of peace, Christ endured the cross — the only place on earth that finally made room for one so profoundly good.
Before he departed, he instructed his apostles to greet every home with a prayer for peace — a peace available only in the kingdom he builds within each of us.
So let us set aside the calamities of the world, if only for a moment, and celebrate the birth of the most extraordinary child ever born — the one who offers eternal love and shelter from the storm.
Merry Christmas.
‘Chatbot Jesus’ is a digital fake — and churches are falling for it
Artificial intelligence now offers “Chatbot Jesus,” personalized prayers, AI-generated sermons, and even virtual pastors charging monthly fees. Some see these tools as a lifeline for shrinking congregations. Others claim they offer new ways to evangelize.
The church must speak plainly: We are not called to relevance. We are called to righteousness. Scripture commands believers to “test all things; hold fast what is good.”
People are not abandoning faith because the church lacks modern technology. They are leaving because they are starving for truth in an age of deception.
Technology itself is neither holy nor wicked. The printing press, radio, livestreaming, and Bible apps have all served ministry. AI that organizes calendars, translates languages, or answers simple questions is just another tool.
Crossing a biblical line
Trouble begins when technology imitates divinity. An app that invites people to “talk with Jesus” steps into territory Scripture reserves for the living God alone. Jesus said, “My sheep hear My voice” (John 10:27). Only the Lord speaks with the authority of Matthew 24:35: “Heaven and earth will pass away, but My words will by no means pass away.”
No chatbot can make that claim.
The danger becomes obvious when apps offer simulated “conversations” with Judas or Satan. God forbids consulting spirits, mediums, or conjured voices (Leviticus 19:31; Deuteronomy 18:10-12). Why would the church encourage digital re-creations of what Scripture calls an abomination?
Convenience or relevance cannot override explicit biblical commands.
You can’t outsource the Holy Spirit
Some pastors now admit they use AI to help write sermons. Others market “avatar” versions of themselves. But ministry has never centered on polished prose. It has always centered on God’s power — His breath, His Spirit, His Word.
Paul wrote, “My message and my preaching were not with wise and persuasive words, but with a demonstration of the Spirit’s power” (1 Corinthians 2:4).
You cannot automate the power of God. You cannot outsource the voice of the Holy Spirit. You cannot download anointing.
A sermon is not literary content to be refined by software. It must be birthed in prayer, wrestled through in Scripture, and delivered in obedience. As Jesus said, “Apart from Me you can do nothing” (John 15:5). That includes preaching.
Tech won’t save us
Axios reported that up to 15,000 churches may close this year and that 29% of Americans now claim no religion. That trend calls for actual spiritual renewal, not AI simulations of Jesus.
People are not abandoning faith because the church lacks modern technology. They are leaving because they are starving for truth in an age of deception. The early church grew because believers “continued steadfastly in the apostles’ doctrine and fellowship … and fear came upon every soul” (Acts 2:42-43). They witnessed repentance, signs, wonders, and transformation — none of which machines can produce.
True revival begins where the early church began: holiness, unity, prayer, obedience, and the power of the Holy Spirit.
A distortion of Christ
False voices proclaiming truth are not new. The only novelty is that they are now automated. The central danger of “AI spirituality” is doctrinal corruption. What sources shape these chatbots? What ideology trains them? If systems learn from shallow teaching or progressive theology divorced from Scripture, they will preach a distorted Christ.
When AI “hallucinates” — and all current systems do — it can hand users outright lies.
Jesus warned, “Beware of false prophets … you will know them by their fruits” (Matthew 7:15-16). Paul warned that if anyone preaches “any other gospel … let him be accursed” (Galatians 1:8). From Genesis onward, the devil has counterfeited God’s voice. AI can and will preach an “other gospel” if it draws from anything other than Scripture.
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Believers must remain discerning. “Do not be deceived” (1 Corinthians 15:33). “Beware lest anyone cheat you through philosophy and empty deceit” (Colossians 2:8). Those who build their faith on machine-generated counsel risk building a house on sand rather than the Rock (Matthew 7:24-27).
A servant, not a shepherd
Tools can organize schedules and streamline communication. They can assist brainstorming. But preaching, prayer, prophecy, discipleship, deliverance, and counsel belong to the life of the Spirit — not the cold logic of machines.
Technology must remain a servant. It must never become a shepherd. Only the good shepherd, Jesus Christ, leads His people.
Jesus said, “I am the door of the sheep,” “I am the good shepherd,” and “I lay down My life for the sheep” (John 10). No AI pastor and no “Chatbot Jesus” can claim any of that.
Revival will not come from faster processors or stronger large language models. It will come when God’s people “humble themselves,” pray, seek His face, and turn from their wicked ways (2 Chronicles 7:14).
The world does not need a digital imitation of Jesus. It needs the real Jesus — the one who, as Hebrews 13:8 tells us, “is the same yesterday, today, and forever.”
The grace our cruel culture can’t understand
A friend of mine, Tessa, spent her teenage years aboard a 71-foot sailing yacht with her family, a vessel that demanded real seamanship. Long before GPS, her father read the stars, charts, and maps with the precision of a seasoned navigator, steady with a sextant and calm in a storm.
Life aboard that yacht was demanding but wonderful. The family and small crew sailed from port to port, creating memories that lasted a lifetime. Her father handled the galley as confidently as the sails. Every meal bore his touch in equal parts skill, joy, and flair.
‘Stay. I’ll teach you.’ Those words are the melody of mercy and the quiet assurance that keep weary caregivers from giving up.
After many months, he decided to bring another hand on board to help with the sailing and cooking. While docked in the south of France, Tessa met a young man living alone on a boat in dry dock. He was surviving on oatmeal and sharing it with a cat. Something about him stirred her compassion, and when she learned he had sailing experience, she introduced him to her father.
Seeing potential, the captain asked a simple question.
“Can you cook?”
“Sure, I can cook,” the young man replied.
To find out, the captain assigned him a meal for the family: pork chops, potatoes, and vegetables. When the food was served, everyone quickly realized the truth. The meal was so bad that they threw it overboard.
The family and crew sat silently, watching to see what the captain would do. He had every right to send the young man away — throw him overboard like the meal. But he did not.
He smiled. “Stay,” he said. “I’ll teach you.”
And he did.
That moment changed the young man’s life. From then on, he learned from the master day after day in the ship’s galley. When his time with the family ended, he carried a letter of recommendation that earned him a position in a fine restaurant. Years later, he managed a marina, bought one, and built a good life — all because one man refused to throw him overboard.
I already knew Tessa’s father, so hearing that story from her carried special meaning. I could picture the scene, the tension in that little galley, the expectant faces, the quiet pause before the verdict. But what the captain did was more than kindness; it was redemption. He saw failure, yet chose to restore and teach.
What a great picture of the gospel.
Christ finds us floundering in our own sin. We may bluff our way on board, convinced we can handle life. But when the Master steps into view, our self-made confidence collapses.
And here is the wonder: the Redeemer does not leave us in shame. He saves us, then teaches us.
That order matters. Salvation first, sanctification after. We are not accepted because we can learn; we are taught because we’ve been accepted.
That is grace. And it’s also the heart of many caregivers’ journeys.
Most caregivers never planned this voyage. Some of us bluff our way on board, thinking we’ve got this figured out. Others climb aboard unaware of how poor our skills really are. But it doesn’t take long to find out — we come up short.
We think we can “cook” until the storm hits, a diagnosis, a disability, an accident, and we realize we’re in over our heads. The meals we serve, our best efforts, often come out burned and bitter.
But Christ, the steady Captain, doesn’t throw us overboard. He teaches us, patiently and personally, in the galley of daily struggle.
C.S. Lewis once observed that God is not content to leave us as we are; He is shaping us into something far better than we imagined. That shaping often happens in the quiet, ordinary places where so many caregivers live.
Some of His lessons come softly: how to sit in silence beside a hospital bed, how to pray when words run dry, how to rest even when sleep won’t come. Others are harder, such as learning to forgive those who don’t understand or to accept help when pride tells us to refuse.
Over time, we learn, not because we are gifted, but because He is faithful.
Every caregiver I know can point to moments when someone showed them that same mercy: a nurse who stayed late to explain a procedure, a pastor who listened instead of lectured, a spouse who forgave a sharp word. Each of them reflected the Redeemer’s voice: “Stay. I’ll teach you.”
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Tessa’s father not only knew his way around his ship’s galley; he knew his way around any kitchen. His name is Graham Kerr, and the world knew him as “The Galloping Gourmet.”
But this story isn’t about fame or food. It’s about redemption that becomes instruction — grace that saves, then sanctifies.
Christ does that with us. He is not merely a teacher or navigator; He is the One who walks on water and calms the seas. He doesn’t choose us for our skill; He redeems us for His glory. And He doesn’t give up when we burn the meal.
For family caregivers, that’s good news. We don’t have to be perfect; we only have to stay aboard.
“Stay. I’ll teach you.”
Those words are the melody of mercy and the quiet assurance that keep weary caregivers from giving up. Under the Master’s hand, even our failures serve His purpose.
You can’t follow Jesus and despise the people who brought us Jesus
America suffers from more than political unrest. We are in a spiritual drought — a values famine so deep that even the conservative movement, once grounded in virtue, now splinters under the weight of ego and bitterness. Too many voices compete for authority on the right, but too few echo the one voice that matters: God’s.
This isn’t about pundits or personalities. It’s about the soul of our movement and the substance of our faith. Somewhere along the way, many conservatives forgot a truth written plainly in Scripture: It is Christian to love and support the Jewish people.
If we can’t love our spiritual cousins — the people through whom our faith was born — what are we even defending? What good is a ‘Christian’ movement that forgets the Christian part?
When Jesus was asked which commandment was greatest, He didn’t hedge: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments” (Matthew 22:37–40).
Two commandments. No asterisks, no exemptions for those who worship differently or descend from another people. Jesus didn’t love selectively. He loved sacrificially.
The roots of the faith — and the movement
Conservatism, at its best, has always drawn strength from virtue — faith, family, freedom, and responsibility. Yet we’re watching parts of the movement trade virtue for venom. Courage has been confused with cruelty, boldness with bitterness, and orthodoxy with outrage.
That confusion has allowed an old poison to re-emerge: open hostility toward Jews and Israel. It comes disguised in respectable terms like “nationalism,” “authentic Christianity,” or “anti-globalism.” But strip away the labels and you find something that bears no resemblance to Christ.
Scripture leaves no doubt: “I will bless those who bless you, and whoever curses you I will curse” (Genesis 12:3). That was God’s covenant with Abraham — the father of Israel and of faith itself. You cannot claim to follow the God of Abraham while despising Abraham’s descendants.
Christian Zionism isn’t a modern political fad. It’s the natural outflow of biblical belief. The early church didn’t view itself apart from Israel; it saw itself grafted into the same vine. “Do not consider yourself to be superior to those other branches,” Paul wrote. “If you do, consider this: You do not support the root, but the root supports you” (Romans 11:18).
Jesus was born a Jew, lived as a Jew, and died under a sign that read “King of the Jews.” The apostles were Jewish. The first believers were Jewish. The Old Testament — the foundation of Christian morality — was written by Jews. To despise the Jewish people is to despise the very tree that bore the Savior.
Love commands courage
Christ’s command in John 13:34 is unmistakable: “Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.” If we can’t love our spiritual cousins — the people through whom our faith was born — what are we even defending? What good is a “Christian” movement that forgets the Christian part?
The world starves for grace. Our culture feasts on outrage, cynicism, and suspicion. The church’s mission — and the conservative movement’s moral responsibility — is not to mirror that chaos but to model something better.
We talk about “saving America,” but no nation can be saved if it forgets how to love its neighbor. America’s founders drew moral strength from Scripture because they understood that the deepest revolutions begin not in politics but in the human heart.
Jesus didn’t build walls between people — He built bridges to their hearts. He dined with tax collectors, healed Roman soldiers, and forgave His executioners. He chose compassion over contempt.
When He met the Samaritan woman at the well, He didn’t belittle her faith — He offered her living water. When Christ told the parable of the Good Samaritan, He made the hero an outsider despised by His own people. Love, He showed us, knows no boundary.
If Jesus could forgive the people who nailed Him to a cross, surely we can love the people through whom God gave us His Son.
Truth without love is just noise
Love does not mean silence. The same Jesus who preached mercy also overturned the tables of corruption. Scripture commands believers to “have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them” (Ephesians 5:11).
Today a dangerous strain cloaks hatred in holiness. It mistakes cruelty for conviction and turns “truth-telling” into a license to dehumanize. But righteousness without love is rebellion, not faith.
Standing against that spirit isn’t weakness. It’s obedience. Jesus rebuked the Pharisees for pride and hypocrisy, warning that “many will say to Me on that day, ‘Lord, Lord,’ … Then I will tell them plainly, ‘I never knew you’” (Matthew 7:22–23). Faith without love is empty. Theology without mercy is just noise.
A call back to first principles
We are not only in a culture war; we are in a crisis of the soul. Civility has been replaced by performance. Grace by grudges. Authenticity by algorithms. Too many of our debates aim to win arguments rather than save souls.
Differences are inevitable. Divisions are a choice. We can disagree passionately and still love deeply. That is the mark of maturity — and the essence of Christianity. “If you love those who love you, what reward will you get?” Jesus asked in Matthew 5:46. Real love begins where comfort ends.
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The conservative movement must decide: Will we reflect Christ or merely invoke His name when it’s convenient? Will we unite around truth or fracture around pride? Anti-Jewish rhetoric isn’t just politically foolish — it’s spiritually corrosive.
It isn’t “based.” It’s blasphemous.
Winston Churchill once said, “We make a living by what we get. We make a life by what we give.” What we need now are not louder voices but larger hearts. Not more outrage, but more grace. Not more warriors in the comments section, but more witnesses in the world.
It’s time to return to first principles: Love God. Love your neighbor. Those two commandments are enough to heal a movement — and maybe even a nation.
The next time someone claims to speak for Christianity while spewing hate, open your Bible. The truth is written in red.
Jesus didn’t call us to divide. He called us to love. And love, real love, always points back to the cross — and to the people through whom God brought the Savior of the world.
The poisoned stream of culture is flowing through our churches
On most days, the creek that runs behind our home in Montana looks like something out of a painting. The water tumbles over slick stones, swirls beneath the wooden bridge, and flashes like glass in the sunlight as it winds through the trees.
On hot afternoons, I take off my boots and stand in it awhile, letting the cold mountain water swirl around my feet. Even in August, it stays clear and shockingly cold — refreshing on hot, dusty feet. It looks so pure and inviting that you’d think you could cup your hands and drink from it.
The world’s water might soothe for a moment, but it can’t sustain. Only Christ, the living water, can cleanse, restore, and refresh a parched heart.
Yet I know better.
While helping a rancher move some cattle across the property, a few of them wandered down into that same creek. They lingered there, swishing tails and doing what cows do. The water still looked clear from a distance, but you certainly wouldn’t drink from it. Even a Supreme Court justice wouldn’t need a biologist to figure that out.
The water in that creek started high in the mountains, clean and cold. It was once pure, but animals do what animals do. People, though, take it further. We pollute on purpose. That’s not instinct; that’s sin.
We talk about free will, and we have it. But left to ourselves, we use it to wreck what was good. The culture isn’t just wandering into the water; it’s content to poison it, and sinners seem to care less about a polluted stream than cows do.
Downstream from belief
We’ve all heard that politics flows downstream from culture. But if you trace that current far enough, you’ll find that culture flows downstream from belief. Whatever people worship, they eventually legislate into law.
Today, we have ceased worshipping God. Instead, we bow before slogans, systems, and grievances that mollify us rather than giving worship to the one to whom it is due. From a distance, it all looks good — flowing with energy, language, and even a sense of virtue. But somewhere upstream, something has wandered into the water — or been poured into it.
Too often, the church is wading downstream, cup in hand, trying to stay “relevant” while drinking what has already been polluted. The poison is sin itself, the moral waste of self-worship that seeps in until it becomes part of the current.
When the church starts drinking downstream, the songs continue, the sermons sound familiar, and the branding shines. But the taste changes. Conviction weakens, holiness becomes optional, and relevance becomes everything. We echo the world’s vocabulary of identity and justice without the foundation of repentance and redemption. The message gets muddied, and we don’t even notice the shift.
And when that happens, the thirstiest suffer first. Those are the ones who come to church desperate for something real.
What really sticks
I’ve spent 40 years as a caregiver, and I’ve learned what real thirst feels like. When you’ve poured yourself out for years, almost any water looks good. You pray for strength, for truth, for something steady, and too often what comes back sounds like marketing. You sit in church and hear, “Claim your victory,” “Speak life,” or, “Step into your blessing,” and you wonder if anyone sees the wreckage you live with. Then, from another pulpit, you hear, “God understands,” “It’s not that bad,” or, “Everyone struggles.”
It sounds compassionate, but it isn’t. It’s corrosion.
The first slick of contamination began with the serpent questioning the Word of God, and all too many pulpits echo that same hiss today. They downplay sin, soften the edges, and serve up messages that keep people comfortable yet captive. They offer sympathy instead of repentance. That’s not grace; that’s decay.
Ornate and large pulpits don’t necessarily mean clean water. Visibility isn’t the same as vision. The purity of the message isn’t measured by the size of the platform of the one delivering it but by how faithfully it points upstream to Christ Himself.
Truth, the real kind, usually starts with one hard word: repent. It’s upstream, and it’s not easy to get there. But that’s where the water runs clean. Downstream, you’ll only find a little contamination, a little compromise, a little manure, and just enough to make you sick.
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I’ve tested the various platitudes and slogans in the emergency room, ICU, and dark watches of the night more times than I can count. None of them hold up.
Here’s what does.
Only one water stays pure no matter who steps in it. It’s the same water that met a Samaritan woman at a well. It’s the same water Isaiah promised when he wrote, “With joy you will draw water from the wells of salvation.” That’s the invitation — not just to the church, but to every soul that’s dry and staggering: Walk upstream.
Go upstream
When we drink deeply from that pure spring, holiness stops feeling like a burden and starts feeling like oxygen. It gives clarity instead of confusion, courage instead of compromise.
That’s the call to the church and to every weary heart. Don’t drink what the world has trampled. Don’t settle for water that only looks clean from a distance. Polluted streams can’t quench the thirst of thirsty people.
The world’s water might soothe for a moment, even cool our weary feet, but it can’t sustain us. Only Christ, the living water, can cleanse, restore, and refresh a parched heart.
So go upstream. The source is still pure, and it’s still flowing.
Why Christians should stop running scared from Halloween
As October comes to a close, “spooky season” is in full form. Stores are packed with Halloween candy, costumes, and decorations.
Some Christians reject Halloween as synonymous with evil. But why is that? And what is the best way for Christians to respond to Halloween?
Make no mistake: Every day on the calendar belongs to God, and none of them belong to anyone else, including the devil.
How it started
The pagan Celts of ancient Ireland celebrated the new year on Nov. 1. So, much like we celebrate the night before New Year’s Day, they celebrated the night before (Oct. 31), too.
They called it “Samhain” — a night when they believed the dead in the form of ghosts could return to walk the earth. The Celts built huge bonfires, dressed in costumes to disguise themselves from the ghosts, and made lanterns out of gourds (like pumpkins, although they likely used different gourds). The fires attracted many insects, which attracted bats.
When the influence of the Catholic church began extending into pagan lands, sometimes the two cultures influenced each other. The Catholics celebrated All Saints’ Day on Nov. 1 — also known as “All Hallows Day” — which was an occasion to remember the dead, who are supposedly now in heaven.
So Samhain eventually came to be known as “All Hallow’s Eve” or Halloween. And the bats, ghosts, costumes, and jack-o-lanterns made of gourds — the trappings of Samhain — continued to be part of the celebration.
Trick-or-treat origin story
In medieval Britain, a practice called “souling” emerged, where the poor would go door-to-door on Nov. 1 or Nov. 2, offering prayers for the dead in exchange for food, often “soul cakes.”
In Scotland and Ireland, a parallel tradition called “guising” developed in which children and young adults disguised themselves in costumes or masks, supposedly to mimic or hide from wandering spirits, and went door-to-door performing songs, poems, or tricks in exchange for food, nuts, or coins.
The term “guising” comes from “disguise,” reflecting the costume element in modern trick-or-treating.
How it’s going
History is important. But so is understanding what is happening now.
In the U.S., Halloween is primarily about one thing: trick-or-treating. Kids love dressing up in costumes and getting free candy, which is why we start seeing Halloween candy displays about 10 minutes after school starts in the fall — if not earlier.
Trick-or-treating is, of course, driven by commercial candy manufacturers, who make a significant portion of their profit from Halloween-related sales of their highly processed, terrible-for-everyone, garbage candy, which is full of dyes and additives (save us, MAHA!). That’s an “evil” we don’t hear enough about.
But there are those who see evil in every Halloween nook and cranny. Those who proclaim it “Satan’s day” and a peak time for witchcraft and other evil doings. This seems to be based in great part on alleged comments from satanists and witches that I see posted on social media every October — comments thanking Christians for allowing their children to worship Satan one day a year by trick-or-treating.
That’s stupid. Why would we believe or listen to anything self-proclaimed devil worshippers say?
Make no mistake: Every day on the calendar belongs to God, and none of them belong to anyone else, including the devil. I don’t deny people could choose Oct. 31 in particular to celebrate evil. However, for the vast majority of Americans, Halloween is about strolling the neighborhood in costume and collecting candy.
What should Christian families do?
Our highest calling is to love God and love our neighbor. And Halloween brings those neighbors to our door, literally. What if we prayerfully and thoughtfully considered how we can bless those neighbors on Halloween with an eye toward building relationships?
I’m not talking about handing out Christian tracts instead of candy. Don’t be that person. But I am talking about eagerly seeking opportunities to connect with at least one if not more families in your neighborhood with whom you can begin to build relationships.
This, in fact, is why God has you where you live.
Let me tell you about what one family did for Halloween. They set up a pole tent in the driveway, hung lights from it, and under the tent placed their BBQ grill on which they cooked hot dogs. A table held buns and condiments, a bowl of Halloween candy, and jello shots for the adults. They publicized this on the neighborhood webpage a day or two before Halloween.
To be clear, they weren’t Christians seeking to love their neighbor. They were seeking to promote the father’s business. But how might we promote our heavenly father’s business similarly?
Here are some ideas:
- If you have access to one, a pole tent in the driveway with lights strung on it is very welcoming on a dark night!
- Grilling hotdogs is a good idea. Another might be a big crock-pot filled with chili, with paper cups and plastic spoons for serving.
- A hot drink station with cocoa, cider, tea, etc.
- Fresh-made pumpkin bread or oatmeal cookies in little treat bags as an alternative to commercial candy.
- Set out lawn chairs and invite people to sit down and rest for a moment — and if they do, introduce yourselves and get to know their family.
- Let your kids dress up and pass out the goodies. If you also allow your kids to trick-or-treat, one of you can hold down the fort while the other takes the kids around the neighborhood.
- Let people know a day or two ahead that you welcome them to come by and “sit a spell,” as the saying goes.
This will cost you time, effort, and money. But it’s a ministry investment in the lives of precious people God has placed in your neighborhood. You can’t love them if you don’t make an effort to know them, and you can’t know them if you never even meet them.
You could also just set out lawn chairs toward the end of the driveway where you will be able to actually see and converse with the adults as you pass out candy. Compliment the kids’ costumes. Ask the adults where they live in the ‘hood. They won’t linger long without a reason to stop at your house, but at least you’ll physically meet some of them.
A few do’s and don’ts, by way of suggestion
- DO wear a costume. Bible costumes are fun. So are a lot of others. Don’t be anything that will scare children. Don’t be a witch. Don’t be the devil (duh).
- DON’T hand out Christian literature that talks about how evil Halloween is. In fact, don’t hand out Christian literature. I heard someone say once that if you feel you absolutely must hand out some kind of Christian tract, you should be handing them out with full-size candy bars!
- DON’T make it all about your kids and their candy. Recruit them to be part of your family blessing the neighborhood, whatever you end up doing.
If you think Halloween is evil, don’t hunker down in your house with all the lights out. Unless you live somewhere with no trick-or-treaters, get out there and redeem it.
Halloween is an opportunity for your family to bless others and begin forging relationships with lost people in need of Jesus, all by being a good neighbor.
This article was adapted from an essay originally published on Diane Schrader’s Substack, She Speaks Truth.
