Advent: Maybe Christ Is Waiting For Us

Advent is usually described as a season of waiting.
Waiting for Christ.
Waiting for light.
Waiting for hope.
Waiting for God to draw near.

But I have begun to wonder if that might be the wrong way round. Because the more I sit with the story, the more I sit with Scripture, the more I sit with the strange and holy hunger of Advent, the more it feels like Christ is not the one who is slow.

Maybe Christ is already here. Maybe he has already arrived and keeps arriving.
Maybe the world is full of him and we simply have not caught up.

Maybe Advent is not waiting for God. Maybe Advent is God waiting for us.

The slow awakening of the human heart

When Paul tells the Ephesians to wake up from sleep so Christ will shine on them (Ephesians 5:14), he is not telling them to summon Christ from a distant place. He is urging them to open their eyes to a presence already at work. When Jesus says the kingdom is near and among you (Luke 17:21), he is not pointing to a future event on the horizon but to a reality already pressing against the surface of the world.

It is not that God has not come. It is that we have not yet learned how to see.

The Church has always spoken this way. The early fathers taught that the coming of Christ was not a moment locked in the past but a mystery that unfolds in every age. His birth is once for all, but his appearing keeps breaking open wherever hearts soften. Wherever we forgive (Matthew 6:14). Wherever we love without fear (1 John 4:18). Wherever the image of God in us pulls free from the dust (Genesis 1:26). Wherever humanity remembers what it was made to be. In these places Christ is born again.

This is not sentiment.
It is the pattern of salvation itself.

The God who is always arriving

We imagine Christ’s coming as if he moves and we sit still. But what if the deeper truth is that Christ moves in every direction at once and we are the ones struggling to move with him?

Advent hints at this.
The prophets speak of God drawing near (Isaiah 40:10), yes, but they also speak of people returning, lifting their heads, following the path back to the face of God (Isaiah 55:6–7). The story is mutual, relational, alive. James says draw near to God and he will draw near to you (James 4:8). Not as an ultimatum, but as the rhythm of communion. God moves. We move. God comes. We awaken.

Augustine once wrote that God is nearer to us than we are to ourselves. If that is true, then the Advent hope is not that Christ will one day close the gap. It is that He already has.

The long formation of the soul

Most of the time we do not see Christ clearly because we have not grown into the kind of humanity that can recognise him. He is not absent. We are unformed.

Like Israel in exile, we wait for freedom but carry the habits of captivity (Jeremiah 29:11–14). Like the disciples on the Emmaus road, we walk beside him but do not know his name (Luke 24:13–32). Like Mary in the garden, we think he is the gardener until he speaks (John 20:14–16).

Advent is the slow work of becoming attentive.
Advent is the discipline of desire becoming mature enough to discern God’s presence. Advent is the training of the eyes so that we can see the world as it truly is: full of God, held within God (Acts 17:28), moving towards God.

This is why the season emphasises repentance and preparation. Not because God is unwilling to come, but because receiving divine presence requires a heart that is being reshaped. The fathers said that God is always giving God’s self. The problem is not God’s giving. It is our capacity to receive.

Advent asks us to grow that capacity.

Christ in our midst

When Jesus promises that he will be with us always (Matthew 28:20), he is not speaking in metaphors. His presence fills creation and also dwells uniquely among his people. In the gathering of believers (Matthew 18:20), in the breaking of bread (Luke 24:30–31), in the quiet prayers whispered through tears (Romans 8:26), he is there. Not symbolically. Truly.

The Church is not the whole of his presence, but it is the place where his presence becomes visible, embodied, and communal. The early Christians called themselves the body of Christ (1 Corinthians 12:27) because they believed something profound: Christ continues his life in and through the community that bears his name.

In other words, he has already come. He keeps coming in the world.
He keeps coming in the Church. He keeps coming in the human heart.

Christ is not running late.
Christ is waiting for us to join him.

The goal of all things

Advent stretches our desire toward the future. Toward a world renewed. Toward a humanity restored. Toward creation set free from its groaning (Romans 8:19–22). Toward the final unveiling of Christ in all things (Colossians 1:27).

But even this future is not passive waiting. Paul says creation groans as in labour pains. Something is being born. Something is coming to term. God is drawing all things toward fullness (Ephesians 1.9–10), and Christ is the centre of that movement. Everything bends toward union. Everything bends toward restoration. Everything bends toward the One who holds all things together (Colossians 1:17).

The promise is not that Christ will eventually arrive.
The promise is that all creation will eventually open its eyes and be made new (2 Corinthians 5:17, Revelation 21:5).

The end is not Christ drawing near.
The end is us becoming able to recognise the One who has always been near.

Advent as invitation

So perhaps this is the quiet scandal of Advent. We wait for Christ. And Christ waits for us.

He waits for us to trust that God is near.
He waits for us to grow into the likeness he planted within us (2 Corinthians 3.18).
He waits for our vision to sharpen.
He waits for our love to deepen.
He waits for our courage to rise.
He waits for our wounds to be healed.
He waits for our communities to become homes of mercy and fire.
He waits for us to finally recognise that the world is not empty but saturated with his presence.

Advent is not the countdown to God’s arrival. It is the training of the human gaze and heart.

It is the season where Christ says, again and again:
I am here.
Catch up.
Grow.
Wake.
Become.
Step into the fullness I have already begun in you.

Maybe the question is not:
When will Christ come?

Maybe the question is:
When will we become the kind of people who can see that he’s already here dwelling among us?

“The Saviour has already come to dwell among us, and still we must awaken, for only those who learn to see him now will more easily know him in the age to come.”
St Athanasius, St Symeon the New Theologian

Becoming Men Again: A Theology and Philosophy of Manhood

There is a crisis beneath the noise. Beneath the podcasts, the influencers, the political crusades, and the cultural anxiety, there is a simple truth we rarely dare to admit: men no longer know who they are supposed to become.

Culture tells men to be either harmless or dominant.
The church tells men to behave.
Marketing tells men to consume.
Politics tells men to react.
And so men float between bravado and passivity, between swagger and numbness, between silence and anger.

But Scripture does not ask men to perform masculinity.
It calls men to become fully human, and that is far more demanding.

The biblical story begins not with stereotypes but with vocation. Genesis does not give Adam chest hair and a six pack. It hands him responsibility, presence, and the freedom to love.
“Be an image,” God says. “Reflect Me back to the world.”

Every vision of manhood that does not begin with imaging God is too small.

The Counterfeits We’ve Inherited

Much of what masquerades as masculinity today is insecurity wearing armour.
Richard Rohr bluntly observes that most men never leave their boyhood emotionally; they simply acquire “adult toys, adult addictions, and adult costumes.” They age, but they do not grow. They take on roles, but not initiation. They wield power, but not wisdom.

Robert Bly, in Iron John, says the modern world stole the rites of passage men once had. Without initiation, men are left “unparented,” wandering the world with unclaimed grief and an untamed inner life. They try to be men by instinct, imitation, or rebellion instead of transformation.

Gordon Dalbey warns the church has often been complicit. Instead of forming men into courageous, vulnerable, God-shaped humans, it has pushed them toward quiet compliance or performative strength. Men learn to hide their wounds and call it holiness. They learn to avoid sin instead of confronting their brokenness. They learn to serve the institution instead of listening for the voice of God.

And Walter Trobisch, writing decades ago, saw the fracture clearly: men try to find masculinity in sexuality, status, or control because they lack an inner identity rooted in Christ.

The result?
A generation of men strong in the wrong places and weak in the right ones.

The Biblical Shape of Manhood

Scripture forms men not through slogans but through story.
God does not give men a blueprint; He gives them encounters.

Adam must name and cultivate.
Abraham must leave and trust.
Moses must stand and intercede.
David must repent and learn to shepherd, not conquer.
Jeremiah must weep.
Joseph must endure the hidden years.
Peter must fail, break, and rise again.
Paul must unlearn power to embrace suffering love.

None of these men fit a cultural stereotype.
All of them are formed through responsibility, weakness, and divine presence.

Notice the pattern:

God does not build men through ease, applause, or self-expression.
He builds them through responsibility, sacrifice, and surrender.

This is the scandal.
This is why modern visions of masculinity fall apart.

Real masculinity is not the will to power; it is the will to give oneself away.

James K. A. Smith reminds us we become what we love and practice.
If a man loves comfort, he becomes soft.
If he loves dominance, he becomes violent.
If he loves applause, he becomes shallow.
If he loves God, he becomes like Christ.

And Christ is the truly human one.

Jesus and the Inversion of Male Power

Jesus does not abolish masculinity, He purifies it.

He is strong enough to sit with children.
Bold enough to confront injustice.
Tender enough to weep.
Courageous enough to be silent.
Secure enough to be misunderstood.
Steady enough to face death without vengeance.
Alive enough to rise without bitterness.

He shows men that authority is given for service. That strength is measured by restraint.
That courage is the ability to remain present in suffering.
That manhood is not dominance but devotion.

As N. T. Wright says, virtue is not instinct but habit, the shaping of character into Christlikeness. Jesus reveals that the true telos of manhood is not control but communion, not impressiveness but integrity.

The world either romanticises male strength or condemns it.
Jesus redeems it.

The Philosophical Crisis: When We Lost the Meaning of “Man”

Modern society has no unified definition of manhood because it has no unified definition of humanity. When there is no Creator, there is no design. When there is no design, there is no vocation. When there is no vocation, identity becomes performance.

The modern man is told to invent himself, then shamed when he chooses wrong.

In a disenchanted age, the male soul is unmoored.
Without teleology, masculinity fractures into absurdity.

Robert Bly saw this coming long before the cultural debates exploded. He warned that a man without initiation becomes spiritually thin, reacting rather than responding, consuming rather than creating.

Rohr argued the same: uninitiated men misuse power. Initiated men channel power toward blessing.

This is the prophetic word men need today:

Your identity is not self-generated.
It is received.
It is bestowed.
It is discovered in relationship with the God who formed you.

A man without God becomes a caricature.
A man in God becomes a vessel.

The Cost When Men Shrink

This is where the blog becomes uncomfortable.

Most of the pain in the world is carried by women and children when men refuse the call to grow.

When men choose comfort over courage, families bend under the pressure.
When men choose silence over confession, wounds deepen.
When men choose escape over presence, children learn to parent themselves.
When men choose control over love, communities fracture.
When men choose pride over repentance, churches rot.

Every abusive man was once a boy who learned that power is easier than humility.
Every emotionally absent man was once a boy who learned that numbness is safer than love.
Every angry man was once a boy who learned he was not allowed to cry.

The world bleeds when men shrink.

And the church bleeds when men hide.

The Way Forward: Initiation, Identity, and Surrender

Biblical masculinity is not an aesthetic.
Not a stereotype.
Not a political project.
Not a posture.

It is a journey of initiation.

Dalbey says a man becomes a man when he hears the true voice of the Father calling him “beloved” and “responsible.”
Trobisch says a man becomes a man when he learns self-mastery, not self-protection.
Rohr says a man becomes a man through suffering that breaks open the false self.
Bly says a man becomes a man when he faces the wild parts of his soul without fear.

And Scripture says a man becomes a man when he takes up his cross.

When he cultivates instead of consumes.
When he protects without dominating.
When he loves without demanding.
When he speaks truth without cruelty.
When he sacrifices without applause.
When he repents without shame.
When he stands, stays, and gives himself away.

This is not masculinity as performance.
This is masculinity as Christlike maturity.

Men are not called to be impressive.
Men are called to be present.
Men are not called to be invincible.
Men are called to be faithful.
Men are not called to be conquerors.
Men are called to be servants of resurrection.

The Invitation

International Men’s Day should not be a celebration of stereotypes.
It should be a summons.

A call for men to rise from passivity.
To unlearn dominance.
To confront themselves.
To seek healing.
To pursue God.
To become men who carry weight without crushing others.

Men do not need to reclaim power.
Men need to reclaim presence.

The world does not need louder men.
It needs deeper men.

Men who refuse to hide.
Men who listen before they speak.
Men who bless instead of break.
Men who take responsibility for the atmosphere they create.
Men who look like Jesus.

This is not the world’s masculinity.
This is not reactionary masculinity.
This is not churchy, polite masculinity.

This is reborn masculinity.

A Benediction for Men

May you be a man of quiet strength,
rooted in the love of Christ,
guided by His wisdom not fear.

May your courage be gentle
and your power used to heal.
May you carry compassion in your hands
and truth in your bones.

May the wounds you bear find mending,
and the wounds you’ve given find mercy.
May you walk with humility,
speak with kindness,
and live with holy wonder.

And as you go,
may Christ lead you,
steady you,
and shape you into a man who becomes whole.

The Way Back to Orthodoxy Is Through Beauty and Transcendence

If the first part was a diagnosis, this is the path home. If disenchantment thinned our faith, then beauty and transcendence are how God thickens it again. If the church drifted into quiet heresy by losing its wonder, then the way back to orthodoxy is through the restoration of awe.

We will not recover our depth through fear. We will not recover our life through better arguments. We will not recover our centre by defending the truth more loudly.

The world does not need louder Christians. It needs Christians who can see again.

The way back to orthodoxy is through beauty and transcendence. Not as decoration. Not as aesthetic sugar. But as revelation.

Because beauty does what argument alone cannot do.
Beauty wounds us with the presence of God. Beauty opens the heart where logic cannot enter. Beauty re-baptises the imagination and returns the world to its sacred density.

The early church knew this.
The mystics knew this.
The Celtic saints knew this.
The desert elders knew this.
Lewis and Tolkien knew this.
Dostoevsky reminds us that beauty will save the world.
Balthasar wrote millions of words insisting that the glory of God is the beauty of Christ.

And somewhere in our modern scramble for relevance, we forgot it.

Beauty Is Not Optional for Faith

Beauty is not a luxury. Beauty is a mode of truth. A lens. A form of perception through which the soul recognises the presence of God.

Alexander Schmemann in For the Life of the World argues that the world is meant to be a sacrament, a holy sign of divine life. Not a symbol, but a real participation in God.

Hans Balthasar, in his first volume of The Glory of the Lord, insists that beauty is the language in which God speaks creation into being. Beauty is not one of God’s hobbies. Beauty is what God is like.

Lewis, in The Weight of Glory, said that beauty wounds us because it awakens a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy. It whispers of another world, the real one, the one we ache toward.

Tolkien, in On Fairy Stories, said that beauty is “joy beyond the walls of the world,” the sudden rupture of grace in the mundane.

Beauty is the crack in the ceiling where transcendence shines through.

A faith without beauty becomes thin.
A church without beauty becomes functional.
A Christianity without beauty becomes a quiet heresy.

We were not meant to survive on abstract ideas.
We were meant to be pierced by splendour.

Transcendence Is Not Escape

Transcendence does not pull us out of the world. It returns us to the world with new eyes.

Mircea Eliade in The Sacred and the Profane said that transcendence gives the world depth. It does not remove us from reality but roots us more deeply in it. It breaks the illusion that matter is empty and reminds us that creation is a burning bush.

David Bentley Hart in The Experience of God says that transcendence is what gives the world its intelligibility, its weight, its mystery. Without transcendence, the world collapses into flatness, and faith collapses with it.

Transcendence is the awakening of the soul to the fact that the world is alive.

It is what the disciples felt when Christ broke the bread in Emmaus.
It is what Moses felt when the bush burned.
It is what Jacob felt when he woke and said, “Surely the Lord is in this place and I did not know it.”

Transcendence is not the departure of God. It is the discovery that God was here the whole time.

Re-enchantment Begins With Attention

The problem is not that God left.
The problem is that we stopped paying attention.

Evelyn Underhill in Mysticism said that the spiritual life begins with “the art of seeing.” Not with exotic visions, but with simple awareness. The slow opening of the inner eye.

Attention is prayer.
Attention is reverence.
Attention is the beginning of worship.

Simone Weil called attention “the purest form of generosity.”
The Psalms call it “beholding.”
Jesus called it “eyes to see.”

To re-enchant faith is to learn to pay attention again.

To the shimmer of light on water.
To the quiet dignity of bread on a table.
To the holiness of a sigh.
To the presence that fills the room in stillness.

This is transcendence in the ordinary.
This is sacrament.
This is the recovery of the world.

Why Beauty Heals the Church

Beauty heals because beauty unifies. It takes fragmented hearts and pulls them toward a single point. It gathers our desires and raises them toward God.

Beauty also humbles us. It pulls us out of our frantic self importance. It dethrones our obsession with control. It interrupts our strategies and reminds us that we are dust and glory at once.

Beauty also awakens longing.
Longing is the doorway to God.

Lewis argued that longing is the signature of God written inside the soul. Zahnd puts it simply: “Beauty calls us home.”

And beauty heals because beauty is truthful. It reveals what is real in a way that ideas alone cannot. It shows us what goodness looks like, not just what goodness means.

A church that returns to beauty returns to God.

Sacrament Is the Framework of Re-Enchantment

If beauty is the spark, sacrament is the structure.

Schmemann argued that the world is meant to be received as communion. Boersma in Heavenly Participation expands this idea: creation is sacramental because it participates in God’s being.

This means:

Water is not just water.
Bread is not just bread.
Wine is not just wine.
The world is not just itself.

Everything is charged with God.

This was the worldview of the early Christians. They saw the world as a vast cathedral and believed that every created thing carried the trace of its Maker.

We lost this.
But we can recover it.

Re-enchantment is not the invention of something new.
It is the restoration of something ancient.

The world was enchanted long before we arrived.
We simply need to wake up to it.

Beauty Re-Baptises the Imagination

Re enchantment requires the baptism of the imagination.

Lewis said imagination is “the organ of meaning.”
Tolkien said imagination is how we perceive truth through story.
Hart says imagination is the doorway to the infinite.

The modern church mistrusted imagination.
It became suspicious of anything that felt too mysterious, too beautiful, too creative.

But imagination is not the enemy of orthodoxy. Imagination is how orthodoxy becomes visible.

Imagination lets doctrine breathe.
Imagination lets theology sing.
Imagination lets Scripture open like a world instead of a manual.

To re-enchant faith is to re baptise the imagination in wonder.

Transcendence Makes Orthodoxy Alive Again

Orthodoxy is not a set of correct answers.
Orthodoxy is the right way of seeing God.

And we cannot see God rightly without transcendence.

Without transcendence, doctrines become slogans.
Without transcendence, worship becomes noise.
Without transcendence, mission becomes marketing.

Transcendence is what keeps orthodoxy from becoming brittle.
Beauty is what keeps orthodoxy from becoming cold.

Together they return orthodoxy to its true nature:
a living vision of the living God.

What Re Enchantment Looks Like in Practice

Re enchantment is not a new program. It is a posture.

It looks like:

Lighting a candle before prayer.
Receiving the Eucharist slowly.
Walking in silence at dusk.
Reading Scripture as a world rather than a text.
Blessing your children with real hands and real words.
Singing without watching the clock.
Naming beauty as revelation.
Letting awe interrupt your certainty.
Letting mystery be mystery.
Letting God be God.

It is not complicated.
It is simply a return to attention, reverence, and wonder.

The Church Will Be Healed by Beauty

We have tried everything else.

We tried being relevant.
We tried being impressive.
We tried being loud.
We tried being clever.
We tried being strategic.
We tried being modern.

None of it saved us.
None of it brought back awe.
None of it made the world thick again.

Beauty will.
Transcendence will.
The recovery of sacrament will.
The return of mystery will.

Because the soul was made for wonder.
And a church that cannot wonder cannot be orthodox.

The way back to orthodoxy is through beauty and transcendence.

Without Beauty the Church Drifts Into Quiet Heresy


Orthodoxy remained. Enchantment died.

This is the tragedy of the Western church. We kept the truth of the faith, but somehow lost the world that made that truth electric. We preserved our creeds but let go of the awe that once made them tremble with life. We defended the doctrines but abandoned the imagination that once knew how to kneel before mystery.

We defend what we believe with admirable resolve. Yet the rooms we gather in often feel thin, as if something essential slipped out the side door while we were busy guarding the front.

Christians today live in a church that is theologically sound yet spiritually hollow. The faith we inherited still stands tall, but the world around us has gone flat. Many of us feel the dissonance deep in our bones.

Charles Taylor gave us the word in A Secular Age.
Disenchantment.
And he was right.

The World Used To Be Alive

For most of Christian history, believers assumed the world was alive with God. Creation was a saturated place, humming with divine presence. Early Christians did not hear the Psalms describing rivers clapping or mountains singing and think it was poetic exaggeration. They believed creation participated in praise.

Mircea Eliade, in The Sacred and the Profane, describes this older imagination as a world structured by the sacred. People did not divide reality into spiritual versus natural. Everything was drenched in meaning.

Consider Augustine in Confessions, seeing God in every breath and heartbeat.
Think of Hildegard of Bingen in Scivias, watching creation erupt with the green fire of the Spirit.


Think of the Desert Fathers whose fragments in the Apophthegmata Patrum speak of a God found in silence, hunger, wind and sand.

Even Calvin, in the Institutes, called creation “the theatre of God’s glory.”

Somewhere along the way, we forgot this.

We did not lose God.
We lost the sense that God saturates reality.

The Age of the Flat World

Max Weber, in his lecture “Science as a Vocation,” spoke of the modern world as “disenchanted.” Everything became explainable. Predictable. Manageable. We stopped expecting the sacred to break in sideways.

Taylor expanded this diagnosis in A Secular Age, arguing that we now live inside an “immanent frame,” a mental world that assumes transcendence is distant. Even believers feel this pressure.

The Western church absorbed this frame quietly.

We still recite the creed on Sundays.
But we live Monday to Saturday as if God only operates inside our private prayer lives or church programs.

Orthodoxy remained.
But the enchanted world those doctrines were meant to inhabit collapsed into two dimensions.

The Loss of Awe

Evelyn Underhill saw the storm coming in Worship and later in Mysticism. She warned that the church was becoming “efficient but not deep,” organised but not alive, polished but not prayerful.

Look around. She was right.

We know how to run services. We know how to build teams. We know how to create streamlined worship. But awe – that tremble of spirit before the holy – has become rare.

Awe is not emotional excess.
Awe is what happens when a finite soul meets infinite presence.

When awe disappears, something essential dies.

The Concrete Consequence: A Hollow Faith

James K A Smith reminds us in Desiring the Kingdom and You Are What You Love that humans are shaped more by imagination and desire than by information. When the church becomes a place for ideas instead of encounters, we shrink souls without noticing.

David Bentley Hart in The Beauty of the Infinite argues that Christians have become “tourists in a world that used to belong to them.” He meant that our faith still stands, but our world feels colourless.

Many Christians believe the right things yet feel strangely untouched by them. They trust the doctrine but feel little life.

This is not scepticism.
This is dis enchantment.

How We Lost the World

There was no single disaster. Just a slow erosion.

Rationalism – Descartes and his heirs made ideas the centre of the Christian life.


Fear of superstition – Protestants and Catholics both cleaned their spiritual houses a bit too vigorously.


Technique – Eugene Peterson warned about this in The Contemplative Pastor. We replaced mystery with methods.


Professionalisation – Ministry became a career rather than a calling.


Systems over stories – We read Scripture like a manual instead of the world of God.
Imagination’s collapse – We forgot that truth is often seen before it is understood.

Hans Boersma in Heavenly Participation describes the pre modern world as a sacramental tapestry in which every created thing pointed beyond itself. Modern Christianity tore that tapestry apart and kept only doctrinal threads.

An Examined Faith That Forgot To Look Up

Taylor says modern people live with “cross pressure.” We feel the pull of transcendence while living inside a worldview that keeps the sacred at arm’s length.

Many Christians carry this inner ache. Their minds know God exists. But their world no longer feels alive with God.

Faith becomes technically correct yet practically thin.

Orthodoxy remains intact.
Enchantment fades.

The Tragedy Beneath the Surface

The early church did not survive by orthodoxy alone. It survived because people encountered God. They saw visions. They experienced miracles. They felt the Spirit as rushing wind. They took bread expecting Christ to be present. Acts was not ancient folklore. It was the shape of reality.

We inherited their creed but not their world.

Hart says in The Experience of God that modern Christians have reduced the infinite mystery of God to something manageable. Something tame.

The tragedy is not that God stopped speaking.
The tragedy is that we lost the capacity to hear.

A Crisis of Perception, Not Theology

This is not a doctrinal crisis.
This is a perceptual crisis.

We have the truth.
We have forgotten how to see the truth.

Boersma insists that Christians need a return to “sacramental ontology,” a way of perceiving the world that reveals God in the ordinary. In other words, reality must become transparent to grace again.

Our imaginations must be baptised.

The Ache That Remains

Yet the story does not end in the ruins. Beneath the thinness of Western faith there is still an ache. A longing. A stubborn rumour of transcendence.

Taylor calls it “the nova effect” – the sense that more is possible.


Lewis called it “joy” in Surprised by Joy.


Tolkien spoke of “the far off gleam” in his essay On Fairy Stories.


Underhill simply said it is “life.”

People are not leaving the church because they want less mystery.
They are leaving because they want more.

More presence.
More beauty.
More depth.
More world.
More God.

Disenchantment may describe our condition, but it is not our destiny. Something deep in us remembers the fire. Something in us knows the sacred can return.

And that is where the next blog will take us.

Charlie Kirk Wasn’t a Christian Martyr

Probably a political one…

When news spread that Charlie Kirk had died, the internet lit up. Some people grieved, others rejoiced, and many quickly called him a martyr for the faith. Within hours his name was being spoken with reverence, as though he had fallen in defence of Christianity itself.

But as I watched the commentaries roll across my feed, something in me felt unsettled. It was not about politics or even about Charlie Kirk as a person. It was about the word people kept using. Martyr.

That word means something sacred. And when it is used to crown someone who lived and died for political ideals, something in the heart of our faith begins to thin out.



What a Christian Martyr Really Is

In the earliest days of the Church, a martyr, from the Greek word martys, was not someone who died for an idea. A martyr was a witness. Someone who refused to stop proclaiming that Jesus Christ is Lord, even when it cost them their life.

Stephen, the first Christian martyr, was stoned to death because he would not renounce the gospel. His last words were not words of rage. They were words of forgiveness. “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.”

The early Christians understood that martyrdom was not about defending a system or a worldview. It was about bearing witness to a love that even death could not silence.

Tertullian once wrote, “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church.” He did not mean that violence or victory would build the kingdom. He meant that forgiveness and mercy would.

True martyrdom looks like Jesus. It is not about conquering. It is about giving. It is not about being right. It is about being faithful. When we call someone a Christian martyr, we are saying that their death revealed Christ’s love, that somehow in their dying, heaven’s light broke through the world’s darkness.

When Politics Demands What Religion Once Did

Modern politics is a jealous god. It borrows the language of faith such as devotion, sacrifice and loyalty, and twists them into tools for power.

And like all gods, it demands offerings. It demands martyrs.

When we drape the cross in the flag, we start to confuse the kingdom of God with the ambitions of nations. We start to name enemies where Christ has called us to name neighbours. We turn a symbol of love into a banner for war.

Charlie Kirk’s voice was bold. He stood for what he believed, and many saw that as courage. But faithfulness is not measured by volume or defiance. It is measured by love.

Jesus never told us to take up our rights and follow him. He said, “Take up your cross.”

The gospel does not spread through outrage or dominance. It moves quietly through mercy. The Church does not grow through victory. It grows through love that refuses to die.

A Political Martyr

If Charlie Kirk was a martyr, then he was a political one, a man who gave himself fully to a cause he believed in. There is something deeply human in that. We all long to stand for something bigger than ourselves.

But dying for a cause is not the same as dying for Christ.

To die for a cause is to defend an idea of what is good. To die for Christ is to surrender to the One who is good.

The difference might sound small, but it changes everything.

A political martyr dies fighting enemies. A Christian martyr dies loving them.

A political martyr defends power. A Christian martyr lays it down.

A political martyr hopes their death proves they were right. A Christian martyr hopes it proves that love is real.

When the language of politics takes over the Church, these differences fade. The gospel starts to sound like another campaign, another tribe trying to win. But the story of Jesus is not about winning. It is about dying and rising again. It is about the power of love that does not need to win to transform the world.

And that is what troubles me most. Not that Charlie Kirk died, but that so many Christians can no longer tell the difference between his death and Stephen’s.

The Hunger for Heroes

Maybe it is because we are desperate for heroes.

We scroll through chaos and want someone to believe in. Politicians turn into saviours. Preachers turn into politicians. And people crave clarity in a world that feels uncertain and divided.

It is easier to anoint a martyr for our side than to become a witness of Christ’s love.

But the call of Christ has never been about winning the culture war. It is about loving the world that crucifies us. It is about carrying the cross through the noise and trusting that resurrection still happens in small, hidden ways.

When we forget that, we turn the gospel into a slogan. We trade the mystery of grace for the certainty of outrage.

And maybe that is the deeper sorrow behind Charlie Kirk’s story. Not that one man lived or died in vain, but that so many have mistaken zeal for discipleship and anger for faithfulness.

A Better Witness

To say Charlie Kirk was not a Christian martyr is not to dishonour him. It is to remember what martyrdom truly means. It is to keep sacred what belongs to God and not give it to Caesar.

I grieve his death. I grieve the confusion that made it so easy to sanctify politics in the language of faith. I grieve that we have forgotten how to die without hating those who stand against us.

Perhaps his story can still lead us somewhere better, not toward more division but toward deeper reflection.

Because the world does not need more martyrs for movements. It needs witnesses to love.

It needs people who, when faced with darkness, choose forgiveness instead of fury. People who refuse to mistake power for holiness. People who, like the martyrs of old, live and die bearing the likeness of Christ.

The only martyrdom worth claiming is the one that looks like Jesus, the one that whispers mercy even as it bleeds.

If we can remember that, maybe we will stop crowning our politicians as saints and start learning again what holiness really looks like.