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.

Why Christians Should Celebrate Halloween

Christians believe in the resurrection of the dead. So why are we so worried about plastic skeletons?

Editor’s note | October 2026

I originally published this article in October 2025. Returning to it a year later, I’ve revisited the historical research, particularly my earlier assumptions about Samhain and Celtic spirituality. I’ve also developed the theological argument a little further. My position hasn’t changed much, although my understanding of the subject has.

When I was younger, my mum bought me a leather ankle bracelet from a market. I liked it, so I wore it. At the time, I belonged to a Christian community with a rather intense understanding of spiritual warfare. There seemed to be demons lurking behind almost everything. Certain books, music and even clothing were considered spiritually dangerous. Eventually, someone informed me that my ankle bracelet had a curse attached to it, something apparently discernible only to particular people within the group. I was told to cut it off, so I did.

I’ve written more about that experience in What Is Religious Trauma?, but I mention it because every October I’m reminded of that same way of thinking. Halloween arrives, and suddenly Christians are warning one another about pumpkins, costumes, ghosts and whatever else might invite demonic influence into our homes. Having spent part of my early Christian life worrying that ordinary objects could be spiritually dangerous, I find these conversations rather familiar. I understand that not everyone who avoids Halloween comes from that sort of background. Some have thoughtful theological objections, while others simply don’t enjoy it. Fair enough. But I can’t help finding it strange that Christians, who profess belief in the resurrection of Jesus and the ultimate defeat of death, can become so anxious about plastic skeletons hanging from someone’s veranda.

Halloween’s Complicated History

When I originally wrote this article, I was fascinated by Halloween’s connection to Samhain, the ancient Gaelic festival associated with the transition from summer into winter. You’ve probably heard the familiar story. Ancient Celts supposedly believed that the boundary between the living and the dead became thin at Samhain, allowing spirits to cross into our world. Eventually, the Church arrived, appropriated the festival and transformed it into All Hallows’ Eve. It’s a fascinating account, and I certainly found it appealing, particularly the idea of ancient communities gathering around fires, remembering their dead and reflecting on the changing seasons. Unfortunately, the historical evidence is considerably less straightforward.

Historian Ronald Hutton examines these claims in his 2024 article, The Celtic New Year and Feast of the Dead. Hutton traces much of our popular understanding of Samhain to nineteenth- and early twentieth-century scholarship, particularly the work of John Rhys and James Frazer. While Samhain was certainly an important seasonal festival, the evidence that ancient Celts regarded it as their New Year is inconclusive. The claim that it was primarily a festival dedicated to the dead is even less well supported. This doesn’t mean there were no supernatural traditions associated with Samhain. Medieval Irish literature certainly contains them, and some customs may preserve much older practices. But reconstructing what pre-Christian communities believed from material written down centuries later is notoriously difficult.

Nicholas Rogers offers a broader account in Halloween: From Pagan Ritual to Party Night, tracing Halloween’s development through Gaelic traditions, Christian observances, European folklore and eventually North American popular culture. The Christian history is worth exploring in its own right. Halloween takes its name from All Hallows’ Eve, the evening preceding All Saints’ Day on 1 November. All Souls’ Day follows on 2 November. These observances developed within Western Christianity as occasions for remembering the saints and the departed, although their particular histories and theological meanings differ.

I find this interesting because Christians can be remarkably selective about which cultural influences concern us. We participate in customs with complicated religious and secular histories all the time, regularly adopting and reinterpreting traditions without assuming their earliest associations determine their meaning forever. Yet when Halloween comes around, some Christians speak as though dressing up as a ghost is participating in an ancient spiritual practice. I’m not persuaded the connection is nearly that simple. Even if we could trace every Halloween custom back to its earliest beginnings, we’d still need to ask what people actually mean by participating in it today.

Death, Resurrection and Those Awful Skeletons

Paul describes death as the last enemy to be destroyed (1 Corinthians 15:26). I’ve always found that description striking, particularly because Christians sometimes speak about death as though it isn’t really an enemy at all. When somebody dies, we often reach for familiar words of comfort. They’re in a better place. We’ll see them again. God has a plan. I understand the desire to reassure people, but I’ve become increasingly uncomfortable with the way resurrection hope can sometimes be used to hurry people through grief.

Jesus doesn’t seem to do that. When he encounters Mary and Martha following the death of Lazarus, he weeps (John 11:35). He knows he’s about to raise Lazarus, yet he still enters the grief of those around him. Jesus knows death will not have the final word, but that knowledge doesn’t make their suffering insignificant. The Christian hope of resurrection has never required us to pretend death is anything other than terrible. It tears through relationships, families and communities, leaving absences that don’t simply disappear because somebody believes in eternal life.

In Easter Sunday: The Defeat of Death and the Birth of New Creation, I explored the Christian understanding of salvation as Christ’s victory over sin, death and the powers that hold creation captive. This understanding, often called Christus Victor, has become increasingly important to my theology. Hebrews 2:14–15 speaks of Christ liberating those who were enslaved by the fear of death. Through the incarnation, crucifixion and resurrection, God enters the reality of human mortality and confronts death from within. The God who created all things has entered the grave, and the grave could not hold him.

Now, I’m not suggesting that a cheap skeleton from Kmart should become a profound theological symbol. Sometimes a plastic skeleton is just a plastic skeleton. But Halloween does offer an opportunity to think about mortality in ways we otherwise tend to avoid. Ghost stories, graveyards and the various frightening things associated with the festival all draw, in different ways, on our fascination with death and the unknown. Modern Western culture can be strangely uncomfortable with death. We often keep it out of sight until it intrudes into our lives, then struggle to find language for what we’re experiencing. Christianity has spent centuries wrestling with mortality, suffering and resurrection. It seems rather unfortunate that our contribution to the conversation occasionally amounts to telling people not to put skeletons in their front gardens.

God Is Not Afraid of the Dark

Another part of my original article explored the Celtic Christian idea of thin places, those moments or locations where heaven and earth seem particularly close. I still like the expression, although its widespread use in contemporary Celtic spirituality shouldn’t be projected uncritically onto ancient Celtic Christianity. It captures something of my understanding of God’s relationship with creation. I don’t imagine God as distant from the physical world, occasionally reaching into it from somewhere else. Creation exists through God’s sustaining presence, and the ordinary material world can become a place where we encounter divine beauty and grace.

Psalm 139 speaks of a God for whom even darkness is not dark. Of course, darkness is also used metaphorically throughout Scripture to describe evil, ignorance and alienation from God. John’s Gospel makes considerable use of that imagery, but darkness itself isn’t evil. Night is part of the world God created. There’s also something amusing about Australians borrowing so much northern hemisphere autumn imagery for Halloween. While people in Britain are preparing for winter, we’re heading towards summer. Our own seasonal experience doesn’t quite match the symbolism, which is another reminder that cultural images can acquire different meanings as they travel.

The Christian story itself takes us into places far more unsettling than anything we’re likely to find in the Halloween aisle. Jesus is betrayed, arrested, tortured and crucified. His disciples are left with the apparent collapse of everything they had believed about him. I’ve become particularly interested in Holy Saturday, that uncomfortable period between crucifixion and resurrection when the disciples don’t yet know what Sunday will bring. I suspect Christians sometimes need to recover the ability to sit in that uncertainty. We can be so eager to announce the victory of resurrection that we forget how to accompany people who are still grieving on Saturday.

What Are We Actually Afraid Of?

I don’t think Christians should participate indiscriminately in everything associated with Halloween. Scripture takes idolatry and divination seriously. Attempting to summon spirits or seek supernatural power apart from God raises genuine theological concerns, and Christians have good reasons to approach such practices cautiously. But surely we can distinguish between participating in a religious ritual and dressing up as a fictional character. A child wearing a vampire costume isn’t necessarily engaging in the occult, watching a horror film isn’t the same activity as attempting to communicate with the dead, and handing out lollies doesn’t constitute an act of pagan worship.

Paul’s discussion of food associated with idols in 1 Corinthians 8–10 provides an interesting comparison. The early Christians lived in a world where pagan worship was thoroughly woven into ordinary social life. Meat might have been associated with temple sacrifice, and believers disagreed about whether eating it was acceptable. Paul’s response is more nuanced than simply declaring everything permissible or forbidden. He distinguishes between food that can be eaten without religious significance and participation in actual idolatrous worship. He also reminds believers that their freedom should be exercised with consideration for other people’s consciences. Romans 14 offers similar guidance concerning disputed practices and the observance of particular days. Neither passage is directly about Halloween, of course, but the principles seem relevant.

If you believe participating in Halloween would compromise your conscience, then don’t participate. I have no interest in pressuring people to celebrate something they believe they should avoid. What troubles me is when personal conviction becomes a declaration that everybody else is inviting demonic influence into their homes. I’ve lived with that sort of thinking. It gradually teaches you to become suspicious of the ordinary world, particularly of things you don’t understand. Eventually, almost anything can become a spiritual threat.

And while we’re discussing spiritual danger, I think the Church needs to be rather more discerning about where it directs its concern. I’ve encountered far more convincing evidence of spiritual harm in churches that manipulate, silence or abuse people than I ever have in children wearing Halloween costumes. Churches have sometimes been remarkably vocal about fictional witches while remaining disturbingly quiet about the misuse of spiritual authority within their own communities. That deserves considerably more attention than the decorations at Kmart.

Perhaps We Could Just Open the Door

One of the things I enjoy about Halloween is how ordinary it can be. Children wandering around in ridiculous costumes, families spending time together, and neighbours who might otherwise never speak having a conversation at the front door. I know some churches prefer to organise alternative events, and I’m not opposed to that. A well-organised community gathering can be a wonderful thing. I just wonder why our response to the wider culture so often involves creating somewhere separate for Christians to go.

We spend plenty of time talking about reaching our communities and building relationships with people outside the Church. Halloween brings those people to our doorsteps, and sometimes we seem determined to be somewhere else when they arrive. I don’t think we need a complicated strategy. Buy some chocolates, open the door, have a laugh with the kids about their costumes and get to know the neighbours. Perhaps resist the temptation to turn every interaction into an evangelistic opportunity. Jesus seemed quite comfortable spending time with people who didn’t share the religious convictions of those around him. His presence among them didn’t mean he approved of everything they believed or practised, but he wasn’t frightened of being around them. I’d like to think Christians could develop that same confidence.

There’s another dimension to Halloween worth considering. All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day provide Christians with opportunities to remember those who have died. Different traditions understand these occasions differently, particularly regarding prayer for the departed, but remembrance itself is an important part of Christian life. The Apostles’ Creed speaks of the communion of saints, a confession that reminds us the Church is much larger than the people gathered on any given Sunday. We belong to a history shaped by countless people whose lives, faith and love have influenced those who came after them. Some are people whose absence we still feel deeply.

Perhaps Halloween, considered alongside the Christian calendar, could become an occasion for remembering them. Lighting a candle, sharing a story, visiting a grave or simply allowing ourselves to miss someone without feeling that grief contradicts our faith. I wrote about something similar in Faith and Mental Health, Part Two: The Tenderness of Hope. Christian hope doesn’t require suffering to disappear before we can speak honestly about God’s goodness. I rather like the idea of Christians being able to enjoy the silliness of Halloween while also making room for the deeper questions about mortality sitting somewhere behind it.

Why I Still Think Christians Should Celebrate

Returning to this article a year later, I’m less interested in arguing that Halloween is an ancient Celtic Christian tradition. The evidence simply doesn’t warrant that conclusion. I’m also less concerned with making everything associated with Halloween secretly Christian. We don’t need to find theological meaning in every pumpkin or costume. What interests me is how we respond to a cultural celebration that brings death, fear, imagination and community into public view.

We believe that Christ has entered death and risen again. We believe the world belongs to God, that creation is being renewed and that death itself will eventually be destroyed. I struggle to understand why a faith with convictions like these should find Halloween so threatening. For some Christians, celebrating might mean remembering loved ones, attending an All Saints service or reflecting on the resurrection. For others, it might simply mean enjoying an evening with family and neighbours. I don’t see why those things need to compete, and if someone chooses not to participate, Christian freedom ought to make room for that too.

As for me, I think there’s something worth recovering in a Christianity that can take death seriously, live without being consumed by fear and still have enough room for a bit of fun. So if a child dressed as a skeleton comes knocking this Halloween, I’m rather inclined to give them some lollies. I don’t think there’s anything particularly demonic about that.


Further Reading