The bones start humming when the altar is active again. You feel it before you can explain it. A vibration under the ribs, an ancient pressure rising through the spine. Not outrage. Not politics. Something older. The kind of signal heaven sends when a generation is drifting toward the fire and the watchmen are asleep at their posts.

And everywhere you look, the same baffling quiet.

Legions of Christian creators, polished and eloquent, feeding their audiences a steady diet of “rest,” “reflection,” “gentleness,” “formation,” “gratitude.” Beautiful words. Harmless words. Words that slip through the algorithm like silk and require nothing from anyone, least of all the one speaking them.

But there is an altar burning in our cities, and they won’t name it.

That is the part I can’t unsee. The part that rattles the sternum. The part that makes the silence feel like a second crime.

Because abortion isn’t an unfortunate debate topic. It isn’t a “divisive issue.” It isn’t a matter of “nuance.” It is the oldest currency of empire. It is sacrifice. The same logic, the same gods, the same bargain: trade the future for the convenience of the present and call it liberation. And Babylon has always been thrilled to sign that contract.

So I look at these creators with thousands of followers and an endless stream of devotionals, and one question keeps hammering:

If you believe children are being killed, how can you stay quiet?

What kind of shepherd sees wolves enter the fold and decides the best response is a contemplative post about practicing gratitude? What kind of teacher avoids the central atrocity of their age to protect their brand? What kind of voice claims to guide the church while refusing to speak the one sentence that would cost them something?

It isn’t complicated. It’s structural.

Babylon trains creators to believe their platform is sacred. That reach is favor. That influence must never be risked. That silence, properly spiritualized, is wisdom. That comfort is virtue. And once that lie sinks in, the altar can glow white-hot and they won’t say a word.

Not because they don’t see it.
Because they don’t want to lose anything.

This is the part that burns: you cannot be a covenant voice while bowing to Babylon’s economics. You cannot speak for the vulnerable while protecting your image. You cannot claim prophetic authority while refusing the single truth that would cost you subscribers, partnerships, endorsements, respectability.

If you believed it was murder, you would speak.
So your silence testifies louder than your content ever will.

And where does that road lead?
To irrelevance.
Not cultural irrelevance.
Moral irrelevance.

You built a platform that never mattered. You tended your audience while ignoring the altar. You taught people to rest while children died. You wrote a thousand devotionals and not one sentence that confronted the one sin defining your generation.

When the story of this era is told, what will your legacy be?
“Consistent posting schedule. Solid engagement. No disruptions.”
A spotless record of saying nothing when it counted.

The rumble in the bones isn’t asking them to change anymore.
It’s asking you.

If you have fifty readers or five, write the sentence they refuse to write. Name the altar. Call abortion what it is. Plant your feet where they all refuse to stand. Let the backlash come. Let the numbers fall. Let the platforms shrink. Heaven keeps different metrics.

Some truths demand speech.
Some evils require confrontation.
Some moments expose who belongs to covenant and who belongs to comfort.

The rumble is the line being drawn.

You already know which side you’re on.

The bones start humming when the altar is active again. You feel it before you can explain it. A vibration under the ribs, an ancient pressure rising through the spine. Not outrage. Not politics. Something older. The kind of signal heaven sends when a generation is drifting toward the fire and the watchmen are asleep at their posts.

And everywhere you look, the same baffling quiet.

Legions of Christian creators, polished and eloquent, feeding their audiences a steady diet of “rest,” “reflection,” “gentleness,” “formation,” “gratitude.” Beautiful words. Harmless words. Words that slip through the algorithm like silk and require nothing from anyone, least of all the one speaking them.

But there is an altar burning in our cities, and they won’t name it.

That is the part I can’t unsee. The part that rattles the sternum. The part that makes the silence feel like a second crime.

Because abortion isn’t an unfortunate debate topic. It isn’t a “divisive issue.” It isn’t a matter of “nuance.” It is the oldest currency of empire. It is sacrifice. The same logic, the same gods, the same bargain: trade the future for the convenience of the present and call it liberation. And Babylon has always been thrilled to sign that contract.

So I look at these creators with thousands of followers and an endless stream of devotionals, and one question keeps hammering:

If you believe children are being killed, how can you stay quiet?

What kind of shepherd sees wolves enter the fold and decides the best response is a contemplative post about practicing gratitude? What kind of teacher avoids the central atrocity of their age to protect their brand? What kind of voice claims to guide the church while refusing to speak the one sentence that would cost them something?

It isn’t complicated. It’s structural.

Babylon trains creators to believe their platform is sacred. That reach is favor. That influence must never be risked. That silence, properly spiritualized, is wisdom. That comfort is virtue. And once that lie sinks in, the altar can glow white-hot and they won’t say a word.

Not because they don’t see it.
Because they don’t want to lose anything.

This is the part that burns: you cannot be a covenant voice while bowing to Babylon’s economics. You cannot speak for the vulnerable while protecting your image. You cannot claim prophetic authority while refusing the single truth that would cost you subscribers, partnerships, endorsements, respectability.

If you believed it was murder, you would speak.
So your silence testifies louder than your content ever will.

And where does that road lead?
To irrelevance.
Not cultural irrelevance.
Moral irrelevance.

You built a platform that never mattered. You tended your audience while ignoring the altar. You taught people to rest while children died. You wrote a thousand devotionals and not one sentence that confronted the one sin defining your generation.

When the story of this era is told, what will your legacy be?
“Consistent posting schedule. Solid engagement. No disruptions.”
A spotless record of saying nothing when it counted.

The rumble in the bones isn’t asking them to change anymore.
It’s asking you.

If you have fifty readers or five, write the sentence they refuse to write. Name the altar. Call abortion what it is. Plant your feet where they all refuse to stand. Let the backlash come. Let the numbers fall. Let the platforms shrink. Heaven keeps different metrics.

Some truths demand speech.
Some evils require confrontation.
Some moments expose who belongs to covenant and who belongs to comfort.

The rumble is the line being drawn.

You already know which side you’re on.