How to Preach to a Burning World by Jeff Callaway
The Fire
The world is burning, and don’t you dare pretend otherwise. Not just the forests choked with ash or the cities rioting under smoke and sirens — no, the inferno runs deeper. Morality is torched, gutted, left to rot in the streets. Culture, once a vessel of beauty and truth, has become a carnival of lies and idols. Souls are smoldering, bodies walking but spirits already dead. We live in a generation that laughs at holiness, spits on virtue, and trades the glory of God for a glowing screen. And here’s the sickest part: most don’t even know they’re on fire, they think it’s light, they think it’s freedom. They mock the Cross, they twist the Gospel, they burn incense at the altars of self and call it progress. The prophet Isaiah saw this day when he cried, “Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness” (Isaiah 5:20). That is where we are, brothers and sisters: a civilization convinced that its own flames are candles of wisdom, when in truth they are the pyres of judgment.
The Ruins
And don’t think this blaze is brand new. History has always told the story of fire. Babylon raised its tower into the heavens, shaking its fist at God, trying to make a name for itself without Him — and what came of it? Confusion, scattering, ruin (Genesis 11:4–9). Rome strutted across the world, dripping with blood and power, declaring Caesar a god, feasting while slaves groaned beneath their chains — and yet the might of the empire could not stand against a crucified carpenter who tore open the tomb. Sodom — well, Sodom hardly needs an introduction. Its lust became law, its depravity became pride, until not even ten righteous could be found within its gates. And so fire rained down (Genesis 19:24–25). Yet I tell you this: Babylon never had TikTok. Rome never had a billion glowing screens discipling children more than their parents. Sodom never boasted a pharmaceutical empire selling death as medicine. They sinned, they burned, and they fell — but we, in our arrogance, have taken every one of their sins and weaponized them with technology, with science, with wealth. We are Sodom with satellites, Babylon with supercomputers, Rome with nuclear bombs. And if God did not withhold judgment from them, what makes you think He will withhold it from us? The psalmist warned, “The nations have sunk in the pit they made; in the net they hid, their own foot has been caught” (Psalm 9:15). Tell me, does that not sound like today?
The Witness
But in every burning age, the Lord raises up a remnant — not to run, not to hide, but to preach. Jeremiah tried to bite his tongue, but the Word of God was like fire in his bones, and he could not keep silent (Jeremiah 20:9). Paul told Timothy to “preach the word, in season and out, reprove, rebuke, exhort, with complete patience and teaching” (2 Timothy 4:2). Jesus Himself didn’t whisper a suggestion — He thundered a command: “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations” (Matthew 28:19). And here’s where I stop being polite and start being blunt: if you are Catholic, baptized, sealed with the Holy Spirit, then you have no right to be silent. Not in this age. Not in this fire. The world is burning, and lukewarm faith is gasoline on the blaze. You can’t sit in the pews on Sunday and hide in the shadows Monday through Saturday. You can’t pat yourself on the back for “being nice” while souls drop into the pit. Christ did not bleed so you could be comfortable. He bled so you could be courageous. He died so you could live for Him, and He rose so you could speak His name without shame. So here is the challenge: will you walk into the fire with the Gospel as your torch? Will you stand, mocked, hated, maybe even destroyed — but stand anyway? Or will you slink away with the cowards and the silent, letting the flames devour your neighbors while you mutter that it’s “not your place to judge”? The preacher’s job is never to make people feel safe — it is to tell them the truth. And the truth is this: the world is on fire, and God is looking for those willing to step into the blaze with Christ at their side.
The Command
Why evangelize at all? Because Christ didn’t leave it as a polite suggestion. He didn’t say, “If you feel like it, share Me.” He didn’t whisper, “If the culture approves, mention My name.” No — He thundered it as a command from the Mount: “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you” (Matthew 28:19–20). The Great Commission is not a side hobby, not a pastime for preachers and priests while the laity sits in the back pews. It is the marching order for every baptized Catholic. If you bear the name of Christ, you are enlisted. If you have touched the waters of Baptism and eaten of the Bread of Life, you are drafted into His army. Evangelization is not optional — it is obedience. And disobedience here is not just laziness; it is treason against the King of Kings.
The Ark
The Catholic Church is not just one option among many, not a flavor of Christianity to choose from like ice cream on a summer day. It is the Ark, the only vessel that floats above the flood. In Noah’s day, there were plenty who thought they could swim, who mocked the boat, who laughed at the hammering and jeered at the preacher of righteousness. But when the skies split open and the waters rose, only those inside the Ark were saved. Christ gave Peter the keys and built His Church on rock, and He promised the gates of hell would not prevail against it. That is not poetry, that is reality. Outside this Ark, souls drown. And I don’t care how strong you think you are, how smart you think you are, how “spiritual but not religious” you claim to be — you cannot outswim the flood. The waters are already rising. Apostasy is everywhere. The Church, battered and bruised, mocked and slandered, still floats because it is held together not by human hands but by the pierced hands of Christ Himself. If you love souls, then you must bring them into the Ark. Anything less is negligence, anything less is cruelty, anything less is letting your brothers and sisters sink while you sit dry behind holy walls.
The Urgency
And this — this is where the rubber meets the road. Evangelization isn’t about winning arguments. It’s not about being clever in debate or showing off your knowledge of Scripture and catechism. It’s about souls drowning while we stand on the shoreline checking our watches. Do you not see them? Do you not hear them? Your neighbors, your coworkers, your friends, even your family — they are going under, swallowed in the flood of sin and despair, and you’re worried about whether you might come across as “pushy”? This is not the hour for timid whispers. This is the hour for rescue. St. Jude warns us to “save others by snatching them out of the fire” (Jude 1:23). Snatch them! Grab them! Pull them back into the light of Christ, no matter if they kick, no matter if they scream. Evangelization is triage in a battlefield hospital, not polite conversation in a coffee shop. Souls are bleeding out. Hell is filling up. And heaven is begging for laborers to bring in the harvest. The urgency is this: every day you stay silent, someone slips further from God. Every time you soften the Gospel, a soul grows comfortable in their chains. You don’t have the luxury of cowardice. You don’t have the time to wait for a “better moment.” The world is burning now. The floodwaters are rising now. The only question left is this: will you stand with Christ and preach, or will you let them drown while you stay silent in the pews?
The Word
The world today doesn’t listen for truth; it scrolls past it. We live in an age of soundbites and slogans, where men would rather swallow a meme than wrestle with the Gospel. That means we don’t have the luxury of endless babble — our words must be sharp, distilled, blazing with conviction. Jesus Himself didn’t preach in essays; He dropped words that cut the air like lightning: “I am the way, and the truth, and the life” (John 14:6). Paul warned us to “let your speech always be gracious, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how you ought to answer each person” (Colossians 4:6). Truth must not be watered down, padded, or softened into safe clichés. It must be spoken like a sword unsheathed, quick, to the point, impossible to ignore. The devil thrives in noise, but truth spoken with clarity slices through the din like thunder in the night.
The Root
But a blade without a hilt is dangerous. You cannot speak truth if you don’t know it, and you cannot stand on rock if your foundation is sand. That is why Catholics must root themselves deep — Scripture, Catechism, Church Fathers, the Sacred Tradition handed down from Christ through His Apostles. The evangelist who does not study is a soldier going to war with no armor. St. Peter commanded, “Always be prepared to make a defense to anyone who asks you for a reason for the hope that is in you” (1 Peter 3:15). Paul told Timothy to “guard the good deposit entrusted to you” (2 Timothy 1:14). That means know your faith, breathe it, let it course through your veins until it becomes your second language. In a culture trained to mock Catholicism, you cannot afford ignorance. You must be rooted — for shallow roots burn quickly in fire.
The Balance
But knowledge without humility is just arrogance in a cassock. You are not called to bludgeon people with the Gospel, nor to strut like a Pharisee. Christ Himself spoke truth with authority, yet He knelt to wash His disciples’ feet. We are commanded to do the same. “God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble” (James 4:6). Yet humility is not compromise. Jesus never once diluted His message to spare feelings. He told the rich young man the truth, even when it sent him away sorrowful (Mark 10:21–22). He spoke with love, but He never bent the truth into half-truths. Our task is to hold the balance — soft hearts, sharp tongues; humility before God, boldness before men. Speak not to win applause, but to win souls.
The Silence
And here is the paradox: sometimes the greatest weapon in an age of noise is not another shout but silence. Prayerful silence disarms the mob and steadies the messenger. Christ Himself, standing before Pilate, refused to play the game of endless accusations and spin; His silence spoke louder than Rome’s power (Matthew 27:14). Elijah found God not in the earthquake or the fire but in the “gentle whisper” (1 Kings 19:12). In a world addicted to noise, silence is a rebellion — and silence saturated with prayer becomes dynamite against the powers of hell. Do not be afraid to speak, but also do not be afraid to fall silent, to pray, to let God’s Spirit move in the space where your words end. The evangelist’s tongue and his silence must both be consecrated to Christ.
The Encounter
Evangelization begins not on a stage but across a table, not in a crowd but face to face. Your first mission field is your own family, your friends, your co-workers, the people who see you when the mask is off. Don’t start by dropping theological bombs; start by letting them see Christ burning in your life. Paul said, “We were ready to share with you not only the gospel of God but also our own selves” (1 Thessalonians 2:8). Christ Himself didn’t begin with masses but with fishermen, tax collectors, sinners — He looked them in the eye and said, “Follow Me” (Matthew 4:19). Your testimony isn’t polished debate, it’s scars, tears, and the joy that only Christ can ignite. Win one soul at a time, not by out-arguing them, but by out-loving them with the fire of the Gospel.
The Witness
But evangelization cannot stay private. The faith is not a candle to hide in a basement — Christ said, “No one after lighting a lamp covers it with a jar or puts it under a bed, but puts it on a stand, so that those who enter may see the light” (Luke 8:16). That means go public. On the streets, on social media, in the written word, in marches where life is defended and in conversations where truth is under siege — speak! Peter preached at Pentecost to a hostile crowd, and “those who received his word were baptized, and there were added that day about three thousand souls” (Acts 2:41). You don’t have to add three thousand — but you’d better be ready to add one. Post boldly, speak plainly, pray in public, defend life out loud. Let them mock, let them cancel, let them sneer — so what? The Gospel was never meant to be hidden. It is a shout in the streets, and if you do not shout, then stones will (Luke 19:40).
The Defense
And when the fire comes back at you — because it will — be ready to defend. The Church is mocked for Mary, ridiculed for the Eucharist, slandered for the papacy, questioned in her scandals, doubted in her suffering. But Christ never promised a spotless crowd; He promised a spotless Bride, and that Bride is His Church. Jude exhorts us to “contend for the faith that was once for all delivered to the saints” (Jude 1:3). Paul wrote, “We destroy arguments and every lofty opinion raised against the knowledge of God, and take every thought captive to obey Christ” (2 Corinthians 10:5). Defense means you don’t shy away. You open Scripture, you open the Catechism, and you show that Catholicism isn’t built on human opinion but on divine authority. You do not fight to score points. You fight because souls are at stake, and a weak answer can leave them in the jaws of the enemy. The Church does not need cowards; she needs defenders with swords of Scripture and shields of truth.
The Example
But here is the tactic above all tactics: live what you preach. The loudest sermon is not the one you post online but the one your life declares every hour. Jesus said, “By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another” (John 13:35). Paul told Timothy, “Set the believers an example in speech, in conduct, in love, in faith, in purity” (1 Timothy 4:12). If your life is joyless, loveless, selfish, and hypocritical, your words are smoke without fire. But if you live with joy in the midst of trial, if you forgive when wronged, if you sacrifice when others hoard, if you radiate Christ when the world is rotting — that is evangelization the devil cannot silence. Your witness is your life, your love, your willingness to bleed for Christ in the small things as well as the great. Preach loudly, yes, but live louder still.
The Armor
Paul didn’t leave us naked for battle; he gave us marching orders and armor straight from heaven’s forge. In Ephesians 6:10–18, he bellows: “Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of His might. Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the schemes of the devil” (Ephesians 6:10–11). He names it piece by piece, and every piece still matters in our scorched modern battlefield. The belt of truth — because lies choke this generation, and only truth cinched tight can hold a man upright (Ephesians 6:14). The breastplate of righteousness — for the world loves sin and mocks holiness, but the righteousness of Christ guards your heart like steel (Ephesians 6:14). The shoes of readiness, carrying the gospel of peace — because this is not a faith of sitting still; it is a faith on the march (Ephesians 6:15). The shield of faith — with which you “extinguish all the flaming darts of the evil one” (Ephesians 6:16). The helmet of salvation — to guard your mind when the world screams blasphemy (Ephesians 6:17). And the sword of the Spirit, the Word of God — not a toy, not a suggestion, but a weapon forged in eternity (Ephesians 6:17). And do not miss the last order: “Praying at all times in the Spirit, with all prayer and supplication” (Ephesians 6:18). That is not optional. That is survival. This is the armor for the evangelist. Without it, you’re fodder for the flames. With it, you stand as more than a conqueror (Romans 8:37).
And this isn’t just Paul’s imagery — it echoes through our tradition. St. Patrick, battling pagan kings and hostile druids, cried out in his Breastplate: “I bind unto myself today the strong Name of the Trinity… Christ be with me, Christ within me, Christ behind me, Christ before me, Christ beside me, Christ to win me, Christ to comfort and restore me.” That is armor. That is iron in the soul. It is no accident that the saints didn’t just study the armor; they wore it. They lived armored, prayed armored, bled armored. And if Patrick could stand against the heathen hordes of his day, you can stand against the godless mobs of ours. The armor is eternal. Put it on or perish.
The Courage
But armor means nothing if the soldier won’t fight. That’s where courage comes in — and let’s be clear: courage is not born from within. Courage is the gift of the Spirit, burning from heaven into the marrow of God’s people. Scripture beats this drum over and over, hammering it into our thick skulls: “Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go” (Joshua 1:9). “Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God” (Isaiah 41:10). “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” (Psalm 27:1). “Take courage! It is I. Do not be afraid” (Matthew 14:27). Do you see it yet? Over and over, Scripture pounds the same command: Do. Not. Fear. In fact, scholars tell us it appears in the Bible at least 365 times — once for every day of the year. God knew we’d wake up daily with trembling hearts, so He gave us a daily order: Do not fear. And why? Because courage isn’t about you. Courage is about Him. “For God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control” (2 Timothy 1:7). Our armor is Christ, our courage is Christ, our confidence is Christ. So when ridicule comes, when mobs laugh, when families reject — stand. Not because you are strong, but because He is stronger. “The Lord is on my side; I will not fear. What can man do to me?” (Psalm 118:6).
And Patrick again sang it as armor: “Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me.” What is that but courage wrapped in poetry, faith wrapped in fire? The evangelist must march out knowing ridicule will come, but knowing even louder that Christ surrounds him like a fortress. The world can sneer. Hell can rage. But heaven whispers: Do not fear.
The Seeds
And here is where the burden lifts. You are not responsible for saving the world. That weight is too heavy for any man. The evangelist is not the Savior — Christ is. Your task is seed-sowing, nothing more, nothing less. Paul himself said it: “I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth” (1 Corinthians 3:6). Jesus told the parable of the sower: some seed falls on rocky ground, some among thorns, some eaten by birds, but some — oh, some — falls on good soil and yields thirty, sixty, a hundredfold (Mark 4:3–8). Your task is not to force the harvest; your task is to scatter the Word. God handles the increase. Ezekiel was told, “Whether they hear or refuse to hear… they will know that a prophet has been among them” (Ezekiel 2:5). Your job is obedience, not outcome.
So preach without panic, evangelize without despair. Speak boldly, live authentically, scatter widely, and leave the rest in God’s pierced hands. “For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost” (Luke 19:10). It is His will that all men come to truth (1 Timothy 2:4), but He has chosen you as His voice, His seed-bearer, His messenger. That is both a terrifying weight and a liberating release. Do your part, and trust Him to do the rest. The farmer cannot force the rain; the evangelist cannot force conversion. But the faithful soldier who plants in fire will, on the last day, hear the only words that matter: “Well done, good and faithful servant” (Matthew 25:23).
The Stakes
Hell is not a metaphor. It is not some campfire ghost story meant to scare children into obedience. It is the eternal separation from the One who knit you together in your mother’s womb (Psalm 139:13). Think of the one soul you love most in this world — your spouse, your child, your mother, your friend. Imagine losing them, not for a season, not for the length of your days, but forever. Imagine crying out across the chasm, like the rich man in Luke 16:24, begging for one drop of water, one word, one look — and being denied. Now multiply that grief a thousand times, a million times, because it is not merely the loss of a loved one — it is the loss of God Himself. “These will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life” (Matthew 25:46). To lose Him is to lose love itself, joy itself, life itself. That is the cost. That is the fire licking at the edges of every soul you pass on the street.
The Weight
Your soul already knows this terror. That’s why when you imagine eternity without Him, your heart seizes, your breath shortens, your chest tightens with panic. Because your spirit understands what your flesh cannot bear to face — to be cut off from God is not just sorrow, it is annihilation of all meaning. Picture again the one you love most. Now imagine them standing before the judgment seat, and you hearing those words from Christ’s own mouth: “Depart from Me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels” (Matthew 25:41). And you? You stand there knowing you had a chance. You had a word to give. A truth to speak. A hand to reach. And you stayed silent. You swallowed the Gospel instead of pouring it out like living water. Can you bear that? Can you shoulder the thought that your silence could be their chain? Ezekiel 33:8 warns us — “If I say to the wicked, ‘O wicked one, you shall surely die,’ and you do not speak to warn the wicked to turn from his way, that wicked person shall die in his iniquity, but his blood I will require at your hand.” Their blood. On your hands. This is no game. This is war. Eternal war.
The Manifesto
So rise up, O watchman on the walls, and let your voice thunder across the ruins of this age. This is no hour for timid whispers, no hour for polite silence while the world is swallowed in flame. You were not redeemed by the spilled blood of the Lamb so you could hide in the shadows — you were bought for war, consecrated for collision with the darkness. The armor is yours, forged in prayer, fastened by sacrament, tempered in the furnace of confession and the fire of the Spirit. Do not sheath your sword when the battlefield cries out for truth. Do not retreat when ridicule spits in your face. Do not let the ashes of this crumbling world choke your tongue into silence. For every soul is a battlefield, every conversation a skirmish, every act of courage a strike against the gates of hell itself — and those gates will not prevail (Matthew 16:18). This is your commission, this is your calling, this is your war cry: Preach Christ until the heavens split, until the graves break open, until the King rides forth with fire in His eyes and His name tattooed in blood upon the sky.
Better to be scarred by the fire for Christ than to burn forever without Him.
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