Last night Pam and I slept downstairs in our finished basement. When the thermometer dips toward the single digits, our heat pump just can’t keep up—especially in our upstairs bedroom that sits above an unheated garage. When I come down in the morning and the thermostat inside the house is reading in the 50s, I don’t need to check the weather app to know it’s cold outside.

So once or twice a year, when the mercury really dives, one of us will inevitably shout, “Slumber party!” And down into the basement we go. Down there, we have a little propane stove that’s so efficient that, if we’re not careful, it’ll cook us right out of the room. But on nights like that, it’s exactly what we need—warmth that holds and heat that lasts.

As a lifelong Pennsylvania hunter, I know the dangers of cold. I’ve felt that tingling sensation start in the fingers and toes, the needle-like sting that follows, and then the numbness that quickly sets in. I know the feel of chapped lips and wind-burned cheeks, skin that feels raw to the touch. And I know the long, uncomfortable process of warming back up—the burning sensation that comes when overexposed skin meets even lukewarm water. Cold is not to be trifled with. You don’t play games with it. You respect it or pay the price.

And it doesn’t take extreme cold to have an effect. Even moderate cold, with prolonged exposure, can get into your bones. The heating system at the church is very good—but my office is a corner office with two windows, and my desk chair sits about six inches from a large pane of glass. After eight hours of that low-grade chill yesterday, I went home thoroughly cold, and it took me most of the evening to warm back up. Today, there’s a space heater nearby—just in case.

It feels to me like we’re living in cold times. And it’s getting colder.

Civility has been replaced with contempt. Graciousness, kindness, love, and even legitimate compromise are treated as weakness. Political opponents are no longer just people we disagree with; they’re enemies to be destroyed. Leadership structures are fraying, trust is eroding, suspicion runs high. Scorched-earth tactics have become normal—even celebrated—as long as they produce short-term wins.

Scripture tells us this would happen. Jesus warned that in the last days “the love of many will grow cold” (Matthew 24:12). And when He addressed the church in Ephesus, He didn’t accuse them of heresy or laziness—He said they had left their first love (Revelation 2:4). And I feel it. I don’t just see it—I feel it in my spiritual bones.

After watching the nightly news or scrolling through my social media feed, I can sense the numbness creeping in. Anger rises. Cynicism settles. And then the cold sets in—compassion fatigue, spiritual lethargy, emotional hypothermia. The cold is doing its work—and it’s not accidental. There’s an enemy behind the scenes, trafficking in division, fear, and outrage. He delights in watching hearts slowly go numb. My concern isn’t just what this is doing to our nation—but what it’s doing to the church.

How can we be light and salt in a frozen world if we ourselves have grown cold?

There’s a modern proverb from Scandinavian countries near the Arctic Circle that’s since been adopted by hikers, skiers, and outdoor enthusiasts worldwide:

“There’s no such thing as bad weather—only bad clothing.”

Which means, conditions may be brutal, but if you’re properly equipped, you don’t have to be overcome.  With the right layers, insulation, and protection, people can survive—even thrive—in environments that would otherwise be deadly.

That proverb isn’t just practical wisdom. It’s a spiritual diagnosis.

The problem isn’t simply that the world has grown cold. But that we as Christians are underdressed for the conditions. Scripture’s not vague here. We are told to clothe ourselves with Christ and make no provision for the flesh (Romans 13:14). We’re commanded to put on the full armor of God because we are not wrestling against flesh and blood (Ephesians 6:11–12). We’re urged to stir one another toward love and good deeds (Hebrews 10:24) and to keep our spiritual fervor (Romans 12:11). None of this happens accidentally. Warmth has to be maintained. Protection has to be worn. The fire has to be stoked.

God has already given us everything we need—His Spirit, His Word, His people. We don’t control the temperature of the culture, but we don’t have to let it set the temperature of our hearts.

So gear up for the cold. Stay close to the heat source. Layer your life with Scripture, prayer, and people who help keep love alive. Walk in the Spirit. Don’t linger in what drains warmth. Stoke the fire early and often. Warm yourself in the presence of our Savior.  In a cold world, the church is meant to be a warm, inviting, Spirit filled place—not shaped by the climate around it, but warmed by the living presence of Christ.