I once walked into a cathedral on pilgrimage—dust on my boots, prayers half-formed on my tongue—and within seconds, I was face to face with the brutal truth of what I had done.

It was a life-sized statue of Jesus Christ crucified. Not polished. Not pretty. But bloody. Raw. Mangled flesh and broken bones. The sculptor had held nothing back. The artist hadn’t offered comfort. No, they’d served up the full horror of Calvary in blood and agony.

And it hit me—this is what I did.

Not just the world. Me.

I fell to my knees. And I sobbed. Loud, ugly sobs. I am not ashamed. Because it was a shock to the soul—a confrontation with the cost of my sin. The cross was not a symbol. It was my sentence, and He took it.

Why did He do it?

Because there is real evil in this world. And because there’s real evil inside each one of us.

There are two profound truths you need to understand about what happened on that cross. Some theologians like to pit them against each other. I won’t. Because they’re both true, and they are meant to work together like sword and shield.

First—Penal Substitutionary Atonement. He took your punishment. He stood in your place, in mine. The justice of God—holy and pure—was poured out, not on the guilty, but on the innocent. Jesus Christ bore our filth. Our lies. Our rage. Our lust. Our abortion. Our perversion. Our silence. Every lash of the whip? Ours. Every nail? Our doing. He satisfied justice so that we—sinners—could be forgiven.

Second—Christus Victor. Jesus didn’t just pay your fine. He went to war. He stormed the gates of hell, tore the keys from death’s grip, and publicly humiliated the forces of darkness. He crushed the serpent underfoot. He won. And they know it.

But they haven’t stopped fighting.

I’ve felt evil. Tangibly. Since I was a teenager, I could sense it in certain crowds, like a sulphuric wind swirling through humanity. I could smell it on some people. Once, in Medjugorje, I heard a simple grunt from a man—no theatrics, no obvious threat. But I knew. I started praying silently. And that man dropped to the ground, convulsing like a snake, writhing as the demonic spirit inside him raged against the presence of Christ.

Evil is real. And it hates you.

It wants your children. It wants your church. It wants your soul. And right now? It’s not hiding. It’s celebrating. Abortion is called “healthcare.” Men in dresses lecture us about “truth.” War is called peace. And prayer—yes, even silent, private prayer—is now illegal in some Western countries.

How far we’ve fallen.

And some ask—if Christ won, why is the world still like this?

Because the victory was eternal. But we’re still living in a fading shadow. Time, as we know it, is coming apart at the seams. The Enemy knows this. That’s why the fury is rising. Like a wounded beast thrashing in its death throes, the spirit of this age is screaming, clawing, raging. It knows its time is short.

That’s why you feel it. That’s why you sense it. You’re not crazy. You’re not overreacting. You’re awake.

The victory of Christ is not just some vague theological hope—it’s a bloody, bone-breaking reality that ripped through history and eternity at once. And now? Now it’s our turn. To bring that victory into our homes, our hearts, our nations.

But it doesn’t happen by osmosis.

You and I—we have to choose. Not just once. Daily. To repent. To believe. To stand. To speak. To reject this demon-drenched culture of lies and to declare boldly: Christ is Lord. And the cross was enough.

This isn’t the end.

But it’s getting close.

So don’t waste another breath on compromise. Take up your cross. Bow your knee. Cling to the victory.

The war is won—but the battle for souls is still raging.

And it starts with yours.