The sky had that stillness just before dusk, where time seems to hold its breath. In a small farming town on the edge of nowhere, Anna stood alone on the front porch, staring out across the empty field. The wind moved like a whisper through the corn stalks, but inside her chest, everything felt louder—restless, uncertain. She had grown up hearing stories of Jesus’ return, how it would be like lightning flashing across the sky. Unmissable. Undeniable. And yet, here she stood, wondering if somehow… she had missed it.
Of course, her church still met each Sunday. People still sang, prayed, taught. But things had subtly shifted over time. The sermons were nicer, safer. No talk of sin. No talk of repentance. Just a breezy assurance that Jesus understood and everyone was fine. Except Anna didn’t feel fine. She felt disconnected. Hollow, like a lamp unplugged from its source. Could something as big as the second coming actually come… and go?
Jesus once warned His closest friends, “If anyone says to you, ‘Look, here is the Christ!’ or ‘There He is!’ do not believe it. For false messiahs and false prophets will appear and perform great signs and wonders to deceive, if possible, even the elect… For as lightning that comes from the east is visible even in the west, so will be the coming of the Son of Man” (Matthew 24:23-24, 27).
Deception, He said, would wear the clothes of truth.
Paul adds to the warning in 2 Thessalonians 2, saying the coming of the lawless one “will be in accordance with how Satan works. He will use all sorts of displays of power through signs and wonders that serve the lie… and all the ways that wickedness deceives those who are perishing. They perish because they refused to love the truth and so be saved.”
Not because the signs were weak. Not because God didn’t allow enough evidence. But because people didn’t love the truth.
That rattles me. Maybe you’ve felt that too—the sting of realizing that deception isn’t just about falling for something false. It’s about being drawn little by little into a version of light that slowly forgets the presence of fire. It’s about losing the ache for the real Jesus because we’ve been handed a more convenient one. One who doesn’t return. One who doesn’t reign.
Anna’s doubt isn’t unique. I’ve heard it in the voice of a tired mother folding laundry while quietly wondering if her faith is real. I’ve heard it in the heartbreak of a man who stopped going to church because it no longer opened the Bible. The deception in these warnings isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it sighs its way into our lives.
But when Jesus returns, no one will ask, “Did you see it?” because no one will miss it. It won’t be announced in secret corners or whispered behind pulpits. It will be as visible as the sun splitting open the morning sky. The question, then, is not whether we can see Him—but whether we’ve wanted Him. Whether we’ve waited with trimmed lamps, hearts burning with love for the truth.
Maybe the sobering part is this: the greatest danger isn’t being left behind. It’s being lulled asleep before He even comes.
To prepare isn’t to horde knowledge or track signs like puzzles. It’s to stay close. It's to know the Shepherd’s voice so intimately, so daily, that when the false ones call, your spirit goes quiet—not confused.
Deception works best when we are hungry but not watchful. Tired, but not anchored. The best antidote? Return to your first love. Return to the Word that cuts through the fog. Return to the fire, not just the flicker.
A friend of mine keeps a candle lit on her table each morning when she prays—just a physical reminder that she’s waiting, still watching.
Can you miss the second coming without knowing it? Jesus says no. But you can be unready for it. And that’s enough to break a heart that loves Him.
Open your eyes, beloved. Not to search wildly but to see clearly. Truth doesn't need a spectacle. It only asks for your trust.
He’s coming. Not in secret. Not in shadow. And on that day, every eye will see.
Until then—wait with flame and faith.
That's the kind of watching that love does.
The sky had that stillness just before dusk, where time seems to hold its breath. In a small farming town on the edge of nowhere, Anna stood alone on the front porch, staring out across the empty field. The wind moved like a whisper through the corn stalks, but inside her chest, everything felt louder—restless, uncertain. She had grown up hearing stories of Jesus’ return, how it would be like lightning flashing across the sky. Unmissable. Undeniable. And yet, here she stood, wondering if somehow… she had missed it.
Of course, her church still met each Sunday. People still sang, prayed, taught. But things had subtly shifted over time. The sermons were nicer, safer. No talk of sin. No talk of repentance. Just a breezy assurance that Jesus understood and everyone was fine. Except Anna didn’t feel fine. She felt disconnected. Hollow, like a lamp unplugged from its source. Could something as big as the second coming actually come… and go?
Jesus once warned His closest friends, “If anyone says to you, ‘Look, here is the Christ!’ or ‘There He is!’ do not believe it. For false messiahs and false prophets will appear and perform great signs and wonders to deceive, if possible, even the elect… For as lightning that comes from the east is visible even in the west, so will be the coming of the Son of Man” (Matthew 24:23-24, 27).
Deception, He said, would wear the clothes of truth.
Paul adds to the warning in 2 Thessalonians 2, saying the coming of the lawless one “will be in accordance with how Satan works. He will use all sorts of displays of power through signs and wonders that serve the lie… and all the ways that wickedness deceives those who are perishing. They perish because they refused to love the truth and so be saved.”
Not because the signs were weak. Not because God didn’t allow enough evidence. But because people didn’t love the truth.
That rattles me. Maybe you’ve felt that too—the sting of realizing that deception isn’t just about falling for something false. It’s about being drawn little by little into a version of light that slowly forgets the presence of fire. It’s about losing the ache for the real Jesus because we’ve been handed a more convenient one. One who doesn’t return. One who doesn’t reign.
Anna’s doubt isn’t unique. I’ve heard it in the voice of a tired mother folding laundry while quietly wondering if her faith is real. I’ve heard it in the heartbreak of a man who stopped going to church because it no longer opened the Bible. The deception in these warnings isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it sighs its way into our lives.
But when Jesus returns, no one will ask, “Did you see it?” because no one will miss it. It won’t be announced in secret corners or whispered behind pulpits. It will be as visible as the sun splitting open the morning sky. The question, then, is not whether we can see Him—but whether we’ve wanted Him. Whether we’ve waited with trimmed lamps, hearts burning with love for the truth.
Maybe the sobering part is this: the greatest danger isn’t being left behind. It’s being lulled asleep before He even comes.
To prepare isn’t to horde knowledge or track signs like puzzles. It’s to stay close. It's to know the Shepherd’s voice so intimately, so daily, that when the false ones call, your spirit goes quiet—not confused.
Deception works best when we are hungry but not watchful. Tired, but not anchored. The best antidote? Return to your first love. Return to the Word that cuts through the fog. Return to the fire, not just the flicker.
A friend of mine keeps a candle lit on her table each morning when she prays—just a physical reminder that she’s waiting, still watching.
Can you miss the second coming without knowing it? Jesus says no. But you can be unready for it. And that’s enough to break a heart that loves Him.
Open your eyes, beloved. Not to search wildly but to see clearly. Truth doesn't need a spectacle. It only asks for your trust.
He’s coming. Not in secret. Not in shadow. And on that day, every eye will see.
Until then—wait with flame and faith.
That's the kind of watching that love does.
