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WisconsinChristianNews.com
Volume 26, Issue 9
Why Do Some People Hate Jesus and Christians?
By Carey Kinsolving February 2026 “People hate Jesus because they want to be their own god,” says Jaiden, 8.
me from death.”
cross to purchase everyone’s passage to heaven.
When Jesus warned His disciples about the world, He didn’t speak of the soil, trees and sky. Jesus warned His disciples and us about
Immediately after the Apostle Paul wrote that Christians are am- bassadors for Jesus, he wrote this famous salvation passage: “For
He made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him.” (2 Corinthians 5:21). In other words, Jesus took everyone’s sins on Himself when He died on the cross. For all who place their faith in Him as their Savior, He credits His righteousness to them. In contrast to the reli- gious leaders of Jesus’ day, righteousness is a gift to be received from God, not a reward to be earned. If you want to make people mad, give them a list of religious rules. If you want to make them fighting mad or even hateful, tell them there’s nothing they can do to earn salvation. The right- eousness needed to reside in heaven is a gift to be received by faith alone in Christ alone.
The idea of needing a Savior goes against every- thing in us that wants control. Yet, it should be obvious we’re not in control. The daily barrage of bad news from the media verifies this. Statistics show that one of the most dangerous things we do every day is to get into a car. My stepdad died in a head-on collision. In another auto accident, my sister suffered permanent brain-stem damage that left her totally helpless for more than 35 years. The il- lusion of control quickly passes when death or injury unexpectedly intrude.
“People hate Jesus and Christians because they’re on the dark side of the world,” says Artemio, 9.
Many people associate darkness with human traf- ficking, drug addiction, murder and other heinous sins. But there’s another side of darkness that doesn’t get much atten- tion. During Jesus’ ministry, He reserved His harshest language for re- ligious leaders of his day. He called them “whitewashed tombs,” beautiful on the outside, but full of hypocrisy on the inside (Matthew 23:27-28). They had a veneer of righteousness, but their hearts were empty. They lacked the righteousness that only God can give to those who trust Jesus as their Savior.
Think about this: Religious people who try to earn favor with God by keeping rules will always hate those who say that salvation is by God’s grace through faith in Christ apart from any good works or rule keeping.
a system of thinking that is independent from God or even openly hostile against Him.
Sara has adopted Jesus’ view of her as not belonging to this world. With the assurance of eternal life with God in heaven, Christians should view themselves as sojourners through this world with heaven as their true home. They have dual citizenship in that they’re citizens of their country while at the same time citizens of heaven. The Bible says Christians are ambassadors for Christ. Why? Be- cause believers don’t belong to this world. Christ’s ambassadors carry the good news that Jesus paid the price by His death on the
Memorize this truth: 2 Corinthians 5:21 previously quoted.
Ask this question: Is this world your home, or are you passing through to your heavenly residence? KidsTalkAboutGod.org
“The reason why people hate me and Jesus is because I don’t belong to this world,” says Sara, 7. “I belong to God. God protects
The Purple-Haired Warrior: Manufactured Rage, Disposable Foot Soldier
By David T. Cloft February 2026
to bring you into the tribe. She’s trying to prove you’re unclean so she can feel clean. She isn’t a citizen ne- gotiating the messy tradeoffs of a republic. She’s a priest of a purity cult, and you are standing at the door without the proper robes.
and visually permanent, leaving the movement costs you everything. You don’t just change your mind — you lose your whole social ecosystem. You lose your status. You lose your moral applause. So you double down, not because it’s true, but because the alter- native is terrifying: being a normal person again.
tions like a drug. Confrontation produces adrenaline. Getting filmed produces validation. Being “on the front line” produces identity. If she gets arrested, she’s not a criminal, she’s a martyr. Her social circle rewards it. Likes, shares, supportive comments, dig- ital hugs, applause from people who would never risk what she risks. The movement gives her purpose on tap. And once you’ve tasted that, normal life feels unbearably quiet. Peace feels empty. Responsibility feels like oppression. The mundane work of building a stable life — job, marriage, kids, church, service — feels too slow, too ordinary, too unglamorous. So she needs a new crisis, a new outrage, a new apoc- alypse every month. Chaos becomes her oxygen. The most dangerous part isn’t the purple hair. It’s the moral certainty. Because once a person believes they are “the righteous,” then anything they do be- comes righteous. Blocking traffic becomes righteous. Harassing strangers becomes righteous. Breaking laws becomes righteous. Ruining lives becomes righteous. The outcomes don’t matter. Intent re- places responsibility. She’s living inside a moral movie where she’s the hero, and heroes don’t have to count the costs — they only have to feel pure. Eventually, though, the bill comes due. It always does. The felony charge sticks. The job prospects shrink. The stress piles up. The movement finds a newer, shinier pawn. And the Purple-Haired Warrior learns the oldest lesson in politics: revolutions don’t give pensions. They don’t give stability. They don’t give families. They don’t give peace. They give meaning for a season, then discard you when you’re no longer useful. So yes, she feels like she’s fighting a war. She feels like she’s part of history. She feels like she’s a soldier of justice, holding the line against evil. But in the cold mechanics of power, she isn’t leading anything. She’s being used, expendable, a pawn.
There she is again. The Purple-Haired Warrior Ac- tivist. Posted up in the wild like a brightly colored poi- son dart frog — small, loud, highly visible, and absolutely convinced she’s saving the planet by screaming at strangers in public while someone films it for Instagram. You’ve seen her. Big glasses. Septum ring. Hair the color of a microwaved grape Popsicle. A face that says “I’m here to save humanity,” paired with the emotional regulation of a toddler who missed nap time and found the cookie jar anyway. And she is not simply “protesting.” She is crusading. She’s not ar- guing policy, she’s delivering judgment. She’s not having a disagreement, she’s casting out demons. Modern activism isn’t just politics anymore — it’s re- ligion, except the god is ideology, the scripture is whatever the trend says this week, and the holiness comes from being angry in public. Here’s the part people miss: the Purple-Haired Warrior doesn’t show up because she carefully stud- ied immigration law, enforcement authority, econom- ics, and the Constitution, then calmly concluded that blocking vans in traffic is the best way to improve life for everyone. No. She shows up because she has an ache. A low-grade emptiness. A craving for pur- pose. And in a society that has hollowed out family, faith, and local community, that ache gets answered in the cheapest, easiest, most intoxicating way imag- inable: join a movement, declare yourself righteous, and pick an enemy. Because enemies are a gift to the empty. An enemy gives you direction. An enemy gives you identity. An enemy gives you something to “fight for,” which is easier than building anything real in your own life. This is why she doesn’t debate to persuade you. She debates to condemn you. She isn’t trying
This is also why the en- tire posture feels reli- gious. It has original sin, except the sin isn’t in the human heart — it’s “the system.” It has demons, except the demons are external: ICE, police, con- servatives, anyone who asks questions in the wrong tone. It has saints, except sainthood is handed out by social media and revoked the second you say the wrong word. It has con- fession rituals too, where someone with blue hair and a graduate degree in feelings sits in front of a camera and apologizes
And then comes the line that always makes me laugh because it acciden- tally reveals the whole game. “I’m single and childless,” she says proudly, “so I can risk ar- rest, block vans, and fight nonstop.” She thinks that’s heroic. She thinks it’s proof she’s brave. What it actually means is: “I am deployable. I have no anchors. No depend- ents. No responsibilities that require stability. I can be spent.”
Movements love that. The street-level activist
for being “complicit” because they once laughed at a joke in 2014. And it definitely has heresy. Nothing enrages the Purple-Haired Warrior more than a per- son who refuses to chant the approved slogans with sufficient enthusiasm. The look isn’t accidental, either. The purple hair, the piercings, the “I’m aggressively different” aes- thetic — it’s a uniform. Humans have always done this. Soldiers wear camo. Monks wear robes. Priests wear collars. The activist wears a visual warning label that says, “I reject your norms, I belong to this tribe, and I am not here to be persuaded.” It’s identity armor. And once your identity becomes public, loud,
isn’t the general. She’s the pawn. She’s the expend- able asset the machine can push forward into conflict to create footage, outrage, headlines, and pressure. She gets the thrill, the applause, and the dopamine. The organizers get the fundraising emails and the political leverage. She gets the mugshot. They get the donations. The movement doesn’t love her — it uses her. If she becomes inconvenient, unstable, or bad for optics, they’ll replace her without hesitation. The system will move on, and she’ll be left holding her moral certificate like a participation trophy no- body remembers awarding.
That’s why this kind of activism is addictive. It func-
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