Fear and Faith | Life-Giving Water

Read 1 John 4:1–6

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Don’t copy the behavior and customs of this world, but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think.” (Romans 12:2, NLT)

Symbols carry memory and meaning far beyond words. The Church has always leaned on them—sometimes hidden in plain sight, sometimes dismissed or distorted. Yet the most powerful symbols are those that subvert the world’s expectations and draw us back to the radical heart of the Gospel. In this series, we’ve looked closely at sacred signs that unsettle, confront, and ultimately reveal where Christ still calls the Church to deeper honesty.

Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Sacred Signs of Subversion, Part 29: Pentagram” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 29: Pentagram. Let’s begin with what most people think they already know.

For many Christians, the pentagram is not a symbol to be examined but a verdict already rendered. It is assumed to be Satanic, dangerous, corrupt—something to fear, reject, and condemn without hesitation. No context. No curiosity. No discernment. The reaction is immediate, visceral, and absolute.

And that reaction tells us something.

Historically, the pentagram did not begin as a symbol of evil. Long before modern panic attached itself to five points and intersecting lines, the symbol appeared across cultures as a sign of harmony, order, and human embodiment. In ancient mathematics and cosmology, it reflected proportion and balance. In Jewish and early Christian traditions, it was associated with protection and divine order. For medieval Christians, it could signify the five wounds of Christ—hands, feet, and side—marking the body as the place where divine love absorbed violence without returning it.

None of this required secrecy. None of it required rebellion. None of it required fear.

Symbols, however, rarely remain static. They migrate. They are reinterpreted. They are claimed, rejected, reclaimed, and re-signified over time. Christianity itself is no exception to this process. The Church has never existed in a vacuum, and it has never been symbolically pure. The cross—now the central emblem of Christian faith—was once a Roman execution device. Halo imagery draws from Greco-Roman depictions of divine radiance. Basilicas were repurposed civic buildings. Incense, vestments, sacred days, even the timing of major feasts reflect a long history of adaptation rather than invention.

Symbols move. Meaning is shaped by use.

In modern contexts, the pentagram is most commonly associated with Wicca and contemporary Neo-Pagan traditions. In those communities, it often represents connection to nature, the elements, or the balance of life. That usage should be acknowledged honestly. It should not be caricatured, mocked, or erased. Nor does acknowledging it require adopting its theology or collapsing all meanings into one.

What matters is not who currently uses a symbol—but how fear responds when control is lost.

The Church’s relationship with the pentagram reveals a familiar pattern. When a symbol is no longer exclusively governed by Christian authority, it is quickly rebranded as dangerous. Once meaning escapes institutional boundaries, panic steps in to do the interpreting. Fear replaces discernment. Labels replace listening. Accusation replaces understanding.

Scripture warns us against this reflex.

“Dear friends,” John writes, “do not believe everyone who claims to speak by the Spirit. You must test them.” Testing requires patience. It requires discernment. It requires refusing the temptation to decide in advance who is safe and who is not. John does not tell the Church to fear what is unfamiliar; he tells them to examine the spirit behind it. And examination is slower than condemnation.

This is where the symbol becomes subversive—not because of what it is, but because of what it exposes.

The real danger has never been the pentagram. The danger is how easily we outsource evil to whatever unsettles us, rather than confronting the fear within ourselves. It is easier to label a symbol demonic than to ask why we need an enemy to feel secure. It is easier to project threat outward than to examine how power, certainty, and control shape our theology.

Paul’s words in Romans press this uncomfortably close: transformation begins with renewed minds, not reinforced reflexes. When fear dictates interpretation, conformity has already won. When panic replaces discernment, the world has shaped the Church more than the Gospel has.

Christ does not fear symbols. Christ unmasks hearts.

Throughout this series, the signs have pointed to the same truth again and again: the Gospel does not thrive on domination, certainty, or scapegoating. It exposes them. The pentagram, more than almost any other symbol, reveals how quickly fear turns difference into danger and how eagerly the Church participates in that transformation.

This is not a call to rehabilitate a symbol. It is a call to reclaim discernment.

Before we decide what something means, we are invited to ask why it frightens us. Before we condemn what we do not control, we are called to examine what we are protecting. Before we name something demonic, we are asked to test the spirits—including our own.

The final subversion is this: the pentagram does not threaten the Gospel. Fear does. And Christ comes not to defend boundaries, but to free us from the lies we tell ourselves to keep them intact.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Fear often reveals itself most clearly in the symbols we refuse to understand.

PRAYER
God of truth and discernment, slow our reflexes when fear rises and sharpen our hearts for wisdom instead. Free us from the urge to label what we do not understand and from the comfort of certainty that resists transformation. Teach us to test the spirits with humility, to examine our own fears honestly, and to follow Christ without scapegoats or suspicion. Renew our minds, that we may see clearly and love faithfully. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

Read 1 Corinthians 1:18–19

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“‘I tell you the truth, when you were young, you were able to do as you liked; you dressed yourself and went wherever you wanted to go. But when you are old, you will stretch out your hands, and others will dress you and take you where you don’t want to go.’ Jesus said this to let him know by what kind of death he would glorify God.” (John 21:18–19, NLT)

Symbols carry memory and meaning far beyond words. The Church has always leaned on them—sometimes hidden in plain sight, sometimes dismissed or distorted. Yet the most powerful symbols are those that subvert the world’s expectations and draw us back to the radical heart of the Gospel. In this series, we’ll look closer at the sacred signs that shock, unsettle, and ultimately call us deeper into Christ.

Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Sacred Signs of Subversion, Part 28: Inverted Cross” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 28: Inverted Cross. Let’s begin with what we were told. The inverted cross is a sign of evil. A mark of Satan. A deliberate mockery of Christ. A symbol to fear, reject, and condemn.

Long before cable news, social media, or culture wars, symbols were already being distorted through fear, polemic, and power. And few symbols have been so thoroughly misreported as the inverted cross.

The origin of the inverted cross has nothing to do with rebellion or blasphemy. According to early Christian tradition, the Apostle Peter—condemned to death by crucifixion—asked to be crucified upside down, declaring himself unworthy to die in the same manner as Christ. Whether one treats this account as historical fact or sacred tradition, its meaning is unmistakable. The inverted cross began as an act of humility, not defiance. It signaled reversal, not rejection. It proclaimed that Christ alone stands upright at the center of faith.

Over time, the symbol also became associated with the seat of St. Peter, the first bishop of Rome. Again, this is tradition, not Scripture—but it matters. The symbol was never secret. It was never sinister. It was embedded in the Church’s memory as a reminder that leadership in Christ’s name begins not with power, but with surrender.

So how did such a powerful sign against faux spiritual performance become a performance of evil proportions? How did a sign of humility become a harrowing omen of heresy? How did a symbol that once represented humble, servant leadership, become the epitome of of enduring evil?

The first major corruption of the symbol did not come from artists or occultists. It came from theology shaped by fear.

During the Protestant Reformation, the office of the Pope—understood as the successor to Peter—was increasingly demonized. Polemics hardened. Accusations escalated. The Bishop of Rome was labeled the Antichrist, the Beast of Revelation, the embodiment of evil itself. In that climate, anything associated with Peter’s authority was cast in shadow. The inverted cross did not change its meaning; it inherited the suspicion attached to the office it symbolized.

This was bad theology. The term “antichrist” appears not in Revelation, but in the Johannine epistles, where it refers not to a singular figure, but to a persistent spirit that opposes Christ. Likewise, the Beast in Revelation does not represent a church office or a pope. It represents empire—all systems of domination that demand allegiance, participation, and worship. But once fear takes hold, symbols lose their context, and nuance becomes collateral damage. This does not mean church offices are immune from empire; it means they are judged by it, too, whenever power eclipses humility and allegiance shifts from Christ to control.

The second major demonization arrived centuries later, in a very different form. The rise of the Moral Majority, the Evangelical Right, and the Satanic Panic of the 1970s through the 1990s transformed cultural anxiety into political theology. Symbols were no longer studied; they were weaponized. Artists, musicians, creatives, and visionaries who resisted religious political populism were branded dangerous, godless, or demonic. The inverted cross became a convenient prop in a narrative designed to dehumanize dissent.

Here, intentional provocation entered the picture. Figures like Anton LaVey and the Church of Satan did not “discover” the inverted cross—they exploited its misunderstood reputation. The goal was not theological clarity, but cultural disruption. Shock was the point. Fear was the lever. Scaring the puritans was the method. And in many cases, it worked. The symbol’s meaning was further obscured, not because it was powerful, but because it was useful.

Art, media, and rebellion compounded the confusion. Some artists leaned into the inversion as a way of pushing back against the moral purity culture of the 1950s, American Puritanism, and the suffocating marriage of religion and politics. Others adopted the symbol with little interest in its history at all. The result is a cultural echo chamber where almost no one remembers what the symbol actually meant—and almost everyone is certain they know what it stands for.

Scripture offers a corrective.

“The message of the cross is foolish to those who are headed for destruction,” Paul writes, “but we who are being saved know it is the very power of God.” The cross has always been misunderstood. It has always been scandalous. It has always threatened systems that equate strength with dominance and wisdom with control. The inverted cross simply extends that scandal. It reminds us that the Gospel turns our hierarchies upside down.

In its truest sense, the inverted cross does not mock Christ. It dethrones us. It exposes our obsession with appearing righteous, powerful, and certain. It calls the Church back to humility, reminding us that following Christ often looks like surrender, not spectacle.

The danger is not the symbol. The danger is how easily we allow fear to rewrite meaning, and how quick we are to “other” what we fear in those we don’t like or understand. Now THAT is truly Satanic.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
When fear distorts a symbol, it often reveals more about our power structures than about the symbol itself.

PRAYER
God of wisdom and truth, free us from the fear that clouds our discernment. Teach us to look deeper than appearances and to resist the stories that power tells us to keep us afraid. Turn our hearts away from false certainty and back toward the humility of Christ. May we learn again what it means to follow the cross—not as a weapon, but as a way. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

A biweekly devotional