Leaving a light on is still one of the most common, simplest ways to thwart potential burglars. Most thieves are lazy opportunists — they want an empty house, not a fight. A glowing living-room window, maybe a TV flickering or radio humming, screams “someone’s home.” That one detail flips the risk: from easy burglary to messy home invasion, potential violence, a barking dog, and felony charges that can ruin their life. The oldest trick in the book still wins because it exploits the one thing most criminals hate: witnesses.

Now consider this same principle stripped of metaphor and applied to the spiritual battlefield. The most dangerous thing a Christian can do is live with the lights off — not merely dim, not tastefully low, but off. A dark house in the neighborhood of the watching world is an open invitation to every prowling spirit, every lie, every accusation, every slow erosion of hope. The thief does not fear a silent, unlit believer. He fears one whose life is visibly occupied by a living, reigning King.

Jesus’s own words laid forth this principle: “You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house” (Matthew 5:14–15). Note what He did not say. Jesus did not say, “You can be light if you feel like it.” He did not say, “Try to be a subtle glow when it’s convenient.” He said you are light — present tense, non-negotiable identity. And then, from there, He commanded the placement of that light: on a stand. Elevated. Obvious. Unmissable. The lamp is not meant to be concealed for the sake of humility. It is meant to be lifted so that the entire house — and everyone watching from the street — can see that the house is inhabited.

You see, when your life radiates the unmistakable presence of Christ, you are doing far more than “sharing your faith” or “being a good example.” You are changing the enemy’s operational calculus. You are turning a low-risk infiltration into a high-risk confrontation. Darkness thrives in unoccupied territory. Darkness loves ambiguity. Darkness loves plausible deniability. Indeed, it’s the gray zone where no one can be sure whether the house is truly claimed, whether the owner is awake, or whether resistance is likely that the enemy loves and the world abuses. After all, a Christian whose life whispers, “Maybe someone’s home, maybe not,” is the perfect target. But on the flipside, a Christian whose life roars, “The King is present, the Spirit is dwelling, the house is garrisoned by the living God,” becomes a very bad investment for the one who prowls like a roaring lion seeking someone to devour (1 Peter 5:8).

When the light is visibly, defiantly on, the thief prefers to keep moving. More often than not, he will look for the next dark, quiet, unclaimed house. That said, this does not mean the enemy puts no effort into attacking Christians with strong faith and bright lights. Sometimes those very Christians become the target because they are the greatest threats. It’s similar to how, even with the lights on, a mansion — likely filled with money, valuable goods, priceless heirlooms — will still be an attractive target for a thief. Most burglars will pass by the well-lit, occupied house to the empty one next door. However, there is another kind of thief who, rather than running from risk, specializes in it.

This thief studies alarm systems. He knows the make and model of the safe. He’s already mapped the cameras. He will cut the power, jam the signal, scale the wall, slip through the skylight of the very house everyone else avoids. He is willing to pay the premium in danger because the reward is so disproportionately high: the crown jewels, the bearer bonds, the private collections. This is the thief who shows up when the light is blazing. He doesn’t come because you are an easy mark. He comes because you are a valuable one.

Consider modern examples. Charlie Kirk, the prominent Christian and conservative commentator, was assassinated in cold blood for unashamedly sharing his faith. Christians in Nigeria and beyond are constantly tortured, kidnapped, and murdered for proclaiming Christ — yet, even so, they refuse to compromise because they know this world is not their home. They know who dwells within them. Conversely, consider the Christians who have shined brightly before only to be attacked and ultimately succumb to the temptations the enemy threw their way. You know, the pastors who fell into adultery, the worship artists who backslid, and the evangelist who waters down the message of the gospel in order to be more palatable to a world that really wants faith on its own terms.

Every attack, be it blatant or duplicitous, is designed to snuff out the light of Christ within us. And so, whether you’re an easy target or a difficult one, we live in this strange, spiritual tension: we are called to be so unmistakably occupied that the lazy thieves pass by quickly, while simultaneously being so valuable that the serious ones cannot ignore us. In the end, there is no safe dim setting. Dim lights get quietly plundered. Blazing lights get attacked — and in being attacked, they testify.

Both the enemy and the world are watching the open windows of our lives. What do they see? A life of quiet integrity, costly obedience, unashamed prayer, bold forgiveness, and joy that makes no sense apart from the gospel? That is the blaze. That is the evidence. That is what settles the rumors that Jesus really does dwell in human hearts, the Spirit really does transform people, and the gospel really does produce lives that cannot be explained by natural causes.

So, leave the light on. When the silhouette of the King lingers behind the curtains, may the world grow curious, may the weary find hope, and may the darkness think twice before it approaches that door tonight.