The vow of Celibacy
Chapter 1 — The Weight I Carried Before the Vow
I did not begin my life expecting to walk away from intimacy.
Like many people, I once believed that connection was something natural, something almost inevitable. You grow up, you meet someone, you fall into a rhythm of affection and trust, and life unfolds from there. That was the quiet expectation I carried with me in my younger years, even if I did not always say it out loud.
But as I grew older, I began to notice something that unsettled me long before I had the words to explain it.
There was a pattern — one that appeared in conversations, in whispered stories, in headlines, and sometimes in the lives of women around me. Violence against women was not rare. But what disturbed me more deeply was how often it seemed to affect women who looked like me.
Across different countries and communities, studies have consistently shown that women in marginalized groups often face higher levels of violence, particularly from intimate partners. In places like the United States, research has shown that Black women experience disproportionately high rates of intimate partner violence compared to other groups. Similar concerns have been raised in parts of South Africa, where gender-based violence remains a national crisis, and in Namibia, where many cases go unreported but are quietly known within communities.
These were not just distant statistics to me. They began to feel personal.
It created a quiet awareness inside me — an awareness that I might be moving through the world with a certain vulnerability I had never fully considered before. Not because of anything I had done, but simply because of who I was.
That realization did not come all at once. It built slowly, piece by piece, until it became something I could no longer ignore.
When I was younger, I dated within the world I knew.
I grew up surrounded by familiar languages, familiar traditions, and familiar people. Among them were Ovambo communities, including Oshiwambo-speaking groups that form a significant part of Namibia’s cultural landscape. My early relationships reflected that environment, so my first real boyfriend was an Ovambo man. My experiences were shaped by proximity, by shared spaces, and by the simplicity of being young. At that time, I was recovering from a frontal lobe injury, and it left me with a kind of openness — almost childlike in the way I trusted people without hesitation. So I didn’t really discriminate, being at such a pure state of being. The more I recovered, the more I understood just how vulnerable I had made myself.
At the time, I did not approach relationships with fear. I approached them with openness, even innocence. I believed that closeness meant safety. I broke up with that boyfriend and he completely understood, he did nothing to harm me either, as far as I remembered. I believed that affection meant trust probably because of him, and that was a big mistake on my part.
As time went on and I moved to a different town, that sense of simplicity began to change.
One relationship, with another Oshiwambo (or Otjiwambo) man, in particular, left a mark on me that I could not easily erase.
It did not end gently. It did not end with mutual understanding or quiet distance. Instead, it ended with an act that crossed a boundary I had never imagined would be crossed. He hit me, right across the face, in the middle of town. That day I could feel something shift. I recall hearing a voice in my mind say that ‘I’ll probably never date again’. True to word, I could never enter another sexual relationship with a man again. There was too much fear to relax my defences, I was very young when it happened so the shop would never be open again. From that moment on, something in me closed — and I knew it would not open again
When I chose to leave, I was met with violence. That meant that any other relationship I entered, I would be too scared too leave.
There is a particular kind of silence that follows an experience like that. Not just external silence — but internal. A moment where your understanding of people, of relationships, of safety, fractures all at once.
What stayed with me was not only the event itself, but what it represented.
The realization that someone I had allowed into my life — someone I had trusted — was capable of harming me when I chose to walk away.
That moment did not turn into hatred. I did not suddenly see every person through the lens of that one experience. But it did something quieter, and in many ways more permanent.
It changed my sense of risk. It introduced a question that I could not easily silence: How well can you ever truly know someone?
As time passed, I found myself thinking more carefully — sometimes too carefully — about relationships.
I became aware of patterns (Femicide, NBC news headlines about intimate partner violence), stories, and statistics. Conversations about violence were no longer abstract. They felt connected to real outcomes, real lives, real consequences.
And slowly, something shifted inside me. I began to withdraw — not suddenly, not dramatically — but in small, deliberate ways. I questioned who I could trust. I questioned what it meant to be safe in a relationship. I questioned whether emotional closeness was worth the uncertainty and constant fear of death that seemed to come with it.
At one point, I tried to solve this internally by narrowing my sense of who I might feel comfortable with. I thought about culture. About background. About familiarity and difference. I tried to reason my way into a sense of safety, as if safety could be engineered through careful selection.
But the more I thought about it, the more complicated it became. I decided that I will never date another Ovambo man again, but then I heard about the intimate partner violence amongst all the tribes in Namibia. So I decided that I will never date another black man again. I seriously thought that would be the safest choice.
Every group, every culture, every background carried its own realities, its own histories, its own unknowns. There was no simple answer, no perfect category of people that guaranteed safety or certainty. Even with non-black men, I didn’t want to date anyone local, I always thought I would date in another country. Then reality dawned, what if I got to those countries, and had the same experiences with men. And eventually, I had to face something deeper. The issue was no longer just about who I might choose. It was about whether I wanted to take that risk at all.
What I began to understand — slowly, and not without resistance — was that my relationship with intimacy itself had changed.
Not because I was incapable of connection.
But because I no longer experienced it the same way.
What once felt natural now felt heavy with questions. What once felt hopeful now felt uncertain. And what once felt like a path forward began to feel like a path I did not need to walk. I didn’t need to get married, it was never required of me to date anyone. I didn’t even have to give birth to children. it was not required of me at all.
This realization did not come with relief at first.
It came with tension.
Because walking away from something that the world considers normal — expected, even necessary — forces you to confront yourself in a different way.
You begin to ask:
If I choose not to build my life around relationships, then what will I build it around?
The answer did not arrive all at once.
But it began to take shape in quiet ways.
In solitude that did not feel empty.
In moments of clarity that did not depend on anyone else.
In a growing sense that peace might not come from finding the right person — but from choosing Jesus Christ.
And slowly, almost without realizing it, the idea of celibacy entered my thoughts.
Not as a restriction.
But as a possibility.
At first, I like the idea of celibacy cause it was so unique.
Celibacy felt extreme. Final. Unusual. It was not something I had imagined for myself. It seemed like something people chose for religious reasons, or after a lifetime of experience — not something you arrive at through reflection and personal change.
But the more I sat with it, the more it began to make sense.
Celibacy was not about fear.
It was about removing a source of uncertainty that no longer felt necessary in my life.
It was about choosing a form of stability that did not depend on another person’s actions, moods, or choices.
It was about reclaiming something that I had not realized I had lost:
A sense of control over my own emotional and physical space.
And as that idea settled, something unexpected happened.
I began to feel lighter.
Not restricted.
Not deprived.
But free.
Free from the constant evaluation of others.
Free from the pressure to find, maintain, or fix relationships.
Free from the quiet anxiety that had followed me since that moment when trust had been broken.
For the first time in a long time, I felt a kind of peace that did not depend on anyone else’s presence.
That was the beginning.
Not the end of my journey — but the moment where everything began to shift.
The moment where I stopped asking:
Who can I trust?
And started asking:
What kind of life do I actually want to live?
Chapter 2 — The World That Confirmed My Decision
There comes a point where what you feel internally begins to align with what you see externally.
For me, the unease I carried about relationships did not exist in isolation. It was not only shaped by my personal experiences, but also by what I began to notice more clearly in the world around me.
It was in the headlines.
It was in the statistics.
It was in the quiet conversations people did not always want to have out loud.
And the more I paid attention, the more I realized that what I had stepped away from was not as safe or stable as I had once believed.
One of the most sobering realities I encountered was the prevalence of violence against women, particularly at the hands of intimate partners.
Globally, studies from organizations like the World Health Organization estimate that about 1 in 3 women will experience physical or sexual violence in their lifetime, most often from someone they know.
Even more alarming is the reality of femicide — the killing of women because they are women, often within the context of intimate relationships.
According to the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime, a significant proportion of women who are murdered each year are killed by current or former partners or family members. In many regions, the most dangerous place for a woman is not a dark street or an unfamiliar environment — it is her own home.
In countries like South Africa, femicide rates have been reported among the highest in the world, with women facing a disproportionate risk of being killed by intimate partners. Similar concerns exist in Namibia, where gender-based violence remains a serious issue, even when underreported.
In the United States, data has shown that a large percentage of female homicide victims are killed by someone they knew intimately.
These were not abstract numbers to me.
They painted a picture.
A pattern.
A reality that I could not ignore.
At the same time, I began to observe another trend — one that was less violent, but still deeply unsettling.
Relationships were not lasting the way they once did.
Marriage, which had long been seen as a foundation of stability, no longer seemed as secure as it had been in previous generations.
Among Millennials, divorce rates remain significant, even if patterns differ from the Baby Boomers. While some millennials are more cautious and marry later, many marriages still end in separation.
Studies in countries like the United States suggest that around 40–50% of marriages may end in divorce, though this varies depending on education level, age at marriage, and other factors.
Beyond divorce, there is also the quieter reality of unhappy marriages — relationships that continue not out of joy, but out of obligation, fear, or circumstance.
And then there are the more serious outcomes.
Mental health struggles tied to relationship breakdowns.
Emotional distress.
In some cases, even self-harm.
These are not always counted together, but they exist within the same ecosystem of relational instability.
As I reflected on all of this, something became clear to me.
I had not simply walked away from relationships because of one experience.
I had stepped away from a system that, in many ways, no longer felt safe, predictable, or life-giving.
The dating scene, as I observed it, did not feel like a place of peace.
It felt uncertain.
At times, even dangerous.
And in that realization, something unexpected happened.
Instead of feeling like I had lost something, I began to feel as though I had been spared.
Spared from cycles I did not fully understand at the time.
Spared from risks I might not have been prepared to face.
Spared from outcomes that statistics were beginning to reveal more clearly.
What once felt like restriction began to look like protection.
I had saved myself from a great deal when I chose chastity, even before I fully understood what I was doing.
At the time, it did not feel like wisdom.
It felt like withdrawal.
But looking back, I began to see it differently.
There are moments in life where understanding comes after the decision.
Where clarity follows obedience.
Where protection reveals itself only in hindsight.
And for me, that is where faith entered the picture more clearly than ever before.
I began to believe that my path had not been shaped by accident.
That even in moments of confusion, fear, or withdrawal, there had been guidance.
Not loud.
Not forceful.
But present.
In Psalm 60:4, it says:
“You have given a banner to those who fear You,
that it may be displayed because of the truth.”
I did not understand it at first.
But over time, I began to see my life through that lens.
A banner.
A form of protection.
A signal that not every path must be walked simply because it is common.
And so I came to a conclusion that settled deeply within me:
I was not just avoiding something.
I was being guided away from something.
What once felt like limitation became clarity.
What once felt like fear became direction.
And what once felt like loss became something else entirely:
A quiet, growing sense that I had been protected — long before I knew how to protect myself.
Chapter 3 — The Day the World Broke Open
There are moments in life when the world shifts — not gradually, but all at once.
For me, one of those moments came on October 7.
It began like any other day. There was no warning, no sense that anything significant was about to happen. But as the hours passed, I found myself drawn into a stream of news coverage that I could not look away from.
I watched as reports unfolded on CNN.
At first, it was confusion. Breaking news. Fragments of information. Words like attack, violence, casualties.
But as the coverage continued, the reality became clearer — and heavier.
People were being killed.
Civilians. Families. Individuals who had been living their lives, unaware that everything was about to change.
I remember sitting there, watching.
Not moving.
Not speaking.
Just absorbing.
There are images that stay with you — not because you want them to, but because something in your mind refuses to let them go.
I saw scenes that disturbed me deeply.
People being taken.
People being handled without dignity.
Moments that suggested fear, confusion, and suffering.
Even in what was shown publicly, there were signs that something more had happened — things that were not fully explained on screen, but could be felt beneath the surface.
I watched women being led away captive, their hands tied behind them, with visible blood on their clothes. The placement of those stains made me fear what might have been done to them — an act of hatred beyond violence alone.
I could not speak. It was the kind of sight that leaves you frozen in place.
And that was enough.
What struck me most was not only the violence itself, but what it revealed.
A reality I had tried, until then, to keep at a distance.
That in moments of chaos — especially in conflict — women often face a particular kind of vulnerability.
Not just physical danger.
But humiliation.
Dehumanization.
A stripping away of dignity that goes beyond survival itself.
I understood, in that moment, something that settled deeply into me:
War does not only destroy bodies.
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It targets dignity.
And women often carry that burden in ways that are difficult to describe, and even harder to forget.
As I continued to watch, something inside me shifted.
This was no longer distant.
It was no longer abstract.
It was human.
It was real.
And it was happening in a world that I was a part of.
I could not turn away.
But I also could not remain unchanged.
There is a particular kind of fear that does not come from something happening to you directly — but from realizing how easily it could.
A realization that safety is not guaranteed.
That circumstances can change in a single day.
That the world is not as stable as we often believe.
That day stayed with me.
Not just in memory, but in feeling.
A heaviness.
A quiet disturbance.
A sense that something fundamental had been exposed.
And in the midst of that, another thought emerged — unexpected, but undeniable.
I felt a strange sense of relief.
Not because of what had happened. Never that.
But because of something in my own life.
I had no children.
It is not a thought I had expected to have.
But it came clearly.
A recognition that in a world where so much can be taken, so much can be broken, I had been spared a certain kind of fear.
The fear of watching a child suffer.
The fear of being unable to protect someone completely dependent on you.
The fear of bringing life into a world that can be so unpredictable.
That realization did not come from coldness.
It came from awareness.
From seeing, in real time, how fragile safety can be.
What I witnessed that day did not simply inform my thinking.
It marked me.
It became part of how I understood the world.
Part of how I understood vulnerability.
Part of how I understood the cost of being human in a world that is not always gentle.
I carried it with me.
Quietly.
Deeply.
And in carrying it, something else began to take shape.
Not fear alone.
But clarity.
A clearer understanding of why I had stepped away from certain paths.
A clearer understanding that my choices were not only personal — but protective.
A clearer understanding that sometimes, what we walk away from is not just something we do not want —
But something we were never meant to carry.
That day did not give me all the answers.
But it removed any illusion that the world was harmless.
And once that illusion is gone, it does not return.
I could not unsee what I had seen.
I could not unknow what I now understood.
But I could choose how I would live in light of it.
And slowly, that choice began to take shape.
Chapter 4 — The Gift of Being Childfree
There is a quiet power in freedom. I only realized it fully when I began to reflect on what it meant not to have children of my own. In a world that often expects women to become mothers, I discovered something radical: choosing not to have children is not a lack — it is a gift.
When I think about children, I cannot ignore the risks they face. Across the world, children are vulnerable in ways that are staggering. According to studies from organizations like the United Nations and UNICEF, millions of children experience sexual abuse each year. In the United States alone, the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services reports that approximately 1 in 9 children are sexually abused before their 18th birthday. Globally, these numbers are even higher in areas where reporting is inconsistent and protection systems are weaker.
I think about those statistics constantly. Every time I imagine a daughter of mine, the worry rises immediately: what if she is left in the care of someone I hardly know? What if a trusted person harms her? These are not fears conjured out of nowhere — they are realities that countless parents live with every day. Choosing not to have children is, in a very real sense, a way of shielding myself and my future children from that constant, unpredictable fear.
Violence is not only a private danger — it is a public one. Schools, which we often assume are safe, are not always sanctuaries. Incidents of bullying, assault, and even school shootings make headlines with terrifying frequency. I think about the logistics of sending a child into the world where the very place meant for learning could turn dangerous. Homeschooling is an option, but it comes with its own burdens: immense cost, time, and responsibility.
By not having children, I do not carry that worry. I am not forced to navigate an endless series of what-ifs or compromise my own safety and peace of mind. I am free.
And freedom is a gift I savor every single day.
I have time. Real, unbroken time. Time to pursue my own interests, to study, to travel, to pray, to worship, to build relationships that nourish me without fear of losing myself. I can dedicate hours to reading, writing, learning, and simply being present in the moments that matter to me.
I love my cousins, I cherish the children around me, but I can do so without the permanent, lifelong worry and responsibility that comes with being a parent. I am able to love deeply, mentor, and support without being consumed.
Being childfree is not a deficiency — it is a liberation. It allows me to focus on the things that bring me joy and purpose. I can explore creativity, volunteer, and contribute to my community in ways that would be far more limited if I were constantly balancing the demands of a child or partner. I can go to a new city on a whim, attend a lecture, or simply spend hours in reflection without interruption.
This freedom is not empty. It is full. Full of opportunity, full of gratitude, full of life.
I see this as God’s favor in my life. By stepping away from a path I once assumed was inevitable, I have gained a life rich with experiences, peace, and joy. I am able to fully dedicate myself to my faith, my creativity, and my own personal growth. I am not encumbered by the demands of a partner or child. I am free to love, to serve, and to live fully.
This choice has allowed me to experience joy in ways that would have been impossible otherwise. I can nurture relationships, hobbies, and projects with energy and dedication that I might not have had if my life had followed a conventional path.
I am grateful every day for the life I have. I am grateful for my safety, my time, my independence, and my ability to explore the world and my own potential. I am grateful for God’s guidance, which allowed me to make choices that preserved my peace and allowed me to thrive.
Being childfree is not a lack of love — it is an abundance of opportunity, of freedom, and of gratitude. It is a deliberate, joyful choice that has shaped my life into something I could never have imagined.
And in this freedom, I have discovered that I am truly able to live as I was meant to — fully, wholly, and with deep, unshakeable joy.
Chapter 5 — Reflections on Marriage, Safety, and Freedom
Life has always carried dangers for women. Across centuries, across continents, women have faced risks simply because of their gender. Violence, coercion, and oppression were often woven into daily life. And yet, society frequently portrayed marriage as the ultimate goal, the path to stability and fulfillment.
But history — and scripture — tell a more complex story.
The apostle Paul, in his first letter to the Corinthians, wrote:
“Now concerning the matters about which you wrote: It is good for a man not to touch a woman. But because of the temptation to sexual immorality, each man should have his own wife, and each woman her own husband. The unmarried man and the virgin are concerned about the Lord’s affairs… but those who marry are concerned about worldly affairs, how to please their spouse. I say this for your own benefit, not to lay any restraint upon you, but to promote good order and to secure your undivided devotion to the Lord.”
— 1 Corinthians 7:1–35 (paraphrased)
Paul was clear: marriage brings responsibilities, worries, and potential difficulties. The concerns are not abstract — they are real. And history confirms it.
Across history, countless women have faced violence within the home. Divorce, far from being a modern invention, often originated as a necessary escape for women trapped in abusive marriages. For centuries, women fled to shelters or sought sanctuary to protect themselves and their children from beatings, coercion, and domination. Even today, the legal system can be unjust: women who defend themselves against abusive men are sometimes imprisoned, their suffering ignored while the men who inflicted harm go unpunished.
This reality has shaped my thinking profoundly. If marriage is not guaranteed to be safe, if even the act of self-protection can be criminalized, why would I voluntarily place myself in that position? Why would I take on the constant uncertainty, the risk, the possibility of harm, when Scripture itself warns of the worldly cares marriage brings?
But history also shows another side. Women who chose — or were compelled — to remain unmarried often found unexpected peace, freedom, and opportunity. They could dedicate themselves to their faith, their craft, or their communities without the constraints imposed by marriage. Monastic traditions, charitable endeavors, and intellectual pursuits often allowed unmarried women to experience a life marked by safety, respect, and spiritual growth.
From early Christian widows and consecrated virgins to scholars, artists, and leaders who never married, history is full of women whose unmarried status afforded them freedom, stability, and grace. These women were able to invest fully in themselves, their communities, and their God-given callings, unencumbered by the dangers and demands that marriage could bring.
When I reflect on these patterns — historical, social, and spiritual — I see why I have chosen to remain unmarried. It is not a rejection of intimacy or of love itself. It is a deliberate choice to preserve my safety, my peace, and my devotion.
I have seen the dangers that women face, both past and present. I have considered the risks of dependency, of coercion, and of violence. And I have recognized the injustice inherent in a system that can punish a woman for defending herself.
At the same time, I have witnessed the freedom and grace that unmarried women throughout history have enjoyed — the ability to pursue their passions, to live in peace, and to dedicate themselves fully to higher purposes.
My decision is not a withdrawal from life — it is an embrace of it.
By remaining unmarried, I claim my autonomy, my safety, and my spiritual freedom. I follow the path of women who have walked before me and found fulfillment outside the confines of conventional expectations. I am not bound by the dangers or obligations that have ensnared countless women across history.
I am free to live fully. To love, serve, and create without compromise. To pursue joy and purpose without fear.
And in that freedom, I find peace, clarity, and an unshakable sense of grace.
Marriage may be the right path for some. For me, it is not.
And in that truth, I find the courage to walk my own path — secure in God’s guidance, protected by His wisdom, and empowered by the example of countless women who have thrived while remaining unmarried.
Chapter 6 — Biblical Warnings and the Urgency of Our Times
The Bible speaks clearly about marriage, about human relationships, and about the days in which we live. Its words are not merely guidelines for conduct — they are warnings, calls to vigilance, and sources of wisdom for a world that is often unpredictable, dangerous, and fleeting.
The Scriptures repeatedly speak about the challenges that accompany marriage. In 1 Corinthians 7, the apostle Paul writes:
“Now concerning the matters about which you wrote: It is good for a man not to touch a woman. But because of the temptation to sexual immorality, each man should have his own wife, and each woman her own husband. The unmarried man and the virgin are concerned about the Lord’s affairs, but those who marry are concerned about worldly affairs, how to please their spouse. I say this for your own benefit, not to lay any restraint upon you, but to promote good order and to secure your undivided devotion to the Lord.”
This passage emphasizes that marriage brings responsibilities and worldly concerns that can distract from spiritual devotion. It warns us that those who marry must navigate not only affection and companionship, but also conflict, compromise, and the unpredictable challenges of human relationships. Marriage is a sacred institution, but it carries weight that should not be underestimated.
The last days, according to Scripture, are marked by turbulence, moral decay, and the rise of dangers that make faith and vigilance necessary. The apostle Paul, in 2 Timothy 3, provides a stark portrait of the times ahead:
2 Timothy 3:1–9 (KJV)
1 This know also, that in the last days perilous times shall come.
2 For men shall be lovers of their own selves, covetous, boasters, proud, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy,
3 Without natural affection, trucebreakers, false accusers, incontinent, fierce, despisers of those that are good,
4 Traitors, heady, highminded, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God;
5 Having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof: from such turn away.
6 For of this sort are they which creep into houses, and lead captive silly women laden with sins, led away with divers lusts,
7 Ever learning, and never able to come to the knowledge of the truth.
8 Now as Jannes and Jambres withstood Moses, so do these also resist the truth: men of corrupt minds, reprobate concerning the faith.
9 But they shall proceed no further: for their folly shall be manifest unto all men, as theirs also was.
These are very evil days. Everywhere I look, the world seems to be unraveling. Sin is celebrated, corruption spreads, and the innocent are too often left vulnerable. I am not against marriage — far from it. I know many married couples in my environment who are a true blessing to each other, who support each other in practical ways, who love and protect and uplift. I have seen the beauty of marriage lived out with faithfulness, patience, and joy.
Yet I have also seen the dangers that lurk in human relationships. I have watched how easily trust can be broken, how quickly hearts can be wounded, and how even good intentions can be swept aside in a world filled with pride, deceit, and moral decay. I have seen single people live rich, fulfilling lives as well, walking in faith and finding joy and purpose without the complications, risks, and distractions of marriage.
So all I can say is: for each his own. Each person must walk the path God has prepared for them, whether married or single, but with eyes wide open, hearts alert, and faith anchored in the truth of Scripture.
The Bible makes it clear: these are perilous times, the last days described over and over to warn us. In 2 Timothy 3:1–5 (KJV), Paul warns:
“This know also, that in the last days perilous times shall come. For men shall be lovers of their own selves, covetous, boasters, proud, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy, Without natural affection, trucebreakers, false accusers, incontinent, fierce, despisers of those that are good, Traitors, heady, highminded, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God; Having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof: from such turn away.”
The warning is unmistakable: the world will be filled with people who pursue selfish desires, reject godliness, and prey upon the vulnerable. Those who marry in such times must be especially careful, for the dangers of the heart, of desire, and of sin are intensified in a world so darkened by evil.
Other passages echo this urgency. Jesus Himself said in Matthew 24:12–13 (KJV):
“And because iniquity shall abound, the love of many shall wax cold. But he that shall endure unto the end, the same shall be saved.”
We are called to vigilance, to faith, and to endurance — not to passively assume that the world will honor righteousness or that marriage itself is a safeguard against the evil around us.
Peter also warns in 2 Peter 3:3–4 (KJV):
“Knowing this first, that there shall come in the last days scoffers, walking after their own lusts, And saying, Where is the promise of his coming? for since the fathers fell asleep, all things continue as they were from the beginning of the creation.”
Even as evil abounds, we are reminded that God’s justice and the return of Christ are certain. The scoffers, the deceivers, and the morally corrupt may seem to prosper now, but their end is assured.
In Revelation 16:14 (KJV), we see the spiritual intensity of these times:
“For they are the spirits of devils, working miracles, which go forth unto the kings of the earth and of the whole world, to gather them to the battle of that great day of God Almighty.”
These verses are not just warnings — they are calls to discernment. They remind me that life is dangerous for women, that moral decay affects all relationships, and that marriage does not guarantee safety, joy, or peace in a world dominated by sin.
Yet the Bible also provides hope. Psalm 37:1–2 (KJV) says:
“Fret not thyself because of evildoers, neither be thou envious against the workers of iniquity. For they shall soon be cut down like the grass, and wither as the green herb.”
Even in these evil days, God preserves, protects, and provides wisdom to those who follow Him. Whether married or single, the call is the same: vigilance, devotion, and reliance on Christ.
So I choose my path carefully. I embrace celibacy, not out of fear, but out of discernment. I do so to preserve my peace, my time, my devotion to God, and my clarity of heart. I do so because I see the dangers in the world clearly, and I understand the urgency of these times. The last days are not just distant prophecy — they are here, and they demand wisdom, faith, and courage.
For each person, the path may differ. Some will marry and thrive; others will remain single and flourish. I have chosen the latter, not as a rejection of God’s blessings, but as a faithful, intentional, and joyful response to His guidance.
And as I live in these days of peril, I do so with awareness, prayer, and gratitude, knowing that my choices align with the Scriptures, protect my soul, and prepare me for the return of Jesus Christ — the hope and anchor of all who trust in Him.
Chapter 7 — Living in the Last Days
The Bible does not leave us guessing about the times in which we live. From the earliest prophets to the apostles, Scripture warns that the last days will be perilous, marked by moral decay, conflict, and uncertainty. The words are urgent, precise, and repeated across generations, so that those with eyes to see and hearts to understand might recognize the times and respond in faith.
In Luke 21:25–26 (KJV), Jesus Himself describes the signs that will mark the end:
“And there shall be signs in the sun, and in the moon, and in the stars; and upon the earth distress of nations, with perplexity; the sea and the waves roaring; Men’s hearts failing them for fear, and for looking after those things which are coming on the earth: for the powers of heaven shall be shaken.”
These verses reveal that the chaos of the last days is not limited to human sin — it is cosmic, affecting the very elements of creation. The distress of nations, the fear in human hearts, and the shaking of the powers of heaven are warnings for those willing to see clearly.
Modern events confirm what the prophets foresaw. Wars erupt with alarming regularity. Nations rise and fall. Terror strikes where it is least expected. In just the past decades, we have witnessed events that would have seemed unthinkable to prior generations: global pandemics that disrupt every facet of life, massive migrations caused by conflict and famine, natural disasters intensified by climate change, and acts of terror that target the innocent without warning.
History itself serves as a record of humanity’s trajectory toward peril. The atrocities of the 20th century — the Holocaust, the atomic bombings of Japan, genocides in Rwanda, Cambodia, and Darfur — reveal the capacity for human evil on a scale that shocks the conscience. And yet, in many ways, the 21st century has introduced dangers that are more subtle but equally pervasive: technological manipulations, ideological extremism, and a moral relativism that erodes societal structures.
In 2 Peter 3:3–7 (KJV), the apostle Peter reminds us:
“Knowing this first, that there shall come in the last days scoffers, walking after their own lusts, And saying, Where is the promise of his coming? for since the fathers fell asleep, all things continue as they were from the beginning of the creation. For this they willingly are ignorant of, that by the word of God the heavens were of old, and the earth standing out of the water and in the water: Whereby the world that then was, being overflowed with water, perished: But the heavens and the earth, which are now, by the same word are kept in store, reserved unto fire against the day of judgment and perdition of ungodly men.”
Peter’s words are clear: there will be mockers, scoffers, and those who live for themselves. They will dismiss the warnings, claim that all is well, and ignore the clear signs of the times. Yet God’s plan has not changed. The judgment is coming, and the faithful must remain vigilant.
We see this reflected in the moral decay surrounding us. Corruption, deceit, and the pursuit of selfish desires dominate the news cycle daily. Leaders betray trust, greed undermines justice, and pleasure is elevated above godliness. Everywhere I look, the warning signs of 2 Timothy 3 manifest in reality: people are lovers of themselves, proud, abusive, and despisers of those that are good. Women and children are increasingly vulnerable, families are under strain, and institutions meant to protect and nurture are often complicit in harm.
Even nature bears witness to these times. Floods, fires, hurricanes, earthquakes, and famines seem to arrive with greater intensity and unpredictability. Entire communities are displaced, livelihoods destroyed, and lives lost. These events echo the prophecy of Joel 2:30–31 (KJV):
“And I will shew wonders in the heavens and in the earth, blood, and fire, and pillars of smoke. The sun shall be turned into darkness, and the moon into blood, before the great and the terrible day of the LORD come.”
The signs are not confined to distant lands. They are everywhere. The rise of global conflict, the threat of nuclear weapons, political instability, and the erosion of moral norms all point to a world on the edge. The horrors I witnessed on October 7, for example, were not just news stories — they were reminders that human evil is real, that the weak and vulnerable are often targeted first, and that women bear a unique burden in times of chaos.
History provides further evidence. Consider the Roman Empire, whose decline was marked by moral corruption, violence, and the exploitation of the powerless. Or the Middle Ages, when entire populations suffered under war, famine, and oppression. These examples demonstrate a pattern: humanity, left to its own devices, repeatedly drifts toward chaos and injustice. We are not the first generation to face trials — but we may be the last to witness the culmination of all these warnings.
Scripture provides additional warnings about human behavior in the last days. In Daniel 12:4 (KJV), we read:
“But thou, O Daniel, shut up the words, and seal the book, even to the time of the end: many shall run to and fro, and knowledge shall be increased.”
The proliferation of knowledge, technology, and information — while beneficial in many ways — can also be a sign of the times. People travel, communicate, and influence like never before, yet wisdom often lags behind knowledge. The moral guidance of God is frequently ignored, even as we see the signs of judgment around us.
Jesus Himself gave a clear warning in Matthew 24:6–8 (KJV):
“And ye shall hear of wars and rumours of wars: see that ye be not troubled: for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet. For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be famines, and pestilences, and earthquakes, in divers places. All these are the beginning of sorrows.”
When I reflect on the world today — wars, pandemics, economic instability, social unrest — I cannot help but see the fulfillment of these prophecies. These are indeed perilous days, and they demand discernment, vigilance, and a commitment to righteousness.
Even ordinary life bears witness. Families are fractured, moral decay infiltrates schools and workplaces, and women and children are especially vulnerable to violence and exploitation. The rise of abuse, exploitation, and femicide confirms that humanity’s capacity for evil remains unchecked. The warnings of Scripture are not abstract — they are lived realities.
Yet Scripture also offers hope and a path forward. In Psalm 91:1–4 (KJV), we are assured:
“He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the LORD, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust. Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.”
Faithfulness to God, trust in His protection, and obedience to His Word are the anchors we need in these turbulent times. For those who walk in His light, the chaos of the last days does not dictate despair — it calls for vigilance, prayer, and steadfastness.
Modern examples remind me daily of the urgency of living rightly. Natural disasters, pandemics, and human-made catastrophes all signal that the world is in turmoil. The atrocities of October 7, the violence and exploitation of the innocent, and the rise of global unrest confirm what the Scriptures have long foretold.
The apostle John also reminds us in 1 John 2:18 (KJV):
“Little children, it is the last time: and as ye have heard that antichrist shall come, even now are there many antichrists; whereby we know that it is the last time.”
We are living among those antichrists — the deceptive, prideful, and immoral forces that Paul and John warned about. They challenge faith, morality, and the pursuit of godliness. To navigate this world safely, we must anchor ourselves in Scripture, reject worldly temptations, and devote ourselves fully to Christ.
The urgency of our times is further reflected in Revelation 13:16–18 (KJV):
“And he causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a mark in their right hand, or in their foreheads: And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name. Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six.”
These verses warn of deception, coercion, and the testing of faith. In a world increasingly dominated by moral compromise, technological control, and economic manipulation, they resonate with uncanny relevance.
Yet despite the darkness, Scripture concludes with hope and restoration. The last verse of the Bible, Revelation 22:21 (KJV), offers a final blessing:
“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. Amen.”
This simple verse encapsulates the promise of God: even in the perilous last days, grace is available, faithfulness is rewarded, and Christ’s return will bring ultimate justice, peace, and restoration.
As I reflect on history, modern events, and Scripture, I recognize that these truly are the last days. Moral decay, violence, and chaos surround us, but they do not have the final word. The faithful are called to vigilance, devotion, and discernment. To live rightly is to embrace God’s guidance, to reject worldly temptations, and to remain steadfast in prayer, study, and obedience.
We do not face these days passively. We face them actively, alert to the signs, aware of the dangers, and committed to living holy lives. We see the fulfillment of prophecy in real time, yet we also see the promise of grace. In this tension, we find purpose, courage, and clarity.
The last days are real. They are urgent. They are dangerous. But they are also the stage upon which God demonstrates His faithfulness, His justice, and His mercy. And for those who trust in Him, the end of this age is not a reason for fear — but a call to faith, discernment, and preparation for the glorious return of Jesus Christ.
By Rijamekee Tjikuzu Veii
