The Fires We Still Light - How We Learned to Sacrifice Our Children to the Modern Molech

When Compassion Becomes a Cover for Cruelty

I. The Ashes of Northern Ireland

Listen to me, my people. Listen, daughters of Sarah, sons of Abraham.

One hundred and forty-five women.

From Northern Ireland—where the name of God was once spoken in every school, where the Scriptures were read in every home—one hundred and forty-five women travelled across the water to England and Wales.

Sixty of them were less than twelve weeks pregnant.

Sixty tiny hearts stopped beating while their mothers sat on trains, on planes, believing they were doing nothing wrong.

I read this report, and my hands trembled. Not with judgment—but with the terror of realizing: we have built a high place, and we are passing our children through the fire.

And we don't even see the flames anymore.

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The God Who Saw the Unborn First

Before the mountains were formed, before the hills took their shape, before the waters gathered into seas—there was a God who saw you.

"Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you." (Jeremiah 1:5)

Not after you took your first breath.

Not after you opened your eyes.

Not when you became "viable" or "wanted" or "convenient."

Before. In the darkness of the womb, when you were smaller than a grain of rice, when your heart was just beginning its first flutter—He knew you.

He knew you would read these words today.

He knew the weight you carry.

He knew the questions you're afraid to ask.

And He loves you still.

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What Did the Ancient Women Do?

Let me take you back. Way back.

To a valley called Hinnom, just outside Jerusalem. To a place the Greeks would later call Gehenna. To a fire that never went out.

In that valley, there was a god. His name was Molech.

He was made of bronze, with the body of a man and the head of a bull. His arms were outstretched, his hands open, and inside that bronze embrace, a fire would be kindled until he glowed red-hot.

And the women—the Israelite women, the daughters of the covenant—would bring their babies. Their living, breathing, crying infants. And they would place them in those burning hands.

The priests would beat drums—loud, pounding, deafening drums—so the mothers couldn't hear their children screaming.

The drums of Molech.

We read this and we recoil. We say, "How could they? How could any mother do such a thing? How could any nation allow such evil?"

But here is the question that haunts me:

What are our drums?

What noise have we allowed—what lies have we accepted—that drown out the screams of our own children?

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The Sacrifice We Call "Healthcare"

"You shall not give any of your children to offer them to Molech, and so profane the name of your God: I am the Lord." (Leviticus 18:21)

God didn't put this command in the Torah by accident. He knew. He knew our hearts would wander. He knew we would find reasons. He knew we would dress up child sacrifice in respectable clothing and call it by other names.

In Molech's day, they called it "religious devotion."

In our day, we call it "reproductive healthcare."

In Molech's day, they called it "appeasing the gods."

In our day, we call it "bodily autonomy."

In Molech's day, they called it "necessity."

In our day, we call it "choice."

The child still burns.

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The Women Who Believed the Bible

You said it yourself: "I thought Irish and British women believed in the Bible."

They did. Their mothers did. Their grandmothers did.

But somewhere along the way, something shifted. A new belief system crept in—quietly, persuasively, dressed in the language of compassion and freedom.

Here's what happened:

First, we stopped believing that life begins in the mind of God.

Second, we started believing that life begins when we decide it does.

Third, we convinced ourselves that some lives aren't really lives at all—not yet, not fully, not really.

Fourth, we told women that their strength depends on their freedom from motherhood.

Fifth, we built clinics instead of altars, but the fire is the same.

"There is a way that seems right to a man, but its end is the way to death." (Proverbs 14:12)

It seemed right. It seemed compassionate. It seemed necessary.

But the way to death always does.

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The Double Standard of "Compassion"

Let me ask you something—and I ask this with tears, not with anger:

Why do the unborn deserve less compassion than the born?

We pour out resources for women in crisis. We should. We must. We build shelters, we offer counseling, we provide support. This is good. This is right. This is the heart of God.

But where is the shelter for the child?

Where is the counseling for the one who didn't choose to be conceived?

Where is the support for the tiny heart beating in the dark?

We say we care about women. And we should.

But the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob cared about both. He saw Hagar in her distress—and He also saw Ishmael in the wilderness. He heard the cry of the mother—and He also heard the cry of the child.

"He executes justice for the fatherless and the widow, and loves the sojourner, giving him food and clothing." (Deuteronomy 10:18)

The fatherless. The orphan. The child without a protector.

Who is more fatherless than the child whose own father says, "Not now"?

Who is more orphaned than the child whose mother says, "I can't"?

Who is more in need of justice than the one who cannot speak?

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The Ancient Woman Without a Choice

You asked about the ancient woman—the one who didn't have abortion pills or surgical procedures.

Let me tell you about her.

She didn't have a choice. When she became pregnant, she became a mother. There was no clinic down the road, no pill to take, no procedure to "solve" the problem.

She carried. She bore. She raised. Sometimes she buried—because children died then, too, from sickness, from famine, from the hardness of life.

But here's what she had that we have lost:

She had community.

When she carried, the other women carried with her. They brought food. They helped with the other children. They sat with her in the blood of childbirth and didn't flinch.

When she raised, the whole village raised. The elders taught, the other mothers corrected, the fathers provided.

When she buried, she buried surrounded by women who had buried their own. She wept, and they wept with her.

She had no choice but to receive the gift—even when the gift felt like a burden.

And here's what she learned that we have forgotten:

The gifts that feel like burdens often become our greatest blessings.

Moses felt like a burden—a crying baby in a basket, floating on the Nile. But that burden became the deliverer of Israel.

Samuel felt like a burden—a child given away to a priest, living in a temple instead of with his mother. But that burden became the prophet who anointed kings.

David felt like a burden—the youngest, the smallest, the least significant, left in the fields with the sheep. But that burden became the shepherd of God's people.

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The Lie We Swallowed

What changed? What belief system made us start normalizing this?

I'll tell you:

We started believing that children are ours to control rather than ours to receive.

"Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward." (Psalm 127:3)

A heritage. A reward.

Not an accident. Not a mistake. Not a punishment. Not a problem to be solved.

When did we stop believing this? When did we start seeing children as interruptions rather than inheritances?

The world told us: "You deserve more. You deserve freedom. You deserve to choose."

The world told us: "A child will hold you back. A child will limit you. A child will cost you."

The world told us: "You can't afford a baby. You can't manage a baby. You can't handle a baby."

And we believed it.

We believed the lie that the gift is actually a curse.

We believed the lie that the reward is actually a burden.

We believed the lie that the heritage is actually a hindrance.

And then—then—we built the high places.

We lit the fires.

We paid the money.

We drummed the drums until we couldn't hear the cries.

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The God Who Weeps

Some of you reading this have been to those high places.

Some of you have lit that fire.

Some of you carry a grief so deep you've never spoken its name.

Hear me now, daughter of Jerusalem. Hear me, son of Abraham:

The God who forbade the sacrifice of children is the God who weeps with those who have sacrificed.

He does not turn away from you. He does not condemn you. He does not abandon you to your shame.

"The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit." (Psalm 34:18)

Near to you.

Near to the one who chose.

Near to the one who didn't know what else to do.

Near to the one who was told it wasn't a baby yet.

Near to the one who believed the lie.

He is near.

And He weeps with you.

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The Question That Won't Let Us Go

But here's the question we must answer—not for the sake of argument, but for the sake of our souls:

If we have compassion for the woman, why don't we have compassion for the child?

The woman in crisis deserves compassion. Yes. A thousand times yes.

The woman who is afraid deserves compassion. Yes.

The woman who feels she has no options deserves compassion. Absolutely.

But the child—

The child who didn't create the crisis—

The child who isn't afraid yet, but will be if given the chance to draw breath—

The child who has no options at all—

Does that child not deserve the same compassion?

Or is our compassion selective?

Is our compassion only for those who can speak for themselves?

Is our compassion only for those whose voices we can hear?

"Open your mouth for the mute, for the rights of all who are destitute. Open your mouth, judge righteously, defend the rights of the poor and needy." (Proverbs 31:8-9)

The mute. The destitute. The needy.

Who is more mute than the unborn?

Who is more destitute than the child with no advocate?

Who is more needy than the one who depends entirely on the mercy of others?

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The Fire Still Burns

They tore down the high places of Molech.

Josiah, king of Judah, desecrated that valley. He scattered bones on it. He made it unholy. He stopped the fires. (2 Kings 23:10)

But the fires started again.

Not in the Valley of Hinnom.

In our hearts.

Because Molech isn't really a statue.

Molech is a belief system.

Molech is the conviction that some lives are expendable.

Molech is the willingness to sacrifice the vulnerable for the comfort of the powerful.

Molech is the lie that says, "This child is not a child—not yet."

And we have rebuilt the high places.

We have relit the fires.

We have drummed louder than ever.

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What Do We Say Now?

So what do we say to the ancient woman who didn't have a choice?

What do we say to the modern woman who believed she did?

We say this:

The God who formed you in the womb formed that child too.

The God who knew you before you were born knew that child too.

The God who consecrated you before your birth consecrated that child too.

We say:

There is no "choice" that can separate you from the love of God.

There is no fire you have lit that He cannot quench with His tears.

There is no child you have lost that He cannot restore—if not in this life, then in the world to come.

We say:

Turn around.

Come back from the high places.

Leave the fires behind.

Return to the God who receives, not the god who demands.

"Return to the Lord your God, for He is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love." (Joel 2:13)

He is waiting.

Not with anger.

Not with judgment.

Not with condemnation.

With open arms.

With tears in His eyes.

With a love that will not let you go.

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A Different Way

There is another way.

Not the way of Molech.

Not the way of the high places.

Not the way of the drums.

The way of Torah.

The way of the prophets.

The way of Messiah.

It is a way that says:

Every child is a gift.

Every pregnancy is a trust.

Every life is sacred.

It is a way that says:

We will surround the frightened mother with love, not lies.

We will support her with resources, not referrals to the fire.

We will walk with her through the valley, not push her toward the flames.

It is a way that says:

Compassion for the mother does not require the death of the child.

Compassion for the child does not require the abandonment of the mother.

Compassion—real compassion—holds them both and will not let either go.

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The Choice Before Us

We stand at a crossroads, beloved.

Behind us, the high places of Molech, where the fires still burn and the drums still pound.

Before us, the mountain of the Lord, where the children play and the mothers laugh and the fathers teach.

Which will we choose?

"I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse. Therefore choose life, that you and your offspring may live." (Deuteronomy 30:19)

Choose life.

Not just for yourselves.

For your children.

For your children's children.

For the generations yet unborn.

Choose life.

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A Prayer for the Mothers

Avinu Shebashamayim—Our Father in Heaven,

You who formed us in the womb,

You who knew us before we were,

You who love us with an everlasting love—

Have mercy on your daughters.

Have mercy on the women who have walked through fire.

Have mercy on the children whose voices we have silenced.

Heal the broken.

Comfort the grieving.

Forgive the repentant.

And give us courage—

Courage to choose life,

Courage to speak for the mute,

Courage to stand against the drums of Molech,

Courage to love with a love that costs everything.

In the name of Messiah, who came that we might have life, and have it abundantly.

Amen.

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The Fires We Extinguish

One hundred and forty-five women.

Sixty who were less than twelve weeks pregnant.

These are not statistics.

These are daughters of the covenant.

These are mothers carrying grief they may never name.

These are children who will never play in the fields of Galilee.

But here is the hope:

The God who saw them in the womb sees them still.

The God who formed them knows them still.

The God who loved them loves them still.

And the fires we light in ignorance, He can extinguish with mercy.

The high places we build in fear, He can tear down with truth.

The drums we beat in desperation, He can silence with His voice.

"He will tend his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms; he will carry them in his bosom, and gently lead those that are with young." (Isaiah 40:11)

The lambs in His arms.

The mothers gently led.

This is our God.

This is our hope.

This is the way home.

Come home, daughters of Jerusalem.

Come home, sons of Abraham.

The fire is still burning—but it doesn't have to be your story.

Choose life.

Choose the God of life.

Choose the children of life.

And let the drums of Molech fall silent at last.

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"They have built the high places of Topheth, which is in the Valley of the Son of Hinnom, to burn their sons and their daughters in the fire, which I did not command, nor did it come into my mind." (Jeremiah 7:31)

It never came into His mind.

It never entered His heart.

It was never His will.

And it never will be.

So let us align our hearts with His.

Let us align our minds with His.

Let us align our choices with His.

For the sake of the children.

For the sake of the mothers.

For the sake of the generations to come.

For the sake of the One who chose us before we chose Him.

Baruch ha'ba b'Shem Adonai.

Blessed is He who comes in the Name of the Lord.

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A teaching for the daughters of Jerusalem, the sons of Abraham, and all who seek the God of life in a world of fire.