By Mike Bain

There are moments in history when technology doesn’t just advance — it crosses a line.
In Sweden, that line is no longer theoretical. It’s under the skin.

Thousands are now receiving microchips — tiny implants the size of a grain of rice — injected between the thumb and index finger. A quick jab, a moment of pressure, and suddenly the human hand becomes a keycard, a wallet, a train ticket, a digital identity.

A wave opens doors.
A flick pays for groceries.
A tap verifies who you are.

It is sold as convenience.
But Scripture warns us to look deeper.

Because long before tech companies imagined merging flesh with data, Revelation described a world where buying and selling would be tied to a mark placed on the hand or the forehead. A world where identity, commerce, and control converge. A world where compliance becomes survival.

No — Sweden’s microchip is not the mark.
But it is a rehearsal for a world ready to accept one.

A society trained to normalise the fusion of body and system.
A generation conditioned to trade privacy for ease.
A culture slowly softened to the idea that technology belongs not in your pocket, but in your flesh.

This is how prophecy unfolds — not in one dramatic moment, but in small, incremental steps that feel harmless, trendy, even exciting.

The danger is not the chip itself.
The danger is the desensitisation.

Revelation warns of a time when global systems tighten, when allegiance is tested, when economic participation becomes conditional. And while Sweden’s implants are voluntary today, history shows how quickly “optional” becomes “expected,” and how easily “expected” becomes “required.”

Christians are not called to panic — but to discern.
To watch.
To recognise the season.

Because when technology begins to claim the territory of the human body, the church must pay attention. When identity and commerce merge with flesh, the warning lights of Revelation flicker brighter.

Sweden’s microchip pioneers believe they are embracing the future.
But for those with eyes to see, it is also a reminder:

The world is moving toward something Scripture told us would come.
The question is whether the church will stay awake while it does.

By Mike Bain.

Marketing didn’t begin in the 20th century. Its roots go right back to a serpent in a garden and a woman who was convinced she needed something she didn’t have. The first influencer wasn’t on TikTok — it was Satan, selling a lie with perfect packaging. Eve bought it. Adam followed. And humanity has been buying the same pitch ever since.
Fast forward to today and nothing has changed except the production quality. We’ve gone from whispered temptation to full scale marketing machines. Social media influencers, product placement, curated lifestyles — all of it built on the same ancient hook: desire.
Desire to have what others have.
Desire to be who others are.
Desire to be liked.
New Zealand’s most successful influencer wasn’t a YouTuber — it was the Briscoes Lady. Since 1995 she’s been the smiling face convincing Kiwis they need a sale item they didn’t even know existed. She became so trusted that people voted her “most trusted person” in the country. That’s the power of influence. That’s the power of desire.
And that same desire sits at the heart of two institutions that should know better: Parliament and the Church.
For centuries, these two were intertwined. Today they’re separate, but both are still run by people who crave the same thing Eve did — approval. Popularity. Acceptance.
Look at Parliament. Politicians talk about service, and many genuinely mean it. But underneath the speeches and the slogans sits a quieter truth: popularity matters. Polls matter. Headlines matter. You can hear it in the tone of the opposition and see it in the media frenzy every time a poll dips.
But here’s the question almost no one asks:
“Can the Prime Minister actually do the job?”
Not “Is he popular?”
Not “Is he trending?”
Just — “Is he capable?”
If we judged leadership in the workplace the way we judge it in politics, no one would survive a week. Popularity swings with the weather. Competence doesn’t.
And that brings me to the Church.
Let’s be honest: the Church has never been the world’s favourite institution. It wasn’t designed to be. But over the last 50 years, something shifted. Instead of shaping culture, the Church started chasing it. Instead of preaching repentance, it preached relevance. Instead of calling people to holiness, it called them to happiness.
And the result?
Influence evaporated.
Islam grew.
Secularism surged.
And the Church — the very people entrusted with the gospel — traded truth for applause.
Like Eve, we listened to what our itching ears wanted to hear. Like Adam, we wanted acceptance more than obedience. And now, in 2026, we have a Church that looks more like a theatre than a sanctuary. Lights, smoke, skinny jeans, and sermons so watered down you could baptise a mouse in them.
Replacement theology.
Blind eyes to sin.
A gospel trimmed to fit the culture.
And we wonder why no one takes us seriously.
The Church today is the servant in Jesus’ parable who buried his talent. Entrusted with the truth, we hid it under the soil of popularity. We wanted more — more numbers, more likes, more relevance — and ended up with less.
Here’s the uncomfortable truth:
Popularity is lonely. Unpopularity is lonely. But faithfulness is never lonely — because Christ stands with the faithful.
If the Church wants influence again, it won’t come through marketing tricks or cultural mimicry. It won’t come through being “relatable.” It won’t come through chasing the world’s approval.
It will come the same way it always has:
through truth, sacrifice, holiness, and courage.
Politicians need to remember that leadership is service, not polling.
The Church needs to remember that preaching is proclamation, not performance.
We don’t need influencers like the Briscoes Lady.
We don’t need Eve.
We certainly don’t need Satan.
We need foundations.
We need conviction.
We need the Word of God — not skimmed, not sampled, but studied, believed, and obeyed.
So here’s my message to both Parliament and the Church:
Your job is not to be liked by the world.
Your job is to be faithful to Christ.
Everything else is just marketing.

Last week New Zealanders were urged to prepare. Get ready. Stock up. Be alert.
And many did — batteries, bottled water, toilet paper, the usual panic buying staples. Some even checked their torches or filled the car. But let’s be honest: how many actually had a grab bag ready? How many genuinely prepared? And how many shrugged, scoffed, and said, “It won’t happen.”
In the end, for most of the country, it was a non event. The storm fizzled. Life carried on.
But that reaction — the warnings, the scoffing, the last minute scrambling — is exactly the pattern Jesus pointed to when He said, “Just as it was in the days of Noah…” (Matthew 24). People heard the warnings. They laughed. They carried on. And then the moment arrived.
For years, God’s people have been sounding a far greater alarm than any MetService bulletin. Even Jesus Himself warned His disciples: “Watch out that no one deceives you.” Yet the world treats biblical warnings the same way it treats weather alerts — with a mix of mild interest, mild irritation, and mild disbelief.
But in the back of people’s minds, there’s always that nagging question:
What if this one is real?
We live in a coastal nation where storms can form overnight and tear through communities without warning. We accept that reality. We prepare for it. We know we’re vulnerable to the elements.
But we are also vulnerable to something far bigger — the global shifts happening around us. The world is aligning, reshaping, and centralising power in ways that match the very warnings Scripture has spoken about for centuries. The rise of a global system. The tightening of economic control. The increasing expectation that people comply “for the greater good.” The Bible describes a time when buying, selling, and travelling will be restricted without allegiance to that system.
For many, that still sounds far fetched. But so did the idea of a global shutdown — until it happened. So did the idea of digital passes — until they arrived. So did the idea of worldwide coordination — until we watched it unfold.
The Bible is clear: a leader will emerge who offers the world what it desperately wants — peace. A charismatic figure who seems to have the answers. A stabiliser. A unifier. A counterfeit saviour. Scripture calls him the man of lawlessness, the antichrist. And yes, there will be peace for a time. A deceptive peace.
The world is waiting for leadership. But not everyone is waiting for the leader Paul warned the Thessalonians about. A smaller number — shrinking by the day — are waiting for the true Saviour, Jesus Christ, who promised He would return.
Some will scoff. They always have. They scoffed at Noah. They scoff at weather warnings. They scoff at biblical prophecy.
But scoffing doesn’t stop storms.
And scoffing won’t stop what God has said will come.
The question isn’t whether these momentous events will happen.
The question is simple, confronting, and unavoidable:
Are you ready?
You can laugh it off. You can roll your eyes. You can say, “I’ve heard it all before.”
But deep down, many are quietly wondering:
What if this time… it’s real?

OPINION: Dr Stuart Laing

The ultimate source of every human life is God. Every human being is loved by God, and precious in his sight

In the sixth commandment, God tells us not to kill. In the New Zealand Parliament, however, a majority of MPs in the last Parliament decided it was okay to destroy an unborn baby (if the mother asks for that) and okay to kill terminally ill people (if the ill person asks for that).

Those women seeking abortion may feel they have no option, or may be under great pressure, or may be in a state of significant distress.

In the case of voluntary euthanasia, at least the person concerned requests an early death. In the case of abortion, the unborn baby does not give consent. No unborn baby ever asks to be “terminated”, or to miss out on living their life, with love and joy. No unborn baby ever asks to be clinically destroyed in the womb.

Abortion law “reform” in 2019 has led to a 37% increase the number of New Zealand abortions: in 2024 there were 17,785 abortions (about 50 every day).

Under the current legislation, if babies survive abortion (as about one per week does), they are denied medical care, and just put aside and left to die.

Many medical personnel and hospices who on conscience or other grounds do not want to have anything to with abortion or euthanasia find themselves under increasing pressure within the health sector.

Should we just accept all this, and move on? Should we adapt our beliefs, values and consciences to align with majority views, and the new legislative status quo? Should we decide that at this time nothing can be done, and just keep our values to ourselves?

Or should we continue to hold (and give peaceful, respectful, compassionate witness) to our biblical convictions that life is the sacred gift of God? Should we work and pray for such outcomes as much better (and less pro-abortion) education for young people about choices and options, less bias in government funding, strong support for mothers who choose against having an abortion, mandatory life-saving medical care for those babies which survive abortions, and robust rights of conscience for those medical staff and hospices who do not want to have any part in abortion or euthanasia?

Later this year we should vote for candidates who genuinely respect both the sanctity of human life and medical practitioners’ freedom of conscience, and who will seek possible ways to improve the current situation. Also, after the election, we must resist the inevitable attempts of some to liberalise the scope of the current euthanasia law.

Every year, as the holiday season slows the country and newsrooms scramble to fill empty column space, a strange pattern emerges. Stories appear that would normally be buried beneath the noise of politics, sport, and celebrity chatter. Statistics surface—raw, uncomfortable, and revealing. This year, two sets of numbers stood out with chilling clarity: child abuse and abortion. For Christians, these are not merely “issues.” They are moral fault lines exposing the spiritual condition of a nation.

New Zealand’s record on both fronts is nothing short of shocking.

According to Child Matters chief executive Jane Searle, a child in New Zealand died every six and a half weeks last year from abuse or neglect. Many more suffered life‑altering injuries, and thousands continue to live with trauma “as their regular reality.” Even more disturbing, Searle notes that these statistics have barely shifted in a decade. In a country that prides itself on compassion and fairness, this should shake us to our core.

Scripture is unambiguous about the value of children. “Children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward” (Psalm 127:3). Jesus Himself warned, “Whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in Me to stumble, it would be better for him to have a millstone hung around his neck” (Matthew 18:6). God’s heart for the vulnerable is fierce, and His judgment on those who harm them is severe.

Yet while child abuse spirals upward, another tragedy unfolds quietly under the banner of “choice.” Since abortion was liberalised, New Zealand has become one of the easiest places in the world to end a pregnancy. Recent figures show a 35% rise in abortions over the past few years. We now terminate enough unborn children annually to populate a medium‑sized town—while countless women across the country grieve infertility, miscarriage, or the loss of the opportunity to adopt.

It is hard not to hear echoes of the Old Testament prophets who condemned Israel for sacrificing their children on the altars of convenience and cultural pressure. “They shed innocent blood, the blood of their sons and daughters” (Psalm 106:38). Today, the altars look different, but the moral reality is painfully similar.

And yet, every January, as if to add a layer of irony, media outlets publish cheerful lists of the “Top 20 Baby Names of the Year”—celebrating those fortunate enough to survive the womb.

New Zealanders, even in an age of declining moral standards, are entitled to the basic protections of a civil society. When a government fails to safeguard its most vulnerable citizens—born or unborn—it is, as global leaders often note, a “serious matter” and a betrayal of its fundamental obligations. Searle is right: with an election approaching, a bipartisan commitment to child protection is urgently needed. But Christians must go further. We must call our nation back to righteousness.

Proverbs 31:8 commands us: “Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves.” That includes the abused child, the unborn child, and the struggling mother who deserves support rather than silence.

New Zealand stands at a crossroads. The statistics are not just numbers—they are a mirror. And Scripture reminds us that God holds nations accountable for how they treat the least among them.

May we not be found wanting.