A decade has passed since the night of November 13, 2015—the night when the heart of Paris was pierced by a wave of coordinated terrorist attacks that claimed the lives of 130 people. Among the bloodiest of these was the massacre at the Bataclan concert hall, where 90 concertgoers were gunned down in cold blood.
A single photograph from that night has stayed with me over the years. It was taken just minutes before the attack began—an image of joy and abandon. The crowd is ecstatic. Arms are raised. Smiles are everywhere. The atmosphere is electric with freedom, pleasure, and anticipation. The American rock band Eagles of Death Metal is on stage, and the audience, caught in the height of their performance, appears to embody everything modern Western nightlife claims to be: liberated, exuberant, carefree.
But this seemingly ordinary concert would soon become the stage for one of the most horrific terrorist attacks in modern European history. Moments after that photograph was taken, three Islamist gunmen entered the venue and opened fire. What began as a celebration of life ended in a massacre. The photograph is haunting not only because we now know what came next, but because, when viewed in hindsight, the moment it captures seems loaded with meaning—perhaps even prophetic.
Dancing on the Edge
That night, Eagles of Death Metal had just begun playing one of their most popular songs: “Kiss the Devil.” As the first chords sounded, many in the crowd responded with the well-known ‘devil horns’ hand gesture—index and little fingers raised, the others curled down—a symbol popularized in rock culture, once provocative, now largely emptied of meaning for most who use it.
The lyrics they were singing as the first shots rang out were:
Who’ll love the Devil?
Who’ll sing his song?
Who will love the Devil and his song?
I’ll love the Devil
I’ll sing his song
I will love the Devil and his song.
Did anyone in the crowd believe they were literally invoking Satan? Certainly not. It was all part of the performance—ironic, theatrical, unserious. And yet, because real evil entered the room in the form of armed men bent on slaughter, the symbolism becomes difficult to ignore.
To the modern mind, which sees the world in strictly materialist terms, such moments are written off as coincidence. The song and the massacre are but a grim alignment of unrelated events. But for those who still believe in meaning, in signs and symbols, in the spiritual dimension of life, the scene invites deeper reflection. The question lingers: when a culture empties itself of the sacred and flirts with darkness, even in jest, does it leave itself open to something more than just political vulnerability? Does it expose a spiritual vacuum—a house swept clean, but left frighteningly unguarded?
The parable of the empty house
The image of the Bataclan crowd brings to mind a passage from the Gospel of Luke. Jesus speaks of a person who has been freed from an unclean spirit. The spirit departs and wanders in desolate places, seeking rest. Finding none, it returns to the person—to “the house”—and finds it “swept clean and put in order,” but empty. So it gathers seven other spirits more wicked than itself, and they all return to dwell there. “And the final condition of that person,” Jesus says, “is worse than the first.”
This haunting parable serves as a profound metaphor for the state of Western civilization today—and especially for Europe. Once shaped and animated by Christianity, Europe has for the past century attempted an unprecedented civilizational experiment: to become secular, value-neutral, post-religious.
Religion has been pushed to the margins—first socially, then culturally, and finally spiritually. Churches still stand, but for many, they are little more than architectural curiosities or museums of a forgotten past. Christian holidays remain on the calendar, but their deeper meaning has long since been forgotten. Values that once had a foundation in Christian belief—dignity, justice, charity—are now promoted in abstract, stripped of their source. The European house has indeed been swept clean. But it has not been filled.
Secularism promised to create a neutral public space—a realm free of religious dogma, where individuals could believe (or disbelieve) as they pleased. But this idea, while appealing in theory, ignores a fundamental truth about human nature: we are not spiritually neutral creatures. We are inherently religious beings, longing for meaning, belonging, and transcendence. As Aristotle wrote in his Physics: natura abhorret a vacuo—nature abhors a vacuum. Though meant in a physical sense, the phrase endures as a powerful metaphor. A void, once created, will not remain empty. It draws something into itself.
And so it has been with Europe. As Christianity retreated, the vacuum was not left unfilled. Other belief systems—some benign, others deeply troubling—have rushed in to take its place. Some are political in nature. Others are ideological. And some, like radical Islam, are openly religious and unapologetically hostile to the very freedoms Western secularism holds dear.
The return of religion
In many parts of Europe today, Islam is not only growing demographically, but becoming increasingly visible and assertive. For many Muslim communities, faith is not a private matter but a public identity. Mosques are being built. Religious dress is commonplace. Daily prayer is practiced openly. And for many young Muslims, religion is not a burden, but a source of strength and meaning. This religious resurgence stands in sharp contrast to the spiritual malaise of post-Christian Europe. The irony is striking: while Western societies pride themselves on tolerance, openness, and pluralism, they have largely lost the one belief system that once gave them coherence. The Christian faith—which underpinned European culture, law, art, and identity—has been reduced to a cultural memory.
Just as we convinced ourselves that secularism had freed us from the grip of religion, we now face the enduring irony: religion does not disappear—it waits, it returns, and it reclaims the spaces we thought were neutral. No society has ever truly remained spiritually neutral. When one dominant worldview is rejected, another inevitably takes root. When the Roman Empire collapsed, Christianity filled the void. When Christianity arrived in Scandinavia, it displaced Norse paganism. And today, much of what was once Christian stronghold territory—from Asia Minor to North Africa—is now under Islamic influence. The question is not whether religion will shape society, but which religion—and what kind of society it will build.
Following the devastation of two world wars, many Europeans placed their hope in secular modernity. Science, democracy, and human rights were to form the new moral foundation. For a time, this vision seemed to work. Economic growth surged. Education expanded. Religion declined without immediate consequence. But over time, cracks begin to show. Without a shared spiritual foundation, society becomes fragmented. Loneliness, anxiety, and alienation surge. Families are fracturing. Political discourse grows increasingly bitter. In this vacuum of meaning, new forms of belief—some masquerading as politics, others as identity movements—are steadily taking root.
Islam is the most prominent example of what fills the spiritual vacuum left by the West’s rejection of Christianity. But it is not the only one. Others include the cults of identity politics, transhumanist dreams of technological salvation, climate apocalypticism, and nihilistic movements that glorify destruction for its own sake. These are not passing trends, but expressions of a deeper hunger—a hunger for identity and meaning that secularism cannot satisfy. In the absence of Christianity, these forces rush in to offer belonging, purpose, and truth—however distorted or incomplete.
Bataclan was not just a terrorist attack. It was a moment of rupture—a glimpse into the spiritual disarray of a civilization that had forgotten what it believes. The fact that the crowd was singing about the devil when real evil arrived may be a coincidence. Or it may be something more. In the symbolic realm—the realm of meaning—it was a parable from the Gospel of Luke unfolding in real time.
The spiritual battle
One of the most overlooked aspects of the current migration crisis—and of Europe’s internal turmoil—is that beneath the surface lies a spiritual battle, not just a political one. The Apostle Paul reminds us in Ephesians 6:12 that “We wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities and powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.” But this spiritual dimension has been almost entirely forgotten—even by the Church itself. In today’s Europe, immigration, political tension, and even terrorism are treated exclusively as policy challenges. And while border control and national sovereignty are legitimate and necessary, they are not enough. Spiritual forces do not respect borders. The battle we face is not merely over territory—it is over meaning, identity, and truth.
What we are witnessing today is not without precedent. It echoes patterns that have played out throughout biblical history—patterns the Old Testament prophets recognized and warned against with sobering clarity. Jeremiah, Isaiah, Hosea, and the other prophets were not just observers of political decline; they were men to whom God had revealed a deeper truth: that when a people turns away from its covenant with the living God, national collapse is not a possibility—it is a consequence.
In the story of ancient Israel, turning away from God was never just a private lapse in piety. It was a public crisis—one that eventually led to societal breakdown, moral decay, and vulnerability to external enemies. The fall of Jerusalem in 586 BC and the Babylonian exile were not seen as accidents of history, but as the direct consequence of spiritual rebellion. As Jeremiah cried out in anguish, “Your own conduct and actions have brought this on you. This is your punishment. How bitter it is!” (Jeremiah 4:18).
Isaiah, too, spoke of a people who honored God with their lips but whose hearts were far from Him (Isaiah 29:13). He warned that without repentance, divine protection would be withdrawn, and foreign nations would become instruments of judgment. The prophets repeatedly declared that God’s justice is not indifferent to collective sin, nor is His mercy unconditional when truth and righteousness are cast aside. The message of the prophets was not military strategy. It was not national reform in the pragmatic sense. It was a moral and spiritual summons. Their call was unwavering and singular: Repent. Return to the Lord. Heal the covenant breach before destruction becomes inevitable.
Today, we would do well to remember that these ancient warnings were not just for Israel. They were recorded for all generations—as a mirror, a warning, and a pattern. When we dismiss God, dismember truth, and deconstruct identity, we do not become free—we become fragile. And like ancient Israel, we risk collapse not because of the strength of our enemies, but because of the emptiness within.
The West today must hear the same call of repentance. The real battle is not won with stronger immigration laws or renewed nationalism alone. It begins with self-examination—a return to the sacred, a rediscovery of the transcendent, and a reawakening of the soul. If the West is to recover, it must first confront the void at its center. It must ask again: What do we believe? What do we worship? If we do not answer those questions for ourselves, someone else will. And we may not like the answer they give.
This essay appears in the Autumn 2025 issue of The European Conservative, Number 36:13-15.
Europe’s Spiritual Battle: The Bataclan Massacre 10 Years Later
Jesse Hughes (R), frontman for the ‘Eagles of Death’ metal band, and drummer Julian Dorio visit a memorial that pays homage to the victims of the terrorist attacks at Le Bataclan in Paris.
David Wolff-Patrick / Getty Images (image cropped)
You may also like
120 Years of French Secularism
French-style secularism is not an ode to tolerance but a destructive project targeting France's Catholic identity.
Can HS2 Be Salvaged?
If you make a disastrous decision, the solution is not to stick with it.
Why France’s Schools Are on the Verge of Collapse
A new report exposes how uncontrolled, unassimilated immigration is destroying the French education system.
A decade has passed since the night of November 13, 2015—the night when the heart of Paris was pierced by a wave of coordinated terrorist attacks that claimed the lives of 130 people. Among the bloodiest of these was the massacre at the Bataclan concert hall, where 90 concertgoers were gunned down in cold blood.
A single photograph from that night has stayed with me over the years. It was taken just minutes before the attack began—an image of joy and abandon. The crowd is ecstatic. Arms are raised. Smiles are everywhere. The atmosphere is electric with freedom, pleasure, and anticipation. The American rock band Eagles of Death Metal is on stage, and the audience, caught in the height of their performance, appears to embody everything modern Western nightlife claims to be: liberated, exuberant, carefree.
But this seemingly ordinary concert would soon become the stage for one of the most horrific terrorist attacks in modern European history. Moments after that photograph was taken, three Islamist gunmen entered the venue and opened fire. What began as a celebration of life ended in a massacre. The photograph is haunting not only because we now know what came next, but because, when viewed in hindsight, the moment it captures seems loaded with meaning—perhaps even prophetic.
Dancing on the Edge
That night, Eagles of Death Metal had just begun playing one of their most popular songs: “Kiss the Devil.” As the first chords sounded, many in the crowd responded with the well-known ‘devil horns’ hand gesture—index and little fingers raised, the others curled down—a symbol popularized in rock culture, once provocative, now largely emptied of meaning for most who use it.
The lyrics they were singing as the first shots rang out were:
Did anyone in the crowd believe they were literally invoking Satan? Certainly not. It was all part of the performance—ironic, theatrical, unserious. And yet, because real evil entered the room in the form of armed men bent on slaughter, the symbolism becomes difficult to ignore.
To the modern mind, which sees the world in strictly materialist terms, such moments are written off as coincidence. The song and the massacre are but a grim alignment of unrelated events. But for those who still believe in meaning, in signs and symbols, in the spiritual dimension of life, the scene invites deeper reflection. The question lingers: when a culture empties itself of the sacred and flirts with darkness, even in jest, does it leave itself open to something more than just political vulnerability? Does it expose a spiritual vacuum—a house swept clean, but left frighteningly unguarded?
The parable of the empty house
The image of the Bataclan crowd brings to mind a passage from the Gospel of Luke. Jesus speaks of a person who has been freed from an unclean spirit. The spirit departs and wanders in desolate places, seeking rest. Finding none, it returns to the person—to “the house”—and finds it “swept clean and put in order,” but empty. So it gathers seven other spirits more wicked than itself, and they all return to dwell there. “And the final condition of that person,” Jesus says, “is worse than the first.”
This haunting parable serves as a profound metaphor for the state of Western civilization today—and especially for Europe. Once shaped and animated by Christianity, Europe has for the past century attempted an unprecedented civilizational experiment: to become secular, value-neutral, post-religious.
Religion has been pushed to the margins—first socially, then culturally, and finally spiritually. Churches still stand, but for many, they are little more than architectural curiosities or museums of a forgotten past. Christian holidays remain on the calendar, but their deeper meaning has long since been forgotten. Values that once had a foundation in Christian belief—dignity, justice, charity—are now promoted in abstract, stripped of their source. The European house has indeed been swept clean. But it has not been filled.
Secularism promised to create a neutral public space—a realm free of religious dogma, where individuals could believe (or disbelieve) as they pleased. But this idea, while appealing in theory, ignores a fundamental truth about human nature: we are not spiritually neutral creatures. We are inherently religious beings, longing for meaning, belonging, and transcendence. As Aristotle wrote in his Physics: natura abhorret a vacuo—nature abhors a vacuum. Though meant in a physical sense, the phrase endures as a powerful metaphor. A void, once created, will not remain empty. It draws something into itself.
And so it has been with Europe. As Christianity retreated, the vacuum was not left unfilled. Other belief systems—some benign, others deeply troubling—have rushed in to take its place. Some are political in nature. Others are ideological. And some, like radical Islam, are openly religious and unapologetically hostile to the very freedoms Western secularism holds dear.
The return of religion
In many parts of Europe today, Islam is not only growing demographically, but becoming increasingly visible and assertive. For many Muslim communities, faith is not a private matter but a public identity. Mosques are being built. Religious dress is commonplace. Daily prayer is practiced openly. And for many young Muslims, religion is not a burden, but a source of strength and meaning. This religious resurgence stands in sharp contrast to the spiritual malaise of post-Christian Europe. The irony is striking: while Western societies pride themselves on tolerance, openness, and pluralism, they have largely lost the one belief system that once gave them coherence. The Christian faith—which underpinned European culture, law, art, and identity—has been reduced to a cultural memory.
Just as we convinced ourselves that secularism had freed us from the grip of religion, we now face the enduring irony: religion does not disappear—it waits, it returns, and it reclaims the spaces we thought were neutral. No society has ever truly remained spiritually neutral. When one dominant worldview is rejected, another inevitably takes root. When the Roman Empire collapsed, Christianity filled the void. When Christianity arrived in Scandinavia, it displaced Norse paganism. And today, much of what was once Christian stronghold territory—from Asia Minor to North Africa—is now under Islamic influence. The question is not whether religion will shape society, but which religion—and what kind of society it will build.
Following the devastation of two world wars, many Europeans placed their hope in secular modernity. Science, democracy, and human rights were to form the new moral foundation. For a time, this vision seemed to work. Economic growth surged. Education expanded. Religion declined without immediate consequence. But over time, cracks begin to show. Without a shared spiritual foundation, society becomes fragmented. Loneliness, anxiety, and alienation surge. Families are fracturing. Political discourse grows increasingly bitter. In this vacuum of meaning, new forms of belief—some masquerading as politics, others as identity movements—are steadily taking root.
Islam is the most prominent example of what fills the spiritual vacuum left by the West’s rejection of Christianity. But it is not the only one. Others include the cults of identity politics, transhumanist dreams of technological salvation, climate apocalypticism, and nihilistic movements that glorify destruction for its own sake. These are not passing trends, but expressions of a deeper hunger—a hunger for identity and meaning that secularism cannot satisfy. In the absence of Christianity, these forces rush in to offer belonging, purpose, and truth—however distorted or incomplete.
Bataclan was not just a terrorist attack. It was a moment of rupture—a glimpse into the spiritual disarray of a civilization that had forgotten what it believes. The fact that the crowd was singing about the devil when real evil arrived may be a coincidence. Or it may be something more. In the symbolic realm—the realm of meaning—it was a parable from the Gospel of Luke unfolding in real time.
The spiritual battle
One of the most overlooked aspects of the current migration crisis—and of Europe’s internal turmoil—is that beneath the surface lies a spiritual battle, not just a political one. The Apostle Paul reminds us in Ephesians 6:12 that “We wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities and powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.” But this spiritual dimension has been almost entirely forgotten—even by the Church itself. In today’s Europe, immigration, political tension, and even terrorism are treated exclusively as policy challenges. And while border control and national sovereignty are legitimate and necessary, they are not enough. Spiritual forces do not respect borders. The battle we face is not merely over territory—it is over meaning, identity, and truth.
What we are witnessing today is not without precedent. It echoes patterns that have played out throughout biblical history—patterns the Old Testament prophets recognized and warned against with sobering clarity. Jeremiah, Isaiah, Hosea, and the other prophets were not just observers of political decline; they were men to whom God had revealed a deeper truth: that when a people turns away from its covenant with the living God, national collapse is not a possibility—it is a consequence.
In the story of ancient Israel, turning away from God was never just a private lapse in piety. It was a public crisis—one that eventually led to societal breakdown, moral decay, and vulnerability to external enemies. The fall of Jerusalem in 586 BC and the Babylonian exile were not seen as accidents of history, but as the direct consequence of spiritual rebellion. As Jeremiah cried out in anguish, “Your own conduct and actions have brought this on you. This is your punishment. How bitter it is!” (Jeremiah 4:18).
Isaiah, too, spoke of a people who honored God with their lips but whose hearts were far from Him (Isaiah 29:13). He warned that without repentance, divine protection would be withdrawn, and foreign nations would become instruments of judgment. The prophets repeatedly declared that God’s justice is not indifferent to collective sin, nor is His mercy unconditional when truth and righteousness are cast aside. The message of the prophets was not military strategy. It was not national reform in the pragmatic sense. It was a moral and spiritual summons. Their call was unwavering and singular: Repent. Return to the Lord. Heal the covenant breach before destruction becomes inevitable.
Today, we would do well to remember that these ancient warnings were not just for Israel. They were recorded for all generations—as a mirror, a warning, and a pattern. When we dismiss God, dismember truth, and deconstruct identity, we do not become free—we become fragile. And like ancient Israel, we risk collapse not because of the strength of our enemies, but because of the emptiness within.
The West today must hear the same call of repentance. The real battle is not won with stronger immigration laws or renewed nationalism alone. It begins with self-examination—a return to the sacred, a rediscovery of the transcendent, and a reawakening of the soul. If the West is to recover, it must first confront the void at its center. It must ask again: What do we believe? What do we worship? If we do not answer those questions for ourselves, someone else will. And we may not like the answer they give.
This essay appears in the Autumn 2025 issue of The European Conservative, Number 36:13-15.
Our community starts with you
READ NEXT
Ireland’s Push for Digital ID Is Bad News for Freedom
A Civilisational Crisis: Europe in the Eyes of the USA
120 Years of French Secularism