Books
Review

We Don’t Need Resilience. We Need Resurrection.

As Tish Harrison Warren’s new book explores, springing back to strength after disaster isn’t the picture offered by Scripture.

Colorful illustration of cluttered shelves filled with wilting potted plants, a cracked classical bust, scattered books, a sneaker, a wine glass, and various household items against a black background.
Illustration by Yuki Murayama

Conversations with my husband these days often center on the logistics of family life. We have to sort out what feels like infinite details: We are launching our eldest out of 24-7 life at home to college in the fall (so many scholarship deadlines, decisions, and FAFSA applications); we need to keep track of our second son’s golf calendar; and we sort through school choices for my third son, all while planning the travel for my daughter’s gymnastics meets. We also must decide who is feeding the bunnies, cooking dinner—and could we please just sit in quiet and watch All Creatures Great and Small at the end of a long day? Is that too much to ask?

We long for an escape from the details. A sick day sounds preferable to endless to-do lists, looming questions about the future, and the monotony of a meal calendar. It’s easy to grow numb from the onslaught of decisions and minutiae. Long after our own college graduations and decades into marriage, while we face new challenges with work and ministry, we’re finding that much of the spark of dreaming about the future has settled into the more mellow reality of what is. A settled life is not bad, of course. But for those future-minded idealists among us (me!), it’s tempting to view our lives—including our spiritual lives—as failing if they lack the same spark they once had. We don’t just have weary bodies; we have weary souls. 

As such, those in middle age may be primed for the ancient vice of acedia. Often translated as sloth and referred to as the “noonday demon” by ancient monks, acedia describes something deeper than laziness. And it afflicts more than monkish men who lived over a thousand years ago. Acedia is listlessness, an inner restlessness, what the monk Evagrius described as the day appearing “to be fifty hours long.” It can turn into self-pity, isolation, hating one’s work, numbness, and feeling abandoned by God. When we are deeply settled into the grooves of life—monk or modern—acedia can rear its head so our souls always seek “elsewhere, no matter where it is, to escape the overwhelming tedium of now, until the heart hardens into a stony numbness” as author Laura Fabrycky puts it. In such instances, Netflix seems preferable to prayer. 

What, then, might we do to combat this vice?

I’m putting three books in conversation here—Tish Harrison Warren’s What Grows in Weary Lands, John Eldredge’s Resilient, and Nassim Nicholas Taleb’s Antifragile —as they take up ancient questions that still haunt us today: What practices might fortify against spiritual blahs? What do we do with our longing for things to be good again? Are some of us just determinedly more resilient or robust? How might we grow away from fragility, toward resilience or even antifragility?

Most pressingly, another overarching question echoes in my mind: Is resilience actually what we seek? 

Warren’s latest book, What Grows in Weary Lands: On Christian Resilience, briefly addresses acedia. Though she may not use the word often, she does describe a soul weariness where “God began to seem less like a kind, present friend and more like a corpse on a table that we, like medical examiners, analyzed and debated.” In such desert seasons, God feels far-off, and even with effort and spiritual practices the Christian life seems to have lost its luster. In such times, we may be tempted to fall into a spiritual version of the midlife crisis: frantically grasping after a shiny new idea, faith practice, or congregation that we believe will bring us out of our listlessness.

To counter this, Warren offers a series of monkish postures gleaned from the early Christian desert fathers and mothers on fortitude—what we’re more likely to think of as resilience today. What Grows in Weary Lands is her own story of “reconversion; of coming back to Jesus day to day.” She exhorts her readers toward the wisdom of these early Christians, with such memorable phrases as “Stay in Your Cell” (an injunction to move through desert seasons rather than numb out), “Pledge Your Body to the Walls” (a call to rootedness in Christian community), and “Wait in the Womb” (a call to be formed into future hope). 

Throughout the book, Warren hits our Western cultural pain points, like screen addiction, which is a symptom of our souls’ propensity to run to “frivolous distractions” rather than letting “the silt settle.” She encourages readers to stay put, since resilience happens even through pain or friction in our communities and among local congregations. Resilience, fortitude, and hope are born not from success but “when the dream of what we thought life would be begins to fall apart and die.” She writes that this hope “is found when we are most tempted to despair, when we don’t see a way through, when any ability to hold our lives together through our gifts or strength goes up in flames, and at last, we begin to wait on God for rescue.” 

Warren writes too of the gift of desert seasons: Some things only grow in dry lands. “Cacti can live because they’ve adapted to catch any available moisture out of the air,” she notes. “They take and use every hint of nourishment that comes their way. They waste nothing good.” Her spiritual analogy, then, is that in God’s ecosystem, the spiritual doldrums usher us into the desert, where we can flourish less like fragile perennials and more like cacti. We learn to adapt, to look for God’s goodness, and to accept that the Spirit may kindle life even in our losses and weary seasons.

While much of the ancient wisdom Warren gathers may be new to evangelical readers, it certainly isn’t new to our times or to Christian publishing. From Brother Lawrence to Thomas Merton, Dallas Willard to John Mark Comer, Teresa of Avila to Kathleen Norris, monastic wisdom continues to be repackaged and recommended for our weary, distracted age.

And while some intentional Christian communities still carry echoes of monasticism, our local neighborhoods and congregations more often ascribe to consumer patterns, where we give as long as we’re not inconvenienced and opt in as long as we don’t have better plans. Will these books show us a better way to live, or are they the latest iteration of books as consumer products—nice to read to get a spiritual jolt, but with only short-lived effects in the trajectory of life?

As I read Warren’s latest, even as someone who deeply appreciates her work, I still kept wondering if resilience is actually what we’re after in desert seasons. Etymologically, resilience comes from resilio, meaning to leap back or recoil; the word evokes a stretching and then bouncing back to an original shape. But the life of faith isn’t a Slinky. We need more than bouncing back; indeed, as Warren wrote, we are desperately in need of rescue.

During the coronavirus pandemic years, books with resilient in their titling (like Eldredge’s Resilient) spoke to a hunger for normalcy and growth, but now the word itself feels a bit overdone. It reminds me of the many Christian books using the word liturgy, often in a vague, nondescript way.

How is resilience similar to or different from the words Scripture itself uses to speak of remaining steadfast or growing in a life of faith? How is it different from being faithful or fruitful (Matt. 5–7), abiding in the vine (John 15), or running a race (Heb. 12:1–2; 1 Cor. 9:24–27)? Resilience doesn’t seem to lend itself to this dynamic of rest and activity, feast and fallow, pushing and enduring, reception and action, that Scripture’s own metaphors for growth in hard times evoke. 

After all, resilience isn’t a fruit of the Spirit, nor is it a cardinal virtue (though perhaps it could be seen as a combination of fortitude and prudence). When I’m overwhelmed with details, exhausted by the news cycle, or struggling to trust God’s goodness in suffering, holding on seems like a fine start to faithfulness. But is holding on enough? After all, when I’m spiritually weary, I want more than a return to what was—I want a transformation of what is into what God will make of it. I want resurrection and metamorphosis, even if I can’t see what’s ahead.

Perhaps resilience is more easily imaginable than transformation.  Whereas transformation departs from the past, resilience could be a return to what was. And when we’re in weary seasons, we long for our lives to spring back to something that feels “normal.” Eldredge names this desire in his book Resilient: Restoring Your Weary Soul in These Turbulent Times. Published in 2022, it addresses our collective loss and coping mechanisms through what Eldredge calls the “trauma cycle” of the COVID-19 pandemic, civil unrest, and distrust of institutions and authority. 

Eldredge cautions that as we near the end of the age, followers of Jesus must hold on. We must grow in resilience. “Our longing for life to be good again will be the battleground for our heart,” he writes. “How you shepherd this precious longing, and if you shepherd it at all, will determine your fate in this life and in the life to come.” He spends most of the book exhorting Christians toward attachment to God, walking readers through exercises with special emphasis toward the need for resilience in what he considers to be the last days. 

It makes for a fine book, but I was baffled by a few aspects. While Eldredge mentions humanity’s fragility and resilience, he fails to define either concept adequately. He does mention that resilience is imparted from God, but beyond that, readers are left to form meaning on their own. Might the spiritual practices he references be just as helpful in building gentleness or empathy as they are in building resilience? Resilience seems more about things we lack—our longings and our weariness in the 2020s—than about a certain skill set or spiritual acquisition. 

Longing for the world to be good again is natural, especially in the trials of adulthood. But the word again is a backward glance. Its reference point is the past, our own experiences, rather than forward to the coming hope and justice of Jesus’ wedding supper of the Lamb, where all will be made right. 

More than that, longing for a return to good times past can be distracting and misguided in the life of faith, and it’s not really an image we get from Scripture. Abram was told to leave his home and to follow God before he knew where he was headed. The men who were thrown into Nebuchadnezzar’s fiery furnace weren’t living their best resilient life; they were in fact led toward death, and they knew it. Their response to the king—that “even if” God didn’t save, they wouldn’t bow down to him—seems to indicate they knew the pattern of the life of faith always goes through death and into life (Dan. 3:18). Remarkably, one like a Son of Man joined them in the furnace. 

God may not deliver us as we imagine, but he always is with his people in the fire, taking suffering upon himself—even when we’re chronically slow to notice or even if he seems to be hiding from us in desert seasons. 

In my hunt for how to think about spiritual growth in midlife, I began to wonder if there might be a better goal for Christians than resilience. Antifragile: Things That Gain from Disorder is a 400-plus-page book published in 2012 by a former options trader, statistician, and self-described flâneur, Nassim Nicholas Taleb. It is not an easy book to get through (so many graphs!), and it isn’t written from an explicitly Christian perspective. But his concept of antifragility stuck with me.

According to Taleb, we can call something—a person, a venture, a nation, and so on—“fragile” if it reacts negatively to stress through time, while an antifragile thing instead grows stronger. Champagne flutes are fragile. A rock is robust. But something antifragile, like a muscle, strengthens when under stress. 

Taleb writes that the nature of being human involves “a certain measure of randomness and disorder.” We know this to be true: From our bated breath to see if we’ve won a hand of cards to the exhilaration of finding of a lost laptop after having left it in a cab, or even running on a dirt path, which changes each footfall, our lives are entwined with our finitude, capacity for risk, and struggles against impossible odds. Our modern world often seems to form us into the image of machines, but we humans can’t help but set efficiency aside to hear and tell a good hero story every now and then. We are drawn to the antifragile.

Early in the book, Taleb writes about why he doesn’t see resilience as an answer. It is “timid,” he argues, and it can stifle “the mechanism of growth and evolution.” Civilization didn’t get to where it is because of resilience, he writes, but rather “thanks to the appetite for risks and errors of a certain class of people we need to encourage, protect, and respect.”

Antifragile people and institutions thrive amid change, disorder, and time. More than simply withstanding stress, antifragile things grow. Set aside Taleb’s evolutionary assumptions for the moment: The framework of fragility, robustness, and antifragility may be a helpful distinction beyond simply calling things resilient or not resilient.

If we apply this triad to the spiritual health of a person or community, we might be able to say that someone like Judas Iscariot was fragile. When the reality of the person of Jesus and his kingdom met what Judas imagined the Messiah should be, he took the self-preserving, self-destructive way out. His fragile faith lacked the capacity for change or growth when circumstances, trials, and disorder hit. 

I imagine that the crowds that followed Jesus, especially the curious but uncommitted, were robust. They neither rushed to him for rescue nor tried to trap him like the religious leaders. 

The apostle Paul was antifragile. He wrote to the church at Philippi that he had learned the secret of contentment in both hunger and in plenty, having rooted his identity in Christ and having received encouragement and care from the church (Phil. 4:10–15). We see throughout the Book of Acts and Paul’s letters that he was stoned, shipwrecked, run out of town, and abandoned. His faith seems to have only grown under duress.

There are plenty of reasons for Christians to disagree with Taleb. Much of his theory seems to embrace a cold bootstrapperism of Darwin and the Stoics. But his analysis that people like entrepreneurs (and martyrs) thrive during risk, volatility, and randomness rings true. And those kinds of people help those of us who are more fragile to embrace risk and change.

Yet being antifragile or resilient is not the goal. As Christians, both Eldredge and Warren recognize that the telos of resilience is not resilience for its own sake. “Resilience is not an end unto itself,” Warren writes. “The point of all of our lives is encounter and unity with the living God.” She also points to Paul as one who staked his life on the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, rather than his circumstances. 

So in the end, I prefer resurrection rather than resilience or antifragility. (I think Warren does, too, whatever her book’s subtitle may be.) Resurrection is more than bouncing back or holding on, more than embracing uncertainty and growing from it. It acknowledges the reality of death and the truth that in God’s kingdom, death is not the end.

Through the Spirit’s power, we must be willing to take up our crosses and follow Jesus through death, knowing that in the new heavens, we will be sated, justice will roll down, and suffering and evil will be no more. We need more than a resilient patience. We need a resurrected faith, where  we see dry seasons, evil, and desolation not as deviations from God’s blessing but as part of the cycle of death and resurrection that happens a million times through the trajectory of a life. 

And more than that, God has always been with his people even when his face has been hidden. The origin of all truthful promise keeping, he will not go back on his word; he will never leave or forsake us. 

I’m realizing that the monotony of middle age is part of this season’s challenge. Focusing on resilience to resist it might sound right, but it may also be a sly way to ignore the death-to-life transformation that faith in Christ requires, thereby making faith too easy or tame. 

The answer certainly isn’t to derail one’s life in despair, however tempting that may be in spasms of acedia. Nor is it to rest in cynicism. Instead, it is to let God lead us in the pattern of Jesus’ life: down, into suffering, always accompanied by him, trusting that in the end, we will rise again to new life. 

Ashley Hales is editorial director for features at Christianity Today.

Church Life

My Church Makes Everyone Take Nursery Shifts. Can I Object?

CT advice columnists also weigh in on a new deliverance ministry and inviting friends to church.

Black-and-white cartoon of an exhausted, wide-eyed parent surrounded by four energetic children scribbling and playing at a craft table on a yellow background.
Illustration by James Yates

Got a question? Email advice@christianitytoday.com to ask CT’s advice columnists. Queries may be edited for brevity and clarity.


Q: My church has a new policy making every member take nursery shifts on a rotating basis. I volunteer other ways and don’t want to do this—but I also think there are bigger objections. Shouldn’t the people taking care of babies be good at it and happy to be there? And shouldn’t the kids get a stable and familiar group of caretakers? Also, we don’t run other volunteer rosters this way. I think these are valid objections, but maybe I’m being selfish. —Irritated in Illinois

Karen Swallow Prior: Involuntary volunteerism—even for church members, who are by definition called to serve the church body—strikes me as more than a little bit off. Thinking beyond this one case, there might be valid reasons a church member is unable to volunteer at all. (Age, infirmity, and illness come immediately to mind.) Will the church make no exceptions or some? Who will monitor this? 

In terms of nursery service specifically, I agree that this opportunity (like some others) is best filled by those fitted with the matching gifts and desires. Of course, nursery service also ministers to parents, not just their children. Since this is the overarching purpose of the church nursery, the congregation might look for alternative solutions that fulfill that primary need. 

More importantly, by making volunteering a requirement, the church undervalues its role in discipling, equipping, and motivating members to desire to serve in ways its congregation needs. A church that is united, cultivates relationships, and models service is more likely to develop members who want to serve where there is a need. 

If that has yet to happen, then a requirement to serve in the nursery may be a short-term solution that will only bring longer-term problems that are a lot more difficult to resolve.

Painted portrait of columnist Karen Swallow PriorIllustration by Jack Richardson

Karen Swallow Prior lives in rural Virginia with her husband, two dogs, and several chickens. Following a decades-long vocation as an English professor, Karen now speaks and writes full-time.


Q: Recently my pastor began a deliverance ministry, practicing it before and after services and in community groups. I believe the Spirit is active and present in our lives but don’t see a biblical foundation for this. I’m concerned that it’s spreading fear and fixation on demonization. It feels like my previously solid church is losing its footing, and I feel lost. How should Christians address sudden theological shifts in church doctrine and practice? —Confused in California

Kevin Antlitz: While I can’t be sure how this particular ministry is being conducted, there is biblical warrant for ministry focused on freeing people from demonic influence or spiritual oppression. This was a big part of Jesus’ earthly ministry, and it seems clear that he expected his Spirit-filled disciples, who observed the way he lived and loved, to continue this kind of work (John 14:12).

I’m showing my theological cards here, and Christian traditions differ on exactly what that continuity should look like. But I think deliverance ministry is absolutely within bounds for churches.

That said, any change in the church can be confusing and painful. If not led well, changes can produce serious conflict and even church splits. Your church leadership bears responsibility for managing this change in healthy ways—by teaching on it and creating space for the congregation to ask questions. Good change often happens slowly and should always be done carefully and transparently. 

Even if you believe your church’s leadership hasn’t managed this well, I encourage you to talk with your pastor. Take a curious posture while sharing your concerns, maintaining peace as far as it depends on you (Rom. 12:18). If all else fails, it may be that the church is no longer a great fit for you. A good pastor will understand that and bless you as you find a new church home.

Painted portrait of columnist Kevin AntlitzJack Richardson

Kevin Antlitz is an Anglican priest at a Pittsburgh church positively overflowing with kids. He and his wife have three young children who they pray will never know a day apart from Jesus.


Illustration of a person sitting at a desk throwing an American football.Illustrations by Ben Hickey

Q: My small group has been wanting to invite unbelieving friends to church but is nervous about first impressions. What if that’s the week the pastor decides to talk about sexuality? Our friends might be open to exploring faith, but I’m worried that starting with a tricky topic like that—where what Christians believe is so out of the ordinary—would put them off entirely and maybe damage our friendship too. —Cautious in California

Kiara John-Charles: First impressions can be nerve-racking. When it comes to church, they can leave us feeling especially vulnerable because our faith and community are so important. Caution about inviting unbelieving friends to church
is understandable. 

However, we must learn to release our fear (2 Tim. 1:7), because we don’t want these concerns to lead to inaction. We can’t control the sermon topic. Instead, we must trust the Holy Spirit to speak to our friends through the sermon, whatever it may be (John 16:13).

That said, while wanting your friends to come to church is a good and godly desire, you could also consider a different way of sharing your faith. Sunday morning doesn’t have to be the first step. You can share the gospel while meeting friends for coffee or invite them to a church small group. Sometimes a more intimate setting can be a comfortable space for people to explore faith for the first time. 

Later on, they may initiate the conversation about attending church—or it may feel less daunting for you to invite them after those other interactions. And if the sermon happens to address a difficult topic, you’ll have already built relational equity, helping them feel comfortable asking you questions about the message. Ultimately, we must remember that while we may plant the seed, God is the one who brings the growth (1 Cor. 3:6–7).

Painted portrait of columnist Kiara John-CharlesIllustration by Jack Richardson

Kiara John-Charles is an LA native with Caribbean roots and a love for travel and food. She works as a pediatric occupational therapist and serves at her local church in Long Beach, California.

Ideas

To Grow Resilient Kids, Don’t Take Away Struggle

Editor in Chief

A Q+A with Tish Harrison Warren on resilience, raising children, and technology.

Cartoon illustration of a kid clinging to a giant thorny vine sprouting from a smartphone, watched by his mother.
Illustration by Kyle Smart

How do parents and teachers build resilience in kids?

All cultures have stories that shape them. Children look to adults to learn resilience. If the story we suggest to children is that your chief identity is as a consumer and your main goal in life is individual happiness or having an Instagrammable life, then anything that seems hard and threatens a sense of bliss is something to be avoided. If that’s the story we tell ourselves, our goal will be to be as comfortable as possible for as long as we can.

Does that search for comfort end up weakening us?

If you never stress your muscles or your bones, they become weaker. If we teach kids that the story of their life is to avoid difficulty, they’ll end up weaker. What brings our life meaning—faith, relationships, generative work, the commitment of celibacy or of marriage and parenting—is difficult. It makes your average Wednesday much harder. Just ask any mother of a kindergartner
in this room.

If we agree that the Christian life does not include cheat codes, how do we get our kids not to cheat when it’s common to do so?

The entire digital experience is aimed at making things as easy as possible in order to addict us to our devices. Corporations keep the barrier to entry low so their products can consume more and more of our attention. We set kids up for being so habituated to instant gratification that we do not give them the muscles to follow a commitment through the long haul. I feel like I’m alarmist when I say this, but I cannot overstate the disaster that is upon us if we lose the ability to sit with difficult, complex ideas and hash them out with people over time and with sustained attention.

In your forthcoming book, you write about Antony, a fourth-century desert monk who nearly died, asking God, “Where were you? Why didn’t you … stop my distresses?” He says God told him, “I was here, Antony, but I waited to watch your struggle.” How do teachers and parents keep from intervening prematurely when they see struggle?

It’s hard to know with an individual kid when to jump in, which is why we need community. The beautiful thing about schools like this is that they’re built to be human-scale.

We’re built to do hard things but not to do them in isolation. We help our kids not by taking away every struggle but by accompanying them as they struggle. When they struggle socially, we can’t just jump in and take over. (As a mother, I know this is hard.) They have to learn to do things on their own. As they struggle, they need roots to help ground them. They need a community. They need to know the name of the trees in their yard or the history of their town. Most especially, they need a church.

Your book explores how Christian resilience is different from the stoic idea that life is suffering and you bear it.

The Christian idea of perseverance and resilience is born of the idea that Jesus will set all things right, that the reason for resilience now is participation in this eternal story of God making the world whole and right. If life is tragic and then we die and that’s the end of the story, why not spend life on a screen? But if what we do today matters because it participates in an eternal reality, then there’s meaning in today—even in the things that feel hard or heavy. Our future hope changes the meaning of the present.

You describe in your new book one example of the way we should guide children toward excellence in art.

My book is not about resilience in children, per se. But I use this example in the book to discuss how all of us—kids and adults alike—learn from those who come before us. Teachers at my kids’ school do not lay out art materials and let students “decide their own path.” They expose them to artists—Georgia O’Keeffe, Henri Matisse, or Pierre-Auguste Renoir—and ask them to copy their work. They seek to teach them what is good and true and beautiful. It’s harder than just following their own impulses, but it teaches them the craft.

It’s not indoctrination; it’s laying before them a feast. Our culture lays before them the high-fructose corn syrup of the mind: addictive, easy distractions. We need to help them develop a palate for what is good, true, and beautiful. A school does this by exposing kids to classics, to beauty, to lasting truth. You learn art better by mimicking those who have gone before us and then, of course, taking those skills and making your own masterpiece—but not until you’re ready.

How do we teach children about the uses and abuses of artificial intelligence?

The conversation about AI, even among Christians, often goes like this: “Will it be something that cures cancer and helps us live better lives, or will it destroy us?” I want to say instead that, even if it doesn’t destroy us, even if it turns out that good can come from AI, we simply do not understand what we are losing in our social world that we deeply need—things in our everyday social interactions that we don’t even notice. I’m talking about intimate conversation but also the chat with the cashier in the grocery line. Those interactions nourish us in ways we don’t fully understand and will not know until they’re gone and there’s a massive mental health crisis.

That brings us back to resilience.

Technology promises us a frictionless world of ease, but there’s something about the goodness of even a broken material reality—even the hard things in our lives—that make us human. When we become disconnected from that, we will lose
our humanity.

Tish Harrison Warren is an award-winning author and Anglican priest. Her most recent book is What Grows in Weary Lands.

Marvin Olasky is editor in chief at Christianity Today.

Ideas

We Need More than Grit

Staff Editor

A note from our editorial director for features in our May/June issue.

Black-and-white cartoon illustration of a smiling runner jogging through puddles in the rain while holding a striped umbrella against a yellow background.
Illustration by James Yates

Some people are born to run. I am not. I can still recall the feeling of dread during the walk from my junior high school to my class’s off-campus running spot. Inevitably, burning in my lungs followed. But after about eight minutes, I finished the run. I never got a runner’s high or figured out my stride. Growth mindset hadn’t yet entered the pedagogical lexicon, so I found myself trying to “just do better” next time, to will my body to speed up. You might say I bypassed growth in resilience and went straight to determination and grit. But resilience is more than an act of the will. 

In this issue, we bring you the story arc of resilience—from those who failed or overcame, and those whose faith held fast through hardship. Historian Thomas S. Kidd shows us the resilience of missionary Adoniram Judson, who ministered in Burma (now Myanmar), translating the Bible into the country’s language and establishing Baptist churches amid much hardship. 

Stories of resilience aren’t confined to the past. Haleluya Hadero reports about the civic work churches today are doing to revitalize Gary, Indiana, a city once prosperous due to the steel industry. 

Resilience is also never confined to the self; it always requires a community, a place and people in which to be rooted. Marvin Olasky interviews Tish Harrison Warren on her community and on modeling resilience for children. We also review her newest book, alongside two others. 

We seem to go off course when we ruminate and isolate. Bonnie Kristian argues that our incessant focus on gender neglects the real work of being virtuous men and women who are embedded in relationship. And our Roundtable contributors—Justin Whitmel Earley, Katelyn Walls Shelton, and Matthew Lee Anderson—discuss the interconnectedness of Christian virtue and the practices of elective vasectomies and hysterectomies. 

When we read stories of resilience, we want to see the best parts of humanity and know that those are attainable for us. Emily Belz reports from Minnesota’s Twin Cities, where the US government had welcomed Christians from the Karen people group who were fleeing violence in Myanmar. But now immigration officers have gone after them. Local churches have responded with aid and legal help. 

What motivates churchgoers in Minneapolis to risk themselves on behalf of others? What prompts church leaders in Gary to care for their city? What kept Adoniram Judson in Burma when family members died? It is more than simple grit, an act of will before a hard run. As Christians, we know resilience for its own sake rarely motivates. Resilient faith is less about the process, the hardship, or the outcome and more about the object of our faith—Jesus Christ. Jesus models not grit but sacrifice, not rumination but reliance, not grasping but giving his very life.

Belz’s news story on the Karen Christians reminds us of the point of resilience. She records that when she asked one detained Christian if he was mad at God, he replied, “Jesus himself, when he came on earth, he had to go through worse than this. . . .He also commanded us that we have to go through trouble while we live in this world, and we will have peace in the afterlife.” Union with Christ through the power of the Spirit is what motivates our resilience. 

Ashley Hales is editorial director, features at Christianity Today.

History

Pornography Has Always Been a Moral Blight

A look back at evangelical prescience concerning a “moral sickness.”

A vintage Christianity Today magazine from February 17, 1958 rests on a worn wooden table.

When Russell Moore late last year reported about “sexbots”—the new wave of high-tech pornography that gives “sad, lonely people artificial intimacy with images and machines pretending to be persons”—he was advancing the warnings that Christianity Today has offered since it began 70 years ago. 

Every Friday since last October we have presented on our website glimpses of how CT from the 1950s to the 1980s covered a variety of issues. We’ve quoted perspectives on abortion, race, politics, wars, rumors of wars, and much besides. I’ll summarize here some early articles on pornography, because over the years some people mocked evangelicals for being culturally behind the times by worrying about such matters—but it now looks as if CT was ahead of the times.

The February 17, 1958, cover story—sensationally headlined “Sex and Smut on the Newsstands”—began, “A virulent moral sickness is attacking American society. Its obvious symptoms may be seen at any newsstand in large cities or small. American society is becoming mentally, morally and emotionally ill with an unrestrained sex mania.”

Some restraints existed then, but CT “watched, appalled, as scores of new titles have made their appearance in the magazine field, many of them violating every standard of decency which has hitherto been recognized in the publishing field.” A CT writer at the time said, “It is high time that our churches awaken to the kind of material being circulated to teen-agers and young adults of both sexes, sold openly at drug stores and newsstands under the guise of sophistication and respectability.”

Exactly one month later, CT ran an investigative “Report on Obscenity: Indiscriminate Sale.” “Two young women learned that the ‘best’ literature in the nation’s capital is readily available to them, even though they are ministers’ daughters,” it said. “On a special research project for Christianity Today, they found easy access to the magazine stocks of three newsstands in downtown Washington.” 

Within three blocks of the White House, they were able to buy “the May issue of Hush-Hush, which features ‘the inside story of the nude model who pinch-hit for Princess Meg,’ ” “the April issue of Ace, which includes the story of ‘a voluptuous wench,’ ” “the spring edition of Sunbathing Review, with more than 85 pictures of nude women and children,” and “the March edition of Night and Day, carrying several advertisements that offer by return mail pictures of women posed to order.” 

On March 12, 1965, CT published “A Time for Moral Indignation,” in which editor in chief Carl F. H. Henry declared, 

“The millions of Christians in America have a special duty,” Henry said. “They know that when anything becomes a national idol, it is because God has first been displaced and his moral law set aside. The final resolution lies with God, who alone can give purity of heart. But until such a time, Christians are summoned to reflect his holy wrath against every unclean thing.”

Every American dedicated to common decency must become morally indignant and let this indignation burn righteously in an articulate protest against an exploitation of sex that is unparalleled in the history of the world. Never before in human civilization has sex been so pervasively prostituted to financial gain, for the technological possibilities were not present until our time.

One month later, CT declared in “Facing the Tide of Obscenity” that “the decline of decency imperils wide reaches of modern culture and life. We are headed for doom unless pervasive immorality is arrested.” The only good news: “America has not sunk to the depravity of the pagan world that existed before revealed religion registered its impact upon society—not yet, happily.”

What to do? 

The rising tide of indignation and concern also signals a moment of methodological danger for all who plot a remedial alternative. We should not rely mainly on programs that promote purity by destroying freedom. Legislative compulsion may provide penalties for infractions and restrain a sick society from iniquity momentarily, but no society will long survive whose citizens lack heart to abstain from evil; apart from the will to decency not even the best laws will keep men from destroying themselves.

CT criticized “the photographic cult of feminine nakedness supported by the magazine traffic in our day” and said, “At his first coming, Jesus Christ drove the money-changers out of the temple; in the final judgment will he not consign publishers and peddlers of sex temptation and their wares to the stenching refuse pits of Gehenna? . . . We are breeding a generation of sex giants with mustard-seed spirits.”

What role should government have? “Civil government will always be needed in a society of sinful and imperfect men. The promotion of just laws is a special responsibility of the people of God. In urging laws to halt the trend toward indecency we are on sure ground insofar as our concern is to protect human rights from the infringements of those who violate them.” But another danger lurked that way: 

If we propose a paternalistic ground for government intervention whenever the license of madmen sets up a clamor for controls, we may be sharpening a two-edged sword of the state by a precedent that someday may threaten the freedom of good men and not simply, as we now propose, the license of bad men.

Commercial pressure might be a better approach:  “Let us ask whether publishers, distributors, and magazine store operators approve these products for their own teen-agers.”

CT editors commented on July 2, 1965, that “now and then we read Playboy—not often, confessedly, but when Hugh Hefner, its editor, occasionally sends a copy hoping Christianity Today will debate his philosophy of sex and give him free promotion.” The editors quipped, “There seems to be only one aspect of grammar that interests Mr. Hefner as an editor—gender, the feminine particularly, so exposed as to suggest a maternal attachment that Mr. Hefner hasn’t yet outgrown.”

The descent since then has been steep. Russell Moore elsewhere summarized a Harper’s article about “ ‘gooning’—a pornography-obsessed subculture among predominantly Gen Z males who spend hours, even days, consuming pornography, often in front of multiple screens in specifically constructed rooms they call ‘gooncaves.’ ” Some gooners are “ ‘pornosexual’ . . .not just uninterested in real-life sex with a real-life person, but … terrified by it.”

Moore’s analysis is in line with the CT tradition, but high tech has brought people lower: 

If we propose a paternalistic ground for government intervention whenever the license of madmen sets up a clamor for controls, we may be sharpening a two-edged sword of the state by a precedent that someday may threaten the freedom of good men and not simply, as we now propose, the license of bad men.

What’s unique here is not lust and shame (as old as Eden’s fig leaves) but the ecosystem that can give us exactly what we think we want—until we are so trapped that we no longer know how to feel want. Sexual sin distorts attachment; this ecosystem dissolves it. Porn industries and their allies don’t make people sexier. They evacuate the capacity for human eros by abstracting pleasure from persons, from story, from place, from love.

Moore is also right in his response: 

The gooners are not some freakish fringe. They are omens of a disembodied age that beckons us all. We can say no to it. We might seem powerless in front of such matters, even willfully ignorant, but the broader body of Christ, transcending time and space, knows the way out: the mystery of Christ (Eph. 5:31–32). 

But escaping this disembodiment will require us to recognize that we face not only our own fallen flesh but also an entire industry of unseen algorithms trained to lead us, step by step, toward this post-human hell.

CT writers in the 1960s saw where we were going. I did not see things as clearly when in the 1980s I taught a media law course at The University of Texas at Austin and told the students about Miller v. California, the 1973 case that opened the doors wide for pornography as a hallmark of individual liberty.

I don’t suspect those Supreme Court justices had imagination, or awareness of the depth of sin, to foresee this enslaved new world. Nor did I, and I gave the students my opinion: I thought it a poor decision, but one that did take into account First Amendment protections.

I look at it differently now. If laws on pornography are to change, many people need to stop associating its omnipresence with freedom of the press. We should instead see it as a right to enslave. I’m suggesting this not as a matter of constitutional law but as a media-philosophy approach: Given enslaving algorithms, my fellow journalists should describe porn not as First Amendment freedom but insidious psychological bondage. 

Any legal action, even if it could get past cultural czars, is probably too late, because the thin fence of the law can’t stop a social avalanche. We need a cultural awakening, which maybe at some earlier point could have come through reserved intellectual persuasion. Now (and I suspect it was always this way) it can come only through Christ changing hearts.

Moore’s conclusion: Christians need to be “seeing clearly and modeling a different story—one that is set at a wedding feast, not in a warehouse of screens.” He writes, “Among the first tasks of the 21st-century church will be to break this spell—to remind ourselves that we are creatures, not machines, and that we are created for love. … We can offer grace and mercy and community through the gospel and, with it, actual life and love. 

“The gates of hell cannot withstand that kind of love. Surely the screens of goonspace can’t either.” 

Marvin Olasky is editor in chief at Christianity Today.

We Need More than Bible Trivia

Responses to our January/February issue.

The January/February 2026 issue of Christianity Today magazine sits on a dark wooden table.

In “Go and Make Learners” (published online as “The Great Omission”), Jen Wilkin wrote in our January/February issue, “We have forgotten that discipleship requires learning. We have reduced its definition to attendance, service, giving, relationship-building, and mostly peer-led, feelings-level discussions. But at its most fundamental level, discipleship is a process of learning.” She argued we must not neglect biblical literacy in the life of a Christian: “Let’s not be content with converts who don’t grow to maturity.” 

Wilkin named this a crisis of biblical literacy, and readers resonated with her diagnosis. One commenter on Facebook said, “We think we know the Bible because we’ve inherited summaries of it. But when Scripture challenges our assumptions about power, ownership, or gender, we often smooth it over rather than read it closely.” Another reader commented that we also need “theological frameworks,” not just Bible trivia, to understand Scripture.

The interest from pastors and laypeople alike led CT to continue the conversation. A few weeks after the print magazine mailed, Wilkin joined editor at large Russell Moore for a subscriber-only webinar with more than 1,400 live attendees. They addressed big-picture questions about small groups and biblical learning, alongside practical questions such as: Should churches have single-sex Bible studies grouped by men and women? How do you promote biblical literacy in lower-income areas? And how do you deal with a prolonged silence during a question you’re asking when leading a Bible study? If you’d like to hear Wilkin’s answers, be sure to listen to a replay of The Russell Moore Show and, in the future, stay tuned for upcoming subscriber-only conversations.  

Ashley Hales, editorial director, features

Disciplines Don’t Save. Christ Does.


I respect Michael Horton, but I think some of the points Horton makes are unfair and broad and do not reflect the scope of the teachings of Practicing the Way or in Comer’s writings. Horton claims that Comer (and others) equates discipleship with the gospel, and that they claim that the practices are salvific. This would be a serious issue if it were true, but I have not come across anything in the materials by Practicing the Way that shows they claim this, even implicitly. Comer emphasizes that the Holy Spirit is the source of our transformation in his book.

Rachel Gulleson, Bellingham, WA

Having just completed the Practicing the Way curriculum and seeing how God is using it in my life and in the lives of those within our church, I was saddened and upset to read the article that you published. While it might be helpful as a critique to some of John Mark Comer’s teachings to remind readers of the importance of not neglecting the aspects that Horton felt were lacking, his article dripped of judgment that I believe misrepresented the PTW curriculum. I don’t know if Michael Horton has been in his academic ivory tower for too long, but he clearly does not understand where the mainline church is right now and how desperately we need to have tools to equip people who call themselves Christians to use the means of grace.

Margaret Schlechty, Springfield, VA

The Great Omission

The thrust behind Wilkin’s argument is great: Christians should know their Bible and cultivate a deep knowledge of it. But the way her argument proceeds is misguided. What troubles me is Wilkin’s understanding of what constitutes “basic information” about the Bible, its correlation to theological anemia, and the residual effect this relationship leaves on the weary. I fear the effect of her argument is that struggling Christians will walk away feeling they need to know more Bible trivia.

Elijah McClanahan, Louisville, KY

I think Jen Wilkin is spot on! Biblical literacy is waning in both mainline and conservative church pews. Pastors can only do so much teaching from the pulpit. Gone are the days when church Bible classes could actually give out homework and learners were actually asked to memorize Bible passages and characters.

David Coffin, West Union, IA

Raids Are a Perilous Substitute for Reform

No disagreeing with that title. I thought the article represented the open-borders “walk in and stay” perspective, which is fine, but there was no balancing article, like in the old days when Sider and Dobson were in print back to back. Not a good look for a publication hoping to be an evangelical forum.

Rob Swanson, Centerville, MA

Andy Olsen’s article goes to the heart of the depravity of ICE’s operations. While securing our border is a must, Scripture demands justice and grace be given to every immigrant.

James Hilt, Sheboygan, WI

A Declaration of Principles

Each statement is clear, biblically defensible, and crafted in a way that both upholds historic Christian teaching and considers the “big tent” nature (a blessing and a burden!) of evangelicalism at large and CT’s readership/mission specifically. That’s no easy task. CT’s stuff regularly edifies my personal walk with the Lord and benefits my work as a pastor.

Brady Cremeens, Minier, IL

I read your statement with optimism, but guarded optimism. CT has done some mighty fine work in the past, but CT became too political for me to continue as a subscriber. Russell Moore is an important voice absent the politics. We continue to listen to some podcasts because of the great work of Mike Cosper.

Steve Hawkins, Bristol, TN

Church Life

Enduring All Things for the Gospel

Two centuries ago in Burma, Adoniram Judson modeled evangelistic zeal and missionary resilience.

Engraved portrait of pioneer missionary Adoniram Judson seated at a desk with a quill pen, set against a gold background with his cursive signature.
Library of Congress.

Adoniram and Ann Judson were among the first formally commissioned American missionaries. Arriving in Burma (today’s Myanmar) in 1813, the Judsons labored for six years before they saw anyone convert to Christianity. Determined and diligent, they made extraordinary progress in learning native languages. Then, 11 years into their Burmese ministry, the Judsons’ world collapsed.

In 1824, long-simmering tensions between the British Empire and the Burmese king exploded in the First Anglo-Burmese War (1824–1826). The Judsons themselves sometimes had a difficult relationship with British authorities in South Asia. But in 1824, all English speakers in Burma fell under suspicion as possible spies. Judson knew plenty of British diplomats and merchants, but he was no spy.

Burmese authorities did not believe him. On June 8, 1824, police in the royal city of Ava arrested Judson, marched him to a judge, and convicted him without a trial. The Burmese committed him to the “death prison,” a small, dank building with about a hundred prisoners. The death prison had little ventilation and teemed with rats, roaches, and rotten smells.

During the day the prisoners languished in chains, but at night their captors devised additional means of preventing escape. These measures amounted to unremitting torture. Jailers passed a long bamboo stick between Judson’s legs and those of a lineup of prisoners. They chained the prisoners’ legs to the pole and lifted their bodies in the air, while the men’s shoulders remained on the ground. They left them in that excruciating position all night. Ann frantically sought to secure Judson’s release, but he remained in prison for 17 months.

The history of missions is a history of suffering. From the apostle Paul’s dangers, beatings, and imprisonments to the 1956 deaths of Jim Elliot, Nate Saint, and the other “Auca martyrs” in Ecuador, Christians rightly memorialize their best-known missionaries as people called to endure all things for the gospel. The Judsons knew trials lay ahead when they sailed away from Salem, Massachusetts, in 1812. But they never envisioned the horrors of the death prison or the compounding sufferings yet to come.

Familiarity with missions history is one of the best antidotes to the prosperity gospel—the idea that God will surely bless the faithful with health, wealth, and safety. Missionaries have routinely endured terrible hardships as they obeyed God’s call in the Great Commission (Matt. 28:18–20).

The call to missions—and the call to ministry generally—is also a call to resilience. To be sure, many missionaries have chosen to terminate their missions for good reasons, sometimes before the scheduled end of their service. This can happen when God permits circumstances that make it impossible for them to operate without grave threats to themselves or their families’ lives.
Some missionaries, such as the Judsons’ British contemporary William Carey in India, probably stayed longer in the field than godly wisdom would have dictated. Carey watched as his wife, Dorothy, suffered a protracted slide into violent mental illness. She finally died in India in 1807, after more than a decade of delusions and torment.

Any well-prepared missionary anticipates seasons of deprivation, loneliness, and other stresses. Counsel and prayer are required to know whether God is simply allowing his servants to encounter the normal travails of ministry or is definitively closing a door.

The missionary impulse is fundamental to biblical faith, as seen in the Great Commission and the Book of Acts. However, following the Reformation of the early 1500s, Protestants generally trailed Catholics in efforts to evangelize outside North America and Europe. Protestants often thought more about their churches’ survival than evangelistic expansion.

Meanwhile, Catholic powers such as Spain and France mobilized missionary orders such as the Jesuits in imperial endeavors in Asia and South and Central America. Certain Protestants, such as the Puritan John Eliot in the mid-1600s and Jonathan Edwards’s protégé David Brainerd in the 1740s, made evangelistic inroads among Native Americans.

More evangelicals professed their faith and planted churches as they moved, without being sent by any particular church or missions organization. These travelers included the Baptist pastor and former slave George Liele, who was a key leader in Black churches in Georgia and South Carolina before moving to Jamaica in the 1780s. There he became one of the founding fathers of Jamaica’s multiplying Baptist churches. But overall, organized Protestant missions were limited until the 1790s.

A turning point in Protestant missions came with Carey’s Enquiry into the Obligations of Christians to Use Means for the Conversion of the Heathens, published in 1792. Carey was one of the first Protestants to cite Christ’s “commission” (in Mark 16:15) to “go into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature” (NKJV). He insisted that this command applied to contemporary churches and believers. Carey was also instrumental in the founding of England’s Baptist Missionary Society (BMS). Arguably the first formal Protestant missionary organization, the BMS sent Carey and other missionaries to work in Serampore, near Calcutta (now Kolkata).

Carey’s work and writings inspired a generation of evangelicals, including the Judsons, to consider overseas missionary work. In 1806, students from Williams College in Massachusetts held an impromptu prayer meeting in the shelter of a haystack, consecrating themselves to the missionary cause. The Haystack Prayer Meeting led to the creation of a zealous missionary cohort amid the fervent atmosphere of the Second Great Awakening.

Engraved portrait of a young Ann Judson.The National Library of Wales. Engraving by Richard Woodman.

That cohort in 1810 founded the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions (ABCFM), America’s first national missionary organization. The ABCFM was the Judsons’ first sending agency. Meanwhile, Judson himself converted in 1808 after a dalliance with religious skepticism as a student at Brown University. In 1812, the ABCFM sent the newly married Adoniram and Ann to South Asia as part of its first group of overseas missionaries.

The Judsons initially thought they might settle in India. At a minimum, they knew they would meet Carey and other British Baptists there. The problem was that the Judsons were Congregationalists and therefore paedobaptists. With plenty of time for study on the journey to India, the Judsons began to research the scriptural issue of baptism. Not long after arriving, they announced that they had become Baptists. This decision effectively cut them off from the ABCFM, their source of funding. Another Congregationalist turned Baptist missionary, Luther Rice, returned to the US and helped form the Triennial Convention, the first national Baptist organization in America.

Judson may have viewed Burma as a likely sphere of operations when they left America, but he and Ann considered several other destinations once it became clear that officials in British India would not allow them to remain. The ongoing War of 1812 made Americans unwelcome in British India.

The Judsons knew the Burmese were, in Ann’s words, “a people who have never heard the sound of the Gospel, or read, in their own language, of the love of Christ.” The prospect of operating among this unreached people was intriguing but intimidating. Certain Catholic and Protestant workers had already made brief forays into Burma, but overall it was a Buddhist kingdom with virtually no Christian influence.

The Judsons moved to Rangoon (Yangon), the main Burmese seaport. Rangoon was physically dominated by Buddhist shrines such as the great Shwedagon Pagoda. The dazzling pagoda held venerated relics, including several strands of hair claimed to be from Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha himself.

It is difficult to overstate the resolve required for a young married couple from America to settle in South Asia, halfway around the world from friends and family. In Rangoon, they knew almost no English speakers or Christians of any kind. In the era before electronic communication, correspondence with America was achingly slow. In 1815, they received letters from US supporters for the first time in two years.

Perhaps the most daunting aspect of the work was that they knew nothing about the Burmese language. It uses a writing system called an “abugida,” which to Westerners looks like a jumble of squiggly lines. In addition, Judson needed to learn Pali, a traditional language that profoundly colored the type of Buddhism practiced in the country. Many religious terms a Christian translator in Burma needed to know were rooted in Pali, not Burmese.

Today’s missiologists would regard it as utterly irresponsible to send missionaries into a foreign culture with no knowledge of the country’s language. But that’s exactly what the Judsons faced. There were no courses on Burmese in American colleges, and the Judsons did not set out with the express intention of going to Burma anyway. They were pioneers in the most extreme missiological sense. Some American missionaries who followed the Judsons to Burma made little progress in language study, to Judson’s irritation. But the Judsons were incredibly diligent students of the language, and with the help of Burmese instructors they made phenomenal progress.

What purpose did their study serve? First, the Judsons planned to form Burmese-language churches when God blessed the mission with enough converts. Thus, Judson needed to be able to preach in Burmese.

The longer-term goal of studying Burmese and Pali was that Judson intended to translate the whole Bible into Burmese. Some in the missionary community wanted to focus on English-language instruction for natives, who then would read the Bible and hear sermons in English. But modeling the great Protestant principle of Scripture in the vernacular, Judson insisted that a vibrant Burmese church needed a Bible in its own language.

Sepia-toned illustration of the golden Shwedagon Pagoda rising above palm trees and lush vegetation.Wikimedia, Joseph Moore (engraved by T. Fielding, G. Hunt, H. Pyall)

Because of books such as Courtney Anderson’s classic biography To the Golden Shore: The Life of Adoniram Judson (1956), people familiar with Judson see him as an exemplar of missionary courage. And that he was. But he was also one of the brightest and most disciplined Christian scholars ever. We may miss this fact because he applied his scholarship in a foreign mission instead of in the relative comfort of an American church, college, or seminary.

Judson’s imprisonment and the other dangers he faced are compelling stories for readers. But what he did most days—studying and translating Burmese—is not so exciting. Once the Judsons settled in Rangoon, Judson worked on Burmese and Pali 12 hours a day, six days a week, for years on end. If you stopped by their home, Ann wrote, you would invariably find Judson “bent over his table, covered with Burman books, with his teacher at his side.” This steady labor took a toll on Judson’s eyesight, and headaches constantly tormented him. Language study was almost all the Judsons could report in their early years in Burma. The fact that there were no converts caused concern among impatient supporters back home. But Judson’s diligence resulted in a translation of the Gospel of Matthew by 1817.

Ann was no slouch in languages either. She focused more on conversational Burmese than Judson did, and soon she also began to study “Siamese,” or the Thai language. (Thailand is Myanmar’s neighbor to the southeast.) Judson slowly began to produce tracts and books of the Bible in Burmese, works that Ann and her Siamese teacher then translated into Thai.

Judson began more public-facing ministry in the late 1810s. In 1819, he finally baptized his first Burmese convert, a man named Maung Naw. But there was tremendous cultural and legal pressure for ethnic Burmese people not to abandon Buddhism. Judson approached the emperor in 1820 to request greater latitude for evangelizing the Burmese, but to no avail.

Death constantly shadowed the Judsons’ lives, even before his scourging confinement in prison. Their first child was stillborn and died before they arrived in Burma. In 1815, Ann gave birth to Roger Williams Judson (named for the great American Colonial champion of religious liberty). But little Roger lived only eight months. Parents in the 1800s often lost children to disease, but the Judsons had almost no one except themselves and God with whom they could share their grief.

Despite their constant difficulties, by 1823 Judson had completed a draft of the whole New Testament in Burmese, and the Rangoon church had more than a dozen baptized members. Then in 1824 came the horrors of war, prison, and torture.

In addition to appealing for Judson’s release and bringing whatever supplies she could to the prisoners, Ann cared for their baby Maria, conceived just before Judson went to jail.

In 1826, the Burmese finally released Judson, but the bitterest times of his life were yet to come. Just when the reunited couple thought they might resume their ministry, Ann suddenly died. Judson was not even with her at her death, as he had been called away to negotiate a commercial agreement between the British and Burmese. Little Maria died six months later. Judson buried them both in Amherst, Burma, under a large hopea tree that became a pilgrimage site for Western missionaries and Burmese Christians.

Judson had long practiced ascetic Christian disciplines, but Ann’s and Maria’s deaths sent him into a bitter spiral of self-denial and introspection. Emaciated and ill, he on many days ate only a bit of rice. At one point, he dug his own grave and sat on its edge, contemplating the day when his own body would molder there too.

Though his asceticism seemed extreme to some, it was Judson’s way of spiritually coping with his intense losses and grief. At his new mission headquarters at Moulmein, Burma, he plodded away on the full Bible translation, a draft of which he finished in 1834. The next year he married Sarah Boardman, another American missionary who had lost her own husband to death several years earlier.

Judson was not easily satisfied with his translation work, but in 1840 he published a revised version of the complete Bible. Then he turned his attention to a Burmese–English dictionary. The latter project seemed dull even to the bookish Judson, but he knew it was essential for future Anglo-American missionaries to have a reliable guide.

Death stalked his marriage to Sarah too. In 1845 they left Burma for America in hopes of getting health treatment for her. But en route to the US, Sarah died. Judson went on to America, returning to his homeland for the first time in more than three decades. But he found his native country unpleasant. Judson saw many Christians there complacent and morally compromised. He wanted to return quickly to Burma, but before he left, he married a young Christian writer named Emily Chubbuck, who agreed to give up her burgeoning career to become a missionary.

Back in Burma, he and Emily sought to rejuvenate the church in Rangoon, which had effectively ceased operations during and after the First Anglo-Burmese War. But the country’s authorities remained unfriendly to Christians and especially hostile toward Burmese Buddhists who converted. So the Judsons were forced to retreat to Moulmein, which was under British rule.

Judson thought of going to the royal capital of Ava to appeal for religious liberty again, but the Baptist mission board back in the US couldn’t provide the necessary funds to send him. It pained Judson that after all these years, the Baptists in America weren’t able to cover even the basic expenses of his work.

The long-suffering Judson had already outlived two wives, as well as many colleagues and children. But death finally caught up with him in 1850. Doctors suggested a sea voyage to alleviate symptoms of a lung disease, but he died on the trip and was buried at sea. Although there is a memorial in his hometown of Plymouth, Massachusetts, his admirers and descendants have no grave to visit.

Before he died, he told Emily, “I am not tired of my work, neither am I tired of the world yet when Christ calls me home, I shall go with the gladness of a boy bounding away from his school.” Judson’s long missionary career saw no spectacular ingathering of converts. Most converts in Burma during his lifetime came from the Karen (pronounced Ka-REN) tribe, not the ethnic Burmese majority to whom he devoted the most time.

Judson did receive praise in America for his Bible translation, but of course only the Burmese could read it, so few Americans ever read any of his work. He spent most of his adult life toiling in relative obscurity in Burma and primarily spent the last ten years composing a dictionary. As a missionary, he was not sensational. But he was extraordinarily disciplined and resilient.

And what great fruit his ministry bore! Most obviously, he left a translation of the whole Bible that, for Burmese Christians, was definitive. It remains the default Bible in Burmese churches today. It is not unusual to see portraits of Adoniram and Ann in Burmese churches.

Rarely has a missionary ever become so closely linked with a nation’s churches and Bible as Judson was in Burma. But one obvious disappointment for him was the lack of conversions among the Burmese. This pattern has persisted through to the present day. According to the World Christian Database, less than 1 percent of the ethnic Burmese in Myanmar identify as Christian.

Where the gospel really caught fire was among often-persecuted minority groups, especially the ethnic Karen and Chin. Judson was aware of the surprising conversions among non-Burmese ethnicities, but he didn’t evangelize much among them. Some of his American colleagues did, though, and conversions escalated when native Karen evangelists preached to their own people in the 1830s and ’40s.

Today, about half of the people with a Karen background in Myanmar profess Christian faith. Baptists are the largest Christian denomination in Myanmar, reflecting Judson and his missionary colleagues’ affiliation. Substantial émigré communities from Myanmar have also moved to the US, particularly to Midwestern cities such as Indianapolis and the Twin Cities in Minnesota. Christian immigrants from Myanmar commonly plant churches in America, especially Baptist congregations.

Judson left a profound legacy in Burma, but he did not always see the fruit he initially expected. As one Burmese Christian commented more than 150 years after the publication of Judson’s translation, “Whenever someone mentions the name ‘Judson’ great tears come to our eyes because we know what he and his family suffered for us. . . . Today, there are [millions of] Christians in Myanmar, and every one of us traces our spiritual heritage to one man—the Reverend Adoniram Judson.”

Judson possessed little money at the end of his life. Like the apostle Paul, he poured himself out for the sake of the gospel. More specifically, he endured countless trials to make God’s Word known in a nation with no Bible translation. Judson was not a perfect man. Among other faults, he easily became exasperated with colleagues who didn’t meet his exacting standards for hard work.

But in addition to his brilliance and courage, perhaps his greatest Christian virtues were resilience and hope. He endured profound suffering and spent years on translation work that was the opposite of glamorous. His long years of toil and loss forged a foundation for Burma’s churches, built on the perfect Word of God.

Thomas S. Kidd is research professor of church history at Midwestern Baptist Theological Seminary. He and Midwestern’s provost, Jason Duesing, are writing a biography of Adoniram Judson.

Culture

Can the City of Steel Rise Again?

Gary, Indiana, has struggled for decades. A coalition of Christians is working to bring it back to life.

People walk along a sandy beach at dusk while a smokestack-laden industrial plant looms in the background under a pink, hazy sky in Gary, Indiana.
Getty, Patrick Bennett.

Attendees of a news conference walked past boxes of donated clothes and worn-out leather couches to the back room of a dreary building where homeless men spend their nights. The mayor of Gary, Indiana, Eddie Melton, was there announcing his latest plan to revitalize a city that was once an emblem of America’s industrial might. And local residents, reporters, pastors, and city officials had gathered to hear what he would share. 

Flanked by nearly two dozen empty twin beds, Mike Dotson, a local pastor whose predominantly Black church owns and operates the shelter, opened the conference in prayer. He thanked God that the facility has been used to serve thousands for decades and asked for blessings for its future. In this case, Melton would soon share, its future is that it’s being rebuilt. But Gary has hemorrhaged residents for decades and can’t easily afford this type of major project. The city is using $3 million in federal funds, some of which came through the government’s COVID-19 relief package, to construct a new shelter. 

“We know the Scripture in Genesis 4:9 when the question was asked, ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ And today we want to answer that question and say, ‘Yes, we are our brothers’ keeper,’ ” Melton, who came into office about two and a half years ago, said in February. He noted the new facility would essentially double the number of beds in the building to 50. The shelter, however, still needs support from the community—including churches, which are needed to provide furniture, bedding, and other supplies for housing people.

The new shelter is one of many projects underway to beautify and revive downtown Gary, a once-bustling commercial corridor that’s now filled with dilapidated buildings, shuttered businesses, and empty lots. The city, located on the south shore of Lake Michigan just a 45-minute drive from Chicago, is seeking to turn over a new leaf and shed its reputation for poverty and crime. To do so, it needs to permanently reverse its steep population decline, clean up blight, and attract businesses that provide good-paying jobs and serve as a stable source of revenue for the city’s coffers. 

The task is primarily one for Melton. But in this heavily churched area, congregations, pastors, and Christian-run nonprofits are an integral part of the effort. “This is an all-hands-on-deck approach,” the mayor told me during an interview. 

The city can feel churches’ impact in many areas. About two miles north of the men’s shelter, another pastor, Dennis Walton, has spent the past few years renovating an old Salvation Army building and converting it into a community center. Walton, who pastors a dual-location church called Faith Temple of Christ, purchased the building using his own money. He called it Faith Community Center North and offered the space to nonprofits that train residents in construction and trade—including carpentry, roofing, and HVAC systems—and provide mental health counseling to residents battling drug and alcohol addiction. 

Inside the building, his team is developing a gym, and they also plan to create a service that delivers fresh produce to nearby residents. During the holidays, they host a Toys for Tots giveaway, which usually draws enough people to create a ten-block line outside. 

When I toured the building, Walton told me the city gave his organization some funding last year to set up emergency shelters for women with children. His team now runs five homes in the city. In another part of Gary, they work with nonprofits to operate a six-acre community garden, on which they farm honey and grow spinach, cucumbers, tomatoes, squash, and other vegetables they plan to sell and give away.

However, funding for projects is typically bleak, even for Walton, who chairs a city subcommittee on economic vitality. There’s not enough money for everything that needs to be done. But he meets regularly with pastors and business leaders to see what they can do with what they have. “Our goal is to give the city a lift,” he said.

Gary has always been an industry town. The city was established in the early 1900s by U. S. Steel Corporation, a steel manufacturer that became the world’s first billion-dollar company. At the time, the industrial giant controlled more than half of the country’s production of steel. It owned not only massive steel mills but also iron ore mines, coal fields, shipping lines, and railroads. 

By 1905, U. S. Steel was looking to expand, and the Gary area offered major benefits. The land was sparsely populated and conveniently located near Lake Michigan and rail transportation, which made it easier to serve regional customers. The company purchased thousands of acres on the southern shore of the lake and built a massive steel plant, known as Gary Works, on top of swampland and sand dunes. They named the new city after the company’s founding chairman, Elbert Henry Gary. 

Gary was soon promoted as the “Magic City.” Its population boomed as people came to work in the steel plant. The city was filled with white Americans, European immigrants, Mexican laborers, and African Americans, many of whom migrated from the South. 

The jobs were plenty, but discrimination was rampant. Many schools were racially segregated, and Black workers in the steel mills had the most-dangerous and lowest-paying jobs. Immigrant and Black workers lived in overcrowded, dilapidated boarding houses on the south side. 

The Great Depression brought an economic downturn to Gary before wartime efforts helped the steel industry roar back to life. After World War II, Gary’s mills continued to churn out the steel needed for skyscrapers, bridges, dams, and appliances. Pubs, coffee shops, clothing stores, and local theaters lined the city’s vibrant downtown neighborhoods. By 1960, more than 178,000 people lived in the city. 

But like other Rust Belt towns, Gary was too dependent on the steel industry for jobs and tax revenue. What happened next is the familiar story of disastrous industrial decline. Foreign competition and automation wiped out thousands of steel jobs, and Gary went into free fall. But unlike many other towns that suffered a similar fate, race played a significant role in Gary’s story. 

In 1967, Gary’s growing Black population elected Richard Hatcher, a Democrat, as one of the nation’s first Black big-city mayors. At that point, Hatcher was a well-known civil rights figure. When he was on the city council, Hatcher helped pass a local law that ended racially restrictive property covenants and allowed Black residents to live wherever they wanted in Gary. His mayoral victory gave him national recognition. A few years after he won, Gary hosted the National Black Political Convention, which drew figures like Jesse Jackson and Coretta Scott King to the city. 

White residents were already moving to nearby suburbs before Hatcher was elected. But the stream of white flight “became a flood” after his win, The New York Times described in one article published in the early ’90s. In the 1997 documentary The Magic City of Steel, former residents said they left Gary because of growing crime, which coincided with job losses. But the exodus was also tied to changing racial politics. “White fear caused people to leave,” historian James B. Lane bluntly told The Trace, an independent media outlet. 

As residents fled, many stores, banks, and businesses closed up shop and moved to nearby Merrillville, Indiana, a newly incorporated town just south of Gary. As the number of jobs in the city declined, homeowners couldn’t afford to pay their mortgages. Houses were abandoned and boarded up. Schools closed. The city lost tax revenue, leaving it unable to provide the most basic services, such as trash pickup and road repairs. The loss of funds made it challenging to hire new police officers. Drugs and violence increased, and crime soared. 

Different mayors attempted to revive Gary, but the city never turned a corner. Hatcher’s successor, Thomas Barnes, sent thousands of businesses a promotional pamphlet to entice them to set up shop in Gary, all with no luck. In the ’90s, Michael Jackson and his family agreed to a sprawling Jackson-themed amusement park that could attract visitors to their hometown of Gary, but the project failed without the then-mayor’s sign-off. 

Gary suffered another setback when the Indiana state legislature in 1999 allowed U. S. Steel, still a top employer in the city, to self-assess its own property value. That move, coupled with the state’s decision to cap property taxes nearly a decade later, took millions of dollars out of the city’s budget.

Casino gambling and a new baseball stadium were eventually brought in to boost the town. But to this day, Gary depends on external funding to revitalize its neighborhoods. About 67,000 people now live in the city, and roughly three-fourths are Black.

Three years ago, a multiethnic church called Flourish opened in Gary. Multiethnic churches are rare in the area, and Flourish could be unique, Dexter Harris, the lead pastor, told me. The church began as the Gary campus of a predominantly white nondenominational congregation, which purchased an old Boys & Girls Club in the heart of the city’s downtown and planted its third campus there. 

After the Gary site and the mother church butted heads over leadership issues, the third campus split off and became independent. The leaders subsequently named the new church with hope. “We want to see the city of Gary flourish again,” Harris said. 

When Flourish got off the ground, Harris decided to reach out to local nonprofits to try to bring them together. He saw there was already a lot of good work being done, but many organizations were working in silos and didn’t know what others were doing. Harris, a native of nearby Chicago, created a nonprofit hub and invited organizations that mentor girls, offer high school diploma classes, and provide other services in Gary. He hosted dinners and allowed groups to use church space to run health classes or even teach karate. 

Shine Recovery Café, one of the Christian-run nonprofits in the Flourish hub, operates four-hour activity sessions every week for nonviolent offenders on work release. The café aims to help participants overcome substance abuse and to connect them with resources to reorient their lives. Some might need help finding an employer who won’t throw out an application that mentions a criminal record. Others might have been in jail for so long that they don’t know how to use basic technology, like a computer or an email account, and need training. Shine hosts sessions in Gary as well as nearby Griffith. 

Daveed Holmes, a staffer, told me the organization wants to be a place where people feel that they’re more than a case, an approach that informs much of what they do. During a recent event, a few participants trickled into a church lobby, where they did puzzles before a cook prepared dinner. Afterward, they observed a moment of silence and split up to do activities. Some drew portraits. Others drummed on stability balls for cardio. 

Shine Recovery and other nonprofits in the Flourish hub are also trying to support local businesses. One day, 20 people might visit a neighborhood coffee shop to help it stay afloat, and a few days later, they might eat at a nearby restaurant. Last year, some of the organizations partnered with residents to revitalize four lots in the city. A national nonprofit offered funding to put up murals in a new gated park and set up a playground, which the mayor christened. 

Harris oversaw much of that work. After a few years in Gary, the pastor, who is Black, told me he’s built some trust with residents. Flourish tries to worship with six other churches in the area every few weeks. Sometimes, the congregations collaborate on grants that could finance new projects. Flourish also operates resource closets, which contain suitcases, diapers, school supplies, and other materials for foster children, and has spurred more than a dozen other churches to do similar work. 

Soon, Flourish plans to take over a nearby warehouse in Gary and convert it into an indoor playground, gym, and retail space. “Our hope is that this building will be an extension of the hub,” Harris told me. 

U. S. Steel remains a behemoth of an institution, barricaded from intrusions. Last year, Japan’s Nippon Steel took over the company after a prolonged negotiation that was the subject of intense presidential politics. Despite its history of job losses, the plant in Gary is still one of the largest steel mills in North America, drawing in about 4,300 workers from across the region. About 10 to 15 percent of its workers live in Gary, one company representative previously told The New Yorker. The steel plant wants to hire 1,000 new employees for a multiyear project, and it has been advertising its plans downtown. 

When they’re not on the clock, some steel workers come to a retro ’50s-style café across the street from the plant. They walk past the pro-union sign posted on the door of Great Lakes Café and sit at red-and-white booths for a quiet lunch break. 

The owner, Cindy Klidaras, opened the café about 30 years ago and seems to know almost everyone. After she accurately detected me as a first-time visitor, I told her I was a visiting journalist working on a story. She sat across from me, telling me the changes she hoped to see in the city: One, for Gary to embrace tourism. Two, for the city to clean up its downtown area. “I want to see it like Chicago,” she said, mentioning how that city revitalized some of its neighborhoods. 

If you talk to Gary officials, they will tell you the city has a lot going for it. It’s near a major metro area. And if city plans work out, the cheaper cost of living will attract workers who choose to make their home in Gary and commute to Chicago. Gary also has an airport, a lakefront that landlocked cities covet, a national park, and a small affluent neighborhood called Miller Beach, located far from its struggling downtown. With the number of highways and rail lines that go through the city, Melton often says it could be a logistical hub not just for Indiana but also for North America. 

Making that a reality, however, is a long and layered work. It involves the hard task of changing the city and its image. It also requires pushing back against the malaise of pessimism that has crept in over the decades. Melton told me his priority, first and foremost, is to give people hope. “It took Gary 50 to 60 years to get to this point. It’s not going to happen overnight. But you have a mayor that believes in God,” he told a local crowd during his annual address last year, leading to cheers. 

Some of the revitalization efforts—financed through COVID-19 relief dollars—are kindling hope. When Melton came into office, the city hired its first engineer in more than a decade. Afterward, government workers discovered that nearly half of the city’s 2,000 streetlights were broken. The city is using federal funds to fix the lights and some traffic signals in the city that don’t work well, the mayor told me. 

At the same time, abandoned buildings are continually being demolished, some as a result of a local company that’s offered to do it for free. More demolitions means more empty lots, but the city’s goal is to clear the decks for potential investors. 

Then there’s public safety, which Melton told me makes up more than 50 percent of Gary’s budget. Managing crime is a must to attract new residents, but the city is simultaneously attempting to free some of that money for other uses. Case in point: Instead of buying new vehicles for its police department, it’s leasing them with the help of a grant from a local Hard Rock Casino. There has been some good news. In February, Gary’s police department said the city’s homicide rate last year dropped to its lowest level since 1970. 

One report showed that home prices in Gary increased sevenfold between 2014 and 2024—which normally wouldn’t cause celebration, but for Gary, it’s a sign that homebuyers are investing. Last October, FedEx broke ground on a new distribution center that’s expected to create 600 jobs for residents by 2027. A few other companies are also making investments

Charles Hughes, a former city councilman who leads Gary’s Chamber of Commerce, told me a lot of these investments could have happened a long time ago. “But this is God’s chosen moment,” said Hughes, who is also a Christian. 

Gary still faces significant obstacles. By the end of this year, it must complete all projects financed by federal relief funds and look for new sources of revenue for revitalization. And Indiana’s state legislature passed a new law last year that would cut property taxes for homeowners, in turn creating less local revenue for city governments. Then there’s the question of how exactly Gary can thread the needle of attracting new businesses and residents while making sure life in the city remains affordable for those who already live there. 

Almost everyone I spoke with is clear-eyed about the challenges. But the Christians God has placed in the Steel City are seeing sparks of hope as they pray for Gary’s resurrection. Hughes summed up this longing during a conversation in his office: “We just want to come back.” 

Haleluya Hadero is Black church editor at Christianity Today.

Photograph of Paige Lohman
Testimony

I Sold My Body and Couldn’t Quit Heroin. But God Pursued Me.

Some faithful Christian women visited the dressing room at my strip club and showed me the love of Christ.

Photography by Aaron Wojack for Christianity Today

I grew up in Las Vegas, and my mom took me to church a few times a year. She even enrolled me in Sunday school and a Christian high school. But the stories, skits, and sermons never turned into a relationship with God. I didn’t know that was possible—or that he would ever love someone like me.

When I was 8, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. My parents tried to hide it, but I could tell something was wrong—the endless doctor visits, her beautiful black hair falling out, her decision to step away from a job she loved. I prayed to this God everyone talked about, bargaining with him: If you make her better, I’ll be the best daughter ever. I’ll get straight A’s. I’ll never talk back. But she didn’t get better. Watching her fade away, I wondered if God was real and, if he was, why he let our family crumble.

When everyone’s attention turned to my mother’s illness, I felt lost in the shadows. I looked to my peers for love and connection I couldn’t find at home. That search led me into the grip of anorexia and bulimia. I’d starve myself, binge, then purge—over and over. Eventually, my aunt and my dad admitted me into an inpatient program. My heart rate dropped so low that I had to be fed through a tube. I’ll never forget the feeling of that tube being shoved down my throat.

While I was still at the facility, my dad walked in one day to tell me that Mom was gone. Something inside me shut off. I didn’t cry. I just felt numb. That was the day my world went silent.

After I lost my mom, I craved escape. My best friend invited me to a party one night. “Sure,” I said. My dad worked nights at a casino, so from 8 p.m. to 4 a.m., I was on my own.

That first party wasn’t what I expected. There were older strangers, along with weed, cocaine, and acid. That’s where I tried OxyContin for the first time. A friend showed me how to smoke it to feel the full effect. 

By 18, I was addicted to black tar heroin. Somehow, I still graduated from high school. After a string of car wrecks and violent outbursts, my family realized I needed help. I went to college, hoping that burying myself in books and goals would fix everything. But you can’t outrun demons. I carried every wound, every trauma, right into that next chapter.

In college, I had moments of sobriety. But every clean streak ended in a relapse worse than the last. It was during one of my sober stretches that I met Katy. She was a senior like me. Katy was smart, mysterious, and a writer for the campus feminist column. She was also addicted to opiates. Looking back, I see how the Enemy set that up. Katy sat down next to me in the library one night as I was studying. She couldn’t stay awake, and I ended up helping her get home. Later, I looked her up on Facebook. Her bio said she was an exotic dancer at a club called the Spice House.

I had grown up in Las Vegas, but I’d never been inside a strip club. My only knowledge of that world came from music videos—the money, the lights, the girls who appeared powerful and adored. They look happy, I thought. That’s what I want. I just want to feel like I matter. So one night, I decided to check it out. I told myself it was just for research, but the moment I got a taste of fast money, I was hooked. Stripping became a gateway to darker forms of exploitation. I started responding to ads promising $1,000 a night. Some were for escort services. Others were covert trafficking schemes. One boundary after another fell until I didn’t recognize myself.

I remember spending a night in a cheap motel room and looking at my reflection in the mirror. I saw a hollow shell of a woman staring back at me. A thought pierced through the haze. What if you die this way? If heaven and hell are real, I wondered, where would my soul go? I decided to take a bath. As the tub filled, I remembered that I had just taken several hits of heroin. Then another thought hit me: Remember how Whitney Houston died? She drowned in the bathtub. It was as if God had whispered, If you don’t change, this is where you’re headed. That night, I had a spiritual awakening. My soul woke up before my body.

A week later, I dragged myself back to the strip club. I went into the locker room, lit up my foil, and took a few puffs. Suddenly, laughter filled the room—not fake, empty laughter but sounds of real joy. It sliced through the darkness like a beam of light in a cave. I peeked around the corner and saw a few older women walking in with bright smiles and plates of warm food.

They sat with the dancers, talking with them like friends. I realized they’d been there before, but I’d never noticed them. They were talking about Jesus. And it wasn’t the judgmental “turn or burn” Christianity I’d heard shouted through megaphones on the Vegas strip. These women came to tell us that we were loved—that God had a plan, even for girls like me. Something shifted. For the first time in years, I felt seen. I felt valued. I felt hope. Those women didn’t wait for me to find my way into a church. They brought church to me. That night, I wrote on one of their prayer cards, “God, help me.”

Those Christian women planted precious seeds that night, but it took time for them to grow. I spent several more years in addiction and abuse. 

Eventually, my dad called with an ultimatum. He said I needed to go to rehab or he would have to step back from being in my life. “I can’t watch you kill yourself,” he told me. “We already lost your mom.”

Something in me finally shifted. I agreed to enter a 30-day treatment program in Florida. There, with a clear mind for the first time in years, I started to picture my life without drugs. What could it look like?

Even though it was a secular rehab program, the staff offered to take us to church on Sundays if we wanted to go. I went every time, and I could sense God tugging at my heart. After the program, I moved into a sober living home in Covina, California. I started going to meetings again and even got accepted into law school.

But I wasn’t free yet. I slipped back once more—this time working for a manipulative escort agent. He was cunning and controlling, and when the shame hit, I couldn’t numb it anymore.

One night, I dropped to my knees in my bedroom and cried out, “God, I know what I’m doing is wrong. Jesus, I know you’re real. Please forgive me.” I felt his presence flood the room. It felt like heat, peace, love, forgiveness. The gospel finally made sense: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us (Rom. 5:8). Even when I was dancing in clubs or getting high, Jesus loved me. He never stopped pursuing me.

I called my agent from a grocery store parking lot and said, “I’m done.” Then I blocked his number. That day, I finally chose freedom. After that, God began rebuilding my life piece by piece. He sent godly women my way—like one I met at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting who introduced herself not as an alcoholic but as “a child of God.” She invited me to Bible studies and coffee.

Another woman invited me to church, where I nervously walked up to the altar and gave my heart fully to Jesus. I was baptized and joined a discipleship class. After a sermon on purity, I broke down at the altar, repenting and surrendering everything to God. In that moment, God removed my desire to use drugs—and my desire to exploit my body in any way.

Today, I’m free from heroin. I’m married to a man of God, I’m a mother of three and a law school graduate, and I work in the anti-trafficking field. I still go to the strip club, but this time, I’m the one sharing the gospel of Jesus Christ. Over the years, we’ve reached hundreds of women, and many have given their lives to Jesus.

My life is not without trials. In 2020, I was diagnosed with cancer. Recently, I learned that it’s back. I’m battling breast cancer and brain cancer, which has caused temporary partial blindness. But as I walk through treatment again, I’m not alone. My faith is my anchor. The Word of God is my medicine. Romans 5:3–5 says, “We also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit.”

I hold on to that truth every day. The same God who reached me in a strip club dressing room is still with me now. He hasn’t failed me yet, and he never will. 

Paige Lohman is a digital content creator and founder of Girl Redeemed. She lives in California with her husband and three children.

Church Life

Men Should Bear the Brunt of Contraception

Sterilization should never be done carelessly, and it should be the man’s burden.

Abstract collage-style illustration of overlapping silhouetted figures in orange, teal, and pink hues suggesting connection, embrace, or emotional struggle.
Illustration by Shonagh Rae

In this series

I vividly remember crying in the kitchen with my wife, Lauren. I was doing some dishes when Lauren put a pregnancy test on the counter next to me. That moment was totally unlike the others, where there was waiting, joy, and celebration. This one felt like a punishment and a total surprise. We already had three rambunctious boys under the age of 5. What’s more, the pregnancies had been hard on Lauren’s health. Her midwives had recommended against having another pregnancy for a while.

A year later, two things were true. First, we did what many faithful people of God have done before us when faced with unexpected children. We wrestled with God. We fought with each other. We talked with friends. And we changed. We made our peace with God’s plan. That fourth boy is now 7, and we love him with that indescribable love that is the blessing of parenting. He is a gift unlike any other.

The second truth is I got a vasectomy. Lauren scheduled it for me. We didn’t need to talk about it. It never occurred to me to pray about it. I never consulted a friend about it. I did not research it. I just tied off my ability to reproduce. But that way of making such a morally fraught decision was a mistake.

T. S. Eliot called contraception the suicide of civilization. Theodore Roosevelt called it “the one sin for which the penalty is national death.” G. K. Chesterton was even more blunt: “I despise Birth-Control because it is a weak and wobbly and cowardly thing.” Birth control did change the world. Contraception pulled the plug, and American sexual ethics fell swiftly down the drain. The right to privacy emerged from access to contraception; Roe v. Wade and the sexual revolution followed closely behind, including a rampant pornography industry.

When I ran to the doctor to get a vasectomy in my mid-30s, I had no idea I was standing in a world created by such chaos. I was just trying to care for my family. Having now learned much more about the history of sex ethics and a theology of the body, here is what I would recommend as a primer:

First, I have come to believe that Christians should have a strong preference for natural family planning. Even my Catholic brothers and sisters admit and allow for natural family planning through abstinence at certain times of the month. I used to find their arguments cheeky: Don’t ever separate the unitive and procreative aspects of sex (unless you want to separate them by natural family planning, wink, wink). But I give it much greater respect now.

Submitting to the natural rhythms of our bodies is a far healthier—and far less ethically fraught—means of family planning. Natural family planning requires we adjust our lives to our bodies, not our bodies to our lives. A century ago, there was relative consensus in the church that our culture should be very cautious of birth control.

Second, male contraception should be cautiously permissible. While natural family planning seems the wisest and safest choice, I find condoms or vasectomies permissible for a few reasons.

To start, they put the burden on the male and require him to take initiative to control himself and alter his life when it comes to sex. This is healthy for men. When sex is offered to men with no responsibilities or restrictions attached, men, women, and children suffer. When men are required to be responsible for sex, men, women, and children benefit.

Male contraception also helps a man care for his family by allowing good and beautiful intimacy to flourish while stewarding his family’s stage of life. But it should not be encouraged outside marriage, since according to Scripture there is no place for sex outside of marriage. I also believe this should not be used lightly to delay children for a long period of time or to create a culture where children are optional in marriage.

But when you are in a committed marriage with children and having more would create unwise health or mental health issues, I stand by the idea of male contraception as a possibly wise option for a man to care for his wife and family.

These are admittedly narrow circumstances for male contraception to be used discerningly. This is why I believe the church should move from a default posture of “What is wrong with this?” to asking instead, “What is right about this?”

It is not a simple answer. The industry of contraception almost inevitably leads to a culture that is interested in not family planning but untethered sex. So I admit that making exceptions for wise use in marriage is a very difficult ethical dilemma. Evangelicals can and should put much more theological work into these questions.

Third, female contraception should be strongly avoided. It is simply wrong for men to put the burden of family planning on altering more complex female biology. It may even be evil when it is driven largely by a willingness to complicate or damage the female body to simplify and increase the pleasures of the male body.

The world of pill-based birth control and intrauterine devices (IUDs) has created a world where women are almost expected to put their bodies through wild hormonal changes for the sake of sex without consequence.

Of course, some women use birth control for medical, hormonal, and health reasons. But the default assumption that women should be altering their bodies to give men sex with no side effects puts the burden in the wrong place. Men and women are better off when men are held to the very highest responsibility for sex.

Further, some IUDs and birth control pills work as abortifacients, since they don’t allow an already-created embryo to implant and grow. In vitro fertilization, too, often leads to discarded or forgotten embryos. As Christians, we must challenge our consciences and advocate on these personal topics as much as we speak out on abortion.

If I could go back seven years ago, I would make the same choice, but for entirely different reasons. And I would do it in an entirely different way. I would weigh the fact that I would be taking a step of incredible moral and physical significance. I would ask for counsel and prayer. I would read and think. I would act the same, probably, but with sobriety and reverence.

But I did not. I simply got a vasectomy. That puts me in a long line of modern men and women who casually use all kinds of birth control with no serious consideration.

We must reckon with our conscience, with church history, with the devastating impact of sterilization’s common use, and with the hard ethical choices that accompany reproductive technologies. If we cannot find better practical ethics, then we may have to admit the historical church was right.

Justin Whitmel Earley is a lawyer, speaker, and author of numerous best-selling books, including Habits of the Household and, most recently, The Body Teaches the Soul.

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