Books
Review

Around the World in 11 Church Services

A new travelogue of global worship celebrates gospel unity across cultural difference—within certain limits.

A globe with pictures of an Asian and African church worshiping
Christianity Today August 21, 2025
Illustration by Mallory Rentsch Tlapek / Source Images: Getty, Unsplash

In a remote village in Cambodia, Christians dressed in black cloth worship God with indigenous songs and a tribal dance, accompanied by rhythmic clapping. In a congested city in South Korea, a large congregation lifts a solemn hymn while crying out loudly to God in prayer. Meanwhile, in a church building in Poland that houses 60 Ukrainian refugees, the gathered community sings a Polish hymn with violin accompaniment after hearing two different pastors—one from Ukraine, the other from Poland—preach the Word of God.

These snapshots of Christians worshiping God around the globe offer a taste of the rich feast we encounter in a new book, From the Rising of the Sun: A Journey of Worship Around the World. The authors, Tim Challies and Tim Keesee, take us on a whirlwind journey, starting just west of the international dateline in the Pacific Ocean, where a new day begins, and concluding on the Alaskan coastline, just east of where the day ends. (Their title draws from Psalm 113:3, which says, “From the rising of the sun to the place where it sets, the name of the Lord is to be praised.”)

Along the way, the book introduces us to gathered communities of worship in 11 different settings. Taken together, these churches lift up Christ across the 24 hours that make up any given Sunday. Challies and Keesee target countries in roughly every second time zone. Unfortunately, however, no church in South Asia appears on the itinerary, presumably due to last-minute visa restrictions the authors encountered.

What is the purpose of this global tour? Mainly, to narrate how local expressions of music, preaching, and sacrament demonstrate both our rich differences and our defining unity as Christ’s church across the world. For the most part, Challies and Keesee succeed in that specific task. The book is primarily descriptive rather than reflective. It’s concerned more with showing certain commonalities and differences than with explaining why they exist. (If you’re looking for a deeper analysis of what unifies and divides the global Christian church, this may not be the place to start.)

The book’s structure is straightforward, making it easy to follow. In the prologue and introduction, Challies and Keesee each give a personal account of how the project took form and what led them to choose which churches to visit. We learn that once the plan was hatched, its implementation hit a series of walls, including a cancer diagnosis and therapy, the devastating loss of a child, and a global pandemic that shut down travel. Nevertheless, the authors’ dream persevered and ultimately led to this book (and an accompanying film series).

The main chapters also follow a straightforward pattern. Each consists primarily of a travelogue based on Keesee’s journal entries from the three or four days the pair spent in a given location. Chapters begin with a general reflection, often from the history of Christian missions in that place. Keesee then typically tells faith narratives of believers or church leaders the authors encountered.

Keesee is a gifted storyteller, and these testimonies constitute some of the richest and most inspiring material in the book. For example, while in Poland, the authors met a Ukrainian woman named Svetlana and her four children. Originally from Mariupol, a city devasted by three months of Russian bombing, Svetlana paid smugglers to extract her family from their homeland. With little access to food and water, they made the dangerous journey through Crimea, Russia, Latvia, and Lithuania and finally reached Poland.

Hearing of a church in Rybnik, Poland, that cared for refugees, Svetlana pleaded with the pastor to let her family stay. Although the facilities were already overcrowded, the pastor extended hospitality to this desperate family, and they had lived and worshiped at the church for four months by the time of the authors’ visit.

Finally, each chapter ends with a description of the Sunday worship the writers experienced. I found their narrative of a house church gathering in a member’s living room in Morocco particularly compelling. As they describe it, the small Christian community encircles a table of mint tea and Arabic sweets. The service begins with praying and singing to guitar accompaniment, including original Arabic hymns and songs translated from English. The song “I Have Decided to Follow Jesus” is familiar, but this community adds an Arabic verse: “If I’m put in chains, or go to prison, no turning back, no turning back.”

The sermon, taken from 1 Corinthians 1:26–31, talks about how God chose the weak, the low, and the despised in the world so that no one might put hope in themselves. The preaching is interactive, with the leader asking questions and congregants seeking clarification. Later, the group sings the Lord’s Prayer and shares the bread and cup for Communion. Keesee comments, “In that room were old and young along with professionals and the barely literate. Some have good jobs and bright prospects, while others are outcasts, poor, and maybe a little odd. There’s no reason for us to be together here except for one everlasting reason: Christ!”

The scene they describe evokes my own memories of worshiping in house church settings in Asian countries, where even assembling to lift up Christ is a risky business. Although I went to teach classes on the Bible, their joyful worship instructed me in how to more faithfully read New Testament passages about suffering for Christ.

After each chapter, Challies offers a brief reflection on one aspect of Christian worship in a global setting, covering such topics as a visitor’s heart posture, music, preaching, and worshiping in different languages. These sections spotlight common elements as well as differences. Some I found valuable, such as Challies’s reflection on diversity in how different churches practice the Lord’s Supper. Others are quite brief and almost self-evident, like his thoughts “On Being a Good Traveler”: Essentially, try to avoid offending people! In each case, helpful discussion questions enable readers to reflect further and make applications in their own context.

There is much I appreciate in this book. After living outside North America for nearly 25 years and ministering on several continents, I resonate profoundly with the writers’ desire to show how Christians of various languages and cultures exalt our one Lord. These snapshots offer a foretaste of Revelation’s vision of a multitude from every tribe and tongue worshiping before the throne of God and the Lamb (7:9–11). Although we don’t always recognize or embody it, this diversity of cultures, languages, and worship expressions is baked into who we are as God’s people. It will continue into the new creation.

What is more, the book is beautifully written, narrative in style, and engaging to read—perfect for a broad Christian audience. The authors seamlessly weave Scripture and hymns into their travelogue, and photos of their encounters with people and places enrich their descriptions. I also appreciate their efforts to provide relevant historical context, from the voyages of British explorer and captain James Cook to the eruptions of a Chilean volcano to the marginalized posture of the early church in North Africa.

Yet despite the book’s positive features, it left me with several concerns. First, for a book claiming to celebrate the diversity of Christian worship around the world, it offers only one relatively narrow slice of the Christian pie.

Challies and Keesee set boundaries for the types of churches they visited, some acknowledged, some not. The common thread that ties these congregations together is “a deep commitment to Scripture and sound doctrine.” Fair enough. But in practice, these parameters translate into conservative, evangelical churches, primarily from a broadly Reformed theological background. Further, nearly all these churches prioritize doctrine-centered expository preaching.

Given the Reformed backgrounds of Challies (a pastor) and Keesee (a missions organization leader), these limits are perhaps not surprising. But I wonder what would have happened if the authors had expanded their journey and moved out of their comfortable lane. What if they had included churches from a Wesleyan Methodist or Pentecostal background? Given that Pentecostals are the largest single group of evangelical Christians worshiping on any given Sunday, that tradition might have been worth considering.

Or for that matter, what about Roman Catholic or Orthodox Christians? (Surely some will appear among the diverse multitude described in Revelation 7:9.) Or churches that use more drama, ritual, storytelling, media, or other preaching styles, like the kind of call-and-response pattern so familiar to African American worship? Or congregations that emphasize Christlike living as much as or more than sound doctrine?

And what about women? In the book, pastors and pastoral team members are always men, with females fulfilling roles like composing music and singing. But in my time as a missionary and professor serving in different global contexts, I have witnessed God consistently using called and Spirit-gifted women in many ministry roles, including pastoral leadership and preaching. What if the authors had grafted a church with more female leadership into their itinerary, even if this took them outside their comfort zone?

Filling these gaps would have yielded a different book. But perhaps the resulting product would better reflect Revelation’s vision of worshipers from every nation, tribe, people, and culture.

Second, I wish the authors had shown a deeper understanding of issues related to the mission of the church. Challies and Keesee tend to glimpse the global church through a traditional Western filter. For example, when describing missionaries, past and present, they paint a somewhat-romanticized portrait. Missionaries, in this view, are heroes, primarily Western men, who endured great hardship (and sometimes martyrdom) to plant the gospel.

I readily acknowledge the enormous debt we owe to pioneer missionaries who risked everything to fulfill Christ’s commission to make disciples of all nations. As someone who spent most of his adult life in global missions, I’m the last one to throw all missionaries under the bus.

But the book could have demonstrated more sensitivity toward other aspects of the Western missionary legacy, like the colonial attitudes and cultural assumptions that still influence worship around the globe. For example, in the South Pacific, I’ve observed that many pastors wear dress shirts, ties, and sometimes jackets in a tropical climate. The reason, I’ve been told, is that missionaries had prescribed this as proper preaching attire. And the churches the authors describe throughout the book rely heavily, though not exclusively, on translations of Western hymns.

What’s more, missions as described in From the Rising of the Sun advances in one direction, from “us” to “them,” from the West to the rest. But missions today is globalized and multidirectional—“from everywhere to everyone,” as South American theologian Samuel Escobar puts it. That includes missionaries from around the globe coming to minister in North America. I realize this book isn’t a missions textbook. But at times it risks reinforcing stereotypes that still shape the mindsets of North American evangelical congregations.

Finally, Challies and Keesee could have strengthened the book with more in-depth reflection on the various worship settings they observed. They affirm virtually all the examples of worship and preaching they encountered, with little attempt at evaluation or critique. I had hoped that, at the end of the book, they might reflect on some strengths and weaknesses of different practices and traditions or perhaps grapple with their theological significance. But that didn’t happen.

It’s noteworthy that in the final worship reflection, the authors describe feeling “at home” in different churches where familiar elements were present. On the one hand, I share their delight in what unites Christians across various traditions and international venues. On the other hand, a littleless familiarity and a bit more discomfort with the differences might have produced a richer portrait of the magnificent diversity of Christ’s body throughout the earth.

Despite these concerns, this is a book worth reading, especially for Christians who assume, consciously or otherwise, “The way we do worship is right!” or “Everybody does it like us.” With infectious enthusiasm and elegant prose, Challies and Keesee turn a travelogue into an opportunity to celebrate the vibrant variety that characterizes the one global church of Jesus Christ.

Dean Flemming is professor emeritus of New Testament and mission at MidAmerica Nazarene University. His books include Recovering the Full Mission of God: A Biblical Perspective on Being, Doing and Telling.

News

Indian Christians Defiant Amid Death Threats and Raids

Hindu nationalists hope Maharashtra will become the next Indian state to pass an anti-conversion law.

A woman prays at St. John the Baptist Church in Thane, India.

A woman prays at St. John the Baptist Church in Thane, India.

Christianity Today August 21, 2025
Hindustan Times / Contributor / Getty

A mob of 200 Hindu nationalists stormed Bethel Prarthana Bhavan (Bethel Prayer Hall) in Maharashtra’s Malegaon town, with police and revenue authorities in tow, to disrupt the ongoing Sunday service on July 20. Shouted slogans decrying “Christian conversion” replaced the typical praise and worship, the church’s pastor, Simon Raut, told CT.

Worshipers stood in disbelief as the mob, made up of people who belonged to the Hindutva militant group Bajrang Dal, confronted the pastor and church elders, claiming they didn’t have the government’s permission to worship in the building. They snatched gospel tracts from the Bibles where they were tucked, then tore them, Raut said. Police and other officials watched in silence until tempers cooled, only to serve a notice to the church leaders, forcing them to stop all activities.

Since 2019, about 300 believers have gathered to worship in this hall each Sunday. After beginning as a house church in 2017, the group expanded and moved to the new location. Raut denied allegations that the church had met illegally and that they had forcibly converted Hindus.

“I own the land,” he said. “I have all the permissions. This is just an attempt to stop God’s mighty work in our land.”

Since the mob came, the congregation has continued to hold services at the prayer hall. The church leaders also hired a Christian lawyer to challenge the notice.

Two days after the attack in Malegaon, a similar script played out 65 miles away in the city of Nashik. Police summoned six believers from a tribal church, which was established in 2009, to the local police station, according to the church’s pastor. The cops warned them not to congregate in the church or at anyone’s house in the village to pray. Since then, the 200 Christians in the church have splintered into six small groups to worship secretly. CT agreed not to disclose the specific details of the church and the pastor, as they fear arrest.

Since the landslide victory of the Hindu nationalist Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) in the western Indian state of Maharashtra in November 2024, attacks against Christians have surged. So far this year, the Evangelical Fellowship of India’s Religious Liberty Commission documented 11 cases of violence against Christians in the region. Over the same period last year, there was only a single incident.

Christian lawyer Wilson Nathan, who is part of a team providing pro bono legal aid to persecuted Christians, told CT there has been a sharp escalation of violence in recent months. He has received distressed calls from districts all over the state. House churches in tribal districts, especially in Dhule and Nandurbar, are often the target of Hindu fanaticism. Most new converts in the state are from marginalized tribal and Dalit hamlets, where Christianity is mushrooming.

The rising rhetoric against the Christian community comes amid the BJP’s push for an anticonversion law, which it pledged during its election campaign last year. The new law, slated to roll out this December, is set to curb religious conversions and to demolish “unauthorised” churches, particularly in tribal areas. If the law is enacted, Maharashtra will become the 14th Indian state to pass an anticonversion law, ironically called the Freedom of Religion Act. (The state of Tamil Nadu has since repealed its anticonversion law, while lawmakers in Karnataka have said they plan to repeal its law.)

Christian leaders told CT that the Hindu nationalists aim to reshape public opinion through anti-Christian speeches, attacks on worship spaces, and accusations of “forced conversions.” This would allow them to act with impunity and assault Christians at will. Many expect that the government would then pass the anticonversion law without any hurdles.

The impact is already palpable. “There is heightened fear among those who carry out any Christian activity,” said Arun Shinde, the retired pastor of Saint Andrew’s Church in Nashik. “I can no longer imagine sharing the gospel, praying for people, and distributing the New Testament in public places, as I did until last year.”

On June 21, Gopichand Padalkar, a BJP lawmaker, announced monetary rewards of 300,000 Indian rupees ($3,450 USD) for attacking a Christian priest, 500,000 rupees ($5,740 USD) for breaking a priest’s limbs, and 1,100,000 rupees ($12,640 USD) for killing a priest and his family. Despite protests, the National Commission for Minorities (NCM), a federal body that protects religious minorities’ interests, did not initiate an investigation into Padalkar until August 6.

On the same day, the Bombay High Court, the top court in Maharashtra, accepted a public interest litigation against Padalkar from the secretary of the Association of Concerned Christians.

The state government has also announced its decision to increase scrutiny on Dalit and tribal converts. Tribal Christians now run the risk of losing the government’s welfare benefits. Similarly, the government is stripping Scheduled Caste status from Dalits who identify as Christians.

Amid such threats, about 15,000 Christians from across Maharashtra on July 11 converged at Azad Maidan—a sports field in the state’s capital, Mumbai—holding placards, singing hymns, and praying in protest against the proposed anticonversion law, attacks on churches, and hate speeches.

Among them was pastor Digambar Prakash Singh, a soft-spoken man who has received death threats from Hindu nationalists over the phone. “They tell me I will be killed if I don’t stop evangelizing,” he said. “I tell them, ‘You are welcome to my home. We can talk.’”

Yet he continues to hold on to hope. “Rising persecution is a sign that the gospel is spreading fast and deep,” he added. “It is only a matter of time before God gives us a rich harvest. All we have to do now is to follow [the] apostle Paul to bless those persecuting us.”

Inkwell

Ditch Your Taste in Books

We do not read to become more knowledgeable. We read to experience our finitude.

Inkwell August 21, 2025
By Willem Claesz. Heda

I’m sitting in a webinar with fellow librarians as representatives from big-time publishers pitch us their upcoming releases, hoping to land a place in our library catalogs. 

My screen is awash in book covers as presenters quickly flip through PowerPoints, each as generic as the next: cartoony illustrations of couples over a solid-colored background for romance titles; moody, nondescript landscapes with a prominent sans serif title for thrillers and mysteries; a smattering of minimalist nonfiction covers, complete with your choice of inanimate object atop a plain white background paired with a sleek font.

The presenter’s blurbs for these books are even more insubstantial. Their descriptions either stitch together two subgenres or tropes (This book is romantasy with a friends-to-lovers storyline you can’t resist!) or pair two familiar cultural touchpoints (This book is like The Bachelor but with a cottagecore vibe!). Each selection is offered with the enthusiasm and expertise of a connoisseur recommending a sublime wine and cheese pairing.

As the webinar progresses and I struggle to retain both summaries and book covers, the publishers’ primary sales tactic becomes clear: This book will remind you of something else. 

When someone says they love the aesthetic of dark academia, they do not mean that they spend all their free time reading ancient poetry and contemplating Baroque artwork. They likely mean that they wear vintage Doc Martens and thrifted sweaters over collared shirts, as it evokes the idea of someone who would spend their time doing those things. Maybe they enjoy the film Dead Poets Society, as it embodies this aesthetic while not actually existing within the hypothetical canon of dark academia. 

Our current use of the word aesthetic has become completely detached from its original meaning. We refer not to a branch of philosophy dealing with the nature of beauty, art, and taste and with the creation and appreciation of beauty (as defined by Merriam-Webster) but rather to an evocative quality.

The list of aesthetics (or aura, vibe, energy, or whatever-core—pick your poison) is ever-growing, including but not limited to: dark academia, light academia, cottagecore, clean girl, that-girl, soft boy, boho, granola girl, and coastal grandmother. These aesthetics are not restricted to how someone curates their appearance—although that is the primary avenue for their expression—but also in all surface-level sensory experiences, from the broad strokes of music and home decor to the minute details of vernacular expressions and color palettes.

Despite this wingspan, these aesthetics rarely crystallize into real-life practices; to don them does not require any reckoning with their true substance. St. Augustine aptly asserts in Soliloquies, Book I, that “What is not loved for itself is not loved.” 

We may have a Renaissance painting set as our desktop background and a growing collection of hardbound classics, but this does not necessarily mean we embody a lifestyle that engages the intellect. We are allured by the romance of well-weathered spines lined up neatly on our shelf, but not by the strain required to actually read their antiquated and difficult insides.

In On Reading Well: Finding the Good Life Through Great Books, Karen Swallow Prior argues that reading fiction is an essential component in forming virtue. Throughout the book, she connects various literary classics with the virtues they propagate, prefacing them with this wider connection:

Indeed, there is something in the very form of reading—the shape of the action itself—that tends toward virtue. The attentiveness necessary for deep reading requires patience. The skills of interpretation and evaluation require prudence. Even the simple decision to set aside time to read in a world rife with so many other choices competing for our attention requires a kind of temperance.

While reading’s popularity has surged once again through the influence of BookTube and BookTok, our approach to reading has been altered through platforms like these. Many book influencers utilize the same tactic deployed by the publishers in my webinar: recommending a book based on some other touchpoint. Algorithms rely on repackaging or referring back to what we already lean toward. Generative AI is even more patently utilitarian in this regard, rendering no limits to our whims. 

As an example, a video titled “If you liked THIS Taylor Swift Song, You’ll like THIS Book” popped up on my YouTube recommendations just this week. I wonder: Will these books be loved for themselves, or will they be enjoyed merely for the sentimental immersion they offer?

Offering “readalike” recommendations is an essential skill of any librarian, but a good librarian will expand a reader’s palette and introduce them to new authors or genres adjacent to those they already love. Recommending more of the same leads to stagnant and eventually bored readers. Reading a book that reminds you of your favorite TV show is no more riveting than watching a TV show that reminds you of your favorite TV show. 

To search for the reminiscent in what we read dilutes it to mere entertainment, forfeiting its formative and virtuous benefits that Prior describes. It is not enough to merely read, even in light of the harrowing illiteracy rates we are now facing. We need to read books that enrapture us out of ourselves and what we know. We need stories that stretch our imagination, not coddle it.

Good taste is reverence for that which towers before you, silent and steady. We cannot quite shake the truth that things possess real quality, and to recognize it is not hubris but humility, a submission to what stands before us. 

Elaine Scarry calls this posture “radical decentering,” a step outside into otherness. In these surreal moments, we glimpse transcendence, and it looks nothing like us. We realize our contextualized human placement within the world. We cannot contain magnificence and beauty, let alone mold them to our fancies. Instead, we become the molded. We bend and are not overcome, but made more true.

One of my daily duties at the library is to empty the book drop of recent returns, which gives me an idea for what patrons read the most (James Patterson and Colleen Hoover are our frequent flyers). The book drop can often be homogenous, but every so often, an unassuming gem sneaks into the mix. 

The book will show itself to me as I hold it under the scanner, my eye catching on either a distinct cover or a faintly familiar author. I’ll check it out to my card, and it may go unread in my locker until it’s due three weeks later. But sometimes it doesn’t.

It was while checking in returns that Rainer Maria Rilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God snagged my attention and followed me home. It captivated me with a language for the divine that is disentangled from cliché and painful connotations. Rilke—perhaps a mystic, perhaps an atheist even—miraculously offered me the first prayer I could find myself truly uttering in months in a time of spiritual desperation:

I want to unfold.
Let no place in me hold itself closed,
for where I am closed, I am false.
I want to stay clear in your sight.

These lines rerouted my journey back home toward the church. After months of ravishing numerous Christian books that left me bereft, I found relief in substantial and challenging poetry that I would have never known to look for of my own accord. 

I’ve experienced many of these book-drop intercessions—some more pivotal than others—and through them, I am reminded that I am unaware of what I lack. In periods of need, mere sentiment does not do us any favors; referential content is not strong enough to bear the weight of doubt, ignorance, or arrogance. Reading in and of itself was not what I needed (for I was doing much of it). What I needed was a book that could reposition me.

There is certainly a need to readjust our approach to all media—movies, TV shows, video games, YouTube videos—but, as Prior outlines for us, literary mediums offer the most potential in shaping our very personhood. Reading is not merely another way to consume media; it is a practice that will train us in virtue and accustom us to humility.

A book worth reading contains years of an author’s toil, has weathered the fickleness and upheaval of times come and gone, and exists as an intimate relic of an experience we would not otherwise encounter. One does not approach such an artifact with flippancy. Reading these books will uncloak the biases of our time and the façade of our own knowledge. Good books will rattle us awake and bring the world into full dimension, pixel by pixel.

We do not need to read to become more knowledgeable, as we were once taught; we must read to experience our finitude. Might this alter the way we construct our reading lists, bookshelves, and library catalogs, as we reckon with their true potential? A single good book may offer us much, but even a lifetime of reading will still only graze the vastness of the human experience. 

Through reading, we are invited to enter into these tensions honestly and creaturely, as Rilke did through the same poem that altered my life years ago:

I’m too alone in the world, yet not alone enough
to make each hour holy
I’m too small in the world, yet not small enough
to be simply in your presence, like a thing—
just as it is.

There is time yet to return to the simplicity of things, to know them as they are. There is time to be too small and too alone, yet not enough of either. A good book will guide you to this sacred tautness and acquaint you with this virtue-forming suspension once again. 

If you let it, perhaps it will even leave you there, at the consummate threshold of humanity both cradled and bated.

Caroline Liberatore is a writer, editor, and librarian from Cleveland. Her work has been published with Solum Literary Press, Calla Press, and Amethyst Review, among others. She is currently enrolled in Bethany Theological Seminary’s theopoetics and writing program and serves as editor for The Clayjar Review. You can find more on her Substack, Dog-Eared Inquiries.

Christianity Today “Stands in the Gap” 

For Chris Davis, Christianity Today meets pastors who find themselves in a gray space.

Christopher Davis

Andrea Stitt

In Chris Davis’s world, the word “evangelical” can raise eyebrows. Chris is a PCUSA pastor and an evangelical, two identities that often feel opposed to one another. 

The PCUSA is a mainline denomination associated with fairly progressive theology, whereas evangelicalism is conservative theologically. Chris lives and ministers in this often lonely space. Deepening this sense of living in an in-between space, Chris describes his church’s community as politically “purple.” To Pratt, Kansas, his church is progressive. But within his congregation, he is viewed as more conservative than most. He describes this experience as “serving in the minority.”

That’s why CT is so important to him, offering him a spiritual home where he finds both encouragement and guidance as he navigates ministry. For Chris, Christianity Today speaks to those who feel stuck in the space between ideologies. “CT is standing in the gap,” he said. “It’s not falling into the trap that so much of evangelicalism is falling into with Christian nationalism.”

For Chris, recognizing that the labels we use to describe a group or someone else who is different than ourselves is the first step in regaining common ground.

“We use labels too much; they are all so loaded and lack nuance,” he said. “I get why we use them, but I think we are being overly reckless.”

Chris has seen firsthand how these labels isolate us from one another, often leading to loneliness and a lack of understanding. This feeling is something CT editor in chief Russell Moore acknowledges in his writing, calling it political homelessness. Many Christians like Chris feel disheartened about what they see from conservative Christians’ leaning toward Christian nationalism, but they also do not feel aligned theologically with more progressive denominations or political parties. 

But when we put labels aside, Christians often find they share most of the main core convictions. 

“I have colleagues in the PCUSA who might identify as progressive, but once we start talking, we realize we have a lot of common ground,” Chris said. “There are definitely areas where we disagree, but there is a deep love of Jesus and a commitment to serve Jesus. When we use labels, we lose some of that awareness of common ground.

“CT is standing in the gap. It holds firm to the Christian worldview that is focused on sharing the good news of Jesus Christ and speaks out for traditional evangelical values, but it is also standing firm against the Christian nationalism that too many evangelicals have been quick to embrace. CT is willing to call out a sinful attitude of thinking that thinks the American Church has the answer.”

Christianity Today’s mission isn’t politically motivated, it’s kingdom-minded—something that matters a lot to ministry leaders like Chris. But that also means that CT challenges Chris just as much as it encourages him. 

One particular article that struck Chris was Clarissa Moll’s “I Confessed My Sin with a Christian Nationalist Pastor.” The article challenged his frustrations. His role as a pastor becomes more difficult when the term “evangelical” is equated with Christian nationalists, especially among colleagues in his denomination. But Moll’s article put Chris’s frustrations into perspective, reminding him to check his heart before passing judgment. 

“It’s so easy to blame people with views I disagree with, but we have to remember we need to start with the log in our own eye,” he said. “We both worship the same God, and we both need forgiveness from the same God.”

It can be difficult to work in spaces of repair. This ideological gap Chris works within often looks like undoing the preconceived notions his congregants have about Christianity. It is easy to want to point at someone or something to blame when it feels as though you are picking up pieces and putting things back together again. Christians who find themselves between the political right and the theological left sit in these isolating spaces daily. Christianity Today wants to elevate those voices of concern while also pointing to the hope we have in Christ. 

In acknowledging the division in the Church and the way our use of labels becomes “overly reckless,” we distance ourselves from what we have in common. For Chris, Christianity Today sits in that space with those who feel isolated or betrayed by certain labels and the way they might be perceived. 

The same feeling Chris had after reading an article that challenged him is what he hopes for all CT articles: that they don’t only confirm our ideas but also shed light on a new way of thinking. 

“Even when I feel a bit rebuked by an article, I don’t walk away feeling discouraged,” Chris said. “So much media out there is negative and panic-inducing. I don’t get that from articles at CT. I walk away feeling like there is still hope for the Kingdom of God.” 

Theology

30 Things I’ve Learned in 30 Years of Ministry

Columnist

Russell Moore on taking criticism, couples counseling, dry spells, and gut reactions.

Hymnals in a church pew
Christianity Today August 20, 2025
Illustration by Christianity Today / Source Images: Unsplash

This piece was adapted from Russell Moore’s newsletter. Subscribe here.

Last week on August 6 marked the 30th (!) anniversary of my ordination to ministry by the Bay Vista Baptist Church in my hometown of Biloxi, Mississippi. I’m recognizing the milestone this week by offering you 30 things I’ve learned in 30 years in ministry.

I do not claim that these are the 30 most important things I’ve learned. If I tried to do that, I would procrastinate forever, weighing how one thing is more important than something else. So instead, I am tricking myself by forcing myself to do it randomly, not allowing myself time to think between each of these bullet points.

Some of the points are ones I’ve made before; some have never occurred to me until right now. They are in no particular order except in how they occurred to me as I wrote them down. Here they are.

1.) In preparing to preach, teach, and in everything else I’ve done, immersion since childhood in the Scriptures was more important than graduate and postgraduate education in systematic theology.

2.) Hymnody is more important than “vision statements” or “mission statements” or almost anything else. The hymns are what seep into the broken places and the hidden places. Replacing them with ephemeral, forgettable, and always-changing music is insane.

3.) That said, alongside the hymns, I realize how much of my theology and sense of the world was formed by the contemporary Christian music I listened to as a teenager. Michael Card songs taught me hermeneutics. Rich Mullins and Amy Grant songs taught me to pray. Petra songs taught me a “happy warrior” approach to spiritual battle.

4.) After years of teaching preaching at the seminary level, I ultimately concluded that I could help people to shape and form and get better at a gift they already have, but I couldn’t teach it. Preaching is about a way of seeing, a way of inhabiting a text, and it’s more about affection for and obsession with the Bible than it is about communication ability. That has to just be there; it can’t be taught.

5.) Most of the theological errors I’ve found in myself or in others can usually be boiled down to confusing an “either/or” with a “both/and” statement or vice versa. The distinction is important. To put a “both/and” on the question of “the Lord or Baal” or “Jesus or mammon” is deadly. To put an “either/or” on questions of divine providence versus human freedom, truth versus love, faith versus obedience, gospel versus justice, and so on, is too.

6.) Early on, I assumed that rigorous theology was the answer to cultural, nominal Christianity. I assumed that people who were steeped in theology were spiritually mature. I found, quite often, just the opposite: Many of those who were deep in theological systems turned out to be hacks, selling out what they believe for politics or denominational belonging or money. And some of those I thought were “pragmatists” or “mystics” turned out to be those who really stood by what they believed.

7.) My mind was often wrong, but my gut rarely was. When I thought, “This person gives off a creepy vibe, but I seem to be the only one who notices” or “This person is filled with rage but is so important to the kingdom, so I should overlook it” or “This leader is, behind closed doors, talking about crazy things, but he’s smarter than I am, so I shouldn’t question it”—I should have trusted my gut and would have avoided much heartache. Once, 30 years ago, I attended a purportedly “Calvinist” meeting at which I said, “This seems to be more about neo-Confederate ancestor cultism than about the grace of God, but that must just be my immaturity.” My first intuition proved to be true.

8.) Because as a child, my father—growing up a pastor’s son in a parsonage—had such a bad experience seeing the darker side of church tensions, I resolved to do my best to keep my children from seeing such. I realized just how successful I was at this when one of my adult sons called, preparing to give his “spiritual autobiography” to a new church in the faraway state where he had moved, and asked me, “One thing: looking over this, I realize that we were always in Southern Baptist churches, and then we were at a nondenominational church; is there any backstory to that?”

9.) Consider a complementarian who believes that certain biblical texts differentiate a few offices between men and women and an egalitarian who believes the full authority of the Bible but believes the texts in question don’t say what the complementarian says they do. These two have more in common with each other than either does with the “complementarian” who thinks everything is about gender wars or who has a creepy psychological problem with women or with the “egalitarian” who thinks Paul and Peter were misogynists. The “two-party” system on this stuff—which I once accepted at face value—is nonsensical and dangerous.

10.) I assumed as a youth pastor that I would “grow out” of youth ministry, but I have learned it is all youth ministry. Getting a group of teenagers to Glorieta, New Mexico, for Centrifuge—while dealing with who refuses to sit next to whom, who is hiding marijuana in the bottom of the Doritos bag, and who is jealous that so-and-so is talking to somebody else—is all the exact same skill set as leading a church, a faculty, a nonprofit, or organizing a coalition in the Oval Office.

11.) I’ve counseled lots of couples through one cheating on the other. In most of those cases, the cheated-on spouse assumed that he or she was partly to blame for not being attractive enough or sexy enough. I have literally not once ever seen that to be the case. In almost every case, the cheater wasn’t looking for sex but for the feeling of being an adolescent again, with the hormonal rush of “I like you; do you like me?”

12.) The most dangerous and damnable heresy is treating Jesus like a means to an end—political mobilization, marketing a product, financial blessing, or whatever. It doesn’t matter what the “end” is or how theologically sophisticated one is in getting there. The way of Simon Magus (Acts 8:18–23) always leads to hell.

13.) You can’t avoid criticism. Decide in advance what kind of criticism you would want to be said and remembered about you at your graveside, and then don’t let it crush you when it comes.

14.) Everybody talks about “standing on their convictions” or “having a countercultural Christian worldview.” Most of this is fake. You can usually only see it’s fake when the “convictions” cost membership in the tribe. If you don’t adapt, you will find that many people—even those who privately agree with you—will urge you to lie, to apologize for what you don’t think was wrong or to throw out red meat to the base in order to divert their attention.

15.) Praying is easy for some people while, for them, reading the Bible is hard. The reverse is true for me. I need to write down my prayers or to offer them while walking, alone. That’s not any more or less spiritual than anybody else, just what works for me. Finding that out about oneself is important.

16.) When guest speaking somewhere, there will almost always be someone who wants an ahead-of-time call to go over how to use the microphone or to tell you that the question-and-answer session will follow the message, not precede it. This makes them feel better, but is a waste of their time and yours. If you’re performing a concert, arriving an hour early for a mic check and sound check is probably necessary. To preach a sermon or to give a lecture, it is not.

17.) Wisdom is not optional, and it’s about more than knowing facts. Solomon demonstrated wisdom by knowing human nature generally and “reading” specific people’s actions and motives particularly (1 Kings 3:16–28). Solomon’s greater son did too (John 2:23–25). You need to get to know psychologies very different from your own. Along with immersion in the text of the Bible, paying attention when counseling people will help, as will reading good fiction.

18.) Most things you think are cul-de-sacs or dry times in your ministry turn out not to be. They are almost always the points where—much later in your life—you will look back and see that God was most at work, preparing you for something else.

19.) Keep notes of encouragement that come to you over the years. You will need them later. Sometimes keep notes of criticism. I can think of one of them that helped me: “You always look to the right side of the sanctuary and never over to the left when you’re preaching.” And I have framed one of them: “Russell Moore is … a nasty man with no heart,” which makes me laugh sometimes.

20.) Keep a journal, if you can. It will help you to remember ordinary graces you will forget, and it will also show you that almost everything you worried about turned out to be either something that never happened or something that was bearable.

21.) Friendships matter. You will find that there are a lot of people who will use you for your gifts. If you can find that small group of people who will love you even if you were to leave ministry entirely to work the night shift at the mortuary, these are the people you need to keep close to you always. If you’re married, the most important of these is your spouse—who must be, of course, much more than a friend but not less.

22.) People will tell you to separate out your Bible reading for devotion and for preparation to teach. Take the truth of what they mean, and then discard this advice. If you separate these two strictly, you are secularizing. If you’re not reading the Bible because it fascinates you and motivates you, you are not going to teach it well. And while reading the Bible on your own, if you don’t start thinking about how you would communicate it to others, you aren’t really a teacher. The goal is to be so in the Bible that you forget whether you’re reading it because you love it or because you’re preparing a sermon or a lesson.

23.) If you’re in a “lower church” tradition, people will tell you that you should space out the Lord’s Supper because if you do it too often, people will get bored with it. If people are bored with being fed by Jesus—of having a sign enacted of his communion with his people, of his death, burial, and resurrection, of the oneness of his body—then that’s the emergency. You don’t solve this by serving the Lord’s Supper less often but more often.

24.) Cynicism feels self-protective and sophisticated. If you always assume the worst, you will, in a fallen world, often end up right. But it’s just fear—and it will deaden you. When you start to become cynical, you are hearing the Devil. Fight like hell against it.

25.) We tend to overreact to the last bad thing. When we decided evangelism programs were overly programmed, we stopped training people—and left people without the mental “hooks” they needed to maintain conversations about spiritual things. When we decided altar calls could be manipulative, we ended them, and ended with them the ability to rehearse for people every week how to communicate the free call of the gospel.

26.) It’s important to have a Christian view of the world, but most of the stuff that goes under the name worldview is just somebody’s secular political program—which they would hold even if Jesus were dead—with Bible verses attached. Pay attention to what’s not talked about.

27.) As a matter of fact, the most dangerous ways that one is conformed to this world (Rom. 12:2) are almost never about issues now being debated. They are almost always about things so ubiquitous that no one questions them or about things so far ahead that no one is ready for them.

28.) The miracle that many skeptics around you find most incredible is not the Resurrection or the Virgin Birth but the New Birth. They’ve seen lots of Christians who have given no evidence of having been born again, of walking in the Spirit. Lots of people are watching you—people you have no idea are doing so—and they are asking, “Is it real?”

29.) The “slippery slope” argument is a logical fallacy, but slippery slopes are real. It’s just that they go in all directions, not just in one.

30.) The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not, the darkness will not, and the darkness cannot overcome it. Don’t give up.

31.) For a lot of us called to ministry, math is hard. That’s okay.

Russell Moore is the editor in chief at Christianity Today and leads its Public Theology Project.

Portrait of Emmanuel Nwachukwe on a foliage background
Testimony

I Found Jesus in Science Class

How God used a skeptical teacher to help me make my faith my own.

Christianity Today August 20, 2025
Photography by Etinosa Yvonne for Christianity Today

“Science is not like God. Science is all fact. God is a myth concocted by primitive men,” my professor thundered during a biochemistry lecture. According to him, God was like a white-bearded magician sitting on the clouds with his magic wand, but science governed the material world and reality.

He said science served as the ultimate arbiter of truth and people had created God from their imaginations. To him, the time had come to abandon God and religion. Although faith might have been useful in the dark ages, he said, we now had a duty as civilized men to embrace truth (science).

These words sent shivers down my spine. I had never heard such brazen attacks on the existence of God. I felt stunned and had no response to his arguments.

I had believed in God all my life—or at least as long as I could recall—but now someone more learned and well-read was challenging that belief. My homeland, Nigeria, is a very religious country. Muslims and Christians each make up about half the population, with a handful of people practicing traditional African religions.

Because belief in God and in the supernatural is common, my first encounter with atheism happened in college. In fact, that was the first time I had even heard the word atheist—and I had no idea what it meant.

Suddenly I had to face the question of whether Christianity was true. If science was at odds with God, creation was a myth, miracles were impossible, and the resurrection of Jesus was a fable, then my foundations would crumble. I would have to probe deeper, to discover ultimate reality.

In 1993, I had the immense privilege of being born to Christian parents who placed faith at the core of their lives and our family. As I grew up, we gathered for regular morning devotions with Bible reading and prayer. Sundays were the heartbeat of our week—a time for worship, reflection, and family.

Our church met in a modest room with a cluster of wooden chairs arranged in rows, used for school programs during weekdays. As I sat through the sermon, my mother gave me small, oval, chocolate-flavored biscuits she had tucked into her purse. I munched them in quiet joy as the pastor preached with words that seemed big and distant to my young mind.

As an 11-year-old, I arrived at Holy Child Catholic Secondary School, a boarding school, clutching my suitcases. The school’s strict routine and strange practices clashed with my Protestant upbringing and personal faith. Bells clanged through the dormitories daily at 5 a.m., then came daily Mass, Latin hymns, rosaries, stations of the cross, and the scent of incense and beeswax candles.

The solemn liturgy the priests chanted captivated me. But as the priests and fellow students offered prayers to Mary and other saints, I wondered: If Jesus is “the only mediator between God and man,” why pray to anyone else? Why appeal to Mary to save those in purgatory?

Although all my life I had known the name of Jesus, I relied on the faith of my parents. Neither attending church nor going to Catholic school would save me. I had to make my faith personal by trusting in Jesus Christ alone. So in 2013, God used my atheist professor to cause me to ask, Is this faith mine or my parents? Do I really believe in this Jesus? Do I know him? Am I known by him?

I needed to know the truth. This led me to Christian apologetics and to a discovery of past and present writers such as C. S. Lewis, R. C. Sproul, Stephen Meyer, John Lennox, and Nancy Pearcey. I devoured their works.

They taught me that science and belief in God aren’t at odds—the supposed conflict is a historic and philosophical myth. In fact, many of the fathers of modern science saw their faith in God as a motivation to pursue science and truth.

“Men became scientific because they expected Law in Nature, and they expected Law in Nature because they believed in a Legislator,” Lewis wrote in Miracles. Real science requires us to assume the universe has regularities or laws we can rely on. This is only possible in a world with an ultimate lawgiver, God.

The apostle Paul declares in Romans 1 that creation and the conscience provide evidence for God. As his creatures, we can know enough to lead us to worship and honor him, so we are without excuse when we don’t (Rom. 1:19–20).

As I wrestled with my questions, I often sat in pastor Ronald Kalifungwa’s study in Lusaka, Zambia. The scent of old and new books, neatly arranged in shelves, enveloped the room. He asked me probing questions and helped me consider whether I had anchored my worldview in Scripture or culture.

Pastor Kalifungwa showed me that Christians and non-Christians may encounter the same facts—say a scientist’s lab results—but our worldviews about human nature, origins, and purpose shape how we interpret them. Worldview influences how we see everything—politics, ethics, science, even communication. My atheistic professor had promoted scientism—the idea that science is the ultimate way to truth—a new idea in Africa.

Later, in a November morning in 2017, I attended the first meeting of the Atheist Society of Nigeria Convention—entitled “The Road to Reason”—at the University of Lagos in Akoka, Yaba. Budding atheists, many of whom had grown up in Christian homes, met to express their frustration with what they saw as the hypocrisy and irrationality of religious people.

I remember wanting to grab each of them and say that although they are right to criticize hypocrisy, Jesus is the one they must turn to. We have nowhere else to go—not science, not atheism, not Mary, not the saints. Nowhere to go but Jesus. He has “the words of eternal life” (John 6:67–69).

In 2018, I moved to Cyprus to pursue my master’s degree and stepped into Lefkoşa Protestant Church, a Reformed Baptist congregation that became my home until 2023. There I discovered the highs and lows of the Christian life: moments when we feel and know God’s presence, and times of discouragement when he feels distant. As I listened and observed struggling church members, their fears and hopes transformed me. Now back in Nigeria, I still don’t have immediate answers to pain or to every question, but I know the cross of Christ provides the only real resolution.

Emmanuel Nwachukwu is a freelance writer and the cofounder of The Late Wire, a media and apologetics organization that promotes Christianity in the Nigerian public square.

Church Life

Confessions of a Reluctant Church Volunteer

“The poor you will always have with you,” Jesus told us. But will there ever be enough volunteers?

A collage of several hands raised.

Illustration by Elizabeth Kaye / Source Images: Getty

Christianity Today August 20, 2025

“The poor you will always have with you,” Jesus told us (Matt. 26:11). But will we ever have enough volunteers?

That question feels particularly pressing now, as political change in Washington is reshaping the provision of many social services in America (and beyond). Many ministries rely on congregants freely offering to be the hands and feet of Jesus, and as program needs grow due to policy shifts, I worry that not enough people will sign up.

I understand why many don’t, of course: We all have troubles of our own. We are busy, and it’s difficult to give away our time. Yet I write as someone who does sign up, someone who has become a kind of “church lady,” albeit a sometimes-conflicted one.

Since my kids went off to high school and later left home, I’ve held off seeking paid employment so I can write, rock climb, travel, and volunteer at church. I’m constantly asking myself whether this is wise. Shouldn’t I be making money to contribute to our household? Plenty of people work full-time and still serve at church. Yet for me it comes down to this: I’m less likely to volunteer my time if I have full-time work.

My husband’s mom, Sue, was my role model in this mode of life. She volunteered at their parish and my husband’s Catholic school when he was young, and that led to both paid and unpaid work at church and charitable organizations when he grew older. She helped open an apartment building for single mothers, a Christian health care center, and a home for people with AIDS—and those are just the things I know about. She died in her late 50s before I realized I needed to ask her about all this.

When I was a 20-something considering my own future, Sue’s way of life seemed bold, so different from “just” staying home with the kids or “just” getting a job if you didn’t have a specific career to pursue, as was the case for me. I wasn’t aware of the strong charity arm of the Catholic church, within which Sue found her volunteering and working opportunities. I simply knew there was something here I admired—something I hadn’t seen modeled in the very small, very conservative, and very poor denomination in which I was raised.

Practical charity was not a strength at most of those churches, and my own mother couldn’t spend her time as Sue did. My dad was a pastor with a meager income, and my mom worked to supplement what he made. When my boys were little, we were able to live on one income, and I seized the opportunity my mother hadn’t had, focusing all my time on mothering and teaching my kids. Even my writing took a back seat to raising and homeschooling them, and the most I did for the church was put together the bulletin.

When the boys grew older and needed less of my time, I cautiously began to say yes to opportunities to help. We’d left the denomination of my childhood and joined a large Anglican church, the church where I remain a member today. I realized I could no longer ignore the call to volunteer at church, and the calls kept on coming.

At first, I read Scripture or helped serve the Lord’s Supper during the service on Sundays and, of course, contributed to the meals ministry, as a good church lady should. Eventually, I found the courage to take on a more demanding challenge: the English as a Second Language (ESL) program, a good fit given my teaching experience. I’ve been teaching adult immigrants English for three years now. I love it, and I love them. They desperately want to learn in a way that many children don’t, and I am privileged to help them.

Working with the international population in ESL classes brought me to a second opportunity: managing a small Christian immigration legal clinic that operates out of our church. The clinic is open just one hour a week at the church, where a volunteer attorney speaks with immigrants and helps determine what legal options to pursue. I respond to emails and schedule appointments, mostly from home.

For a bit over a year, I’ve also been volunteering in our refugee ministry, which has needed much more support since the Trump administration came to office. This work is wild and unpredictable, and walking alongside these families—going shopping or helping them navigate getting a driver’s license or driving to health appointments—often takes twice the time I expect. To plan a simple trip to the grocery store, I need to hold half the day loosely, because I never know what else might come up. 

Truthfully, I mention all this not to put myself forward as a great example to follow. I’m a reluctant volunteer, especially with the refugee ministry. I worry about helping too much. Am I doing it right? Am I walking these refugees toward independence and dignity? (We Americans hold independence dearly.) Am I finding ways for them to experience joy in this new land? Am I building a meaningful relationship with them? I worry my “good enough” isn’t good enough. I see other volunteers in this ministry doing so much more than me to befriend the people they support. 

And those other volunteers aren’t only people who, like me, don’t have formal employment. Some fall into the classic church volunteer demographics: retirees and women who have school-age children and don’t work full-time. But not all. My term church lady is outdated now, as church volunteering looks different today than it did in the 1970s and ’80s, when I was a kid.

In decades past, many churches would have relied in a way that they can’t today on women who did not work outside the home. In 1972, Pew Research reports, husbands were the sole earners in half of American marriages and the primary earners in another third. By 2022, only 23 percent of husbands were sole earners, meaning wives contributed some (or even all) of the household income in the vast majority of these families. Marriage rates are also lower than they used to be, meaning there is a growing number of single people who support themselves as well.

Realistically, then, the volunteer mix is different, and the numbers may be fewer, particularly in the ministries that require significant time commitments. At my church, volunteers are both men and women, various generations, people who work full-time jobs and those who don’t. Yet it seems like a pretty consistent mix, at least in the areas where I help. The people who volunteer are the people who volunteer. Many of the refugee-ministry volunteers are also ESL teachers or serve at church in other ways. Many are repeat volunteers—it’s what we do. 

But we can only do so much. If the volunteering needs were to grow, who would bear the burden of that added work? If our church wanted to develop or expand more ministries, would there be enough people to volunteer enough time? Our church has the physical space and the money for these current ministries and more, but will there ever be enough volunteers to support them?

As it is, I worry about burnout. “Many hands make light work,” as they say, but compared to the numbers that show up on Sundays, the more difficult ministries don’t have that many hands at work. This seems especially true of the intensive ministries that serve communities outside of our church.

Again, I understand all the reasons people don’t sign up. I’ve given those same reasons in the past myself. I still wonder how much time I’m called to give to volunteering—after all, God calls us to other things too.

“Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind,” and “love your neighbor as yourself” (Matt. 22:37–39). At my church we are reminded of these two greatest commandments every week. I’m caring for my neighbor by volunteering at church—but also as a writer (I hope) and by taking care of my family. Aren’t I? I love the Lord and enjoy him when I do all the things he has called me to do, and that abundant love shapes other areas of my life beyond volunteering. So how much time do I give to church? How do I divvy it up? What gets priority?

Since January, I’ve been supporting one refugee family in particular, one of the nine that arrived in Pittsburgh through this refugee organization that month. It’s a large family, and they’re located in an inconvenient part of the city. I have to go over a bridge and through a tunnel to get to their house, for crying out loud! Sometimes, when a need arises, I wonder, Can’t someone else take care of them this time?

There are few other regular volunteers for this family’s needs, so I’m usually the one to drive them to appointments and grocery store runs and even urgent emergency room visits. And though we don’t speak the same language, I’ve been getting to know them. I’ve begun to care about them, which both alarms me and complicates things. Caring takes up more of my mental space than I’d like. It bleeds into those other spaces that I try to wall off from ministry responsibilities. It makes me feel panicky, as if I’m losing control over my life. 

And I am, in the best sense. “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will save it” (Luke 9:23–24). 

I was compelled, encouraged, and humbled by my associate rector’s words in a timely sermon on this passage earlier this summer: “There is so much more to being a Christian than this one verse,” he said, “but there is never less. Everyone who follows Jesus must begin here. … No one who follows Jesus ever moves beyond this radical call.” 

Sometimes I wish I could do this work without caring so much. It would be easier. I’d get better sleep. But isn’t that the point of volunteering, of charity, of loving my neighbor? Isn’t that the point of signing up? 

The calling is to do the work, yes. But more so, it is to care: “If I give all my possessions to feed the poor … but do not have love, it profits me nothing” (1 Cor. 13:3, NASB1995). Caring is messy and causes anxiety. Caring is laying your life down for your friend. It’s following Jesus. It’s death to self. It’s picking up your cross. 

Little by little, my heart is changing. When I see this family in need, I am moved with compassion for them. I hope in a Jesus-like way. Now, even if I drag my feet on my way to the car to go to their house, even if I feel that anxious squeeze in my chest, by the time I knock on their door, I’m no longer thinking of myself.

Jen Hemphill is a writer from Pittsburgh finishing up a memoir about rock climbing and motherhood. She writes at Pull-ups in the Basement on Substack.

News

Indian Christians Protest Arrest of Nuns Accused of Human Trafficking

Hindu nationalists “manhandled us, beat us, and outraged our modesty,” says woman traveling with the nuns.

A protest by nuns, priests, Christian leaders, and supporters against the arrest of two nuns on allegations of forcible conversion and trafficking in India.

A protest by nuns, priests, Christian leaders, and supporters against the arrest of two nuns on allegations of forcible conversion and trafficking in India.

Christianity Today August 20, 2025
Shailendra Bhojak / PTI / AP Images

Earlier in August, thousands of protesters, many of them Christians, marched nearly two miles through Narayanpur’s weekly market in India’s state of Chhattisgarh. Catholics, evangelicals, and members of other Protestant groups stood together in solidarity with the two Kerala-based Catholic nuns and a Protestant man from the Gond people group whom local authorities arrested on fraudulent charges of human trafficking and forced conversion.

The three tribal Protestant women at the heart of the case walked among the demonstrators. They claim the Hindu extremists forced them to make false confessions that the nuns had trafficked and converted them to Christianity against their will. Those charges led to the nuns’ imprisonment. Now the three women are demanding justice.

The 3,000 to 4,000 protesters submitted a memorandum to the chief minister of Chhattisgarh, Vishnu Deo Sai, demanding charges against Hindu nationalist activists under India’s anti-caste violence laws.

The massive demonstration reflects a pattern in India’s religious landscape: evangelical Christians rallying to defend Catholics against persecution, and vice versa. Shared threats from Hindu nationalists have reshaped the relationships between India’s Christian communities.

“Every attempt Christians make to do good work is being misunderstood and twisted into accusations of conversion,” said Peter Machado, the Catholic archbishop of Bangalore. “Despite the good work we do in this country through our schools, hospitals, and social centers, instead of being recognized, we are being denigrated.”

He also criticized institutional failures: “We expect police to provide protection, but instead they joined with the accusers rather than defending the sisters.”

It all began July 25 when a local tribal Protestant, Sukhman Mandavi, and three young women between the ages of 19 and 21 arrived at the Durg railway station in central Chhattisgarh to meet with two nuns, Preeti Mary and Vandana Francis. The sisters planned to bring the women by train to their new jobs working in the kitchen of a Catholic hospital in Agra in the nearby state of Uttar Pradesh. The nuns carried written parental consent and proper documentation.

Yet a bystander overheard the conversation between the three women and the ticket collector and contacted local members of Bajrang Dal, a militant Hindu nationalist group.

As the group was about to board the train, several dozen activists surrounded the group. They chanted slogans like “Jai Shri Ram” (“Hail Lord Rama”) and “Bajrang Dal is the pride of the nation” and pulled Mandavi by the ear, slapping him repeatedly on the railway-station platform. The mob pressured the police to detain the group. Police then took them into the station for questioning.

“We went with the permission of our family,” said 19-year-old Sukhmati Mandavi (no relation to Sukhman Mandavi), one of the three tribal women. “We were only going for a job, and that is not a crime. We do not get any jobs here.”

Sukhmati, 19-year-old Lalita Usendi, and 21-year-old Kamleshwari Pradhan all came from impoverished families from the Narayanpur district in Chhattisgarh. Usendi had lost both her parents and was living with a cousin who had previously worked for the nuns.

Hindu nationalists got inside the police station to intimidate the Christians. “If you don’t want to speak, I will smash your face,” said Jyoti Sharma of the Hindu nationalist group Durga Vahini Matrushakti threatened the nuns in a now-viral video.

Sukhmati recalled that “Jyoti Sharma and Bajrang Dal people manhandled us, beat us, and outraged our modesty” and the police did nothing. Sharma, who is female, and about 15 Bajrang Dal men took Sukhmati and the two other young women into a room, where they called them caste-based derogatory names, slapped them, and touched their private parts, Sukhmati said. She noted that Sharma had ordered the men not to record the abuse and physical assault on their phones.

“The men inside the room threatened to rape us if we did not give statements against the nuns and confess before the police that we are being taken forcefully by the nuns,” said Usendi. “Sharma slapped us until we agreed to sign on the document that said an entirely false story about the nuns and Sukhman bhaiya [older brother].”

By then, about 100 to 150 members of Bajrang Dal had stormed the police station. Terrified, Pradhan said they felt they had no choice but to sign the document. Authorities took Sukhman and the nuns to jail while sending the three women to the local Sakhi center, a government-run facility for women affected by violence.

Arun Pannalal, president of the Chhattisgarh Christian Forum and a member of the Church of North India, said that as Sharma interrogated the group, “the policemen in the police station sat as mute spectators, allowing Jyoti Sharma to do as she pleased.” He added that “she tried to slap the nuns, snatched their bags and mobile [phones], rummaging [through] their bags. She threw the Bible—our Holy Book—on the policeman’s table and declared that it was a human trafficking case.”

As news of the incident spread, Catholic leaders received support from Protestant organizations, including National Council of Churches in India, the Evangelical Fellowship of India (EFI), and the Church of South India Synod.

In Andhra Pradesh, nuns and pastors organized a candlelight vigil, though police stopped the demonstration. Political leaders from India’s Christian-majority northeastern states also intervened, with Nagaland deputy chief minister Yanthungo Patton emphasizing that “India, as a democratic and secular country, guarantees every citizen the right to practice their faith without fear or discrimination.”

When a National Investigation Agency court granted the nuns and Mandavi bail after nine days in custody, it delivered a scathing assessment: The case was “primarily based on a mere apprehension and suspicion.” The court noted that two of the three alleged victims had stated they “have been followers of Christianity since childhood,” completely undermining conversion allegations.

The fabricated charges only point to broader persecution patterns affecting India’s Christians. EFI’s Religious Liberty Commission documented 334 incidents targeting Christians so far this year across 22 states and territories. Chhattisgarh recorded 86 incidents, second only to Uttar Pradesh’s 95 cases. The commission concluded that “anti-conversion laws, ostensibly designed to prevent coercive conversions, are being systematically exploited to criminalize legitimate religious activities and social service work.”

Cooperation between Catholics and Protestants is not new. Decades of shared persecution have led to dialogue and cooperation, including initiatives like the National United Christian Forum, which has brought together Protestant and Catholic leaders since 1998.

The legal case against the nuns continues. Questions persist about how Hindu nationalists and local governments are weaponizing anticonversion laws—now active in 11 Indian states—against Christians doing humanitarian work. Such violations “create serious consequences extending beyond immediate victims to entire communities and the constitutional promise of religious freedom,” according to EFI’s Religious Liberty Commission.

The three tribal women sheltered at a private home after their release from the Narayanpur Sakhi center on July 30. “We will fight for justice till the end and will not rest until we get justice,” Sukhmati said.

News

When Putin’s in Town, Alaska’s Slavic Christians Keep Praying for Peace

As political leaders meet over the Ukraine war, Orthodox and Protestant congregations gather to ask God to orchestrate an end to the fighting.

An aerial view of downtown Anchorage, Alaska, with the Chugach Mountains in the background

Downtown Anchorage ahead of the August 15, 2025 summit between Vladimir Putin and Donald Trump.

Christianity Today August 19, 2025
Drew Angerer / AFP via Getty Images

About ten miles from where Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin met in Anchorage on Friday, a man speaking at New Chance Church didn’t even have to mention the presidents—or their countries—as he prayed for the ongoing talks.

Instead, he pointed to Jeremiah 17:7–8 (“Blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord …”), before leading about 20 people gathered for the Friday-night youth service in prayer in Russian.

“Only God knows the outcome,” said the speaker—himself a Ukrainian refugee—through a translator. “We do not rely or hope on some personality. … We rely on the Lord because he can do his work through anyone.”

Ukrainian refugees now compose about 60 percent of New Chance Church, alongside Christians of Belarusian, Moldovan, and Uzbek heritage, said pastor Dmitry Vakulich.

The church meets at a rambling Korean Presbyterian building nestled among modest homes in the west Anchorage neighborhood of Spenard. Its changing demographics shape how the church addresses current events, Vakulich told CT on Sunday, at a potluck celebrating New Chance’s 23rd anniversary.

Church attendees pray for Ukraine and for Russia. For the hurt on both sides. For the seemingly impossible hope of unity and peace. They can’t ignore the issue, especially when the world leaders making headlines come to meet on the other side of town.

Across Alaska, Russia’s cultural influence lingers. Christians from Anchorage to Kodiak have rallied to pray for the summit with Putin on Friday, Trump’s White House talks with Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelensky on Monday, and ongoing diplomatic efforts to end the war in Ukraine.

Russia has historic and geographic ties to Alaska and controlled Alaska Natives’ land until 1867. Many retained their Orthodox faith, and the state now has one of the highest percentages of Orthodox Christians in the US. The Orthodox Church in America recently canonized its first Native Alaskan saint, a Yupik woman.

Ahead of Trump’s summit with Putin, the state’s top Orthodox leader called for a “three day ascent of prayer for peace,” with local churches holding services last week. The archbishop also met with Putin himself, which Ukrainian Orthodox leaders decried as a “betrayal.”

Since Russia launched the war in 2022, an estimated 1,000 Ukrainian refugees have resettled in Alaska, according to the state’s Catholic Social Services. Some joined churches such as New Chance Church in Anchorage and Word of Life Alaska in Delta Junction, a farming community near Fairbanks.

The Ukrainian, Russian, and Moldovan Christians at Word of Life began fasting and praying as soon as the war began. After Trump announced plans to hold the summit with Putin in Alaska, Word of Life launched a special church chat on the messaging app Viber to pray for the meeting.

“Our main theme is that God will interfere and stop this nonsense,” said pastor Viktor Linnik, who alluded to 1 Timothy 2. “Our main Bible verse is to pray for all the authorities, that God will lead them [in] the right direction.”

Christians who fled the Ukrainian war have paid particular attention to how potential deals might affect their own now-uncertain place in the US. Linnik said those in his congregation are worried about what could happen next.

The current administration suspended the humanitarian program for Ukrainian arrivals, and many fear losing their status amid immigration crackdowns. Had leaders settled on a cease-fire, it could have improved the conditions for Ukrainians returning home.

But Trump ended up easing his insistence on a cease-fire after the sit-down with the Russian president. On Monday, Trump said on social media that he has begun arranging a meeting with Putin and Zelensky. He didn’t say whether each had agreed to participate.

A weekly prayer group of Community Baptist Church in Kodiak, which regularly intercedes for Ukraine, brought up the summit with Putin as well as Trump’s conversation with Zelensky and European Union leaders. Not all who come to pray agree politically, but they agree the situation needs prayer.

The church currently supports a Ukrainian missionary who works in his country with soldiers and prisoners of war, but Julie Ball, a member of its prayer group, said, “Whether there is a missionary there or not, I think it is something that we would be praying for.”

Estimated casualties from the war reached 1.4 million this summer. This week, First Lady Melania Trump wrote Putin directly to ask him to protect innocent children.

The Assemblies of God’s Alaska Ministry Network included the summit in a list of prayer requests. The network’s superintendent, Jeremy Davis, said by email that the prayer request went to about 260 “Assemblies of God credentialed ministers who live and serve in Alaska.”

The Evangelical Lutheran Church in America’s Alaska Synod posted a prayer Friday that asked God “for an end to the war in Ukraine—for the silencing of weapons, the healing of shattered lands and lives, and the triumph of justice over domination.”

At New Chance Church, Vakulich is grateful to see community members show up to pray and worship, and he’s thankful for the new leaders the church gained from the surge of immigrants.

Later this month, the church plans to hold a special event to pray for Ukraine and eat borscht. “We try to welcome everybody,” the pastor said. “We want to keep the bridges. We don’t want to burn them.”

With a church like theirs, that makes teaching about the hard work of forgiveness especially important. “There’s a lot of hurt,” he said. “[Sometimes] it’s hard to say, ‘God bless you.’”

And as 18-year-old Moses Vakulich said at the youth service Friday, gratitude matters too. He had opened the Friday night service with the late-1970s praise chorus “Give Thanks,” playing a keyboard as attendees sang in English, then Russian.

Later Moses Vakulich told the group, “When you begin thanking Jesus, the problems don’t change, but your heart does.”

Church Life

The Most Integrated Hour of the Week

Greenford Baptist Church in West London has been multiethnic for three decades. It didn’t happen by accident.

Women singing in church in front of different cultural patterns
Christianity Today August 19, 2025
Illustration by Christianity Today / Source Images: Getty, Unsplash, Flickr

Steve Williams was four years old when his family tried to enter a church in Greenford, West London, and some church members stopped them. “You’ll want to try that church over there,” someone said, pointing down the road. “That’d be good for you to go [to] instead.” 

“We weren’t the right color,” Williams recalled.

It was 1968. The Williams family had just moved to Greenford. Williams was born in West London, but his parents had emigrated from Jamaica as part of the “Windrush Generation” of Caribbeans who arrived in the United Kingdom between 1948 and 1971 to help rebuild post-war Britain. 

His parents didn’t make a fuss when the church shut the door in their faces. They simply walked down the road towards the other church, a nondescript building with a grayish-brown brick exterior and frosty blue-and-white windows. 

That church opened its doors to the Williams family. They became one of only two non-white families at Greenford Baptist Church (GBC), but they found a home there. It’s where Steve Williams was baptized, married, and raised two daughters. Today, he’s 61 years old and serves as an evangelist at GBC. He greets newcomers with a beaming smile: “Welcome to Greenford!” 

Everybody knows Williams, who owns a steel fabrication factory. He’s been part of the church for 57 years—one of the longest-serving members of GBC—and has watched it transform. Williams is still part of an ethnic minority at GBC, but only because today, there is no “majority” in this church.

On any given Sunday, people of about 35 different ethnicities sing and pray together, sometimes in their own languages. Heads bop about during worship: bald and shiny, or wrapped in African headbands, or topped with straight blond hair, or covered with silvery bobs, or spiked into mohawks, or braided in updos, or haloed by natural afros, or bedecked with jet-black weaves. On stage is a giant mosaic of 28 colorful tiles with the word God painted in the first language of various GBC members—Yoruba, Setswana, Arabic, French, Slavic, German, and more.  The church leaders and staff are English, Nigerian, Indian, and Jamaican. 

Inside this gray, forgettable building is something vibrant and memorable—a truly diverse congregation that was multicultural before it was cool. GBC has been multiethnic for about three decades—long enough that members don’t seem to realize how extraordinary their church is, until visitors come and gape.

‘This is a traditional church. And that’s never going to change.’

It all started when Greenford Baptist Church’s new pastor, David Wise—a young milkman turned preacher—personally visited each member of the church.

When Wise first became pastor of GBC in 1987, the superintendent of the Baptist Union of Great Britain, an evangelical denomination in England and Wales, warned him, “This is a traditional church. And that’s never going to change.” 

GBC was a traditional British Baptist church, with an organ, hymn books, and a strong core of graying, devout women who kept the place running.

The church began in 1933 as Greenford Free Church. Services took place in a Tudor-style cottage with a gable roof, lattice grids, and square-patterned bay windows. The population in Greenford had jumped from 843 in 1911 to more than 14,000 just 20 years later. Newcomers came for the post-WWI manufacturing jobs, turning the area into an industrial suburb. 

When the first air sirens of WWII blared during Sunday service, members unanimously voted to continue worshiping as usual. A year later, at midnight, bombs destroyed their church building, and many church members lost their homes. They met in a farmer’s corrugated iron outbuilding dubbed “The Tin Tabernacle,” enduring leaks and drips until 1955, when they finished constructing the current church building.

When Wise first visited GBC in the ’80s, the church had an unwelcoming atmosphere. Several people told him how unfriendly GBC felt when they visited. 

Wise arrived with one main vision: “I wanted to see people share life together, care for each other, so church isn’t just a 10 to 12 o’clock on Sunday morning, but about the rest of the week. I wanted a church that’s a community, a family.” 

In 1987, 85 of GBC’s 93 members were white. Six of the eight non-white members were from Jamaica or were children of Jamaicans. There was also an elderly Greek couple who had long since stopped attending. Over the next several years, more foreign-born people started trickling in.

An education in racism

Wise urged members to notice newcomers and welcome them. He modeled hospitality by visiting every member of the church and inviting them over for a meal. But he didn’t take into account the specific challenges immigrants and non-white members faced until he began to hear stories from Black churchgoers.

Greenford Baptist Church in West London.Illustration by Christianity Today / Source Images: Getty, Unsplash, Flickr
Greenford Baptist Church in West London.

One young man told him how other students had tried to beat him up because he was Black. He described feeling on edge whenever he passed a group of white boys on the street, and he told Wise about the racist comments he heard in school.

A young Black woman told Wise she constantly felt “lesser” and “didn’t really belong.” Others told him they were spat upon and harassed in the streets.

Wise was appalled: “Racism was a new issue for me, but it had been an issue for the Black people in church, of which I had no understanding.” 

David Wise grew up in Hampshire, in southeast England. He lived in a council estate (similar to a public housing project in the United States). Everybody he knew was white. 

Then, in 1980, as a newlywed 23-year-old, he and his bride Lesley moved to Southall (about two miles from Greenford), which had the largest Punjabi community in the country. Southall had Britain’s first all-Asian football team, a cinema that played Bollywood films, and shops that sold brinjal, bitter gourd, and chapati flour. 

The Wises browsed the shops in fascination, pointing at knobbly green produce and asking how to cook it. They built up their spice tolerance by frequenting eateries where the rest of the customers had brown skin.  

At the time, Wise delivered milk for a living, and many of his customers were South Asian or Afro-Caribbean. Every day, a Muslim woman made him chai, sweet and milky and spicy. She would set the cup on top of the postbox and watch him from her house, nodding and smiling. She didn’t speak a word of English, but that slurp of tea was a little exchange across religious, cultural, and language barriers. 

The racial tension was as taut as a runner’s calf. In 1976, a far-right gang fatally stabbed an Indian teenager in Southall, but nobody was convicted, which outraged the Asian community. Then one afternoon in 1981, Wise was dropping off milk when some customers warned him: Go home, stay home. Trouble is brewing.

That night, droves of young white skinheads bused over to Southall to attend a concert at an iconic pub, and the local Asian youth braced themselves for a brawl. Hundreds of police officers showed up, cordoning the pub to protect the white youth from the angry crowd, sometimes clubbing the Asians to disperse them, while the white youths shouted racist slogans and made Nazi salutes, smashed the windows of Asian shops, and threw stones at locals. Such harassment was not new to the Asian community, but this time, the younger generation had tired of swallowing their rage. Some threw petrol bombs that burned the pub down. The night ended in fist fights and ashes, with overturned cars and more than 100 people injured, including 61 police officers.

The next morning, on his daily delivery route, Wise surveyed the damage. Dozens of police officers patrolled the streets, and demonstrations went on for days. He was angry about what happened, but to him, it was just another unfortunate event.

“I didn’t have anything to hang it on,” Wise recalled. “I didn’t have any understanding of the history, the background, the British Empire and its legacy. I knew just about nothing.” He could enjoy a spicy curry, but he was ignorant about the daily injustices his immigrant neighbors faced. 

In the summer of 1992, five years into pastoring GBC, Wise decided it was time to learn. During his sabbatical, he spent two months in South Africa to “study multicultural churches and structural racism,” according to the minutes of a church meeting. 

It was a disturbing and uncomfortable two months for Wise. For the first time, he felt conscious of his skin color. Some weeks, he was the only white person for many miles.

Once, a Black South African invited him to an event. They drove together, but Wise entered the house first, and when the people inside saw his face, they screamed. It was their look of sheer terror that rattled Wise: “They knew nothing about me. … A white person [was] coming into the house, and what did that mean to them? Someone’s going to suffer.” 

In Pretoria, he visited a church flagged as a model for multiracial congregations, where both whites and Blacks worshiped together– a beacon of hope in a brutally segregated country. “I’m told this is the best example of a genuinely multiethnic church in South Africa,” he told one Black man he met at that church, and the man laughed.

“This church,” the man replied, “is organized on the basis that white is right. It’s the white way of doing theology, the white way of interpreting the Bible, even down to the food we eat.” Black people, he said, could come along for the ride, but they didn’t have a voice.

Another day, a Black South African took him to visit a Christian radio station near Alexandra, a township in Johannesburg. The staff there were all white. They welcomed Wise warmly but ignored his companion, even though he was standing right next to Wise. “He was just invisible,” Wise recalled. When they got back into their car, the man turned to him and said, “You see how it works?” 

Wise returned to London “shell-shocked.” He had awakened to a racial consciousness that he couldn’t un-know, and he didn’t know what to do with it: “I just felt racked with guilt and powerlessness.”

The next several weeks, Wise reflected on his trip to South Africa and penned a report that he sent to leaders of his church and denomination. In that report he asked, “What constitutes [a] non-racial church?” 

“It is much more than simply having a mix of cultures represented in the congregation,” he wrote: The work has to be intentional, such as creating multiracial leadership, offering worship and preaching styles that reflect the different cultures of the congregation, and affirming all cultures and peoples at every level.

“We must start by recognizing and treating others as fully human, strongly affirming them along with their culture, heritage and perspectives,” he wrote. “We must open up all sorts of opportunities to them. … We need to recognize that creating trust will not be easy because trust has been betrayed often in the past.” 

An attack on one of their own

In 1993, Stephen Lawrence, an 18-year-old Black student, was stabbed to death while waiting for a bus in southeast London. None of the suspects—six white youths—were initially charged.

Four years later, three masked men broke into the house of an Indian family, the Pauls, who were members at GBC. According to the front page of The Baptist Times, the attackers dislocated the father’s shoulder and broke his ribs, battered the mother’s face, and attacked their teenage son so viciously that he needed surgery.

For three years, the Paul family had been enduring verbal racial abuse, racially offensive notes, vandalism, threatening phone calls, and false accusations against their son from their neighbors, according to the spring 1998 edition of The London Monitor. The Pauls had reported these incidents to the police, but they said the police didn’t help. Even after they were physically assaulted, The London Monitor reported, the police response was lethargic.  

For many members of GBC, the national news about the Lawrence case in 1993 was background chatter. But the attack on one of their own shocked them and brought home the reality of racism in their backyard. Wise talked about both cases from the pulpit, and the church collectively prayed for justice. Wise also helped campaign for justice for the Paul family and participated in the Stephen Lawrence inquiry.

Wise said the violence against the Pauls “made clear the reality of racism in our local community and wider society to all at GBC.” One White British man told Wise that when the Stephen Lawrence incident happened, it all felt “slightly remote from us,” but when the Pauls were attacked, “you suddenly realized there is an issue within our society.” The man said it caused him to think seriously about how he viewed and treated people of other ethnicities. 

The incident had a profound impact on Rotimi Awoniyi, another church member. Seeing the church stand behind the Paul family encouraged him: “There’s comfort knowing that should anything like that happen to me, the church is there to support me. I felt that the church was standing up to injustice. I think if the church did not stand up, there was potential for evil to prevail.” That response to injustice led Awoniyi and his wife to plant deep roots at GBC. 

Awoniyi immigrated to Greenford from Nigeria in December 1990 and started attending GBC with his wife in January 1991. They were the first African family at the church. Three decades later, they’re still there. The Awoniyis’ four adult children grew up at GBC. As a long-time leader at GBC, Rotimi Awoniyi helped oversee many of the changes that made the church what it is today. 

At his former church in Nigeria, prayers and worship were loud and fervent. Attending a Baptist church in England for the first time was “a bit of a culture shock,” Awoniyi recalled. Nobody clapped, nobody stomped, nobody raised their hands. But he and his wife were touched when some members of GBC called to check up on them, and when Wise invited them over for lunch. 

Before his sabbatical in South Africa, Wise had changed GBC from a one-pastor model to a plurality of leaders for whom members vote. He developed an 18-month leadership training course to raise these leaders, and in 1995, Awoniyi was the first African to be voted into the leadership team. 

Diversifying GBC’s leadership was a major turning point, Awoniyi said: “People could see that not only is the church diverse, but the leadership team is diverse. They think, I have someone who looks like me at the table who will be able to articulate how I look at things, how I feel about things.”

At the time, Awoniyi had no concept of a multicultural or multiethnic church. He grew up in a church that was made up entirely of Yorubans. Then he heard Wise preach that a local church should reflect the community, that it was unnatural to remain a predominantly white church when the community around it was a mix of Africans, Caribbeans, South Asians, Middle Easterners, Latin Americans, and Eastern Europeans.

Becoming multicultural

In 1999, some Nigerian members led a prayer vigil at GBC that drew upon African traditions. The church held more prayer vigils, and gradually, invited different styles of prayers into Sunday service as well. The church also began holding regular “International Evenings,” in which members brought food, music, and clothes from their mother countries.

The church appointed a part-time prayer coordinator and worship facilitator in 2003 to “integrate and develop multicultural prayer and worship” at GBC. The church invited its members to teach worship songs in their own language and style. There would be a Yoruban number with drums and dancing, or an Egyptian piece in Arabic, or Jamaican reggae-style beats, or a Hindi song sung while sitting on the floor, along with the meditative beats of a tabla drum, bells, and drone sounds. All the lyrics would have English translations.

Wise also changed the way he preached. He pursued a part-time MA in Aspects of Biblical Interpretation so he could preach more effectively to people of other ethnicities. Sometimes he walked around the congregation holding out his mic, asking people for relevant experiences and perspectives based on the scripture passage that Sunday.

Once, someone who had fled Muslim persecution in their home country made derogatory comments about Muslims. But often, such congregational hermeneutics helped broaden and deepen the congregation’s understanding of God’s Word. For example, while studying a passage in Exodus about hospitality, a refugee from Iraq shared how his village welcomed strangers. 

Another significant change was the structure of Sunday service. In March 2004, GBC lengthened its service from about 75 to 150 minutes. Before, service ended strictly at a certain time so people could hurry home to their own activities, but the new service structure gave them more time and freedom to be flexible. The sermon was longer. They added congregational prayer during worship time, in which people shared testimonies, celebratory events such as birthdays and anniversaries, and prayer requests, then pray out loud together.

In between worship and teaching time, they took a break for tea and coffee, and members would chat, welcome newcomers, and pray for one another. Once a month, they had lunch after service. This new structure inspired more connection, creativity, and spontaneity.

The demographics at GBC rapidly changed during those years. In 1995, about 20 percent of church members were nonwhite. Ten years later in 2005, the number had grown to 55 percent. By 2014, about two thirds of the church members were nonwhite. Membership grew from 129 in 1995 to 195 in 2014.

‘It’s in our DNA now’

By the mid-2000s, GBC had gained a national reputation. People across the country came to visit, while conferences and churches invited Wise to speak. In 2010, the first Mosaix conference took place in San Diego, a once-every-three-years gathering focused on the multiethnic church movement. 

That optimism has sputtered since. Many nonwhite churchgoers have left the once-championed multiethnic churches. In 2021, Christianity Today published a cover story by Little Edwards titled “The Multiethnic Church Movement Hasn’t Lived Up to Its Promise.”

“Multiracial churches often celebrate being diverse for diversity’s sake,” she wrote. The number of multiethnic churches have risen in the past two decades, but many have failed to create a space that’s equal, inclusive, and equitable.

Wise, who retired as pastor of GBC in August 2019 and currently consults with churches around the United Kingdom, have also seen many churches in the UK dissolve into conflict and division as they seek to become multiethnic. Wise found that dealing with racial issues at GBC was sometimes like battling the invisible wind—you knew it was there, you could feel it, but you couldn’t quite pin it down. 

Sometimes, that wind looks like a woman calling Wise after Awoniyi prayed during Sunday service for the first time, complaining that she couldn’t understand a word he said. “That’s complete nonsense,” Wise told me. Awoniyi has a slight accent, but his English diction is precise and clear. Soon after, the woman left GBC for another Baptist church that’s mostly white. 

Others also left, sometimes with vague explanations as to why. “People didn’t say, I’m leaving because there are Black people here,” Wise said. “They would say they don’t like the way the church is developing, or the worship.”

In one particularly difficult case, Wise and the church leadership dismissed some long-time worship leaders. Wise said they were hanging onto the old version of GBC and resisting efforts to include nonwhite singers and different cultural styles. It was a tense, stressful time.

For about 30 years, Wise used the imagery of tapestry to cast a vision for GBC, inspired by a paraphrase of Colossians 2:2: “I want you to be woven into a tapestry of love” (MSG).

We are all God’s workmanship (Ephesians 2:10), he preached, through which God reveals himself. God himself is the weaver of the tapestry of GBC, and even the smallest detail on the tapestry adds distinct texture and beauty to the overall art. Everyone contributes; everyone adds value.

The Sunday I visited GBC, they welcomed a new member into the church. Afsaneh is a refugee from Iran, with limited English, and chose GBC as her church because of its inclusive diversity.

That morning, Afsaneh smiled shyly as the current pastor Warren McNeil, who had been going through the Bible with her one-on-one using Google Translate, passed her the mic. “You can speak in whatever language you feel comfortable with,” he told her. She said in English, “Thank you.” And then she continued in Farsi, expressing more gratitude through the language of her heart. 

Pastor Warren McNeilIllustration by Christianity Today / Source Images: Getty, Unsplash, Flickr
The current pastor, Warren McNeil, at Greenford Baptist Church.

When she returned to her seat, Mala, the Indian woman sitting next to her, grasped both her hands, and they squeezed each other, smiling. Mala had been regularly checking up on Afsaneh, helping her with all the practical things she needed to settle into a new country. 

I talked to 10 members of GBC, nine of them members for more than 20 years. To hear them talk about their church, they are clearly proud of it, yet they also seem slightly surprised that people marvel to see them intermingling in a kaleidoscope of accents and dress and hairstyles, instead of self-segregating by ethnicity. 

“I’ve taken it for granted,” said Elizabeth Harries, a slim, blonde staff leader who has been attending GBC since she was six. “We’re unaware of what we’ve got here. It’s not until we go outside or someone comes and asks questions and then you kind of go, ‘Oh. I don’t know. It just happened!’” Of course, Harries knows it didn’t “just happen.” But it’s an indication of how organic multiculturalism has become for GBC.

“It’s in our DNA now,” McNeil told me. “It’s natural for us. We don’t even think about it because we’ve been on a 30-year journey.”

It doesn’t mean cultural miscommunications don’t happen sometimes. In 2018, McNeil made a faux pas: He needed help serving communion, so he gestured to a woman from an African country, using his index finger to make a beckoning sign.

What he didn’t realize was that in her culture, that was a derogatory gesture, something a master would do to a servant. It triggered some memory in the woman, and McNeil noticed she stopped showing up at church after that. When he realized his mistake, he visited her, got down on his knees, and asked for forgiveness. It was merely a cultural misunderstanding, but McNeil knew what it meant for a white man, especially a pastor of authority, to kneel before a Black woman. She forgave him immediately, and they talked it out. Recently, McNeil was at her house, drinking tea and laughing with her and her husband.

McNeil is still struggling about whether GBC can become a tapestry that enfolds everyone. At times, he wonders if there’s room for everybody’s culture except his. It seemed so effortless and celebrated for someone like Awoniyi to express his Nigerian culture, to suddenly break out into a Yoruba song in the middle of worship, but what White British culture can he so proudly and boldly express, without worrying if it’s too … colonial?

“In our society at the moment, being white is damaging. It’s, ‘How dare you? You’re why we’ve got all the problems in the world,’” McNeil told me. “So I feel less than. I have found myself very much struggling to express my own culture.”

In his painstakingly conscious efforts not to be arrogant, he wondered if sometimes he’s gone to the other extreme into white guilt, trying so hard to step into other people’s shoes that he’s lost his own: “Then I don’t become properly part of the tapestry at that point.” He was starting to feel resentful, and that was a dangerous place to be as the pastor of a multicultural church. 

The pandemic provided a spiritual refuge for McNeil. He used the solitude to process his thoughts and emotions before God, and then process it out loud with his wife and trusted close friends. 

For Steve Williams, the church evangelist and son of Jamaican immigrants, it was the reverse. Growing up, all his friends were white. All his girlfriends were white. He didn’t like being different, didn’t think he should be different. As a kid, he told his mother not to cook him Jamaican food anymore. He wanted what the other kids ate. No more curry goat; he wanted sausage rolls. 

Growing up, he sometimes returned home with scrapes and bruises because a gang of white kids had jumped him on the bus or on the streets, mistaking him for South Asian. He started resenting South Asians, blaming them for why he couldn’t walk the streets without looking behind his back. It wasn’t until the last two decades, as he grew with the church in embracing different cultures, Williams realized how much of an identity crisis he had, and the prejudices he had developed against South Asians. He too had to bring all those internal struggles to God. 

Such are the countless instances of invisible, internal work that shaped the community of GBC. The image of a tapestry church sounds beautiful, but in real life, it was often uncomfortable and messy. Not everybody enjoys the sporadic dancing that sometimes happens during worship, while some people feel straightjacketed when the worship and prayers are somber and slow. Some people feel comfortable grabbing people by the face with both hands to show affection, while others would rather shake hands from two feet away. 

But it’s also a taste of heaven on earth, an imperfect image of Revelation 7:9–12, in which “a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people and language” stands before the Lord and worships in one voice.

Sophia Lee is former global staff writer at Christianity Today who is now a stay-at-home mother. She lives in Los Angeles.

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