My Playground a Wasteland

How one girl held to her faith in the middle of a spiritual wasteland.

Cover Photograph by Natalya Letunova

This story contains content that some may find disturbing

For most of his childhood, my father lived right beside Beirut’s green demarcation line in a clumsy, battered two-story landmark with coral walls and green shutters. Though much of it has crumbled, and its walls bear the scars of war, still it stands, hidden among the more sturdy buildings on Mar Maroun Street.

The playground of the nearby school was a stark reminder of the terror that once infected the area. My dad had told me, “When Ain El Remmaneh was besieged, whoever died was placed in a plastic bag and thrown into the playground of Seid School. That playground was filled with the corpses of those who died without a cause.”

A train compartment positioned sideways in the street blocked the passage from East to West Beirut. Sand-filled shipping containers were stacked on top to prevent snipers from shooting the passersby. People could not walk along the street to carry out their errands. Whenever they needed to go to the store, they hurried from building to building through holes in the walls.

“We couldn’t even open the windows,” my father would tell me. “We would lay out our mattresses in the inner corridor of our house whenever the shelling started. A shell had to penetrate two walls before it reached us. Once, a bomb exploded right above our bedroom, and sometimes as I looked outside, I would see bullets coming towards us and leaving their marks on the exterior walls… We had no electricity, no phone lines, and no water. Moldy bread was a regular meal. The worst part was the arbitrary killing and kidnapping.”

Dystopian snapshots of Beirut flood my mind whenever my parents share stories of war. Like my parents, many Lebanese had to live long after the war with what Samir Khalaf called “the distinctive residues of collective terror and strife.” That series of proxy wars fought on our land ended with no clear resolution. The massacres and colossal damage were futile.

Where do I begin to recount the woes that befell this country in the past century or so? Shall I start with the 1860 Druze-Christian war that killed thousands? Shall I tell of the Lebanese mass starvation during the Great War, as the 400-year-rule of the Ottoman Empire shuddered and collapsed and the 1920 French mandate brewed underground?

Marten Bjork

In 1946, French troops left Lebanon. In retrospect, we know too well that the jubilation over the arrival of our long-awaited autonomy soon turned to mourning. A series of calamitous events mixed with external interference led to the 1975 Civil War—that piece of history that is left out of our school textbooks because it is too controversial. I was not there to witness the atrocities, but their shadows still follow me and will follow generations to come.

I was born in December 1991. The war had recently ended, and Lebanon was off to a fresh start—or so we would have liked to believe. For the next three decades, the country continued to sink deeper into the pit while rivalries festered. Every time the country tried to stand back on its feet, another blow sent Lebanon to its knees, panting for breath, begging for life.

I hadn’t always clung to my country. Growing up, I never felt I belonged here. I longed to escape to foreign lands. At 14, it seemed that my dream was coming true. A high school in Illinois awarded me a scholarship, and if all went well, I would pursue my college degree in America. My paperwork and plane ticket were ready. The school sent the I-20 form, and my host family was expecting me. But two things happened that year.

The July 2006 Israel-Hezbollah war broke out. I remember July 12 being uncharacteristically cold and gloomy for a summer day. The Israeli army raided Lebanon, and the Beirut International Airport shut down. If that wasn’t enough to deter my travels, I was denied a visa due to my young age. I remember feeling an inexplicable serenity as I stared at the sea from outside the consulate.

“I am so proud of you,” my mother said after we had arrived home. “You were so confident.” We both burst out laughing. Then, her laughter turned into tears, and my soldierly restraint dissolved. But in the years to follow, I no longer wished to run away.

I was born to a Maronite Christian family, but it was at a small evangelical school that I met Christ. Whenever I think of that school, I can almost hear the faint screams of delight from children echoing through the winter playground, and the sound of their shoes squeaking on the slippery floor. I can almost hear the singing during morning chapels and the principal telling us about God’s marvelous love.

In 2006, war was not the only thing that was ushered into my life. Amid the gnawing fear of airstrikes, a newfound peace glowed within me that summer. I had found Jesus. I meant to follow him even when my loved ones–and society at large–opposed me. As a young girl, that wasn’t always an easy task.

The past two years have smothered many of the dreams I once had for this country. But I would like to believe that God is not yet done with Lebanon. My eyes have seen his followers’ responses to the recent tragedies. I have seen it in my own workplace. The faithfulness and compassion of the people at the Arab Baptist Theological Seminary (ABTS) have left an irreversible mark on me.

“I grew up during the Lebanese civil war when the Church was mostly silent and in hiding,” ABTS President, Elie Haddad, shared in an article right after the 2020 Beirut explosion. “If you go to Beirut today, you don’t have to look far to see the hands and feet of Jesus.”

These healing hands and feet moved into action the Saturday after the Beirut explosion, when a taxi arrived on campus with the first traumatized family. The family’s clothes were stained with blood and Betadine. They had nothing but their medicine in a small plastic bag. Elie listened to a woman as her hands trembled and her eyes welled with tears. He comforted her, and he assured her that the people at ABTS would do all they could to help.

“My mother often told the story of how she had fled her home at the start of the Lebanese civil war—a baby boy in her arms and a little girl tagging along,” Elie shared in an interview. Although this encounter brought back recollections of war, in his words, “It reminded me that we are here for a Divine cause. As long as God wants to use us, we must be ready to give our lives away.”

Arab Baptist Theological Seminary

I cannot resort to false optimism and say that Lebanon will rise up from the dust. I cannot lecture about the need for repentance of lethargy, the need to withstand the pain so that life may spring from death. As high and resonant as it might sound, given our current circumstances, I fear that my words may border on the absurd and dismissive. Sometimes, one cannot help but think that, in our hapless state, something waits around the corner to pounce on Lebanon as soon as it becomes weak enough. When the Lebanese people have nowhere else to go, will they most willingly sell their souls to the first fraudulent voice that promises to save them? Or will they finally give their souls to the One who actually can?

What do people hold on to when everything is laid waste?

In 1922, modernist poet T. S. Eliot published his well-known poem, “The Waste Land.” The poem’s five sections portray life in London in the aftermath of World War I. To portray the fragmentation and sterility of the modern world, the poem uses rhetorical discontinuity and the juxtaposition of allusions to numerous works, including the Bible, Shakespeare, St. Augustine, Baudelaire, and Wagnerian opera. The poem also reflects Eliot’s era in its references to gramophones, motorcars, and typists.

“April is the cruelest month,” the poem opens, for spring reminds people of the stirrings of life that might rouse them from their dormancy. Coming back to life is not without its own pain. The poem ends with the triple repetition of the Sanskrit word “Shantih,” which Eliot translates as “the peace which passeth understanding.”

I find myself clinging to this hope, both for myself and for my country.

- More from Theresa Sfeir

China’s Public Schools Are Failing Christian Families

E. F. Gregory

Whether it’s atheism in the classroom or high-pressure academic environments, parents struggle to find a space that best serves their children.

Illustration by Mallory Rentsch / Source Images: Carol Yepes / Getty

In his early teens, Huang Jian began to withdraw into himself. (Huang and others throughout this piece have been given pseudonyms for their own safety.) A once-happy child, the Chinese middle-schooler gradually became silent. Jian’s father, Huang Yuzhou, blamed the behavioral shift on school “trauma,” a high-pressure environment that sapped his will to learn and engage. Uncertain how to help, the family made a drastic decision: They would homeschool their son, an educational choice currently illegal in China.

“Many Christians, by faith, have decided to give their children a Christian education,” said Huang, a house church pastor in northern China. “They do this in order to prevent their children from losing their faith, and to give them a better education that is in line with spiritual growth.”

Chinese Christian parents raising their children to follow Christ in a society that opposes their beliefs must confront the question of how to educate and spiritually nurture the next generation without a blueprint. Chinese state school curriculum teaches that God does not exist and compares religious belief to foolish superstition. Many first-generation Chinese Christians struggle in discerning how to pass their faith to their children, especially as they face increasing religious restrictions.

Huang’s son has now graduated. His wife continues to homeschool their youngest child, who is in early elementary school. Huang himself is currently jailed on charges related to his own religious activities. He and his family were inspired to try homeschooling after they learned more about Christian education and hoped it could help their son through his mental health crisis.

“We were watching a child stuck in despair,” Huang said. “It was not until we went down the road of homeschooling that we were able to see a turnaround.”

Lu Jinxiong sent his teenage daughter to study in the United States after she had her own difficulties with an oppressive social environment at school.

“As Christian parents, we have a great burden for the education of our kids,” the Shanghai professional said. “[The government] forces them to go to state school, and homeschooling is illegal. … This is a very big challenge to many of our brothers and sisters.”

Through a series of what they describe as administrative and financial miracles, Lu and his wife were able to send their daughter abroad. While they are grateful for the opportunity, they do not see themselves as a model for other parents agonizing over how to raise their children in the Lord.

“There is really no one true answer on how to face the question of what to do with our children,” Lu said, “because every family is different. Pray that [Chinese] parents will have wisdom on how to face these issues.”

A struggle to educate their kids

Most Chinese families have only one officially sanctioned educational option: state schools. (International and private schools exist, but these are heavily restricted or inaccessible for most families.) Many Christian parents find it painful to place their children in an ardently atheistic system that belittles a life of faith.

The government has long banned evangelism, and religious instruction for minors under the age of 18 is illegal in China. Still, over the past few decades, many officials have looked the other way as Christians found ways to pass on their faith. Some believers have relied on their churches to continue Sunday school lessons. Others, like Huang, fretted that churches were not able to raise up enough pastoral care to assist in spiritual formation for families.

Beginning roughly around the turn of the millennium, more and more Christians across China began to start small church schools to give their children a Christian education. Other families chose to teach their children at home. Both options had become increasingly popular for house church believers, although the space for church schools has constricted in the past few years.

It is difficult to find official figures on homeschooling in China, but estimates placed the number at around 18,000 (a miniscule fraction of China’s 200 million school-age children) in 2013. Still, over the past few decades, homeschooling has grown in popularity as Chinese Christian families in house church circles have learned more about the option.

Opting out of the Chinese system is not easy: Families who educate outside the system through the upper grades are unable to test into universities within China. They must either send their children to college overseas (which is difficult due to both finances and language) or forgo higher education altogether.

These are harsh choices. While many Chinese families aspire to overseas higher education, it is prohibitively expensive. With no remaining domestic options, these decisions shut young people entirely out of higher education. For Chinese Christians, this is sadly nothing new—during the Cultural Revolution, many Christian families lost out on education completely because of their faith.

Last summer, the government announced new regulations governing education in China, further complicating the situation. Much publicity has surrounded the regulations, many of which are aimed at reducing the pressure put on Chinese families to spend extravagant sums on after-school enrichment classes and tutoring as they seek to give their child all the resources they need for future success. Although the expressed aim is reducing pressure on children, these heavy-handed regulations increase the likelihood local officials will deal harshly with out-of-the-box education—such as church schools—within their purview.

These recent regulations plus a general harshening of religious persecution across the country have all but dismantled the education infrastructure believers so painstakingly built across China. Only a few years ago, Christians involved in the education sector estimated the burgeoning movement had as many as 500 schools across China.

Today, believers say the Christian school movement has nearly been suffocated. Small, church-run schools have increasingly been unable to operate since the government turned its attention toward shutting down these schools in the past several years, and among themseles, Christians discuss their fear that homeschooling may be next.

As the public space for church schools continues to diminish, some have been shut down; others have moved completely online—not due to the pandemic, but because of persecution. (Schools across China closed for several months when the pandemic hit in early 2020, but almost all Chinese schoolchildren attended physical, in-person class beginning in fall 2020. Very recently, Chinese schoolchildren have again faced remote school as China again deals with lockdowns due to the advance of the omicron COVID-19 variant.)

Last spring, officials stormed and shut down a Christian school in Anhui Province, arresting four teachers. Two of those teachers remain in jail today; the others were only recently released. Many families from that school have now sent their children back to state schools, and some report their children have been discriminated against and publicly humiliated by their teachers. Parents from the school have also been harassed by the larger community and local officials. In October, police in Jiangsu Province seized a homeschool curriculum salesman and five others associated with him.

Like church schools, homeschooling is also illegal in China. However, homeschoolers have not yet faced the draconian crackdown that church schools have recently endured, although Christian communities are buzzing with concerns that homeschoolers may be the next to undergo systematic pressure.

In the past year, homeschooling parents across the country have been questioned or even detained for their educational endeavors. Last summer, Zhao Weikai, a homeschooling dad in Taiyuan, Shanxi Province, was arrested on charges related to homeschooling his three children. (Because his case has been publicized elsewhere, Zhao is the only name in this piece which is not a pseudonym.) He remains in jail even now. All this is nothing new in China: The change lies in the scope and reach of recent crackdowns, which appear less isolated and more comprehensive across the country, as opposed to a regional focus on a specific group or network.

One day at a time

Those who follow Jesus ought to expect persecution, says Huang, the pastor currently in prison.

“Of course, we, as house churches, are merely a minority in society. We may encounter persecution and are discriminated against and excluded from mainstream society,” he said. “Since God's people are in this fallen world, and since the Lord Jesus Christ is not accepted by fallen sinners, it is impossible for disciples to be exalted above their master.”

Last summer, a prayer update circulated in a group of house church leaders read: “The educational space in Chinese civil society is shrinking dramatically and is about to be reduced to the point of no return. … Christian education is a part of [this trend and] faces even greater difficulties and dilemmas. Lord, we lack wisdom and do not know how to proceed on the road ahead. Please help us!”

Despite the pressure, many Chinese families refuse to be a part of the public education system. Christians are not the only ones with issues with the education system; many non-Christian families also eschew the state school system because of the intense pressure and the lack of emphasis on creativity and original thought.

“The biggest reason I chose to homeschool is freedom,” said a mother of two who lives in Shanghai. Although she is a Christian, she is homeschooling primarily because of frustration with the rigid structure of state schools.

“I do not like the Chinese public education method,” she said. “It is too formulaic and lacks creativity, and it fills up the children’s entire day. There is no time to read, no time to exercise.”

Her husband’s reasons are more faith-based: He prefers homeschooling because it allows them to develop close relationships with and raise their children in a Christian environment.

This mother said she and her husband have not been questioned about their homeschooling, but they have concerns about the future. Still: “Worrying does not help with anything, so we will take it one day at a time. Sufficient to the day is its own trouble.”

Lu, the Shanghai dad whose daughter left China to study overseas, said he does not know how to help young families struggling with these issues in his own community.

His family’s experience is unrealistic for most, even if finances were not an issue; many teens would flounder if they moved overseas alone. And while overseas education may provide for some children, many of these children might choose to permanently immigrate instead of returning to China to build up the Christian community there.

Lu doesn’t doubt the intentions of other Chinese Christian parents who long for their children to know Christ—but he worries that many families seem to be making an idol of their children’s education.

“We do need to warn ourselves,” Lu said. “You may think you are depending on God, but you are really depending on yourself. You may think you are leading your child down a path where he will be influenced by Christ, but it may be a path of self- righteousness. … Bottom line, look to God. Is your child entrusted to you by the Lord?”

E. F. Gregory is the blog editor for China Partnership, which serves, trains, and resources the Chinese house church.

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News

Despite Drop in Deportations, Turkey Still Troubles Christians

Jayson Casper

Hate speech rises as evangelicals grow more prominent on social media, amid ongoing difficulties to train pastors and register churches.

Chris McGrath / Staff / Getty

Last year, Protestant Christians in Turkey suffered no physical attacks.

There were no reported violations of their freedom to share their faith.

And there was a sharp reduction in foreign missionaries denied residency.

But not all is well, according to the 2021 Human Rights Violation Report, issued March 18 by the nationally registered Association of Protestant Churches (APC).

Hate speech against Christians is increasing, fueled by social media.

Legal recognition as a church is limited to historic places of worship.

And missionaries are still needed, because it remains exceedingly difficult to formalize the training of Turkish pastors.

“Generally there is freedom of religion in our country,” stated the report. “But despite legal protections, there were still some basic problems.”

Efforts to unite Turkey’s evangelicals started in the mid-1990s, and the APC began publishing its yearly human rights reports in 2007. Today the association, officially registered in 2009, represents about 85 percent of Christians within Turkey’s 186 Protestant churches, according to general secretary Soner Tufan.

Only 119 are legal entities.

And of these, only 11 meet in historic church buildings. The great majority rent facilities following their establishment as a religious foundation or a church association. While generally left alone, they are not recognized by the state as formal places of worship and thus are denied free utilities and tax exemption.

And if they present themselves to the government in pursuit of such benefits, officials often warn they are not a church and threaten closure. Sometimes the authorities even try to recruit informants. And some Christians who have refused have lost their jobs.

Other Turkish Protestants are simply harassed.

“Dead priest walking,” said residents of Arhavi to a local pastor as he walked the streets of the Black Sea coastal city following an online campaign associating the church with missionary activity. The local political party leader responsible ceased his incitement after the pastor met him personally.

But in Kurtuluş, in southwest Turkey along the Aegean Sea, authorities detained a person behind threats of beheading given to Turkish believers—and then released him.

Tufan said the climate of impunity encourages more online threats. But it is also a sign of greater awareness. Churches have become active on social media, broadcasting live sermons and posting videos.

“The attitude has always been present,” he said. “But with leaders becoming more visible, hate speech finds a target.”

And more congregations are fighting back. Rather than simply lodging a complaint at the police station, last year 70 churches began court proceedings against their harassers, Tufan estimated, up from 50 the year before.

But the primary complaint of Protestants—education—mirrors that of Turkey’s traditional Orthodox community. Their Halki Seminary, established in 1844, remains closed since a 1971 decision placing religious training under state control.

Turkey’s foreign ministry said the Orthodox patriarchate “refuses” to open it.

Protestants would gladly join the system. Currently Turkish pastors are trained informally, with a small percentage able to travel abroad. The majority of discipleship is provided by local believers, but there is still a need for missionary assistance.

Last year there were 13 cases of deportation, refusal of entry, or denial of residency permit renewal for foreign Christian workers. Three of these were Americans, and overall, counting wives and children, 25 people—many of them with long years of service in Turkey—had to uproot their lives.

But the number is going down.

In August 2018, President Donald Trump sanctioned Turkey for its prosecution of American pastor Andrew Brunson on charges of supporting terrorism. He was released in October 2018 after spending two years in prison.

But in 2019, 35 missionaries were denied residency, including 15 Americans. In 2020, there were an additional 30 cases, including 10 Americans, eight Brits, and eight Koreans. Overall, 185 individuals with no criminal activity have been barred from their adopted home since the Brunson standoff.

The tally includes foreign wives of Turkish pastors. In four such cases, the pastors relocated abroad, forced to choose between their citizenship and their family.

One who did not is keeping a low profile while ignoring the 10-day notice to leave the country. After submitting her residency request, the pastor, who wishes to remain anonymous, was interrogated about his conversion to Christianity—a protected freedom in the officially secular state.

He has appealed the case to Turkey’s Constitutional Court.

The APC notes that there have been a few positive decisions from the Turkish judiciary. But these have been ignored by the bureaucracy, which maintains the negative filing marks issued by national intelligence. The N-82 code designation is most common, which requires prior approval that is never given. Less frequent is the G-87, for those deemed a security threat.

Some have appealed to the European Court of Human Rights.

In the past year, Turkey has sought to mend fences with its neighbors. After years of conflict, overtures have been made with Israel, the Gulf states, and even Greece. While seeking to maintain some balance with Russia, the government has also strongly condemned the war in Ukraine.

There is no impact on Protestants, Tufan said.

Instead, he attributes the recent decline in missionary denials to government distraction. The Turkish economy is in terrible condition with rampant inflation, and opposition parties are uniting to challenge President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan’s longstanding grip on domestic politics.

And missionaries are simply traveling less. Issues occur more often at the border than the renewal office, Tufan said. And some have also limited their involvement with the Turkish church in order to better maintain their ministry.

“If Turkey was trying to improve its reputation with the West,” he said, “we would be seeing positive results in the cases that already exist.”

As an example, after three years of very loud protests over the killing of Jamal Khashoggi in Saudi Arabia’s Istanbul consulate, the Turkish prosecutor requested to suspend the trial of 26 Saudi citizens and transfer jurisdiction to the kingdom.

Additionally, foreign policy shifts do not affect internal religious affairs. This Ramadan, the Hagia Sophia is hosting traditional evening prayers for the first time in 88 years.

COVID-19 prevented gatherings since the historic church’s reconversion to a mosque (from a museum) in 2020.

But Protestant complaints extend beyond training pastors and receiving missionary assistance. Believers in Istanbul tried to register a Christian school in 2020, first as an association, then as a business. Getting no response, they tried again with different names to simply establish a regular private school. State investigations easily connected those involved, and their efforts ceased.

There are problems also with religious education in the public system. The teaching of Islam is mandatory, and a 2015 study by the US Commission on International Religious Freedom found bias in the way Christianity and other religions are presented.

Exemptions are accepted upon request, by law, Tufan said. But it creates a stigma. For example, his high school son is the only Christian among 3,500 students. Some teachers question why he does not attend. And 9 in 10 Protestant families do not file the paperwork necessary, Tufan estimated, to avoid social complications for their children.

And such is the situation for Turkish evangelicals in general. Able to practice their faith—and even to file a report on violations of their religious freedom—they have learned their limitations.

“Things are the same, not better or worse,” said Tufan. “Government policies have not changed.”

- More from Jayson Casper

Theology

A Century Later, the Chinese Union Version Still Dominant

Kevin Xiyi Yao

Chinese church historian analyzes five reasons for the long-lasting influence of the CUV Bible translation.

Edits by Christianity Today / Source Image: WikiMedia Commons / Sixteen Miles Out / Unsplash

Since its publication in 1919, the Chinese Union Version (CUV) of the Bible has become the most dominant and popular translation in Chinese. Despite numerous changes to the Chinese language and a significant increase of new translations, its dominance is unabated and unshaken.

“It could well be the most influential ‘Chinese text’ among the Chinese readers for the past one hundred years and also in the future,” Taiwan-based scholar Chin Ken-pa wrote in the anthology Ever Since God Spoke Chinese. “Undoubtedly, even if we cannot claim it has become a ‘canon’ in the Chinese world, it is certainly an ‘authority.’”

The translation team of CUV included 16 Western missionaries and a few Chinese Christian experts, including Americans Calvin Wilson Mateer and Chauncey Goodrich; Englishmen George Sidney Owen and Frederick William Baller, and Chinese scholars Cheng Jingyi, Liu Dacheng, and Wang Zhixin. The translation of the Mandarin New Testament started in 1872, and the whole Bible was published in 1919. The guiding principles of translation included that it must be in the national language (not local vernacular), simple enough to be understood by people from all walks of life, and faithful to the original text without losing the rhythm of the Chinese language.

The translation of the Scriptures is essential to Christian tradition, as the missiologists Lamin Sanneh and Andrew Walls argue. Bible translation into Chinese has been crucial to the development of Christianity in China. Since the beginning of Protestant missions in China, Bible translation has been a major part of mission work.

For most Chinese Protestants, the CUV unquestionably remains an authority with the status of “God’s Word.” While there are multiple Chinese versions of the Scriptures, occasionally Chinese Christians declare on the internet that only the CUV is the true Bible, and all other versions are erroneous and even heretical (although it is now very rare to hear Chinese pastors and church leaders teaching “the inerrancy of CUV”).

Indeed, how fast the CUV rose to dominance and how enduring its dominance has turned out to be are truly mind-boggling phenomena. How can we explain this? As a historian of Chinese Christianity, I would like to highlight the following factors:

1. The CUV played a pivotal role in providing and shaping the theological vocabulary of the Chinese Protestant Church.

In their long and painstaking process of translating the Scriptures into Chinese in the early 19th century, Western and Chinese translators accumulated a rich repository of theological notions and terms in Chinese languages. The CUV inherited and integrated them into its language.

The CUV came out as Western missionaries’ dominance came to an end and the Chinese church came of age. Chinese Christians began to share leadership responsibilities and initiate indigenous evangelical revivals that swept across the country. This was the formative time for indigenous Protestant theological understanding and tradition.

The timely arrival of the CUV provided the Chinese Protestant community with a ready-made set of theological notions and vocabulary that Chinese believers immediately received and embraced. It did not take long for the CUV’s translation of such key biblical terms as faith, sin, salvation, and grace to become the standard “language of faith” used by church leaders, theologians, and evangelists as well as the average churchgoer on a daily basis.

The CUV’s translation of key biblical terms has been deeply ingrained in the theological DNA of the Chinese Protestant community around the world. It is fair to say that this is the only theological language system known and used unquestionably by this community up to today. In contrast, one can hardly identify any single, vernacular translation of the Bible which has had such a commanding and lasting impact on church life in the West.

2. The CUV helped shape a universally, unifying identity for Chinese Protestant communities around the globe.

Before the CUV, previous Chinese translations of the Scriptures had been done in either classical Chinese—only understandable to the educated elites in Chinese society—or in particular dialects for certain parts of the country. Therefore, the CUV’s aim to produce a translation understandable to all people from all parts of the country and all social classes turned out to be hugely strategic. It has served to unite all Chinese Protestant believers under one single Chinese version of the Scriptures.

Today, when you worship with any Chinese congregation in mainland China or the Chinese diaspora, you can easily feel the presence of a common, universal, Chinese Protestant tradition cemented by a shared set of spiritual vocabulary, classical hymns, and common version of the Bible, despite very different contexts. The CUV plays a big part in the forging and maintaining of this common identity among Chinese Protestant believers worldwide.

3. The CUV accompanied the Chinese church through its trials and suffering.

The past 100 years have been a turbulent time for the Protestant church in China. It endured numerous wars, revolutions, constant pressure from an atheist regime, and finally all-out persecution during the Cultural Revolution (1966–1976). Many Chinese believers would attest to finding comfort and strength in the CUV. They greatly loved to read and even memorize texts from handwritten copies of the CUV during the darkest years of the Cultural Revolution. The CUV is part of the Chinese church’s collective memory and heritage attesting to its perseverance and cross-bearing under tremendous suffering. There is a strong emotional bond between the CUV and the Chinese Protestant community that will not easily fade away.

4. The CUV’s exquisite rendering of the biblical texts gives it a special quality and lingering charm.

Linguistically speaking, the CUV does have its own advantage in the contemporary context. It is largely based on the vernacular of northern China but integrates some elements of classical Chinese. This combination reflects the genius of the original translating team. It makes the CUV understandable to ordinary folks but also appealing to the educated segments of society.

Having classical Chinese elements sometimes does make certain wordings read awkwardly or seem old-fashioned today. However, in reality, the CUV’s combination of the vernacular and classical may play to its advantage. Many Chinese believers, especially the more educated ones, would say they prefer the CUV over other more colloquial translations of the Scriptures precisely because a special charm comes with its unique style.

5. The CUV contributed to the emergence of the modern Chinese national language and the New Culture Movement and still commands significant respect within the greater Chinese society.

The longevity of the CUV’s popularity also has to do with its influence beyond the church. Since the late 19th century, China’s modernization project has gradually led to the transformation of a traditional dynasty into a modern nation-state. As part of this nation-building process, attempts were made to replace the single written language (classical Chinese) and diverse dialects with one single, unified, written and spoken language for the entire nation.

The breakthrough came in the form of the May Fourth New Culture Movement of the early 20th century, right around the time the CUV was published. The Bible emerged as one of the very few texts that met the goal of a vernacular, Mandarin-based, unified national language and immediately won popular endorsement.

As both Christian and non-Christian scholars agree, the CUV is a masterpiece of the modern Chinese language. It has served as an example for the May Fourth New Culture Movement and also benefited from the movement’s successful, rapid popularization of the new vernacular based upon the Chinese national language.

The CUV’s contribution in this regard is still widely recognized today by Chinese academia. Scholar George Kam Wah Mak even claims in Ever Since God Spoke Chinese that “as John the Baptist paved the way for Jesus, these vernacular Mandarin translators of the Bible are the pioneers in making vernacular Mandarin a national language.” Not surprisingly, the CUV’s role in China’s nation-building is compared to the roles of Bible translation in nation-building in modern Europe (as scholar Liu Lixia explains in the same book).

Additionally, the CUV is the most cited Bible translation when the biblical terms and texts are quoted by secular academia today. In other words, the CUV enjoys de facto status of being the scholarly norm in China.

In conclusion, the reasons behind the enduring popularity of the CUV among Chinese Protestants and in society run deep historically and presently. For most Chinese believers, the CUV is much more than just another Chinese translation of the Scriptures; it is very close to their hearts. That is why, with all the criticism of the CUV’s “antiquity” and “inaccuracy,” there is virtually no sign that its dominance will change in the foreseeable future.

We can ask whether it is theologically correct to equate the CUV with the Word of God, and whether some Chinese believers have a tendency to turn the CUV into an idol. However, the reality is if any viable revision of the CUV has a chance to win popular acceptance, it has to keep the CUV’s original texts intact as much as possible and make as few changes as possible.

The CUV is a precious gift to the Chinese church from God and has been used by him to nurture generations of believers. How much longer is God going to use the CUV for his glory in China? God alone knows.

Kevin Xiyi Yao is associate professor of world Christianity and Asian studies at Gordon Conwell Theological Seminary.

Originally published by ChinaSource.

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Theology

Even the Rocks and the Cacti Cry Out

Kate Lucky

A recent trip to Joshua Tree National Park brought home the wilderness of Lent.

Will Truettner / Unsplash

Joshua Tree gives me the creeps. The landscape unnerves me—dirt, dust, cactus, and, of course, the trees themselves, scaly and spiky and twisted. They’re lined out like a crop, too intentional to make sense. How did they get here? At the top of Ryan Mountain, my husband and I study the brown land. No cell connection. No water! We keep our own jugs in the back of the car.

Boulders shaped like skulls and arches and cathedral spires interrupt the desert. These are enormous rocks, nonsensical rocks, rocks that people climb with ropes and hooks or slip in between: See the “Hall of Horrors,” a slot canyon narrower than outstretched arms. These are rocks you can tumble from, cracking bones. While the sun sets, we visit 12 square miles of granite—called the Wonderland of Rocks—and scoot among the formations.

Eventually, we lose the path. I am nervous. In the twilight, the looming boulders feel unpredictable. Who knows what they’ll transform into? But there, in the narrow inlets of sand between them, we see wildflowers, growing in lavender and periwinkle and violet. They give indications of life, of some preposterous plan—like the cactus garden that stretches out along the highway, smelling of creosote, birds building nests among the spines. Again: Who put this here? Near the Hall of Horrors, a jackrabbit bounds into the shadows.

The Joshua trees themselves march on, row after row after row. The story goes that 19th-century Mormon settlers named them for the biblical prophet because their arms look like they’re raised in supplication. Supplication. An especially deferential plea. Still urgent, though, even with its acknowledgement of limited power, limited means.

The arms jut and branch and double back on themselves, sometimes fulsome and sometimes sparse. They look uncomfortable. They’re trying everything. Trying to survive. Trying to find something to drink, far away from the oases that feed palm trees. They look how I feel here: buffeted and chapped, standing next to a tent that’s flapping and throwing up dust as we try to lash it into place.

Landscapes can agitate me like this.

On another vacation, much further west, I stood before Haleakalā, the dormant volcanic crater on Maui, and wanted only to leave. Down below, back in town, there were mai tais and banana bread. Up there? Just things as they were. Too deep, too shadowy, too dormant—and yet, still alive, cooled lava flows and cinder cones holding shifting light and fog.

“Your fear of immensity,” my husband calls it, when I start to get restive and pensive and quiet on our trips: when we’re driving at the edge of sea cliffs on California’s Highway 1 or listening to howls in the night from the spare shelter of our tent. And he’s right. I’m not afraid of heights or driving or coyotes or water, which don’t concern me in other circumstances. I’m afraid of being swallowed up whole. Decentered. Caught up in something. Seeing or hearing too much.

Right now, during Lent, I’m reading a book of sayings by the Desert Fathers and Mothers, early Christian ascetics and mystics who lived as hermits or in small monastic communities. Their home: the Scetes Desert, full of large, prehistoric fossils and lakes saturated with salt. They prayed and wrote and meditated in large expanses and difficult conditions.

The desert, of course, is the place for reckoning. Forty days of temptation for Jesus. Forty years of exile for the Israelites. They wandered in circles, seeing the same things again and again, trying not to be broken by them. They were uncertain of water, uncertain of food, trusting (and doubting) provision.

Nature is where we go for glory and peace. I think of the landscapes of my Oregon childhood, familiar as the faces of friends: Douglas fir forests, mountain lakes, overcast beaches. The river running over the silt.

But nature is also terrifying and dangerous. It can uncover us. It can even disturb. Creatures prowl and directions fail. Beauty becomes too hot to the touch, too harsh, too steep, too much, unable to be captured by a camera or even a mind. Nature certainly “puts things in perspective,” but not always in a pleasant way. God meets us there in his omnipotence—in control even of the utterly wild.

The Desert Fathers and Mothers give instructions that make sense anywhere: Don’t be prideful. Give away your money. Don’t be gluttonous. Be grateful. But to imagine them in the context of the desert, dusty and defeated, gives the words a different meaning.

Even in extremity, they’re still doing battle with the temptations of the mind and the longings of the heart, still bound by the same jealousies and complaints of any city dweller. They’re only more aware. Their whole lives were more of a Lent than mine ever will be: all penance, reckoning, and preparation, with ultimate questions always on the surface—as given as salt in the lake. How could you not think about death when it awaited you with one misstep, one stream run dry?

Somehow, they stayed among those clear, painful realities. Here, back at home, those realities are often obscured. From my vantage point, the human condition looks like comfort—electricity, cell service, running water, a souvenir mug decorated with a Joshua tree, photos on a phone—everything sized to fit my hands and designed for my convenience. It’s easy to forget the stakes.

Out there at the edges, on the plains, above the void, we see things as they really are: everything, always, an act of supplication.

Kate Lucky is senior editor of audience engagement at Christianity Today.

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News

How Bread Became Engrained in Ukrainian Christian Life

Rachel Pfeiffer

In the breadbasket of Europe, ministries bring loaves for hungry bodies and spiritual nourishment for the soul.

The Good Bread from the Good People bakery in Kyiv, Ukraine, reopened in March to make bread to distribute for free.

Anastasia Vlasova/Getty Images

For Ukraine, Europe, bread is a way of life. Ukraine’s flag—now displayed around the world in solidarity—proclaims the nation’s agricultural heritage, with the yellow representing wheat fields and the blue representing the sky above.

“Bread is very important in our culture, but Jesus has said that we do not live by bread alone,” said pastor Fedir Raychynets, the head of the theology department at Ukrainian Evangelical Theological Seminary (UETS). “There is something invisible, something intangible, something that is beyond just physical bread.”

As the war continues, pastors and churches across Ukraine are working to bring people both the bread they need to feed their bodies and the bread they need for their souls.

Inspired by the line in Isaiah 58:7 about sharing bread with the hungry and housing the poor, BREADtrust is one of several ministries helping get loaves into the hands of Ukrainians.

The UK-based charity funds local pastors who have remained in the country to continue to serve. They’re able to purchase bread, other food, and supplies for neighbors in need.

“There are those that feel deeply committed and called to where they are,” said BREADtrust project coordinator Phil Downward. One pastor and his family stayed until their apartment building was bombed and they had no choice but to leave. “That takes a level of faithfulness and courage that is utterly remarkable.”

Some ministries continue to bake the bread they distribute. In the days after the war broke out, a Dutch outreach through Oekraïne Zending, located outside Kyiv in Brovary, wanted to rally enough bakers to continue baking bread 24/7. They pass out loaves to hospitals and the army, along with notes containing Bible verses. (When Russia took over Crimea several years ago, CT highlighted the Bread of Life ministry in Maryinka, a bakery that gave away “one-fourth of its 2,000 loaves of daily bread, alongside Bibles.”)

Slavic Missionary Outreach, in an update sent in March, said that since grocery stores have not been open as much, its staff has tried to buy bread wholesale or make it themselves. Some of their neighbors had been going days without food.

“We have our own small bread factory that bakes 1,700 loaves of bread daily, which are then distributed to hungry people by our staff,” they wrote in a letter soliciting support. “We don't know how much longer we can do this. We are trying to buy leftover flour stocks from large bread factories that have closed.”

Ukraine is known as the breadbasket of Europe. The war’s impact on its wheat crop will extend globally. Already, reports expect the disruption will affect Lebanon and Egypt, which rely on imports for government-subsidized bread to feed the hungry. Together, Russia and Ukraine provide almost a third of the world’s wheat and barley exports.

And as the Russian invaders attempt to cut off Ukrainians from their own crops and supplies, the oldest generations recall the deadly famine caused by Joseph Stalin’s seizure of goods the century before. The Soviet dictator had seized crops, livestock, and food itself.

Following the conflict in Crimea, Ivan Rusyn, president of UETS, reflected on this history in Bible Study Magazine:

For Ukrainians, bread is very significant. In 1932 and 1933, we had the Holodomor—a man-made famine. Up to six million Ukrainians starved to death. … Because of this, bread is sacred in our culture. You can’t throw bread away.

The metaphor of Jesus as the bread of life has a lot of meaning for Ukrainians, and the image that the Bible is bread for our souls is very important. We use this to help others understand how vital the Bible is to our lives.

In September, some Ukrainian churches celebrate Harvest Day. During the church service, one pastor will hold up a loaf of bread while another holds up an open Bible. They pray for both, recognizing the need for both. The physical and spiritual needs for bread are not competing but complementary.

Sergey Nakul, pastor of Grace Reformed Church in Kyiv, recently posted a video showing how certain parts of the supermarket, like the meat and seafood counters, were completely empty but thanking God that there was still bread.

“Yes, we have bread,” he said, “but in this period of time we better understand words of Lord Jesus, ‘I am the Bread of Life.’”

Ukrainian churches have developed a network for sharing supplies during the war. In the early days, they helped people evacuate. Now, they’re distributing supplies to those who are staying, like the elderly who have nowhere to go or refuse to leave their homes.

The sirens go off so frequently that some of them simply remain in the basements of the buildings instead of going up and down the stairs each time. It's there that volunteers distribute bread and offer whatever encouragement they can. Additionally, the team distributes supplies to families of soldiers.

Among the military, bread again offers them a reminder of hope when Raychynets offers Communion. His team brings New Testaments with highlighted passages of hope and encouragement. Around two or three dozen soldiers typically take copies.

From his background during the Balkan War and visits to other countries like Lebanon, Israel, and Northern Ireland, Raychynets has experienced the uncertainty, fear, and pain of people in traumatic circumstances. He never tries to impose his faith on them, but when people come to him with questions about God and suffering, he engages them in a conversation.

“I personally don’t believe in answers. I believe in good questions. When they ask me questions, I can ask counter-questions to [encourage] them to think further, to think deeper, to think wider about the situation,” Raychynets said.

Many Ukrainians don’t know where their next meal will come from. Many of their famed wheat fields may not bear a crop this year. However, those faithfully serving in Ukraine hope that there will be a harvest in the country all the same.

“When you are in a situation like these people, you are more sensitive to the divine, to something that is beyond our humanity,” Raychynets said. “We need a physical bread as nourishment for our bodies, but then we need also a spiritual bread. The Word of God feeds our souls.”

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Books

Review

The Gods of ‘Techtopia’ Giveth, and They Taketh Away

Dorcas Cheng-Tozun

Silicon Valley showers its workers with “spiritual” perks, but only at the cost of absolute devotion.

Illustration by Rick Szuecs / Source images: Envato Elements

As someone who grew up in Silicon Valley, I can sometimes forget what a peculiar place this is. There are, for example, certain coffee shops and brunch restaurants where you can overhear entrepreneurs pitching to venture capitalists any day of the week. It’s not uncommon to be approached by strangers and asked to beta-test their new apps. The median home price is well above As someone who grew up in Silicon Valley, I can sometimes forget what a peculiar place this is. There are, for example, certain coffee shops and brunch restaurants where you can overhear entrepreneurs pitching to venture capitalists any day of the week. It’s not uncommon to be approached by strangers and asked to beta-test their new apps. The median home price is well above $1 million, every fourth car on the road seems to be a Tesla, and everyone knows someone who works for a giant tech firm like Google, Apple, or Facebook. million, every fourth car on the road seems to be a Tesla, and everyone knows someone who works for a giant tech firm like Google, Apple, or Facebook.

Work Pray Code: When Work Becomes Religion in Silicon Valley

Carolyn Chen (Author)

Princeton University Press

272 pages

Having spent all my life in the church, I can also forget that Silicon Valley is one of the least religious regions in the United States. The Pew Research Center has found that 35 percent of adults in the San Francisco Bay Area are religiously nonaffiliated. Only 20 percent of adults identify as Protestant, and another 25 percent are Catholic. In comparison, 71 percent of the general population in the US identifies as Christian.

Yet, argues sociologist Carolyn Chen in her fascinating new book Work Pray Code: When Work Becomes Religion in Silicon Valley, this doesn’t mean that high-skilled workers aren’t spiritual. They are, in fact, as hungry for meaning, belonging, and personal transformation as anyone else. But their church, as it were, is the workplace. Their community is made up of coworkers. And they are being shepherded—through not only their careers but also their overall lives—by an array of supervisors, human-resource managers, executive coaches, and meditation gurus.

Meaning-making institutions

It’s no secret that many of the profit-rich corporations of Silicon Valley provide extraordinary perks for their employees, including gourmet meals three times a day, onsite gyms, dry-cleaning services, and free shuttles from the suburbs to the office. In recent years these perks have become increasingly spiritual in nature as corporations compete with one another to offer the best coaching, meditation classes, mindfulness workshops, multiday retreats, and talks by renowned spiritual leaders like Vietnamese Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh.

These are the very trends Chen is examining in Work Pray Code, and her findings should interest (and perhaps alarm) anyone who cares about the health and growth of the American church. Young, high-skilled knowledge workers, who drive not only Silicon Valley but also industries in urban centers throughout the country, are becoming less interested in traditional forms of religion and spirituality. “The decline of religious affiliations and participation, however, does not mean that religious needs have disappeared. They’ve just been displaced,” explains Chen. “Religion exists in the sacred cosmos of a work-centered world.” So strong is the pull of workplace spirituality that some of Chen’s research subjects, who had previously been very devout, drifted away from their faith after beginning to work in Silicon Valley.

All this attention to mindfulness, authenticity, and spiritual health is an outward expression of a larger ethos that has developed in the region’s dominant industries, one that promises to “unlock” your true self and true purpose—so you can be as productive as possible for your employer. The promise of discovering yourself and meeting your full potential is extremely appealing, and it’s backed up by every possible workshop, amenity, and expert that money can buy.

In places like Silicon Valley, the church’s greatest “competitor” for souls may not be other religions, atheism, or even hedonism or greed. It could very well be multinational corporations that offer the promise of changing the world, as well as their employees, through work. “Today, companies are not just economic institutions,” writes Chen. “They’ve become meaning-making institutions that offer a gospel of fulfillment and divine purpose in a capitalist cosmos.” That “God-shaped hole” in our hearts that evangelicals like to reference? It’s being filled by companies with deep-enough pockets to meet their people’s every need—mind, body, spirit.

I’ve seen this firsthand. Ask any entrepreneurs or startup employees in Silicon Valley, and they will sincerely tell you—without a hint of irony or humor—that their companies are going to change the world. The business might be built on an app that finds parking spots, delivers beer via clowns, or makes it look like you got booted off a Zoom call when you want a break (all real apps); nevertheless, it gives their lives purpose. These individuals are as devout and committed as the most zealous of Christians.

Those of us on the outside can see clearly that this promise of fulfillment is ultimately empty, especially when the end goal is utilitarian: to leech as much knowledge, leadership, and productivity out of people as possible. High-skilled professionals gain much, but only by giving much, including 70-plus-hour workweeks and their absolute commitment. Firms will gladly lavish their employees with spiritual perks, teaching, and values, but when someone leaves a job—by choice or not—all of that is terminated as well. This form of religious devotion ultimately will not end well for image bearers of God.

Valuable lessons

Throughout the book, Chen asks this question: What are the larger implications for a society that worships work, that subsumes traditional faith and spirituality under the quest for profit and productivity? She doesn’t really answer this question until the last chapter of the book—which seems insufficient in light of the great and still-growing power, influence, and wealth of the tech industry. Work Pray Code is at its best when Chen contextualizes the findings of her research within broader historical and sociological concepts, such as corporate maternalism, the constant productivity push, and reduced civic engagement.

I wish Chen had supported her claims with additional quantitative research about, for example, the psychological impact of such devotion to work, the connection between high-tech jobs and declining civic participation, or the way corporations in other geographic regions are also trying to “change the world” and help their employees pursue “wholeness.” Instead, she relies so heavily on the quotes and perspectives of a limited number of research subjects that her conclusions—repeated almost ad nauseum—can come across as anecdotal rather than widely applicable. She also misses the opportunity to discuss how the move toward permanent remote work after the pandemic could alter the workings of “Techtopia,” as she calls it. Since the most tangible way corporations attempt to meet their employees’ spiritual needs is through onsite, in-person activities, the ramifications could be very significant.

That said, what Chen communicates is still extremely salient to the American church. There may even be valuable lessons here for church leaders to better understand what millennial and Gen Z professionals are yearning for nowadays: for starters, to be seen as whole, integrated individuals whose work, play, relationships, and spirituality are all deeply intertwined and in need of purpose.

Understandably, how these trends impact the Christian church is outside the scope of Chen’s research and not addressed in the book. There are important clues, though, in her conclusion: “In Techtopia,” she writes, “people don’t belong to neighborhoods, churches, or cities. They belong to work. Instead of building friendships, trust, and goodwill within their communities, they develop the social capital of their companies.”

With the rise of the worship of work, professionals are becoming less engaged and connected with the rest of the world. They believe all their needs are already being met; they are not searching for more. How can the church draw them out of their isolated workplace “cults” (as Chen calls them) toward an eternal and far more dependable promise of fulfillment? How can we compete for souls against institutions with limitless resources?

It may be time for Christians and churches to take a page from the strategic plans of businesses, ensuring that we are clearly articulating the value proposition and competitive advantages of our faith and demonstrating those in bold, irresistible ways. “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another,” Jesus declared (John 13:35). And in writing to the church in Ephesus, the apostle Paul said, “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God” (Eph. 2:8).

Unconditional love and all-encompassing grace—not mentioned a single time by any of the research subjects in Work Pray Code—could be a good place to start.

Dorcas Cheng-Tozun is a writer, communications consultant, and the editorial director of the Christian nonprofit Pax. She is a former columnist for Inc.com and has written two books on entrepreneurship: Start, Love, Repeat: How to Stay in Love with Your Entrepreneur in a Crazy Start-up Worldand Let There d.light: How One Social Enterprise Brought Solar-Powered Products to 100 Million People.

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Theology

Holy Week Playlist: Songs to Survey the Wondrous Cross

Compiled by Kelli B. Trujillo

Christian leaders and musicians share their favorite Easter music.

Illustration by Cassandra Bauman

Our special issue The Wondrous Cross reflects on eight pieces of music that help us enter into the meaning of Jesus’ sacrifice. In addition to those songs, we’ve asked several Christian leaders—as well as some members of CT’s staff—to share their favorite pieces of music for contemplating the Cross and celebrating the Resurrection. You can listen to all of these songs on our Spotify playlist. 

“King of Glory, King of Peace” by George Herbert There are two parts of this song that get me every time. The first is “Thou didst note my working breast, Thou hast spared me.” The physicality of this image—“the working breast” distressed by our own failures—speaks to my experience. God in his mercy spared me. The second is this: “Though my sins against me cried, Thou didst clear me; and alone, when they replied, Thou didst hear me.” God did not hear the testimony of my sins; instead he heard me. These are great comforts during the season. —Esau McCaulley is an associate professor of New Testament at Wheaton College and the author of Reading While Black and Josey Johnson’s Hair and the Holy Spirit.

“Is He Worthy?” by Andrew Peterson  I have known and loved Andrew Peterson’s song “Is He Worthy?” up-close in our Nashville community, and it keeps on reminding me to believe the story of Easter again and again. The simple, call-and-response style of the chorus is a way of saying the truth, asking the question, saying the truth. As many times as it takes, we keep singing this story of hope. —Sandra McCracken is a singer-songwriter, a CT columnist, and host of the CT podcast Steadfast.

“Kyrie” by Les Troubadours du Roi Baudouin One of the songs I like to listen to during Holy Week is “Kyrie,” from the album Missa Luba. On this album, a choir of Congolese children and adults sing parts of the Latin Mass in the musical styles of the Democratic Republic of Congo. “Kyrie” means “Lord, have mercy,” and this version is sung in the traditional style of a mourning song. It’s fitting for the kind of language that finds itself on our lips not just on Good Friday but all week long as we anticipate the fulfillment of God’s mercy on the cross. This setting of the “Kyrie” has a haunting and plaintive quality that helps me feel my own desperate need for God’s mercy afresh. —W. David O. Taylor is associate professor of theology and culture at Fuller Theological Seminary and author of Open and Unafraid.

“Redeemer” by Nicole C. Mullen This song always takes my often-restless heart and holds it still. My redeemer lives. The Lamb wins. Whatever I see now will not be how this ends. —Heather Thompson Day is associate professor of communications at Andrews University and host of CT’s Viral Jesus podcast.

“Be Thou My Vision,” an Old Irish prayer translated by Mary E. Byrne Great old hymns carry a long, beautiful memory. The memory of the millions of people who have sung this text over thousands of miles and hundreds of years keeps growing as we add our voices to the unending song of God’s people. When I sing this hymn, it lifts my heart and mind and soul to what the rescue of Christ on the cross brings to every generation: the only way out of the darkness into his glorious light. This true light transforms how we see this life and the next. It illuminates the path to pure hope and life and joy with the risen Savior, the high King of heaven. —Kristyn Getty is a modern hymn writer, worship leader, and recording artist.

Christ lag in Todesbanden, a cantata by Johann Sebastian Bach This highly dramatic musical sermon by J. S. Bach features aching pathos, dramatic tensions, and euphoric, triumphant joy. In this version, conductor Maasaki Suzuki leads the Japan Bach Collegium in Bach’s cantanta that features Martin Luther’s poetry. Luther’s words are drawn from a Latin hymn written in about 1050 for Easter liturgies with roots deep in the early church. At once bouyant and weighty, joyful and deep, this music immerses us in the Bible’s own profusion of images and metaphors that explore the meaning of Jesus’ death and resurrection. I first performed in a choir that sang this music over 30 years ago —and it still echoes in my soul. —John D. Witvliet is director of the Calvin Institute of Christian Worship and a professor at Calvin University and Calvin Theological Seminary.

“Eat This Bread” from the Taizé community I have always loved the Taizé song “Eat This Bread.” I was first exposed to it at the Taizé community in France many years ago. To me, this song feels like a beautiful invitation to Christ’s table and to feed on him through the Eucharist. Like Cleopas and his companion (Luke 24:13–35), I hope to behold Christ at his table. —Ken Shigematsu is senior pastor of Tenth Church in Vancouver, British Columbia, and author of God in My Everything.

“Now Behold the Lamb” by Kirk Franklin and the Family It’s a well-known fact in my family that I cry literally every time I hear Kirk Franklin and the Family’s “Now Behold the Lamb.” A beautifully arranged, soulful gospel song gets me every time! And Tamela Mann never disappoints. Though originally appearing on a Christmas album, this song celebrates “the precious Lamb of God, Born into sin that I may live again.” The soloists powerfully testify and praise Jesus as the Lamb of God who washes away our sins and sets us free. This saving work of Christ required his sacrifice on the cross for our redemption; hence the song ends by extolling Jesus for his love demonstrated when he shed his blood on the cross at Calvary. —Kristie Anyabwile is the author of Literarily and editor of His Testimonies, My Heritage.

“I Am Living in a Land of Death” by Citizens Though their style is different from the music I make with Prisims, the band Citizens has deeply and sacredly encouraged me through their lyrics and music. “I Am Living in a Land of Death” is an anthem and psalm that helps me fix my eyes on Christ the risen Lord while feeling “the breezes of death” in our culture, our flesh, and the brokenness of humanity. The potent lyrics alluding to the work of Christ are captivating and bring me to worship the Lord with hope. —Esteban Shedd is MC of the hip-hop trio Prisims and creative director of Streetlights, an urban culture audio Bible.

“Con Tu Sangre” by Marcos Witt Marcos Witt has been one of the preeminent worship leaders (and pastors) in Latin America over the past four decades. He released “Con Tu Sangre” (Spanish for “With Your Blood”) over two decades ago, and it remains a powerful anthem in the catalogue of Spanish-language musical worship. The lyrics describe how Jesus, by shedding his blood at Calvary, has redeemed people from every lineage, tribe, tongue, and nation. “Con Tu Sangre” inspires me not only during the Easter season, but throughout the year, reminding me of the great cost of what God has done to secure salvation not only for me but also for a huge global, multinational, multiethnic, and multicultural family—the beautiful body of Christ. He is risen! —Imer Santiago is a recording artist and the director of worship for Urbana 2022.

Agnus Dei, composed by Samuel Barber I remember hearing Agnus Dei by composer Samuel Barber (1936) for the first time in a choral ensemble class I faked my way through. I could not (and still cannot) read music, but I love beautiful harmonies. Hearing Agnus Dei performed by the ensemble brought tears to my eyes. Even though I had no idea what they were singing about, my heart understood: Agnus Dei, the Lamb of God. —Liz Vice is a gospel, soul, and R&B recording artist.

“Jésus le Christ” from the Taizé community Translated into English, this song says, in part, “Your light shines within us, Let not my doubts nor my darkness speak to me.” Hours before a close friend betrayed him, Jesus prayed an anxious, lonely prayer, crying out for relief. Over the course of our lives, many of us will call on God in moments when the heaviness of our circumstances appears to have begun pushing us under the water. We can utter these groans with the realization that Christ himself prayed through visceral pain and that this same man is the Light of the World. —Morgan Pomaika’i Lee is CT’s global media manager.

The Grace Cathedral Concert by Vince Guaraldi The late jazz pianist Vince Guaraldi is best known for giving musical voice to Charlie Brown and his animated cohort. His iconic Peanuts themes were introduced in A Charlie Brown Christmas, first broadcast in December 1965. Earlier that same year, Guaraldi released The Grace Cathedral Concert featuring his trio and a 68-voice church choir leading the congregation at San Francisco’s Grace Episcopal Cathedral in Holy Communion. The concert was considered one of the first instances of a “jazz mass,” and anyone who loves Guaraldi’s music will be captivated by this mixture of original compositions and reinterpretations of sacred hymns. My favorite is “Theme to Grace,” a mostly instrumental track that gently weaves between contemplative and breezy moods before culminating in a burst of choral hallelujahs. The song—and the album—is an expression of resurrection hope. —Ed Gilbreath is CT’s vice president of strategic partnerships.

“The Rising” by Bruce Springsteen On 9/11, as black plumes rose from Manhattan, Springsteen thought he might never sing again. But weeks later, he went down to Ground Zero to watch construction workers, firefighters, and police officers working on the pile. As he left, one recognized him and shouted the familiar “Bruuuuuuuuuce!” He added, “We need ya, Bruce.” “The Rising” (and the album of the same name) was Springsteen’s response to that calling, and this song in particular is an anthem of hope that draws on his deep Catholic roots and points to the Resurrection. —Mike Cosper is director of CT podcasts.

“He’s Alive” by Don Francisco I wrote a whole bunch about Arizona Dranes’s emphatic 1926 gospel blues recording, “Lamb’s Blood Has Washed Me Clean.” Before that, I thought about Luke Morton’s 2011 “The Lamb Has Overcome.” Both songs set my feet dancing. But neither gets a lump in my throat every time I try to sing along. Don Francisco’s 1977 “He’s Alive” does. After years of reflecting on the global and communal effects of Jesus’ death and resurrection and how Jesus came to rescue us, I’ve been remembering more this year that Jesus died for me too. The Lamb’s blood washed me clean. The Easter story isn’t just for me. But it is for me. And no song has hit me harder on that point—no song has shaken me awake to the good news of four and a half decades of Easter mornings—than Francisco’s “He’s Alive.” Does this song still choke me up mostly because of nostalgia? Maybe. I don’t care. The song has been part of my story, and I increasingly find that it tells my story: He’s alive and I’m forgiven. —Ted Olsen is executive editor of Christianity Today.

“Ride On, King Jesus,” an African American spiritual This powerful, exultant spiritual can celebrate various aspects of Holy Week. It sings of Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, his face set like flint in unhindered determination to go to the cross. Its lyrics can proclaim the victory of Jesus’ resurrection. And the song points toward our future hope: that “great gettin’ up morning” when the dead in Christ shall rise and King Jesus will ride in ultimate victory (Rev. 19). —Kelli B. Trujillo is CT’s projects editor.

 Read the article below to view the songs featured in The Wondrous Cross.

You can find our full Spotify playlist below.

- More from Compiled by Kelli B. Trujillo

News

Azerbaijan’s Churches Explain Their Evangelism

Jayson Casper in Baku, Azerbaijan

Many evangelicals celebrate their freedom of religion in the Muslim-majority nation. Orthodox and Catholics urge: Go slow.

Baku, Azerbaijan

Emad Aljumah / Getty Images

Emil Panahov has a vision.

“I want to see 96 percent of Azerbaijanis confess their faith in Christ, and revival often began when the king became a believer,” he said. “But our God is the president of presidents, so the government does not rule over me.”

He has a long way to go.

Panahov, founder of the Vineyard church in Muslim-majority Azerbaijan, arrives at his target by inverting his homeland’s estimated proportion of Christians: 4 percent. Most of these are Russian Orthodox, holdovers from when the Caucasus nation of 10 million was part of the Soviet Union.

But the Azerbaijan Bible Society estimates that 20,000 Azeris have become evangelicals, most within the past two decades. And the government—despite being panned for widespread human rights violations in politics—has earned local plaudits for its level of religious freedom, especially toward Christians and Jews.

Panahov’s own story supports his optimism. But is it wise? Orthodox, Catholic, and Presbyterian leaders offer a word of caution.

From an Azeri Muslim family with a communist father, in 1989 Panahov came to faith at the age of 12 through a local Russian Baptist church. But as he grew interested in the arts and dancing, the conservative Christian community could not accept such worldly activity.

Panahov fell away from the faith as he performed professionally around the world—until in 2007 he tore his meniscus. Doctors in Turkey, where he lived at the time, told him he would never dance again.

It was then he recalled Jesus—whom he said spoke a word of healing to him. But through his Turkish pastor, God also gave him a commission: Return to Azerbaijan, and share what God has done for you.

Panahov was reluctant, knowing his artistic passion was a spiritual offense. But trusting God, he went back and eventually found a new church home. Over the next seven years he worshiped comfortably, started a family, and even found work as a dance instructor. But then he heard again the voice that healed him: Go out and start a house church.

He left his fellowship with tears but knew to obey. In the beginning he met mostly with believing relatives, but four years later their number grew to the 50 required by the authorities for registration. Similar miracles have marked many in the movement, which according to Panahov counts 350 believers in 16 cell groups, spread throughout his Caspian Sea country.

And God has used his artistic talent. His team has drawn hundreds to gospel-themed performances in downtown Baku, the nation’s capital. Media and filmmaking have put the message on the internet. The Vineyard church baptized 64 new Christians during the pandemic, he said, and 36 during Azerbaijan’s victorious war with neighboring Armenia.

“Two years ago, the churches did not believe opportunities for evangelism could reach such a level,” Panahov said. “But I know it is from God, because I don’t have the brains for it.”

It is also from the government, which following many years of suppression now works with church leaders to legalize their fellowships. While noting a positive trend, the US Commission on International Religious Freedom still recommends Azerbaijan for inclusion on the State Department’s Special Watch List for religious freedom violators.

Of concern is the legislation that requires 50 people before legal registration.

Many evangelicals celebrate the freedom they do have—and the movement of the Holy Spirit to far surpass this number. But some notice emerging internal issues, and have set their minds on deficient ecclesiology believed to be widespread.

“We place great emphasis in the biblical theology of the church,” said Parvis Mahmudov, pastor of the Presbyterian church that meets in Baku’s historic Lutheran Church of the Savior. “Compared to other denominations, perhaps we have a higher standard of academic learning.”

Mahmudov, also from a Muslim background, noted that up to three-quarters of evangelical churches are dominated by a single charismatic leader. With a lack of accountability, over the years he has seen several fall into moral sin or financial corruption.

Others, especially in home fellowships, tend toward legalism and a controlling spirit. And where there are strong connections to international sponsors, some have been tempted to inflate their numbers.

Ordained by the International Presbyterian Church, with roots in Francis Schaeffer’s L’Abri fellowship in Switzerland, Mahmudov said his congregation has about 60 official members, with up to 80 attending regularly. In the last two years, 20 have come to faith. To join, new believers go through extensive preparation for baptism and membership via the Heidelberg Catechism.

Particularly challenging has been the development of biblical elders.

“We’ve had people join in a month, some in three months, and some that take up to a year,” he said. “We want to make sure it’s genuine, because they can face many difficulties.”

This is a fast track, however, compared to Azerbaijan’s traditional churches.

The Catholics, composed mainly of expat workers, require a year.

“People ask us, ‘Why so many obstacles? In Islam, all we have to do is recite the Shahadah (Muslim creed),’” said Vladimir Fekete, the Slovakian-born bishop of Azerbaijan. “If you are ready to wait, I tell them, it is a sign that your interest is real.”

Within a nationwide parish of 1,000 Catholics, about 100 Azeris have done so—one is now a priest, consecrated by Pope Francis in Rome. But many turn away, exposing their primary desire for financial help or emigration to Europe.

There is no controversy with the government, said Fekete, who keeps good relations. Pope Francis visited Baku in 2016, and Pope John Paul II in 2002. The stained-glass windows in St. Mary’s Church of the Immaculate Conception—crafted by Azeri artists—were financed by the Heydar Aliyev Foundation, managed by Azerbaijan’s first lady and vice president Mehriban Aliyeva. The church bells were donated during an official visit by the president of Poland.

Fekete also organizes a yearly prayer for Christian unity, in which all denominations participate. He is on good terms with the Russian Orthodox church and lends use of his sanctuary and soccer field to evangelical groups. (Panahov was a frequent applicant when needing a large facility.)

But while Catholic caution in conversion and ecumenical relations prevents undue controversies, issues can arise—usually with converts from the villages. Lauding the government’s respect for religious freedom, Fekete compared the situation to rural Italy, where few would welcome the adoption of another faith. Primarily foreigners, however, the Catholic clergy in Azerbaijan are not equipped to advise with family matters, he said.

But local evangelicals are also wary of a rural-urban divide.

Three Azerbaijani pastors requested anonymity to speak candidly about their ministries outside Baku. In the capital, they agreed, there have been great advances in religious freedom since 2010, when the government began registering convert churches.

But in the countryside, said one source, local authorities are more sensitive to variations from the religious norm, worried that outside actors will use faith to destabilize the nation. The primary concern is about Islamist extremism, but they closely monitor Christian activity as well.

The second source hewed closely to Fekete’s experience, agreeing that social pressures to remain Muslim are stronger and thus great care must be taken to explain the new faith identity with deference to traditional customs.

The third source expressed more confidence—but still withheld his name. He said there was no difference at all between city and village, due to a well-educated president who ensures that all religious minorities are treated with respect.

This is also the testimony of the Russian Orthodox, who are present in seven churches throughout Azerbaijan. The government looks to them as the head of all Christians in the country, said Alexy Nikonorov, priest-in-charge of the diocese since the death of its archbishop last June.

Responsible for the spiritual care of over 120,000 ethnic Russians, he said the post-Soviet fervor that led him and 20 others to the priesthood has dissipated over the years. Nonetheless, the church is active in providing sports club and camp opportunities for the youth, who volunteer to assist the elderly.

But only about 5 percent attend church regularly.

Still, half of these were formerly Azeri Muslims, who must first complete a one-year probationary period. Among their number are nine priests and deacons.

Yet Nikonorov’s vision is different than Panahov’s.

“Our purpose is not to make Azerbaijan a Christian country,” Nikonorov said. “Our task is to create a positive image of the church, to show the person who wants to be a Christian the faith that may speak to his heart.”

Even so, the Baku-born clergyman recognized a significant problem. Young Azeris do not speak Russian, and the church does not speak Azerbaijani. Nikonorov aims to change this dynamic, as given an aging population and repatriation to Russia he fears within 50 years the Russian Orthodox church may no longer exist in Azerbaijan.

Evangelicals can help them with evangelism, he said.

Nikonorov came to know the faith through childhood gospel cartoons from America. A local believer sparked his Scripture reading with the Gospel of Luke. And since his ordination, he has facilitated projects with visiting Protestants while partnering closely with the Bible Society.

Yet true fellowship should enrich in both directions.

“We look through 2,000 years of experience, unlike those who just came yesterday,” he said, stressing good relations with government and religious officials. “In the long term, we are usually more right than the others.”

Panahov does not disagree. In fact, he has been more successful than many at achieving positive government relations.

During the war with Armenia over the majority-Armenian enclave of Nagorno-Karabakh, Panahov secured government permission to distribute aid—including Bibles—to Azerbaijani soldiers on the frontlines. Later, in conjunction with local mayors, he extended this service to families who lost loved ones or whose homes were damaged by Armenian missiles.

It gives Azerbaijanis a different picture of Christianity, he said.

After the war, Panahov and his church organized an official concert to promote the National Day of Tolerance in downtown Baku. Currently he is negotiating with the government to establish a major in Christian religion at the Azerbaijan Institute of Theology. And he was one of 20 evangelical pastors who joined the Bible Society, the Russian Orthodox church, and others in a government-promoted open letter supporting Azerbaijan in its war against Christian-majority Armenia.

But Panahov said he does not kowtow to the authorities.

Once at the State Committee on Religious Associations, which grants registration to all religious entities, Panahov was asked why he gave up his Muslim faith. He told them the story of his knee and recalls that their jaws dropped. Half of the committee were KGB agents, he claimed, and more used to the long-bearded Orthodox.

Still, he pushed further.

“I didn’t change my religion, you did,” Panahov told them—not confrontationally, but with a smile. “Azerbaijan was Christian before Islam came in the seventh century. I’m returning to the faith of our fathers.”

He visits the committee frequently, developing friendships. They are all humans anyway, he said, and in need of salvation.

This boldness—or foolishness—has served him well so far. Going forward, it is part and parcel of his vision for Azerbaijan.

“I’m crazy,” Panahov said. “But whenever we get permission, we’re ready for stadiums.”

- More from Jayson Casper

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After War, Can Armenia’s Evangelicals and Orthodox Save Their Nation Together?

Jayson Casper in Yerevan, Armenia

Some evangelicals thank Apostolic church for preserving their nation amid trials. Some priests fear Protestant newcomers will divide it.

The seventh-century Church of St. Gayane in Vagharshapat, the religious center of Armenia, located within walking distance from Etchmiadzin Cathedral.

Maja Hitij / Getty

Craig Simonian had a vision. It landed him in a war zone.

Raised in an Armenian-American Orthodox family, he came to know Jesus personally at university. He served as a Vineyard church pastor in New Jersey for nearly two decades but continued to embrace his Apostolic church heritage.

It laid the foundation of his faith—but also of his nation of origin.

“The reason Armenia still exists is because of the church,” he said. “It kept our shattered people together, especially in the diaspora.”

As a child, Simonian’s grandmother witnessed her father and mother murdered in the Armenian Genocide, killed by Turks in the waning days of the Ottoman Empire.

When she eventually arrived in America, it was the Apostolic church that embraced their family. Simonian recalled kindly visits by priests of their Oriental Orthodox tradition who—in the face of tragedy and devastation—gave him a deep appreciation of the sovereignty of God.

It was his evangelical awakening, however, that drew him back to Armenia—and in particular to its church. He relocated in 2018 to a nation locked in a cold war with neighboring Azerbaijan. A self-professed “oddball,” he longed for the Apostolic church to embrace fully the gospel he had discovered.

“If we are going to reach this generation, we can’t do it without them,” Simonian said. “I will call people to Jesus but never to leave their church.”

But two years later, the war turned hot.

Azerbaijan invaded the Armenian-controlled enclave of Nagorno-Karabakh in October 2020. The territory is recognized internationally as belonging to Azerbaijan, yet the residents of what Armenians call Artsakh voted for independence in 1991. For three decades Armenia held the upper hand but was routed in a 44-day war through superior drone technology that Turkey and Israel supplied to Azerbaijan.

Russian intervention enforced a ceasefire, with Nagorno-Karabakh demolished and Armenians holding a fraction of their previous territory. The nation felt numb after its defeat, and many found refuge in the Apostolic church.

Today, Simonian provides ad hoc spiritual care as he builds relationships with evangelicals and Orthodox alike.

His primary worship is through Yerevan International Church. But few in his personal circles have saluted his efforts to attend the Divine Liturgy and cultivate relationships with Orthodox clergy. Many evangelicals are soured by years of the older tradition labeling the newcomers a sect, or worse, a cult. But neither has Simonian yet found in the Apostolic church the fellowship that characterized his diaspora youth.

“The warm fuzzies I had growing up are completely void here,” he said. “The church is not so much a community.”

Simonian understands. Soviet communism purged the church, replacing clergy with compliant leadership. Following Armenia’s independence in 1991, this generation still exists but is giving way to a spiritual cadre that he says recognizes the church needs more than ancient traditions.

“We do not need to re-evangelize Armenia,” said Shahe Ananyan, dean of Gevorkian Theological Seminary in the Apostolic holy see of Etchmiadzin, 13 miles west of Yerevan. “Our main task is to wisely consider how to bring both Eastern and Western traditions together in synthesis.”

The church is still discussing application, he said. But he recognized that modern life for many has crowded out liturgical attendance and Bible reading.

Forging forward anyway is Bagrat Galstanyan, bishop of Tavush, 100 miles northeast of Yerevan on the border with Azerbaijan. Previously presiding over the Canadian Apostolic diocese of Montreal, he is well placed to assist the synthesis—but is struggling with the weight of his spiritual responsibility.

“Practically, we are stretched,” Galstanyan said. “I am relying on the institutional memory of the church.”

Pre-pandemic, he established the One Community, One School program to get religious education—and social work—into the remote villages of Tavush. Out of 70 parishes, his diocese has 18 operating church buildings but only 10 priests.

At Galstanyan’s inauguration, he pledged to “bring Christ into every home.” Sunday school–type activities take place every day after regular classes, which become a sort of village center. And he is uniting each group under rotating themes, with family, identity, salvation, and eternal life at the forefront.

“We start at a level people can grasp easily, and then widen it,” he said, focusing on practical, everyday issues. “The gospel imperative is for the Word to become flesh.”

Galstanyan welcomes evangelical partnership in Tavush. But the few groups currently there, he said, pursue their own interests. And across the country, he lamented, there are so many denominations—all with different names and purposes.

“How can you claim to follow the one unchangeable Christ,” he asked rhetorically, “when you are internally divided?”

Armenia also lacks an evangelical alliance, noted one pastor. Previous efforts fell apart when the new government widened religious freedom, lessening the need for solidarity. Each group then went back to its own ways.

It is very confusing for Armenians, admitted Hovhannes Hovsepian.

Pastor of the Armenian Evangelical Church (AEC) in Yerevan, he is also assistant to the head of the historic Protestant denomination. Founded in 1846 during an Armenian revival and reformation effort in Turkey, its presence is more recent in Armenia proper. Its relief and outreach ministries expanded dramatically after an earthquake in 1988.

Unlike most Baptists and Pentecostals, these evangelicals seek to honor the Orthodox as the “mother church.”

“We stress the importance of the Word of God and the gospel, against traditions that marginalize these,” Hovsepian said. “But once reformation happens, we can freely go back.”

For centuries, he explained, the Apostolic church not only preached Christianity but also held the Armenian people together in unity, becoming the church of the nation. They cannot comprehend another denomination within their fold.

The ancient church traces its roots to A.D. 301 when St. Gregory converted Armenia’s king and created the world’s first official Christian nation. Hovsepian said the church has a biblical explanation for every Apostolic tradition but most priests do not communicate this to the people. And with the liturgy conducted in the old Armenian language, those in the pews cannot understand the richness of their heritage.

Instead, the church calendar is populated with saints who distract intercession away from Jesus himself—the one mediator between God and humanity.

“They prefer to light a candle,” Hovsepian said, “than to open their hearts toward God.”

Ananyan, who is also the head of the ecumenical department of the Apostolic church, grudgingly appreciates the “mother church” label. And he is not against the Reformed faith. The current Catholicos (akin to Patriarch), Karekin II, is also a current president of the World Council of Churches and oversees an official dialogue with the Anglican Communion.

But the Orthodox seminary leader suspects that local evangelicals are confused by what it means to be Armenian. More than 100 different Protestant entities are registered by the government.

“Is their purpose to create as many evangelical communities as possible or to renew spiritual life?” asked Ananyan, calling it nonsense. “Instead, they are creating division and a deformed community.”

He views such splintering as dangerous. By pluralizing Christian identity, Protestants divorce the connection between religion and ethnicity. Look at the results in Europe, he said, where the entire faith is under threat.

Hovsepian sees it differently.

“People can choose what type of church speaks more to their heart,” he said, as some veer toward preaching, music, or tradition. “God is using the church in its diversity, as each gathers its particular flock.”

But there is ample room for cooperation. The last half decade has seen an unofficial dialogue between the Apostolic church and the AEC, resulting in greatly improved relations.

Through the Bible Society of Armenia, Hovsepian has joined Catholics in teaching the Bible to public school teachers, under the auspices of Etchmiadzin. The three denominations have jointly translated the New Testament into modern Armenian, soon to be released to the public. And the Christian Women’s Forum adds Greek Orthodox and Assyrian participation, providing financial and moral support to young mothers considering abortion, among other services.

The Bible Society board is composed of five Orthodox members, two evangelicals, and one Catholic. Ananyan said it sold 30,000 Bibles last year, evidence of a steady hunger for the Word of God.

But though he lauds the Apostolic church for its missionary role in the sixth century, he believes such outreach is not appropriate today among its Muslim neighbors. Instead, the witness of the church comes through preservation—especially of historic monasteries seized by Azerbaijan during the war and threatened with the erasure of their Armenian identity.

This steadfast faith should be better respected by Protestants and Catholics, he said.

“We as a nation are called to witness to Jesus Christ in a very difficult region,” said Ananyan. “Our very existence is a testimony of Christianity.”

This also burdens the heart of Simonian, who is eager to join with the Orthodox to promote church growth and evangelism.

The church is ancient, but it continues.

“I love the Apostolic church,” he said. “Every dream I have for Armenia includes them.”

- More from Jayson Casper

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A struggle to educate their kids

One day at a time

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1. The CUV played a pivotal role in providing and shaping the theological vocabulary of the Chinese Protestant Church.

2. The CUV helped shape a universally, unifying identity for Chinese Protestant communities around the globe.

3. The CUV accompanied the Chinese church through its trials and suffering.

4. The CUV’s exquisite rendering of the biblical texts gives it a special quality and lingering charm.

5. The CUV contributed to the emergence of the modern Chinese national language and the New Culture Movement and still commands significant respect within the greater Chinese society.

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Meaning-making institutions

Valuable lessons

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