The Architecture of Revelation

A monastery on Patmos builds silence in a world of noise.

The courtyard of the Monastery of Saint John the Theologian.

Getty Images

I was on the island called Patmos. To be precise, I was in the Orthodox Monastery of Saint John the Theologian, on a fortified hilltop once occupied by a temple to Artemis, a short walk from the cave where the author of the Apocalypse is said to have received the revelation of the end of time. And I was about to receive a small revelation of my own.

Behind me, the whitewashed surfaces of a stone-paved courtyard resonated with the sounds of an overheated summer afternoon. This had been a site of pilgrimage for a thousand years; I was a latecomer. Like others around me, I was more tourist than pilgrim. But for a moment I had stepped aside, between the pillars of a shaded portico, into an arcaded exonarthex, through a narrow doorway, and into a low vestibule. In front of me I caught a glimpse of a further opening that led into the monastery church itself. Its interior was dark, its surfaces layered in dense iconographic splendor.

But the church was closed. A rope was strung across the opening.

Conscious that this was the very heart of the monastery, I leaned in through the doorway, turning my head toward the light that filtered down from the vaulting above. One ear was turned back toward the sounds still shrilling from the courtyard outside. But the other half of my body had entered a different place entirely. In that instant, I was simultaneously aware of two very different relationships to space.

One was noisy, distracted, and disoriented—unfamiliar with the monastery’s labyrinthine plan, distrustful of its uneven thresholds, struggling to distinguish between 11th-century catholikon and 12th-century parekklesia. Even here it was alert to persistent push notifications—the sounds, perhaps mere vibrations, that tie us to many other spaces through virtual networks that are necessarily commercial in their ends and rarely devoted to the glory of God. That disposition had followed me into the courtyard and still echoed in one ear.

The other obeyed a different economy entirely. It was marked by a resonant silence—the silence of listening, of expectation, of making time and clearing space for an encounter with God. In that liminal moment, one thing was clear: We need such places. But for most of us, they are hard to find. Our culture is not good at building silence.

Massimiliano Cremascoli

The whitewashed walls of the streets leading toward the monastery.

Silence is often associated with monastic vows. In the monastery, with its strict schedule and constrained setting, time and space conspire to nurture the possibility of quietness. That quietness is spiritual, yes, but also literal. What separates the silence from the noise on Patmos is, among other things, a thick wall.

The site of this monastery was chosen precisely for its proximity to the place where John heard from God. But John, we are told, was not here by his own choice. God put him in a place where he could listen: a small, barren island removed from the noise and the networks of the mainland—an island infamous as a place of exile. According to long-standing tradition, the revelation was given in a cave: a place of intensified silence, enclosed by walls of solid stone.

Like the cave, the monastery on Patmos is a place of palpable thickness. And that thickness is both material and immaterial.

In figurative terms, the thickness is a product of centuries of accumulated meaning and generations of careful stewardship. This architecture is not merely a fungible resource; it is not just a capital investment, nor for that matter a consumable. Founded in the 11th century, the monastery is a place where change has come slowly. One thousand years into its history, it awaits the moment that will end all time. And it stands in silent rebuke of our own, thinner, spaces. Once you have felt the thickness of such a place, even the most elegantly designed modern structures feel insubstantial.

But the thickness is also material. The Monastery of Saint John—like the tumble of smaller houses clustered around it—was built of stone. If you scan the island’s volcanic landscape, it becomes clear that this material did not travel far from quarry to building site. The monastery, we might say, is built of the same stuff as the cave. Its stonework is simple: blocks shaped by hand and fitted one on top of another. Its substance is undeniably solid and has served its purpose reasonably well for the past thousand years. Exceeding the demands of structural integrity, the walls are literally thick.

That thickness, which once served defensive purposes, today defends against intrusions of other kinds. Its sheer mass not only absorbs fluctuations in temperature; it also dampens the noisiness of the world beyond, making possible a peculiar kind of silence: the silence of a cave, the silence that allowed John to hear from God.

That same thickness does not, conversely, lend itself to other kinds of reception. The cell signal is poor, the Wi-Fi spotty. And such a structure does not readily allow for vast openings. It naturally generates a sense of enclosure, an inwardness that seems appropriate to the monastic life.

Massimiliano Cremascoli

An outcropping of volcanic rock on the island of Patmos.

Most of us do not inhabit such places. Our world is noisy, and we have never taken formal vows of silence.

We too must clear space to listen. After all, for the Christian, listening is hardly optional. The Creator endowed humanity with only one mouth but with two ears. We should, we are told, be quick to listen and slow to speak (James 1:19). To know the voice of the Shepherd is the great privilege of those who follow Christ (John 10:27). Blessed are those who hear (Rev. 1:3).

To listen well, we need quietness. That quietness is biblical—the restfulness of Sabbath, the stillness of knowing God, the solitude of the wilderness, or the space of prayer in a quiet room with a closed door. That closed door is not only a metaphor; it belongs in the same category as the thick wall, the cave, and the place of exile. These are real things, real places. For us, as for the author of Revelation, hearing God proves inextricable from bodily experience. Our lives are entanglements of the physical with the metaphysical.

So, quiet places are critical. Even in the most literal sense, sound is tied to space. Our ability to listen in stereo allows us to hear in three dimensions. We instinctively turn our heads to locate sounds, to experience the depth of specific places. And we can choose where to direct our attention. We can turn away from, or toward, a particular voice. We can choose to listen.

But some places are more conducive to listening than others. Our world is getting noisier, and finding quietness is more difficult than it used to be. Surviving pockets of silence have risen in value as they have become rarer, just as dark-sky landscapes have become more precious in an urban age.

In other ways, too, we may need to work harder to achieve a quietness that is receptive to the voice of God. Our culture bombards us with competing media, not least the voices of advertising, politics, and entertainment—the lines between them increasingly blurred, the intensity of their signals stronger than ever.

Increasingly, even our churches are not only places to hear from God but also envelopes for producing virtual content that must compete for attention with other messages—beholden not to the rhythms of the liturgical calendar but to the relentless beat of online rankings, license renewals, and software updates.

And our buildings are shaped by concerns that are profoundly restless. They share in the characteristic ethos of modernity—which, to quote the philosopher Karsten Harries, “stands in no essential relationship to the environment in which it happens to be located.” To be tied too deeply to a singular location becomes a liability, and mobility an asset. Outside of monasteries, it is vanishingly rare to encounter a lifelong commitment to a singular place. Even our electronics are mobile. And their signals follow us as we move around the world.

So, more than ever, Christians need places of stillness—places of periodic exile from a dominant culture’s networks of influence. We need them even if that exile is self-imposed. This is not in expectation of a latter-day revelation but rather to allow us to pay attention to the revelation that has already been given—to allow us to hear.

Silence also can be a gift to others. If our contemporary culture consumes vast quantities of space, place is in shorter supply, and places of quietness even more so. We live—more palpably than ever before—in a demonstrably restless world: one that longs, in its moments of clarity, for spiritual quietness. If we are to take seriously Augustine’s claim that our hearts are restless until they rest in God, then it follows that the proclamation of the gospel must find its counterpart in the clearing of spaces and the making of places that nurture the peculiar silence of listening. And not just listening, but listening to the voice of God.

Where noise and distraction are the rule and stillness the exception, sustained silence can be transformative—provoking questions that demand answers and prompt a reckoning with our very existence within the larger expanse of time and space. Not for nothing are the nations given the great injunction of Psalm 46:10: “Be still, and know that I am God.”

Yet it is hard to make room for stillness. And it is difficult to build structures of the sort of quiet integrity that informs the monastery of Patmos. Our built environment follows a different logic—one that resists thickness and conspires against attentiveness.

This is true in a literal sense. As a culture, we have moved away from thick construction. We build walls of thin layers separated by insulating air gaps; we deal, in other words, in the paradox of the cavity wall—an oxymoron of sorts, a contradiction in terms.

In practice, the word wall is today more aptly replaced by the term building envelope—typically a composite of manufactured materials whose brand names are printed on their surfaces precisely because they are otherwise unnameable.

Before exterior cladding is applied, our houses are wrapped in what might technically be described as super-calendared, flash-spun, wet-laid, non-woven, high-density polyethylene thermoplastics. Even structures that are ostensibly built of masonry are composed, at best, of a thin veneer of stone or brick overlaid onto something else. At worst, the would-be masonry is a printed sheet, a manufactured, lightweight, cost-efficient, code-compliant, water-resistant, single-use, self-adhesive, multihyphenate, acrylic-polymer brick-pattern stencil pressed into a layer of synthetic stucco reinforced with fiberglass mesh on an expanded polystyrene insulation backing board adhered to an acceptable structural substrate.

Such materials travel vast distances from factories to distribution centers to building sites. Inherently light, the cost of their transportation has more to do with the expense of moving the truck than with the weight of the material.

This has its advantages. Setting aside the glories of modern chemistry and the wonders of contemporary logistics, thin surfaces make it easier to run wires; to install conduit; and to fit ductwork, cables, sensors, thermostats, smoke detectors, fire alarms, exit signs, lighting controls, security systems, microphones, video cameras, speaker systems, videoconferencing equipment, and Wi-Fi boosters. Our buildings become more nimble, more adaptable to rapid change.

Yet such buildings rarely belong to their particular places in the way that is true for the Monastery of Saint John. They obey different laws; they are built on different schedules; they emerge from different constraints. And they are less committed to their own physical existence.

Ironically, a culture of staggering material wealth no longer invests meaningfully in material culture. The past century has produced a progressive reduction of expectations. If solid buildings could once be projected to last 150 years or more, many are now ready for major renovations within 15.

Such buildings rarely possess the quietude of their forebears. Thin walls are no match for thickness.

But places of quietness may be deliberately countercultural. In AD 1088, the abbot Christodoulos sought permission from the Byzantine emperor to found a monastery on Patmos. It was a bold venture on a site that was largely uninhabited but where the voice of God had once been heard with unusual clarity.

For a thousand years since, the monks have devoted their lives to maintaining its witness. More recent efforts (including by organizations like UNESCO) have labored to preserve the site. The construction of quietness has always been hard work.

It bears noting that quietness does not imply retreat. On the contrary, it may sustain the advance of the gospel. The quietness of Patmos has tended not toward isolation but toward a deeper engagement with the place and its people. Its monastic population is closely tied to the island community, who grew up around the monastery and supplied most of its novices. Its materials are intensely local. Its massing is responsive to local climate and immediate geography. And its architectural vocabulary derives, however humbly, from the long history of classical building, with its ancient connections to Europe, Asia Minor, and Africa.

As an institution, the monastery is deeply conscious of the history of its site and its proximity both to the Cave of the Apocalypse and to the prior temple to Artemis—built in sympathy with one and in contradiction to the other.

Over the years, it has remained conscious, too, of threats from the mainland—from Venetians, from Turks, from marauding pirates. Today it maintains a modest website, in Greek, and a less modest library that has participated for many centuries in the exchange of international scholarship. Throughout its history, it has also received pilgrims from around the Aegean. It now welcomes—with caution—visitors from farther afield, remaining careful to preserve the quietness of the place.

Fortunately for the monks, most of us are not within easy reach of Patmos.

Massimiliano Cremascoli

The bells of the Monastery of Saint John the Theologian.

And here lies an opportunity. Beyond the shores of Patmos, in more ordinary places, Christians are invited to make room for silence. This task is more critical than ever before. And it is, among other things, an architectural challenge. It requires a renewed commitment to that peculiar thickness of which the Monastery of Saint John is such a vivid example.

Achieving such thickness demands effort across every domain, in projects large and small. Just as the term quietude spills over from the domain of sound into the domain of spirit, so here the word thickness must address both material and immaterial concerns.

The challenge, to be clear, is not easily addressed by adjusting consumer choices. There is no quick fix. And while the undertaking is costly, the problem will not be solved just by making more expensive purchases. A culture that has traded place for space and quietness for noise cannot simply buy its way out.

The challenge runs deeper. It is a question of meaning—of how and why, as a society, we build.

The task begins with a rediscovery of real materials—of which we can expect to know the sources and makers. It places a premium on qualities of integrity and simplicity: words with immaterial weight that apply nonetheless to material objects. And it calls for peculiar forms of expertise: the expertise of those who can read into the very outlines of the topography the hand of its creator, or recognize in the very grain of wood the veins of his mercy.

At a much larger scale, it may involve new patterns of sourcing, new supply chains, new delivery mechanisms, negotiations for the reopening of local quarries, conversations with the owners of nearby forests. It may require new ways of working; architects willing to scan a longer horizon; and builders willing to learn old habits, build thick walls, and pass on the skills needed for projects that do not aspire to fast-track completion. It may demand a resolve to wrestle with building codes and ordinances that are not drawn up with such ends in mind, and a readiness to forgo the financing mechanisms of the 15-month construction loan and 15-year mortgage. The work of the church will not be fully accomplished, after all, until the end of time.

It also involves rediscovering what it means to be placed by God in a particular location, honoring the features unique to that place and deepening investment in its people. That in turn demands a devotion to real, sustained relationship—investing for the long term in a future to which only the church of Christ can look with full confidence. This work must be pursued in community through time—building a culture of stewardship across generations, with grandparents who remember stories of God’s faithfulness and parents who commit to orienting their children’s children toward the voice of God.

But above all, it requires wrestling with questions that have been neglected by modernity. Only the church can hope to undo the relentless hollowing out of meaning in a culture that has lost sight of how architecture conveys theological truth, that fails to see the connection between material and immaterial, that has no concept of the thicker spiritual reality that shapes our thinly embodied existence.

This is a daunting task.

But it may yet contribute to building the church—not just the house of God, but the people of God—and to making places that draw those who recognize the value of silence when they hear it. It may yet build an architecture that attends to revelation, that welcomes others to cluster around and to build their homes and their lives in the shelter of God’s truth. And it may yet prove a blessing to those who hear, in anticipation of that day when to us, too, will be revealed the walls of the New Jerusalem, and we will stand within a place of absolute thickness, surrounded by a great multitude singing with full voice.

Kyle Dugdale is an architect, historian, and senior critic at Yale School of Architecture, where he teaches history, theory, and design. His latest book is titled Architecture After God.

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Church Life

The ‘Unreached’ Aren’t Over There

Samuel Law

Singapore-based missiologist argues that the term “unreached people group” is a misnomer and can feed a romanticized notion of missions.

Illustration by Jisu Choi

The term unreached people groups is increasingly a misnomer in the 21st century. We need a more vivid phrase to encapsulate the dynamism and fluidity of missions today. The growth of Majority World missions also underscores the importance of localized missions and ought to remind us that we should not view the world as either “reached” or “unreached” anymore.

As a missiology professor in Southeast Asia, I struggle to use the term in class because it is dismissive of the current complexities of missions. Proponents of unreached people groups often lament that only 1 percent of missionaries serve among the world’s least-Christian peoples in the world. But this statistic creates a false picture of today’s missions landscape. It fails to recognize the role of indigenous churches and their members throughout the history of missions.

Courses on this subject in many seminaries and Bible colleges generally center the accomplishments of individual Western missionaries. While we must never diminish individual efforts and sacrifices, we can consider how churches, not individuals, have always been the prime movers in missions, as church historian Dana Robert argues in her book Christian Mission: How Christianity Became a World Religion.

Many Majority World churches are minorities in their communities. They often read the Great Commission in Matthew 28:18–20 and the call to be God’s witnesses in Acts 1:8 as an imperative for every Christian rather than for a select few. Reaching the “unreached” in these minority Christians’ eyes is not something that only those who are qualified to preach or teach do. Rather, they encounter the unreached every day as they live in homes with altars to other gods or are forced to participate in non-Christian rituals and customs.

In 2019, I visited the Santal tribe in Jharkhand, India. Once a region considered a “graveyard of missionaries” for its remoteness and for Hindu nationalists’ persecution of Christians, the Santal are now seen as a “reached” group. This largely took place because of missionaries sent by churches from Kerala, India, rather than through Western missionary efforts.

Today, the Santal church evangelizes to neighboring tribes that are categorized as unreached, but it does not think of them this way. The Santal think of evangelism as a natural outworking of their faith.

I have repeatedly witnessed this type of story in my visits to Nepal, Cambodia, and Thailand. Local churches, rather than missions agencies, are effectively spreading the gospel by multiplication through caring for their neighbors and carrying out good works (Eph. 2:10). Sending Western missionaries to unreached Majority World people groups is currently a less urgent need than before, as 21st century Majority World churches now possess the means, methods, and motivation to reach their neighbors.

The location of the “unreached” is also changing. In the first century, most Christians were situated around the Mediterranean basin, and by the 1900s, there were parts of the world that believers had never set foot in. Now, however, churches and communities can be found in almost every geographical region, according to the Atlas of Global Christianity. Consequently, the term unreached people groups has lost its meaning today.

Christianity is growing more rapidly in the Majority World than in the West. African and Asian churches are experiencing the fastest growth in the faith, the Center for the Study of Global Christianity observed in a 2024 report.

When we do not recognize how the locus of Christian growth is shifting, we create a romanticized view of missionaries, focusing on fulfilling the “ends of the earth” portion of Acts 1:8 while neglecting our own Jerusalems. This idealization of mission work often results in the inefficient, and even detrimental, allocation of personnel and resources.

In 2018, 26-year-old American missionary John Allen Chau was killed by the Sentinelese, one of the most isolated tribes in the world, after attempting to contact them. I do not doubt Chau’s fervor and zeal for Christ, but I wish he had partnered with Christians in the region, who make up roughly 20 percent of the population on the Andaman Islands, before embarking on his mission.

Additionally, a traditional view of the term—which often assumes that the “unreached” are only in the Majority World—fails to address the term’s implicit Western bias. But the West is becoming unreached again, British missiologist Lesslie Newbigin and pastor Tim Keller warned. Missions to the West, where the vast majority of youth have no religious affiliation or have never heard the gospel, is just as vital as going to people groups in far-flung corners of the globe.

To move beyond a binary understanding of people as “reached” and “unreached” and to illustrate a multidirectional approach to missions more clearly, I use a metaphor of a waffle to describe missions in my classes.

This image draws from the “spreading and filling” process found in passages like Genesis 1, the conquest of Canaan in the Book of Joshua, and the Book of Acts. We have an existing worldwide Christian network, with churches as the raised grids of a waffle thanks to the tireless work of mission pioneers like Adoniram and Ann Judson, who ventured to Calcutta (Kolkata), India, and Burma (Myanmar) in the 1800s.

What is most needed now is to galvanize the filling of the waffle’s voids—areas of the world with little or no active Christian mission. These voids signify the unreached people in our neighborhoods and cities who are closed off to the gospel message. Churches can act as the syrup that infuses these voids by proclaiming the gospel, exercising the love of Christ, and spurring each other on toward love and good deeds (Heb. 10:24). The Bible consistently calls Christians to holistic and integral service toward not only the lost but also the least and the last (Deut. 10:18–19; 1 Pet. 2:9–12).

If we understand missions as a slow, steady pouring out of all that God has given us—like how thick, golden syrup spreads over a waffle and gradually fills all its grids—we will come to recognize that speaking of God’s mercy, love, and grace remains necessary in our Jerusalems as well as at the ends of the earth. Until the Lord returns, may we never cease in telling people near and far about how God’s words are “sweeter than honey” to our mouths (Ps. 119:103).

Samuel Law is associate professor for intercultural studies and dean of advanced studies at Singapore Bible College, as well as the pastor at large for the Evangelical Chinese Church of Seattle.

This article appeared in the November/December 2025 issue of Christianity Today as "We Need a New Metaphor".

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Ideas

Redlining, Monasteries, and Refugees

Ashley Hales

Staff Editor

A note from CT’s editorial director in our November/December issue.

While many of us like to think of ourselves as self-made individuals, we are not so neatly defined or isolated. Our DNA bears genetic material from generations past. We pass along family stories at the dinner table. From food preferences to sports rivalries, we take on the stories, songs, and palates of our people.

Places shape our affections too—from homes, neighborhoods, and nations to flora, fauna, and topography. While we may recall how our childhood homes influenced us (Did you slide down the banister on Christmas morning?), often what we no longer notice exerts defining power over what we consider “normal.”

The import of place can easily go unnoticed. Some of a place’s constraints are given by governments or institutions—consider how sidewalks, zoning laws, and church buildings shape our daily and weekly rhythms—while other constraints offer us more creativity and agency, such as starting a garden plot, picking a paint color, or hosting a holiday party. (Don’t miss hospitality recommendations on page 26.)

What might a place, with its particular quirks, teach us?

In this issue, you’ll read about a monastery on the island of Patmos from architect Kyle Dugdale. He explains how quiet, thick places are primed for revelation (p. 44). Andrew Faulk’s photo essay on an Ethiopian pilgrimage site will open your eyes to the sacredness of place (p. 52). Three book reviews also consider how very different places—Ukraine, Colorado Springs, and urban inner cities—shape our learning and ministries (p. 64).

But places aren’t always invitations. Ann Voskamp chronicles displacement in the faces of refugees while noting that God’s will is the surest place in which to find ourselves (p. 58). You’ll read about redlining from city planner Mark Bjelland (p. 71) and, from Deborah Haarsma, how the immensity of outer space challenges any simplistic understanding of who God is (p. 34).

Finally, read Andy Olsen’s excellent reporting in his sweeping story “An American Deportation” (p. 74). You’ve likely noticed an uptick in CT’s coverage of immigration and deportation since earlier this year. This reported feature is a multigenerational saga of one immigrant family, the Gonzalezes.

And CT is uniquely poised to tell it. Although “An American Deportation” dovetails with much mainstream coverage on immigration issues, it digs into more complexities than are often told. It traces the cracks in the system and in each human heart and reminds us that policies always have a human face.

It is also a redemption tale—of personal salvation and of a church who rallied, prayed, and supported a family in need. It reminds us that, no matter where we call home, no matter if we are literally or figuratively out of place, we have a place to belong with Christ and his people.

As you gather around a table this holiday season, pay attention to the people around your table—but also pay attention to what sort of place you’re a part of. Who isn’t at your table? Who could be? What sort of story does your place tell? We hope the words you read here are a call to a generous posture of hospitality and welcome, wherever you find yourself.

Ashley Hales is editorial director, features at Christianity Today.

This article appeared in the November/December 2025 issue of Christianity Today as "Editor's Note".

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Books

Review

Picking Up Snakes and Putting Down Roots

Matt Reynolds

We’re right to be wary of the perils of thin community, like loss of meaning and, attachment to screens. But thick communities have woes too.

Illustration by Ronan Lynam

Of all the potential pathways into the world of snake-handling religion, Dennis Covington’s surely stands among the unlikeliest.

In 1992, Covington worked as a freelance reporter for The New York Times, covering his hometown of Birmingham, Alabama. On a routine call to discuss story ideas, his editor suggested checking out a local trial involving a holiness pastor from Scottsboro, a small mountain town about 100 miles northeast. Authorities had accused this man of contriving to kill his wife with rattlesnakes—the same rattlesnakes that made regular appearances at his church.

Covington hesitated, fearing he’d further an image of Southerners as ignorant yokels. Still, he took the assignment, writing up the trial and getting to know the central characters. Before long, journalistic duty begat personal curiosity, the fruits of which Covington details in his 1995 memoir Salvation on Sand Mountain: Snake Handling and Redemption in Southern Appalachia.

The book recounts Covington’s journey into a backwoods charismatic subculture with scattered outposts across Alabama, Georgia, Tennessee, Kentucky, and West Virginia. In visits to converted service stations, revival tents, and other destinations off the beaten path, he witnesses the faithful handling deadly serpents and gulping down a pesticide compound called strychnine.

Covington starts off as a sympathetic observer. He marvels at the sheer physical courage on display. He resonates with shows of ecstatic worship and spiritual fervor, welcoming the contrast with his pleasant Southern Baptist congregation in Birmingham. He senses God’s enlivening presence in these communities, which take inspiration from Jesus’ bold claims about his disciples in Mark 16:18: “They will pick up snakes with their hands; and when they drink deadly poison, it will not hurt them at all.”

Over time, Covington’s interest in snake-handling spirituality intensifies. He feels a mysterious pull toward these gatherings, becoming something more than a friendly interloper. Parts of his personal history—a childhood fascination with snakes, hints of Appalachian ancestry, an insatiable thirst for danger—strike him as signposts. It comes as little surprise when, finally, Covington takes up snakes himself.

Is the wild branch grafted onto the family tree? Not exactly. Covington is an outsider wrestling with questions of belonging. But the experienced snake handlers aren’t confused about who they are and where they come from. Most can trace their traditions back through parents and grandparents. Covington movingly describes the binding force of their shared cultural heritage, rooted in an ongoing friction between old Appalachian customs and modern American mores.

To borrow the current sociological vernacular, snake handlers inhabit a “thick” community. They’re an exceptionally tight-knit bunch. Local congregations meet frequently, and regular “homecoming” events function as extended family reunions. Marrying within the community is the norm.

Thickness also shows up in the exceptionally high demands snake-handling faith makes of its followers. They have the scars—and hospital records and funeral certificates—to prove it. Recalling his own experience of dodging death as a war correspondent in 1980s El Salvador, Covington aptly observes that when snake handlers recall biting incidents—often with mordant matter-of-factness or liberal helpings of gallows humor—they aren’t dusting off quirky family folklore. They’re telling war stories, with all the foxhole solidarity that implies.

A great deal of today’s cultural commentary sings the praises of thick communities and considers strategies for reviving them. We’re acutely aware of the perils of thinness: lack of purpose, loss of meaning, loneliness, addiction, attachment to screens. For Christians, this all makes sense: Scripture speaks of covenants, not casual commitments. Jesus speaks of carrying your cross and hating your closest family for his sake.

Still, Covington’s memoir made me ponder certain factors that complicate our rush to extol thick communities. For one thing, there are limits to a simple binary of thick versus thin.

As Covington portrays it, snake-handling culture is thick in some respects and strangely thin in others. A lack of ecclesial structure or denominational oversight allows elements of theological weirdness to creep in, some of it bearing on matters less exotic than the snakes themselves. I was surprised to learn of“Jesus Name” or “Jesus Only” churches that reject Nicene orthodoxy, mocking the Trinity as a heresy of “three-God people.”

Proponents of thick communities can also skim over the plight of misfits and outcasts. In his closing chapters, Covington introduces a Kentucky man named Elvis Presley Saylor, a consistent but unwelcome presence at snake-handling events. Fellow worshipers treat him as Satan incarnate, hurling epithets like “the wicked one” within earshot.

Saylor claims he aroused their ire by taking a second wife after the first left him for a snake-handling preacher. His situation sounds complicated, perhaps more so than he lets on. It also sounds like something better addressed by wise pastoral counsel than imprecations and anathemas. Why does he keep enduring this abuse instead of trying a different church? As Covington comments, snake handling represents the “only religious establishment” he knows. Staying is painful, but leaving is unthinkable.

Saylor’s dilemma feels especially tragic when set against Covington’s own falling out with the handlers, which was awkward but hardly acrimonious. It unfolds after a preacher delivers some uncharacteristically belligerent remarks about a “woman’s place,” aimed indirectly but unmistakably at Covington’s wife (a deacon in their Birmingham church) and a female photographer assigned to his reporting project.

Oddly enough, Covington had received his first invitation to preach just before the same meeting, without knowing the provocation in store. When his turn arrives, the congregation lets him land a good counterpunch. But everyone seems to calmly apprehend that his snake-handling journey has run its course.

“Endings,” Covington reflects without bitterness, “are the most important part of stories. They grow inevitably from the stories themselves.” That may be good journalistic advice, though I question how well it translates into the realm of church community and membership. Christ-ian fellowship means something more than a succession of chapters that open and close at our own discerning.

Still, at a time when prominent thinkers celebrate thick community as a check on individualism run amok, we shouldn’t forget those at risk of suffocating underneath. If “not all those who wander are lost,” then not all those who stand still are found.

Matt Reynolds is former senior books editor for Christianity Today.

The Beckoning Nightstand

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Church Life

Geography Matters More Than You Think

Matthew Hirt

American biblical scholar affirms the urgency and relevance of reaching the unreached in fulfilling the Great Commission.

Illustration by Jisu Choi

The idea of unreached people groups is still relevant, useful, and helpful for missions today. Scripture is unequivocal about how God works through us and in us to tell the world about Christ.

Because the mandate and scope of missions originate in Scripture, our understanding of the task must draw from Scripture. Additionally, a biblical understanding of other concepts, especially geography, must be recovered in pursuit of a fuller and more robust definition of people groups.

The traditional definition of people groups is problematic, as it focuses only on social factors. Its definition, established in 1982 by the Lausanne Strategy Working Group, starts with “a significantly large sociological grouping of individuals who perceive themselves to have a common affinity for one another.”

For decades, ethnicity and language have been the commonalities that missiologists and missionaries emphasized when evaluating how to reach the unreached. Organizations like Joshua Project still rely on the 1982 definition and primarily support adopting ethnolinguistic approaches in mission strategies and fieldwork.

However, categories like place and environment are essential components in making God’s name known, as the Bible shows. In Genesis 10, the nations have an intrinsic awareness of their geography. The descendants of Japheth, Ham, and Shem are separated by their “families, languages, lands and nations” (Gen. 10:20, NLV). The Great Commission as described in Luke and Acts defines the spread of the gospel geographically (Luke 24:47; Acts 1:8). Paul also takes Roman geography into account when he says that he has proclaimed the gospel from Jerusalem around to Illyricum, the Latin name of a province (Rom. 15:19). Even though Paul is writing in Greek, he uses geographical terms in a vernacular tongue to establish a connection with his Roman audience.

Scripture declares that all of creation, humanity included, will recognize God as Lord over all. As Psalm 22:27 says, “All the ends of the earth will remember and turn to the Lord, and all the families of the nations will bow down before him.” Phrases like “the ends of the earth” aren’t merely descriptive or incidental. Rather, they reflect that our sense of where God has placed us and the landscape of the area we inhabit are important to him.

Geography matters to God. It should be part of how we understand people groups and how we are to reach the “unreached” today. We can examine people groups’ connection to their land, how they tend to it and cultivate it, and what that might reveal about their perspectives of God, creation, and humanity.

Unreached as a descriptive qualifier for people groups also retains its relevance because we still have an obligation to go to the lost. All peoples around the world are an integral part of the psalmist’s proclamation, including displaced people, refugees, and those in India, Pakistan, Indonesia, Bangladesh, and China—the five countries with the most unreached people.

The interconnectedness of our world does not mean that people are any more able to receive a relevant, understandable gospel presentation and be discipled. About two-thirds of people worldwide are active internet users, but that leaves another third who are not as digitally connected.

Around 3.4 billion people have not had an opportunity to hear the gospel in a language or method they understand. If their neighborhoods do not have established churches that can communicate the gospel well and serve as bases for discipleship, fellowship, and missional equipping, then a major gap between initial people-group engagement and Great Commission fulfillment still exists.

How do we address this gap well? We can start by recognizing that reaching a people group requires more than speaking digitally or physically. We can deepen our awareness of missional pitfalls, like when we become so focused on getting to the “all” that we do not take the time to “make disciples” by baptizing them and teaching them to obey Christ’s commands.

We can also shift our perspective of God’s mission from one that is numerically driven to one that is geographically rooted. God is responsible for our salvation, but in his sovereignty, he commands us to go to the lost peoples and places of this earth. He chooses us as his instruments for making disciples of all nations. As Romans 10:14–15 says, “How, then, can they call on the one they have not believed in? And how can they believe in the one of whom they have not heard? And how can they hear without someone preaching to them? And how can anyone preach unless they are sent?”

We see many examples of God exhorting people to go in obedience throughout Scripture. In Deuteronomy 20, God explains that while Israel’s military victories are his, Israel still must fight its enemies (v. 4). Israel is not absolved of taking up arms simply because victory belongs to the Lord.

In Acts 2, after the disciples are filled with the Holy Spirit, Peter speaks to the bewildered crowd in Jerusalem. He declares that they will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit when they repent and are baptized, a promise that is “for you and your children and for all who are far off” (vv. 38–39). And Paul explains to the Corinthian church that while God is responsible for their spiritual growth, Paul planted the seed and Apollos watered it, as coworkers engaged in the task that God had given them (1 Cor. 3:6–9).

Like Paul and Apollos, we go to the unreached because there is no other God-ordained method whereby people will hear the gospel in ways they can understand. As we discover and get familiar with opportunities and challenges arising from people groups’ geography, we can better teach and preach in culturally relevant ways.

From the call of Abram to leave his country and his people in Genesis 12 to the great multitude of people from every nation, tribe, people, and language praising God in Revelation 7, Scripture’s view of mission is expansive and exuberant. It is a picture of God’s overwhelming grace, mercy, and love for humanity.

This picture is what ought to inspire us to go to the unreached—not simply because it is a duty to fulfill as God’s children but also because we, the church, are active participants in God’s plan to redeem the nations. For unreached peoples to know who God is, they need believers in their lands: ordinary, flawed, but also Spirit-filled, patient in affliction, and unshakably hopeful (Rom. 12:12). Let’s break out of our insularity and apathy and heed God’s resounding call.

Matthew Hirt is assistant professor of intercultural studies at North Greenville University. He is the author of People and Places: How Geography Impacts Missions Strategy.

This article appeared in the November/December 2025 issue of Christianity Today as "The Term Still Galvanizes Mission".

- More from Matthew Hirt

Culture

People Always Ruin Christmas

Clare Coffey

Celebrate anyway.

Illustration by Silvia Reginato

In every family’s lore, peripheral characters pop up here and there, sometimes for a span of a few years, sometimes for decades. As you survey your memory, you will see them there—not doing or saying much, not playing major roles in any dramas of the day, but simply in the background.

My family seems to attract a particular type of peripheral character: people who have few intimate attachments or are estranged from the ones they started with. They are a little quirky—sometimes you might go so far as to say “a little off.” In short, they are loners. They worked with my dad or ran into my aunt at morning Mass and were somehow claimed by us. From then on (perhaps against their own will, for all I know), they were drawn into the current of my family’s life. They tagged along. They appeared at birthdays and Fourth of July parties and Sunday afternoon visits, and they came over for Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve, in particular, is where I see these people, year after year, in my memory.

At least once, I complained to my parents. Strangers on Christmas Eve, unless they came bearing gifts, did nothing to endear themselves to my rapacious little heart. They put us on company manners. They forced us into the awkward, shuffling, small-talk routine peculiar to adults and children. They competed for my parents’ attention. They changed the dynamic.

Why couldn’t it just be us at Christmas? Why, tonight of all nights, could we not simply enjoy the giddy closeness and warmth, the endless inside joke that is a happy domestic party? I think the answer was something like, “We’ve been given so much, and other people so little. And it’s Christmas. People shouldn’t be alone at Christmas.”

If we’ve been given so much, I thought, then how come the pepperoni on the cheese tray always goes so fast? But adulthood is one long exercise in admitting your parents were right, and now I do.

Not that there wasn’t truth to my complaints, hardhearted as they might have been. You really do lose something precious and fragile when you invite in strangers. Many lonely people are lonely for a reason—unable or unwilling to give and take the way most do, embittered or driven by alienating compulsions.

And I would bet money that the gift we offered was a mixed blessing. I have been in this position many times, far from home at Christmas, relying on the graciousness of friends to include me in their family circles. At a certain point of heartsickness, the sting of always enjoying by grace what others enjoy by right competes with gratitude. You long for the people for whom you are first. It would be a very hard thing to have no such people.

There is a wound embedded in the structure of hospitality—the fact that to be welcomed in, someone has to be on the outside first. Someone always has to play the part of Odysseus, bereft and supplicant, even if only in the most vestigial and symbolic sense, as when neighbors reciprocate visits.

Still, it’s better not to be alone on Christmas. I have never turned down an invitation to turkey dinner. And I am grateful that none of the people we invited over the years ever turned us down, even if sometimes it came at a cost I will never fully understand. If nothing else, I am glad that, early in life, they muddied up my nice Christmas Eve.

What constitutes a nice Christmas Eve anyway? If you are of Italian extraction, like many of my friends and relations, the answer is not just pepperoni but probably several different species of fish: calamari fried in crunchy, lemon-scented rings; sardines layered with red peppers on an antipastos board slick with olive oil; bread dipped in whipped salt cod. For myself, a nice Christmas Eve is the vigil Mass, then decorating the tree by firelight; reading a story to the younger generation, who in this ideal scene have been flown in along with their parents; then champagne, fancy little bites of puff pastry and artisan ham, and the rug rolled back for dancing.

In purely material terms, we all have our nice Christmases, usually in the form of to-do lists. We need to go get firewood from that guy in the pines who sells it crazy cheap; we need to pick up a case of bubbly; we need to make sure the children’s stockings haven’t molded during their time in the basement; we need to make dough and peel potatoes and acquire, slice, brine, and stuff various meats. And as stressful as these preparations sometimes are, they’re not bad. It is an irony of the human condition that 15 hours of work often go into any three hours of revelry—and an even stranger irony that this bad exchange is usually, somehow, so very satisfying.

But something stalks the footsteps of the material, champagne-and-calamari, to-do-list version of Christmas. It is a doppelgänger, more seductive and somehow even more demanding. It is the Perfect Christmas.

The Perfect Christmas turns the mundane to-do list into scaffolding for the emotional consummation of a hundred cross-hatched desires. If we work hard enough, happiness will come easily. If we take the perfect Christmas card photo, if we set the perfect festive tablescape and cook the perfect prime rib (if anyone knows an idiot-proof method for this, please get in touch), if we purchase and receive the perfect gifts, we will be happy and know ourselves to be happy and be seen to be happy and know that we are seen to be happy—with all these layers of refraction never compromising the snowflake purity and refulgence of that immediate, satiating happiness.

So often, the happiness we desire is domestic in nature, that closed circle of giddy warmth. Christmas is the time of year when families come together, which means that Christmas is our chance to make up for all those days of the year spent in separate rooms, all that time spent ignoring each other on our phones. Christmas, one perfect day, is our chance to erase the quarrels and sloth and apathy, the squalid minutiae. On our Perfect Christmas, we will get to experience what being a family is all about.

Until, of course, people ruin it, as they always do, with their squabbles, failures, needs, competing points of view, and a hundred other potential points of departure from the vision board. The Perfect Christmas—an ideal that can be constructed and pursued without its maker ever becoming aware of it—usually suffers death by a thousand cuts from the sharp edge of reality.

Just as with hospitality, there is a corresponding wound, an ache embedded in family life that emerges when we are most immersed in its delights. It is the gap, however miniscule, between what we hope for, what should be, what we may feel hidden beneath the fleshly moment-to-moment reality—and what we actually experience. To fight the gap by chasing after the Perfect Christmas is a short road to tears.

Hospitality is mysterious: a transcendent correction to the problem of exclusion that retains and even emphasizes the pain that it turns into joy. Family life is mysterious: a burning core of the solidarity and communion for which humans were made that always reveals a shortfall in the moment of its happiest achievement. Hospitality and family are among the sweetest things we experience in this life precisely because the desires involved will never be perfectly satisfied in this world. The joy and the pain both point us to something beyond them.

So, bring out the prime rib and puff pastry or slice-and-bake cookies. Do things differently for a day. Extend the invitation. Make the invitees feel special, and ask nothing in return. People shouldn’t be alone at Christmas. The imperfect Christmas will mean unfinished to-do lists, hurt feelings, disappointments, awkward silences, boring conversations, the pepperoni on the cheese board disappearing too fast. It will mean songs and colored lights and homecomings and Waterford crystal, and it will make you so very happy but never happy enough. Celebrate it anyway. The celebration will never make us happy enough, but the reason we celebrate will.

Christmas proclaims, among other things, our place around the divine hearth, the intimate circle where we enjoy all the unquestioned rights of heirs, all by the humbling generosity of grace (Rom. 8:17). We are beloved children of the house, but we were once beggarly strangers asking for space in the stable (Luke 2:7). In this life, at any given moment, we are asked to play one or the other. May we never forget that we are either. May we always rejoice that we have been both.

Clare Coffey is a writer whose work can be found in Plough, The New Atlantis, and elsewhere.

This article appeared in the November/December 2025 issue of Christianity Today as "The Imperfect Christmas".

- More from Clare Coffey

Books

Review

Most of Perpetua’s Life Is a Mystery. Not Her Love for Her Church.

Nadya Williams

But Sarah Ruden’s new biography of the martyr dismisses her Christian community as misogynist.

Illustration by Christianity Today / Source Images: Getty, Yale University Press

In the spring semester of anno Domini 2000, I was a first-year college student enrolled in a survey of Roman history. It was there that I first read the Passion of Saints Perpetua and Felicity. Included in the printed packet of course readings were brief comments and discussion questions from the professor, Elizabeth Meyer. Introducing the text, she described it as “stunning.” And to 18-year-old me, it was.

And it still is, on every successive re-reading throughout the quarter century that has elapsed since my first encounter. I’m not alone. In my 15 years of teaching this text nearly every semester in survey classes, I’ve noticed that Perpetua and Felicity is one of the rare assignments that universally grabs students’ attention. Something about it speaks to both professional historians and college freshmen with minimal interest in history, to devout Christians and agnostics, to readers young and old.

To explain why, a brief orientation may be helpful. Two young women, Perpetua and Felicity, were martyred for their faith alongside other Christians in Carthage on March 7, AD 203. Perpetua was a respectable young matron with a nursing toddler. Felicity (or Felicitas, in Latin) was a pregnant slave.

Following her arrest and during her subsequent imprisonment while awaiting execution, Perpetua did something remarkable, a first for a Christian woman: She kept her own prison journal, interspersing real events from her life in these final months with vivid visions. After her death, an unnamed editor added an introduction and a conclusion (narrating the actual martyrdom) and published her journal.

The editor also included the shorter journal of Saturus, also martyred on this occasion—although his account gets lost in the shadow that Perpetua’s more prominent narrative casts over the document. I’ve read Saturus’ account time and again, but I still can’t really say anything about it. It’s remarkably forgettable. Felicity left no writing—as a slave, she was likely illiterate—but the editor mentions her both in the introduction and in the concluding portion that describes the martyrdom itself.

Perpetua’s journal is, by necessity, autobiographical. We get to know her in one place (prison) and time (the last days of her life). But might we be able to broaden the lens and tell her life story more completely?

That is the aim of Sarah Ruden’s new biography Perpetua: The Woman, the Martyr, part of the remarkable Ancient Lives series from Yale University Press. Previous biographies, most notably Barbara Gold’s Perpetua: Athlete of God, have been heavily academic. Ruden aims to introduce Perpetua to thoughtful general readers.

In many ways, Ruden is the obvious candidate for the task. She is a well-known translator of Greek and Roman classics who has also written extensively about early Christianity and has even translated the Gospels. She is also a Quaker—meaning she comes at these texts from the perspective of a believer who has at least some sympathy for a figure like Perpetua. As Ruden notes in her introduction, “Socrates, Perpetua, Dietrich Bonhoeffer—it is fascinating to hear (even if only indirectly) of martyrdom from its practitioners.” Ruden has also written one previous biography—of the Roman poet Vergil—for the Ancient Lives series. She comes to this project well-versed in the difficult art of constructing a life story from mere traces of footprints eroded by time.

There is much to appreciate about the results. Ruden’s writing is characteristically accessible for nonspecialists. She includes her own translation of Perpetua’s reflections at the back of the volume; I would recommend those new to the account begin there. The translation aims to be colloquial, to convey the simplicity and lack of rhetorical artifice from Perpetua herself. Ruden’s analysis of the text’s literary features is undoubtedly the highlight of this book.

It can be tempting to idealize Perpetua’s writing style. At one extreme, she becomes a thoughtful and educated rhetorician simply because she dared write at a time when most women did not. A halo tends to attach itself to “firsts”: in this case, the first Christian woman writer.

At the other extreme, it’s easy to dismiss Perpetua’s prose. Considered objectively, it doesn’t quite pass muster when compared to the words of male Roman orators, like Cicero, or even church fathers, like Tertullian. We could say, “Perpetua was not a properly trained Roman writer, and it shows.” We would not be wrong—yet we would also be missing the point.

In response to both these views, Ruden recommends a parallel between Perpetua’s diary and that of Anne Frank, another writer who was decidedly not a trained professional yet whose journal we continue to find moving today when we approach it on its own terms. “What makes certain women’s writing literature in spite of everything is the superhuman-looking commitment not only to being oneself (any sociopath has that), and not only to becoming more than oneself and part of something much bigger,” reflects Ruden, “but also a commitment to sharing the imperfect and sometimes even shameful process—not always insightfully, not always honestly, but in one’s own unforgettable words.”

Ruden encourages us to read Perpetua’s writing slowly and carefully for what it can tell us about her as a person, a mother, and a Christian. These are good reminders, and the book does well to redeem Perpetua’s writing for modern readers.

Still, anyone approaching this biography with the expectation of finding a true biography—a story of a woman’s life from birth to death, or at least a broader time span than what we get in her journal—is in for a disappointment. In Gold’s earlier book about Perpetua, she was emphatic that we simply do not have enough information to write a true biography of the martyr. Ironically, though, in her reconstructions of Perpetua’s cultural, social, and historical background in Roman Carthage, Gold provided much more of a biography of Perpetua than we get in Ruden’s book, despite the latter’s insistence that this present volume is a biography.

Perpetua, Ruden admits, turned out to be a much harder subject than even Vergil, who was certainly not easy: “In my biography of Vergil, I felt I could speculate about certain turns of events (always identifying the speculation as such) because the evidence of his writings and of his social and historical context is massive, though personal information about him is skimpy. But for Perpetua, most of what we have is truth claims that do not fit together.” “Ironically,” Ruden reflects, “Perpetua’s visions are the most coherent, roundly convincing parts of her narrative.”

For an ancient biography, perhaps this is not a big worry—although, again, modern readers used to reading biographies of more recent figures about whom there is more information might be surprised.

We have no idea where and when precisely Perpetua was born (although Carthage is a major contender, another town nearby is a possibility); we don’t know her father’s precise social position (which means we don’t know Perpetua’s either); we don’t know her racial background (was she native to North Africa, or did she have some other background—e.g., Italian?); we don’t know anything about her husband or what happened to him to leave her alone with the baby at the beginning of her journal (did he die? Did he divorce her? A secret third thing?); we don’t know how she was converted; we’re not entirely sure of the details of her imprisonment, as there are several possible contradictions in her journal; finally, we don’t know for sure where she was martyred (again, Carthage is the most likely, but there are other possibilities).

Welcome to ancient history. The water is fine. It’s just very cloudy all the time.

But the real problem with this book lies in some highly idiosyncratic assumptions that Ruden brings to the text, which she strangely names the Suffering rather than the customary Passion. Deeply uncomfortable with martyrs and martyrdom accounts, Ruden criticizes the Christians who visited and encouraged Perpetua in prison for “making … cannon fodder out of susceptible people.” She repeatedly criticizes the pervasive “misogyny” that she sees as an integral feature of early Christianity—and she connects her discomfort with martyr accounts, like this one, to that devaluing of women. These are Ruden’s assumptions, which she takes as axiomatic and does not bother trying to prove in this book.

Yet the very survival of this text and accounts of other female martyrs puts these assumptions into question. Consider this: In The Missing Thread, a history of women in the ancient world up until early Christianity, historian and classicist Daisy Dunn lists an impressive catalog of ancient female writers. Virtually none of their writings survived. Why?

Perhaps because ancient readers did not respect these works as much as early Christian readers respected the work of Perpetua. The church at Carthage was the intellectual superpower of third-century Christianity. It speaks volumes that leaders in this church supported Perpetua’s writing to the point of saving this document, which would have been easy to destroy. Instead, they edited it after her martyrdom, published it, and made sure it received a reading.

In other words, an integral part of Perpetua’s story that Ruden dismisses outright is the local church, full of such “misogynistic” men as Tertullian. And yet this church was also likely the very audience Perpetua had in mind, first and foremost, when writing her journal.

In history, it is appropriate to take our primary sources’ words at face value unless they give us clear reasons to distrust their testimony. In the case of Perpetua, yes, many mysteries remain. But one thing is clear: She loved her church, and her church loved her. In our age of media obsession with dysfunctional churches, misbehaving leaders, and lukewarm believers, the stories of martyrs still offer a needed reminder of the love we should have for Christ and his bride. Most of us today are not called to die for our faith. But Perpetua’s love for her church still moves modern readers with its deep conviction.

Nadya Williams is the author of Mothers, Children, and the Body Politic: Ancient Christianity and the Recovery of Human Dignity and the forthcoming Christians Reading Classics: An Introduction to Greco-Roman Classics from Homer to Boethius.

- More from Nadya Williams

Church Life

How Can I Find a Nondenominational Ministry Job?

Karen Swallow Prior, Kevin Antlitz, and Kiara John-Charles

CT advice columnists also weigh in on neighborhood witness and awkwardness at church.

Illustration by Silvia Reginato

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

Q: In a post on our neighborhood Facebook page, a distraught lesbian woman said all Christians with traditional views of sexuality are bigots and she feels “unsafe” entering these churches when they’re used as polling places. Many people agreed with her. My husband is the pastor of one of those neighborhood churches. How can we be a witness of Christ’s love in our neighborhood while also keeping our orthodox biblical views? —Maligned in Michigan

Karen Swallow Prior: I sense a hint of shame or awkwardness that’s understandable when interacting with someone who may feel anger toward us. We all want to be treated with kindness and respect even amid disagreement on essential matters, and it may be helpful to turn questions like this around: How would we like to be treated by people whose views differ from ours?

After all, those of us in America who hold orthodox views of sexuality are increasingly in the minority, facing greater hostility and alienation from the wider culture. Perhaps we are even approaching the same level of stigma once borne by LGBTQ people.

In this sense, the early church grew in a context similar to our own. Those first Christians lived in an extremely sexually depraved culture. Yet while the New Testament describes the effects of sexual sin for all (1 Cor. 6:12–20), it prescribes a sexual ethic only for those in the church (5:12). We know that this ethic is good for the flourishing of all. Yet that goodness needs to be displayed in our own lives for others to understand and believe that truth.

So as Christians, we can model holding strong convictions in a posture of love and care for all our neighbors. On your block, that can be as simple as deliberately being the first to offer a friendly wave.

Illustration by Jack Richardson

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

Q: I’ve spent the past nine years studying theology academically and want to step into full-time ministry. But I come from a nondenominational background and so don’t have the ease of relying on a recognized denomination for a straightforward path into a ministry role. What advice would you give to a soon-to-be new grad seeking opportunities in ministry without the backing of a denomination? —Teachable in Texas

Kevin Antlitz: Whether this step is a disappointment or has always been part of your plan, I am not surprised. Good work can be hard to find, especially in the church and the academy.

You are right to mention the value of denominations. Denominations are essentially formalized networks of relationships that foster alignment in doctrine, culture, and practice. They narrow the scope of opportunities in the best way and can make it easier to find a position where you can flourish. But it’s still not easy. Finding a good position in a healthy church is more art than science—but here is some advice.

To begin, use your gifts in your local church right now. Whether this leads to a job or not, it is essential to have a community that confirms your call and is built up by your pastoral ministry. If you’re not currently serving in your local church, that’s the first move.

Next, search for a pastoral residency. These are two- to three-year pastoral positions that offer hands-on training and formation in a local church. Much as teaching hospitals train new doctors, residencies train new pastors. I’m not sure there’s a better way to learn the art of pastoring.

This too might be easier in a denomination, but the first place I’d look is Made to Flourish (an organization with which I am affiliated). It supports a diverse network of churches that offer residencies. Godspeed!

Jack Richardson

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

Illustration by Silvia Reginato

Q: My congregation is small and skews young. Among the handful of folks over 50 are an elder and his wife. She reliably greets and talks to me on Sundays, but he has never engaged with me or, to my knowledge, anyone except his adult children, who also attend. I realize some people struggle with social anxiety, but I find this behavior from a church leader off-putting. Is this worth mentioning to the pastor? —Hesitant in Hawaii

Kiara John-Charles: Being an elder is a significant responsibility within a church (Titus 1:6–9). It comes with high expectations and, often, time-consuming duties. Whatever the details, this is a role to be marked by wise counsel and leadership stemming from a mature relationship with Christ.

However, sometimes we may blur the line between biblical or church-assigned responsibilities and our personal expectations of people in ministry. Is this a failure of leadership or a clash of personalities? As you mentioned, this elder may struggle with social anxiety. Have you tried being the one to initiate a conversation with him?

I also encourage you to reflect on your desire to bring this concern to the pastor. What about the elder’s behavior do you find off-putting, and why do you want to engage with him? Sometimes we construct narratives in our minds that leave us needlessly offended or uncomfortable. While it may feel intimidating, try to start a meaningful conversation with the elder before you consider bringing in the pastor (Matt. 18:15).

Finding a point of commonality can open the door to connection. Try discussing the sermon or inviting him and his wife out for coffee. You might be pleasantly surprised—this could resolve your concern quite quickly. And in the process, you may also develop an authentic relationship with another leader of your church.

Illustration by Jack Richardson

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

This article appeared in the November/December 2025 issue of Christianity Today as "Qualms & Proverbs".

Qualms & Proverbs: Got a question for CT’s advice columnists? Email advice@christianitytoday.com. Queries may be edited for brevity and clarity.

Ideas

Charity Begins with Zoning Reforms

Mark D. Bjelland

Stewarding our neighborhoods is part of Christian hospitality.

Illustration by Mark Bischel

When my family moved to Michigan over a decade ago, we were looking for something more than a three-bedroom house in our price range. We wanted a place of beauty, refreshment, and welcome for our children and guests. As newcomers to the state, we took the location seriously. Our previous house lost value due to its small-town setting, so we worried about future property values. As an urban geographer, I mapped changes in demographics and housing prices and created bike and bus travel-time maps from work and schools.

During a frenzied two-day house-hunting trip, we toured 11 houses in city and suburban neighborhoods. We were zeroing in on a 1920s Tudor Revival when our real estate agent caught us off guard: He warned us that our favorite house was right on “the line.” I suspected he was referring to a racial divide.

Zoning maps that divide cities into districts and ordinances that specify the rules for each district were developed in the early 20th century. At the time, the concern was to give homebuyers and lenders confidence that nuisance industries or towering skyscrapers would not be built next door. But in 1926, after the Supreme Court ruled in The Village of Euclid (Ohio) v. Ambler Realty in favor of restricting apartment buildings and industries to permissible areas, zoning spread widely.

In the first half of the 20th century, housing developers also often attached racial covenants to properties, ensuring segregation, and the Federal Housing Administration encouraged racially homogenous communities. The Fair Housing Act of 1968 banned racial discrimination in housing, but that only led to a greater emphasis on zoning regulations to control neighborhood character and keep out undesirable land uses.

We ended up buying that house. According to New Deal loan-security maps from the 1930s, our current neighborhood sat between the city’s highest-rated and lowest-rated—or redlined—neighborhoods. Families here still feel the effects of those boundaries. Our home sits just inside the Grand Rapids city limits, but only three blocks away is the suburb of East Grand Rapids, where three times as many public high school graduates attend a four-year university than in Grand Rapids. Living here has forced me to pay attention to the visible and invisible dividing lines that shape our places and our Christian calling to be hospitable neighbors.

Today, communities across North America are embroiled in debates over zoning reform. When the Supreme Court upheld Euclid’s zoning laws a century ago, it did so to protect the community’s health, safety, and welfare. But in zoning so much of our urban land for detached, single-family houses, we have forgotten to consider the public welfare.

Christians value all three of these things and excel in showing hospitality in churches and in private homes. But we can also lead the way in influencing city zoning codes and the housing within them to love our current and future neighbors.

Places form people—both as individuals and as communities. In contrast to the domination of statistics and computerized mapping in his field in the late 20th century, University of Minnesota geography professor Yi-Fu Tuan advocated for attention to the human experience of place. Tuan showed that places are holistic assemblages of material environments, social relations, memories, emotions, and stories. Places powerfully influence our health, our outlooks, our politics, our friend groups, and our well-being.

For example, while all poor children face many material disadvantages, where children grow up poor also makes a difference. Where we live, especially during childhood, determines our choice of friends, classmates, and role models. Our neighborhood determines whether we have access to good schools, parks, and after-school programs.

Research shows that growing up in low-income, segregated neighborhoods lacking good schools and two-parent families has a profoundly negative effect later in life, independent of family income or race. According to the Harvard University Opportunity Atlas, 6 percent of white boys who grew up in poor households in my neighborhood were incarcerated as adults, but that rises to 19 percent just a few blocks northwest and drops below 1 percent in the suburbs a few blocks to the east.

Young adults who grew up poor in East Grand Rapids or Cascade Township earn twice as much money on average compared to those who grew up in the same economic circumstances but a few blocks away in my Grand Rapids neighborhood. In the US, life expectancies vary between racial groups by as much as 13 years, but by contrast, the life expectancy gap between the least and most healthy American counties is a whopping 27 years.

So why doesn’t everyone take advantage of the opportunities found in East Grand Rapids or Cascade? Almost all of the residential areas in these communities are zoned for detached, single-family houses, and prices and property taxes are high. And in contrast with the city of Grand Rapids, with its public housing units as well as houses and apartments built by faith-based nonprofits, East Grand Rapids does not have a single unit of subsidized low-income housing. Cascade has just one building for low-income elderly residents.

Our homes give us a neighborhood to belong to and neighbors to love. But neighborhoods also give us the challenge of living near others, where spillover effects from our neighbor’s property play a large role in our enjoyment of our house and its market value. For most families, their house is their largest asset. Thus, homeowners have long struggled with how to exert some control over their surroundings to keep their housing investment secure and also ensure good neighbors.

The zoning ordinances that govern neighborhoods act like DNA, dictating what type of buildings, uses, and animals are allowed, along with building height, parking requirements, setbacks from property lines, and more. If you walk around North American cities with a zoning map in hand, you would be amazed at how effectively zoning rules influence the character of neighborhoods. The reason that some streets have tall apartments and others have nothing but single-family houses is all laid out in the zoning code.

Just a few miles east of my house, in Cascade Township, is the highly sought-after Forest Hills School District. The R-1 zoning rules there specify that lots must be at least 80,000 square feet (1.8 acres), and single-story houses must have a minimum floor area of 1,300 square feet.

In East Grand Rapids and Cascade—as with most US cities and suburbs—detached single-family zoning districts dominate the map. For example, despite suffering a housing crunch, Seattle has zoned more than 70 percent of its residential land for detached, single-family houses. Typically, the most desirable areas of communities, like those near natural amenities like parks, are designated single-family zones, while areas near noisy highways or commercial areas are zoned for apartments.

City planners and council members in Minneapolis, for example, now see single-family zoning as a continuation of racially exclusive housing practices and a means for the middle and upper classes to hoard their privileges. Detached single-family houses can be a great place to raise children and show hospitality, but they are not well suited to all households—some don’t need or want the extra space and constant maintenance.

In 2019, my hometown of Minneapolis was celebrated nationwide for its 2040 Plan, which made it the first major US city to eliminate single-family zoning in order to open the most desirable residential areas to everyone, regardless of financial means. The 2040 Plan allows different housing types such as duplexes, small apartments, and small backyard cottages to be built in single-family zones.

Other cities have followed Minneapolis, but eliminating single-family zoning has hit major roadblocks. Implementation of the Minneapolis 2040 Plan was held up for years by a lawsuit filed by a coalition of environmentalists who demanded greater environmental review and civil rights activists who feared it would trigger a wave of development that would displace low-income communities.

Our cities and suburbs face similar impasses over attempts to reform zoning. Even if city planners succeed in building low-income housing in affluent areas, allowing broader opportunities for education and accessibility, they are unable to change human hearts. They cannot force well-to-do homeowners to become friends with residents of a nearby affordable housing complex. They cannot make different groups of people live together in harmony.

Christian love and hospitality are responses to God’s generosity. We are often exceptionally good at showing hospitality in our private homes, but we may not have considered how we and our spaces might be unhospitable on a greater, bureaucratic level.

The evangelical Christian church has largely flourished in the post-WWII neighborhoods and suburban spaces that are dominated by single-family zoning. The Greek word for hospitality literally means “love of strangers,” yet ironically, hospitality is often only displayed inside residential zones that are inhospitable to families with different needs or fewer resources. Might hospitality also involve reforming zoning codes or constructing places for those with different housing needs or fewer financial resources?

Believers are called to more than comfort. Loving our neighbors means ensuring they too live in good places. In the Old Testament, land represented economic opportunity and was central to the Jewish ethical system. The distribution of land among the clans, gleaning laws, the Sabbath Year, and Year of Jubilee were all designed to provide relative equality of access to economic opportunity (Lev. 25:8–38). Our Western culture today is not an agrarian society, but land regulations such as zoning laws exert great influence over access to educational and job opportunities.

The church is one of the last places that brings together people who differ in age, income, social status, and family status. One way to break a “not in my backyard” impasse is to consider the people in your congregation and their housing needs. Is there local housing suited for a newly married couple with student loans, an elderly widow who uses a walker, or a two-parent household with young children? If not, what needs to change?

Finally, would your local zoning codes allow a Habitat for Humanity house or apartment to be built by your church? In my area, the South Hill campus of Madison Church has taken concrete steps to demonstrate hospitality to new neighbors in this way. The congregation partnered with a faith-based affordable housing provider to build 41 units of affordable housing within their church building, which sits astride another of Grand Rapids’ dividing lines.

Madison Church South Hill now shares a roof and common spaces with its neighbors as well as a weekly community Bible study and monthly community brunch. The first person to be baptized in the new sanctuary was a building resident, a symbol of the bridges that have been built. Building affordable housing in desirable communities has always been an uphill battle, but churches can lead the way in showing hospitality, whether in our houses, churches, neighborhoods, or zoning codes.

Mark D. Bjelland is professor and chairman of the department of geology, geography, and environment at Calvin University and author of several books, including a forthcoming book on Christian place-making.

This article appeared in the November/December 2025 issue of Christianity Today as "Erasing Red Lines".

- More from Mark D. Bjelland

Testimony

Journalism Was My Religion. Then I Encountered Jesus Christ.

Franco Iacomini

I wanted to be an eyewitness to Brazil’s history. Instead, God made me a witness to his work in the world.

Photography by Gabriela Portilho for Christianity Today

When I was 26, I fell in love with a girl I met in the newsroom. From my desk as a journalist for a daily newspaper in Curitiba, Brazil, I saw her walk in for her job interview. I couldn’t help wondering who she was. When she began working a few steps away from me, I was elated. Her name was Marli.

A short while after, Marli’s best friend started dating a friend of mine. The two often asked Marli and me to come along on their dates, so that’s how we began dating too.

Marli was a Christian, and I was an atheist. By her invitation, I started visiting her Baptist church. I thought the services were boring and wondered why there was so much singing—but it was a small price to pay for a few more hours with my girlfriend.

I had thought evangelicals were narrow-minded people manipulated by greedy pastors on television. I was surprised, then, that the people at church were so nice to me and that the pastors were so clever and wise. But my surprise didn’t lead to much else. Church was purely social for me.

Around the same time, I began working at Veja, a leading Brazilian magazine. Somehow, at an outlet that rarely covered religion, I kept getting assigned to write pieces that involved evangelical Christianity.

First, I was sent to interview a pastor who led a prison ministry. Then I met a group of women who took a two-hour bus trip every week to pray with inmates in a state penitentiary. I covered recovery homes for drug users run by Pentecostal churches and wrote about Christians organizing a samba parade at the annual Carnival.

I couldn’t seem to escape Christians. Even when my reporting trips had nothing to do with religion, believers were there—like when I was at a country fair to write about rodeos and a man approached, introducing himself as a pastor. Each encounter eroded my previously negative perception of evangelicals. I acknowledged that I must have been wrong and left it at that.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, Marli’s whole family was praying for me to meet Jesus.

My father arrived in Brazil in 1953 as a 9-year-old immigrant from Italy. His father, Enea, had made a living producing and selling plaster images of Catholic saints, a tradition in Casabasciana, his mountain village in Tuscany.

So I was raised Catholic, spending much of my childhood enrolled in Catholic schools. But I was never committed to my faith. When I reached my teenage years, I decided to distance myself from the Catholic church and identify as an atheist.

At university, journalism became my equivalent for religion. I was seduced by the idea of becoming an eyewitness to history and that my work could somehow help consolidate Brazil’s young democracy. I started to see everything through the principles of objectivity, impartiality, and truthfulness that are basic to my profession.

So when Marli and my unexpected encounters with Christians began eclipsing my world in 1996, my first instinct was to analyze the church. I separated myself from what was happening around me, as a good journalist should.

One afternoon, I was driving in Curitiba with Marli when I read a bumper sticker on the car in front of us: “In case of rapture, this vehicle will be out of control.” At first, I didn’t understand it, and Marli laughed at my curiosity. I knew it was some kind of joke—and quickly realized the joke was on me. In that moment, it was as if God said to me, “So you believe in distancing and objectivity? Let me take you for a ride and show you what I’m doing.”

That same afternoon, Marli brought me to her sister, who shared with me God’s plan of salvation. Jesus Christ, God in the flesh, came to earth out of love for all humankind, died on the cross to redeem us from our sins, and rose again so that those who put their faith in him can have eternal life. Then the two women dropped the big question: What would I do with this information? Would I be willing to give my life to Jesus?

True to my nature, I turned to logic: If there was no God, I would gain nothing by saying I believed in Jesus and I would lose nothing by saying no to him. But if there was a God, my answer would have consequences. Yes meant salvation; no meant condemnation. So reluctantly, I said yes.

“If you declare with your mouth, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved,” says Romans 10:9–10. “For it is with your heart that you believe and are justified, and it is with your mouth that you profess your faith and are saved.”

For me, saying “I believe” and repeating a prayer that day seemed hardly consequential. It was a calculated response born from a tiny faith, surely smaller than a mustard seed. But from then on, God took my life into his hands.

A few days later, I went away on another reporting trip to write about the growing evangelical population in the Brazilian Amazon.

God had said he would show me what he was doing, and that is exactly what happened. On the banks of the Madeira River, I met missionaries who had left the Netherlands and Norway to work with the riverside people living in villages scattered throughout the Amazon rainforest.

The missionaries had left their lives behind to do what no one else was doing in a region where even the simplest things—like getting an ID card—could take hours of travel by boat. They ran blood tests to detect diseases like malaria, taught people how to prepare healthy meals and avoid water contamination, and performed eye exams and gave glasses to those who couldn’t get to an optometrist in a faraway city. Above all, they presented the message of Jesus, to whom every life is precious.

Intimidated by them, I held back from sharing about my recent conversion. I only mentioned attending a few services with Marli, who was now my fiancée. But during one night of conversation, one of the missionaries turned to me and told me that I would also be a missionary someday. I couldn’t tell if he was prophesying or just trying to provoke me. I responded with a nervous laugh.

Shortly after I returned from the Amazon, Marli and I got married. I began going to church more regularly, curious to know more of Jesus and his Word. By 2000, I was finally ready to be baptized.

We were living in São Paulo then, and we joined a small group while in the midst of grieving the tragic murder of a friend. My faith was deepened as I felt how God was with us in our sorrows. I began editing devotional books, which sparked a deeper interest in theology and led me to study at seminary. God guided my family and me to plant a church in metropolitan Curitiba, where I was ordained as a
pastor in 2014. In 2021, we became missionaries in Portugal for 15 months, exactly as the Amazonian missionary had predicted.

Even with these incredible changes in my life, I never stopped being a journalist. My profession depends on exposing truth and exercising freedom, and as a Christian, I am called to share the Good News. God made me an eyewitness to his work in the world and in my own life, and through that, I have learned my true calling: to tell of the truth and freedom I find in my Lord and Savior.

Marli and I have been married for 28 years now. During those years, I have learned again and again that my life is no longer mine but God’s.

When Jesus invited me to follow him, there at Marli’s sister’s house, he wanted to teach me to love him with all of me.

This article appeared in the November/December 2025 issue of Christianity Today as "Testimony".

- More from Franco Iacomini

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