Books
Review

To Lead Others to Christ, Get Comfortable with Their Sorrow

In an era defined by failed quests for happiness, our evangelism can offer a consoling presence.

A hand holding a flower that's dying with another hand reaching for the petals
May 28, 2025
Illustration by Mallory Rentsch Tlapek / Source Images: Unsplash, Pexels

Of all the theological words that have taken a hit during the 21st century, evangelism has suffered perhaps the most. Too often, the word evokes all the stereotypes a Pure Flix film can offer: canned speeches, formulaic presentations, a confrontational style. After two centuries of preaching crusades, relational evangelism, pocket tracts, and door-to-door witnessing, the energy for evangelism is lost in many corners of Christianity.

Believers, of course, still want to see other people come to know Jesus Christ. But in certain contexts, they seem allergic to the language of evangelism. In seminaries, for instance, one often sees efforts at bringing Christian faith into public spaces labeled as “witness,” “interfaith dialogue,” or “cultural engagement.” In his newest book, Evangelism in an Age of Despair: Hope Beyond the Failed Promise of Happiness, Andrew Root wants to rehabilitate this beleaguered term, offering a renewed vision of how the Good News draws people into a relationship with God.

Root begins by reframing what is at stake, defining evangelism as “the practice and theology of consolation.” He does so by shifting our focus from possible evangelism techniques to a set of underlying theological questions: What does coming into relationship with God mean in the first place? How does this happen? And where does the cross of Christ fit in?

To begin sketching out his answer, Root traces the story of Mary Ann and Renate, coworkers at a fictional high-end apparel brand, who form an enduring friendship across various trials. Against this thematic backdrop, Root teases out the failure of one form of evangelism (rooted in happiness) and proposes a very different alternative (rooted in consolation). As we follow this friendship through job losses, illness, and death, we see evangelism reconceived as joining others in sorrow—just as God joins us in our own.


It might seem strange to link conventional forms of modern evangelism to the pursuit of happiness. To help us see the connection, Root shows how the pursuit of God, though rightly the deep desire of our souls, has been wrongly bound up with any number of earthly goods, such as a better family or social prosperity. Christianity, in this sense, does more than joining us to God. It takes on the added burden of making us happy along the way.

There are real problems, Root writes, with the way evangelism existed in the 20th century. Most fundamentally, he suggests, it existed as a “tool to gain things that can be counted.” Following French theologian Eugen Rosenstock-Huessy, Root describes how a preoccupation with enjoying lives of vitality and fullness led Christians to mistake vibrant religious experience for genuine church health. But emphasizing Christianity as a path to personal fulfillment moves too quickly past the cross of Christ, the Spirit bringing life out of death, and resurrection from the grave.

When we ignore these realities, we lose sight of our spiritual bankruptcy. And as Root stresses, “it is into this bankruptcy that the church is called. Christianity’s renewal is possible only inside embracing and joining this poverty, for this is what leads us to the cross.”

Root’s diagnosis is sobering not only theologically but culturally as well. For generations, the field of positive psychology has deeply influenced Christian accounts of human flourishing. Even setting aside invitations to “live your best life now” and other prosperity-gospel excesses, a striking amount of contemporary Christian discourse plays up themes of emotional resilience and well-being. We see this in the growing number of books that equate the Christian life with the condition of being psychologically well-adjusted.

By contrast, Root’s vision for evangelism involves getting comfortable inside desolation, which sits uneasily with rival visions that seek to renovate the heart without first dwelling inside its ruins.

In mapping out an intellectual genealogy of how evangelism came to be so intertwined with happiness, Root first takes us through the work of philosopher Charles Taylor, best known as the author of A Secular Age. In modern societies, Taylor argues, people tend to commit themselves wholeheartedly to individualism, rules-based rationality, and the soft tyranny of experts. We enjoy a large measure of autonomy, but we’re always constrained by the rules we’ve chosen, and various authorities stand ready to tell us we’re doing it all wrong.

Not surprisingly, Root writes, our evangelism practices echo the problems of the modern world. Evangelism, particularly the prevailing model of the late-20th century, was rooted in individual fulfillment and individual choice. It predicated a relationship with God on transactional formulas, as seen in evangelistic tools like the Four Spiritual Laws and ministries like Evangelism Explosion. And it traded on the testimony of experts, whether from crusade leaders or spiritual gurus.

Not only, then, do people find themselves condemned to endlessly pursuing happiness and authenticity, but our evangelism can encourage these futile quests. Linking the gospel with visions of earthly well-being can only amount to a false promise: What happens when the call to Christ means unhappiness, suffering, or even death?

As Root argues, we need “an evangelism that can address failing happiness-seekers.” But the legacy Taylor describes runs deep. Root embarks on a tour through the work of philosophers Michel de Montaigne and Blaise Pascal, showing how the first treated pursuing personal happiness as the highest good, while the second called that mindset into question. He then turns to a quintet of theologians, including Gregory of Nyssa, Gregory’s sister Macrina, and Martin Luther, to develop a theology of God’s presence amid desolation.

These figures emphasize God’s consoling nature, helping Root construct a version of evangelism that elevates God’s presence in our sorrow above our pursuit of happiness. As Root puts it, “Evangelism in these sad times is ultimately the confession that God meets us in our human sorrow and through our sorrow takes our person into Jesus’s own person. This is good news!” We encounter Christ as one who has been raised from the dead, and Christ encounters us as those who are dead and need raising to life. Accordingly, God finds us not in the pursuit of happiness but in the shambles of our failure.

There is no need to manufacture shame or sadness to accomplish this vision. Life brings enough of both on its own, as the theologians Root discusses are keenly aware. In dignifying human suffering as the place where God finds us, Root gives a breathtakingly fresh vision of evangelism, one that summons Christians to be present in the depths of suffering as well.


This vision has far-reaching ramifications for all who share the gospel. As one example, Root highlights how evangelism invites us to embrace a pilgrim mentality. We journey with others on the trail of sorrow, and in doing so, we reconfigure the practices and priorities of the Christian life. The pilgrim differs from the tourist, Root writes, in that the pilgrim joins this trail where God draws near, while the tourist observes and then departs. “If we lose this sense of pilgrimage,” he writes, “evangelism becomes grossly instrumentalized.” It “becomes something other than pilgrims joining pilgrims in saying goodbye, trusting that God meets and transforms us inside the sorrow of goodbyes.”

Though Root’s proposal focuses on evangelism, it bears on the whole of Christianity. Centering sorrow in the manner he advocates would mean shifting our pastoral approach to suffering, changing the mix of songs sung in worship, and reincorporating virtues of courage and patience into our discipleship. It would mean questioning the hope we invest in political involvement and reevaluating norms of ministry “success.”

It’s possible, of course, to make too much of sadness and sorrow, leaving no place for joy in the Christian life. If, as Root suggests, the way to Christ is found in sorrow, then how might we offer worship to God in a celebratory spirit? And how can we avoid pitting evangelism against the delight we’re meant to enjoy in Christ?

These are tensions Root might have done more to clarify. But that shouldn’t detract from the value of his book. In a world where turmoil, in forms large and small, never seems to cease, leading others to Christ will naturally involve journeying with them in sorrow. Evangelism in an Age of Despair helps us inhabit that sorrow not as mere sympathetic well-wishers but as fellow pilgrims walking the same road.

Myles Werntz is the author of From Isolation to Community: A Renewed Vision for Christian Life Together. He writes at Taking Off and Landing and teaches at Abilene Christian University.

Theology

Yes, Jesus Loves Me—The Catechism Tells Me How

Your child can memorize every line from their favorite film. Why not a few lines of gospel truth?

A child stepping into a book reaching for Jesus' hand
Christianity Today May 28, 2025
Illustration by Mallory Rentsch Tlapek / Source Images: Getty, WikiMedia Commons

When I came across Shai Linne’s Jesus Kids album, I wasn’t expecting my two-year-old daughter’s favorite song to be “Catechism Interlude 1.”

I assumed it might be the song that names all the people from Bible stories or even the one that sings the Lord’s Prayer. But one weekday shortly after I laid her down to nap, I heard her little voice reciting questions and answers about the nature of God. Though her words were unintelligible to anyone but me, I knew exactly what she was trying to say (or more specifically, trying to rap).

Over the next several weeks, we listened to the song on repeat, and I eventually memorized the words too. After that, I started asking her the song’s questions, sometimes in order and sometimes not. She always knew the answers—answers to questions I still struggled to answer concisely. Suddenly, much of her language about theology was stronger than mine had been in the first three decades of my life. And she hadn’t even completed the first three years of hers.

Born and raised a Southern Baptist, I had never thought much of the word catechism until stumbling across this album. However, discovering those songs and my daughter’s amazing toddler ability to quickly memorize changed the way my husband and I approached family discipleship. We were finding fun ways to catechize her constantly through songs, books, and dinner-table discussions. Then, we started with our one-year-old son as soon as he began talking.

One night, my husband said something I’ll never forget: “As a kid, I was memorizing everything too: sports facts, lines from my favorite TV shows, and more. Someone is always catechizing kids. So why aren’t Christians jumping to be the first?”

A catechism can be defined as “a manual of religious instruction usually arranged in the form of questions and answers used to instruct the young, to win converts, and to testify to the faith.” The church has a rich history of catechism, but the word entered the vernacular in the 15th century. Early catechism-like instruction included the Apostles’ Creed, Martin Luther’s Small Catechism, and Calvin’s catechism.

But the use of catechisms didn’t stop there, as many faith traditions continued to use them in later centuries. Take, for example, the Catechism of the Catholic Church, The Westminster Shorter Catechism, The Heidelberg Catechism, and even one of the most recent used in many evangelical churches today, The New City Catechism.

To my husband’s point, the world is thoroughly catechizing our children in one way or another. But surmising from a study from Pew Research Center, our current catechisms—the things our children are memorizing that shape the way they see the world—aren’t producing disciples of Jesus.

It may not be through questions and answers, but our children’s worldviews are being shaped by songs and sayings they encounter daily. Our son, who watches his favorite hero-dog-themed TV show only on rare occasions, can tell you almost everything about it. His mind is a sponge, and now more than ever, there is always something new to learn.

Pew confirms what we see around us: Not as many 18-to-29-year-olds consider themselves religious—much less Christian—though more than 70 percent of adults over age 50 would say they believe in some kind of a God or higher power. Additionally, the latest State of Theology survey from Lifeway Research and Ligonier Ministries found several troubling trends among evangelicals, including the beliefs that God changes, people are born innocent, and the Bible was not divinely authored.

In a cultural context where we can’t (and shouldn’t) expect the world to pepper our children’s minds with truth, parents and church communities can help the youngest, freshest minds in our communities memorize doctrine that could change the trajectory of the next generation’s theology and perhaps even revive a generation for the gospel. Followers of God have a storied history of using memorization to strengthen theology. When we catechize our children with solid, orthodox doctrine, we give them a foundation for faith, lean into their tendency to ask questions, and help them rehearse the gospel story.

My daughter can answer a few questions I’ve known adults who cannot answer: “Is there more than one God?” No, there is only one God. He is three persons. “Who are the three persons of God?” God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit. These are from my toddler theology book. Now, does my daughter understand the complexities of the Trinity? Of course not. (Although I’m convinced that children who don’t worry about those complexities are better off than many adults who do.)

But prayerfully, when the Holy Spirit ignites in my daughter’s heart and beckons her to follow Jesus, she will already have language to describe what’s happening. While memorizing questions and answers about theology doesn’t ensure that a child will grow up to love God, these questions can do two foundational things: be used by the Holy Spirit to drench kids’ hearts in gospel truths and give them a starting place to dive deeper into the knowledge of God.

Catechism also leans into a child’s natural tendency to ask questions. Anyone who has spent any amount of time around a child knows that a big way children make sense of the world is by asking questions. When we teach our kids the core truths found in God’s Word through a question-and-answer format, we meet them at their level and communicate in their language. We let them know their inclination to ask about God is good—and there are answers which have stood the test of time.

There will come a time when children begin asking questions about God of their own accord—ones we haven’t introduced them to. And while not every answer can be found in your favorite set of catechism questions, many of them are. “Why did God make people?” To know him, love him, and glorify him. “Why was it necessary for Christ to die?” Because only his death could bring us back to God. “How do we pray?” Our Father in heaven, your name be honored as holy

The answers may not fully satisfy the curiosity of everyone reciting them, but again, they provide a starting place and remind kids that asking questions about God and bringing them to him is a good and helpful practice.

Lastly, catechism helps children rehearse the gospel story. There’s nothing more nerve-racking than being in a small group or Sunday school class when the leader asks everyone to find a partner and practice sharing the gospel. We have thoughts like What if I miss something or do something wrong? We rack our minds to pull up every part of the gospel story we can remember in that moment.

Instead, what a gift it will be to our children if, when it comes time for them to share the gospel with their friends or whenever they just need to be reminded of it themselves, it’s already embedded in their minds. “Who created the world and why?” “How did sin enter the world, and who is the only one who can save humanity from that sin?” How precious it will be for them to instinctively remember, through the words written on their hearts, how the gospel unfolded and what it means for them.

When God instructed the Israelites on his most important commands, he said this:

Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one. Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength. These commandments that I give you today are to be on your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up. Tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads. Write them on the doorframes of your houses and on your gates. (Deut. 6:4–9)

Since Israel’s early history, God has been calling his people to impress his commandments on the next generation in everyday life, providing structured, memorable ways of teaching children the truths of Scripture. Just as these words encourage repetition and visible reminders of God’s Word, catechisms train young hearts and minds to know and love God and his Word, anchoring children in truths from the earliest age.

So how and where should we start?

The first place children will come into contact with the church as the family of God is through their parent’s own faith—which means our homes are the best place for us to begin. Parents can help their children learn catechisms by weaving them into fun, daily rhythms. Perhaps that’s through catechisms found in books or The New City Catechism, which anyone can access through the app. Bring catechisms to your breakfast or dinner table. Blast them from a stereo in your home if that’s what resonates with your kids. Make it a game, not an assignment. And then watch your child’s mind take hold of truth.

At some point, there will be follow-up questions. Children will wonder, for instance, why God couldn’t have made another way for people to be saved without Jesus having to die. Your child may double-click on the whole “one God, three persons” thing. And if you don’t have an answer as clear and concise as your favorite catechism, you can wrestle through it with your kids. Set out together to find the answers in Scripture and the writings of past saints who have wrestled with the very same questions. Then praise God that you have created a secure environment where your children can bring up those questions—that you’re opening the door for their natural curiosity in the safety of your home.

Finally, local churches can utilize catechisms in their liturgy, classes, and small groups. Churches can consider weaving questions and answers into particular sermon series and encourage members, including children, to answer the questions aloud together. Perhaps the church can give catechism books to families when they dedicate their children or when their children are baptized. Sunday school classes could commit to learning one question and answer each month—and as kids get older, they can join their parents in small groups to learn catechisms together.

No matter how catechisms fit best into a family’s or local church’s rhythm, commitment to teaching kids orthodox theology is an act of joining with the Holy Spirit as he counsels God’s people. For as Jesus said, “The Counselor, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you all things and remind you of everything I have told you” (John 14:26).

My daughter is now six, and like many kids her age, she is a question-asking machine. When we started our catechizing journey, we had no idea how it would affect her discipleship. We still don’t know the end of that story. But there is a foundation to her questions, a knowledge she holds, that she wouldn’t have if it weren’t for faithful saints—those like Shai Linne—who have constructed catechisms for her mind to memorize and, more importantly, for her heart to hold.

Lauren Groves is the acquisitions editor of Lifeway’s B&H Kids. She has authored several books for kids and teens, including New Year, New You, Easter Changes Everything, and Hey Friend, and is the creator of a series of catechism board books called Toddler Theology.

News

Died: ‘Duck Dynasty’ Patriarch Phil Robertson

The founder of the successful family duck-call business was also a Bible teacher and champion for conservative causes.

Phil Robertson, wearing a beard and bandana, in black and white

Phil Robertson

Christianity Today May 27, 2025
Nicholas Kamm / AFP via Getty Images / edits by Christianity Today

Phil Robertson, the no-nonsense patriarch of the Louisiana family who founded the Duck Commander brand and starred in Duck Dynasty, died Sunday at 79. His family shared last December that he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease.

The Robertsons became Christian reality-TV stars when the series chronicling the antics at their family duck-call business took off in 2012. Each episode of the A&E show, which ran for 11 seasons, ended with Robertson praying over a meal with his extended family, including his brother Si and sons Willie, Jase, and Jep.

Sporting a camouflage bandana and long, gray beard, Robertson regularly referenced the humble roots of the multimillion-dollar hunting enterprise and his own troubled past.

The family’s show set a record at the time as the most-watched reality cable series. The Robertsons went on to pen dozens of Christian books and devotionals as well as a Duck Commander–themed edition of the New King James Version of the Bible. Robertson autobiography, published in 2015, sold more than a million copies, and he turned his testimony into a Christian movie, The Blind, released in 2023.

Since Duck Dynasty, Robertson’s granddaughter Sadie Robertson Huff, introduced on the series, has become a major evangelical speaker and influencer. “It was his testimony that changed his life, our [family’s] life, and thousands of others,” Huff, 27, posted following his death on Sunday. “Now he is experiencing it in the fullness. Fully alive in Christ. The new has come.”

Robertson was an elder at White’s Ferry Road Church, a Church of Christ congregation located down the road from the Duck Commander warehouse in West Monroe, Louisiana. In addition to speaking at churches and Christian events, he taught a Bible class there until December 2024, when he stepped down due to his health.

Robertson and his two oldest sons, Jase and Al, a former minister at the church, cohosted a Bible podcast named for Romans 1:16, Unashamed with the Robertson Family, which aired on the conservative network Blaze Media.

Patriotic and pro-life, Robertson spoke out politically at events like the Conservative Political Action Conference and backed President Donald Trump, whom he met before the 2020 race. He was temporarily suspended from the reality show in 2013 over “coarse language” paraphrasing a Bible verse on homosexuality and sexual sin.

Phil was born in Vivian, Louisiana, the fifth of seven kids who grew up in a log cabin in the woods without electricity or indoor bathrooms. “It was the 1950s when I was a young boy, but we lived about like it was the 1850s,” Phil wrote in his autobiography, describing how the family sustained themselves mostly on what they could garden, hunt, and fish.

By Robertson’s account, his dad, James, went to work in the oil fields, leaving the kids behind with their mother, Merritt, who suffered from psychotic episodes.

In high school, Robertson played football and began dating cheerleader Kay Carroway, whom he married two years later. At Louisiana Tech University, he played as the starting quarterback ahead of future NFL Hall of Famer Terry Bradshaw.

After graduation, Robertson taught high school before running a bar and slipping into addiction. He hid out in the woods in Arkansas and left behind his wife, Kay, and their young family. Robertson’s younger sister, Janice, sent pastor Bill Smith to meet with him, saying, “If you could convert my brother, if you could convert him, he would bring many, many people to Jesus.” Phil rejected Smith’s outreach at first.

Kay relied on Smith and his congregation, White’s Ferry Road, during their separation. She also urged her husband to listen to the pastor, and Robertson eventually heard the gospel for the first time from Smith.

“I decided, having been a heathen for 28 years, [to] put on my brakes,” Robertson recounted. “The preacher didn’t have to tell me to repent. I knew what repentance meant.”

Robertson returned home to his wife and family, taking his four sons to fish and hunt in the woods as he did growing up. Robertson began designing his own duck calls in the early 1970s, distributing them on a small scale and supplementing the family income through commercial fishing.

He patented the Duck Commander in 1973, and the business grew big enough to stock in major chains including Cabela’s and Walmart. The company sold over a million calls a year once Duck Dynasty aired. Robertson and his family attribute the success to God’s blessing.

“It was either dog luck, but I am giving the credit to God Almighty in heaven for the duck call sales, for the fish that were in the nets way back, for my life,” he said.

Robertson also saw his sister’s prediction come true. He continued to study and preach the Scriptures as a member of White’s Ferry Road. He said he never looked the part and once led a funeral in hunting clothes since he didn’t own a suit.

He regularly brought up how God had turned him around when he was stuck doing drugs, drinking, and fornicating. He praised the faithfulness and prayers of Kay, who was married to him for almost 60 years.

In 2020, Robertson discovered he had a daughter from an affair during his dark period, and the Robertsons welcomed Phyllis into their family. A devout Christian who saw God’s providence in reconnecting with her biological father, Phyllis joined several family members who shared their testimonies in a series from the organization I Am Second.

Even after the success of Duck Commander and Duck Dynasty, Robertson remained much the same. Kay called him a “a plain, blunt man who loves God.” The family stayed in their Louisiana town. He refused to use a cell phone and hung on to a landline.

“Fame is rather fleeting, as you know, or should know. Money can come and go, and fame comes and goes,” Robertson told The Christian Post.

“Peace of mind and a relationship with God is far more important, so this is the precedent that we’ve set in our lives. The bottom line is, we all die, so Jesus is the answer. Many have told me through the years: ‘I think I’ll take my chances without Jesus.’ And I always come back and say, ‘So what chance is that?’”

The Robertsons will return to A&E without Phil for the first time since 2017 with Duck Dynasty: Revival, which premieres Sunday. The show focuses on his children, his grandchildren, and their young families.

The family announced that they have planned a private funeral for Robertson and will later share details about a public memorial.

Ideas

The Limits of Liturgy

I love liturgy, but it’s not a means to make better, cooler, more politically with-it Christians. It doesn’t even guarantee orthodoxy.

A image of people praying next to an image of a church interior.
Christianity Today May 27, 2025
Illustration by Christianity Today / Source Images: Pexels

Despite my yearning to lay down roots, over the past two decades I’ve lived in a handful of American cities. One consequence is perspective—and if I’m being truthful, strong opinions—about things some places do better (and worse) than others. 

For example, you can buy tacos in Dallas and Los Angeles alike, but you’re better off getting a burrito in Los Angeles and a taco in Dallas. My wife and I have learned the hard way that pizza outside our native New Jersey is usually a disappointment. And infrastructure quality varies much more than you might expect: Reliable snow removal and coherent traffic patterns are not a given.

Without that kind of comparative perspective, it’s easy to assume local advantages and problems are more unique than they really are. In their excellent book How Big Things Get Done, Bent Flyvbjerg and Dan Gardner argue that this “uniqueness bias” is a recurring obstacle to our plans. We fail to see that our thing is also a member of some larger category or “reference class.” It may have unique features, but it’s still one iteration of many. This bias leaves us shortsighted, and as a result, many people are unknowingly stuck with poor snow removal, and Midwesterners persist in believing they’ve had pizza.

Christians are not exempt from this problem. We are isolated from one another by the grievous divisions of the church, so theological movements, denominations, regional church bodies, and individual congregations are highly susceptible to uniqueness bias. We are at risk of neglecting lessons we might learn from our reference class—that is, other church communities with similar experiences. 

I think about this nearly every time I hear my evangelical friends talk about liturgy, which they do with increasing regularity and in the breathless tones of people who think they’ve found some kind of spiritual panacea. And I get it. Liturgy, done well, is beautiful and powerful, and what takes place in Christian worship is of highest importance. And yet.

When I have gently suggested to my friends that they might be overvaluing liturgy, they have typically responded by saying that the evangelical tradition of worship is impoverished and that I’m simply speaking as someone from a historically rooted tradition who takes liturgy for granted. 

And I don’t press the matter. But there it is: uniqueness bias and lack of interest in their reference class. Because, whatever the significant differences between an evangelical and a mainline Protestant—and I speak as one with historic-orthodox views on the Incarnation, the Resurrection, and matters of gender and sexuality—we nevertheless belong to the same reference class. In theological terms, we’re afflicted by the same sinful nature, baptized into the same Christ, called into the same life of faith. And perhaps one of the roundabout ways we can practice ecumenism is to notice one another’s mistakes.

The first thing someone like me notices about the growing evangelical interest in liturgy is that there’s some confusion about what liturgy actually is. In love, may I clarify: Not every written prayer is a liturgy. Liturgy isn’t something you do by yourself at home, and it’s even a stretch to say it’s something you can do at home with your friends and family. That’s called prayer—even if it’s recited rather than extemporaneous. 

Properly speaking, liturgy is the prayer of the whole church. It is our communal joining of ourselves to Jesus in his once-for-all act of offering himself to the Father in the Spirit. In most historic Christian traditions, that act is embodied in the Lord’s Supper, in which the Lord graces us with himself and we return ourselves to him in thanks and praise. That is liturgy.

For that reason, I find it somewhere between amusing and cringe when evangelical writers or leaders describe themselves as “liturgists,” by which they mean they are writers of prayers that other people may recite. This is a lovely ministry—which should be called something else.

But let’s get to the heart of the matter: Liturgy enthusiasts tend to be enamored with the power of liturgy for Christian faith formation. After all, they say, liturgy forms people in habits that are politically, culturally, and economically countercultural. Rich or poor, ugly or beautiful, we all eat together. People of every race and nationality come to the same table. We recite the historic creeds in one voice.

Certainly, these observations of what happens in liturgy are factually correct (and good and right). But they misunderstand worship as a means in the spiritual life. It is not a means. It is an end in itself.

The purpose of our lives is to worship God. Yet I see newly minted liturgy enthusiasts wanting to take that end and wield it as a means, a way to form better, cooler, more politically with-it Christians. 

But the worship of God isn’t for that—or for anything. We worship God because that is why we exist. We care about the poor and about racial reconciliation and justice as acts of worship on our way to the greatest act of worship with all God’s people. That our communion with God in worship should result in bearing fruit of good works is God’s doing alone (Eph. 2:10; Phil. 2:13), not a result of our clever liturgical scheming.

And there’s another, somewhat alarming problem with the liturgy-as-formation assumption: Throughout church history, liturgical Christian communities have not been better than others. They have not been more pious, more socially just, more culturally diverse. 

Five centuries ago, my tradition produced the first Book of Common Prayer—and to this day, the prayer book contains, I believe, the best English-language liturgies in the world, with its perfect cadences and turns of phrase and its relentless use of biblical language. This liturgical heritage has not made the Episcopal Church a community of biblical literacy, distinctive Christian identity in the world, theological seriousness, or economic and racial diversity. 

We recite the Nicene Creed each Sunday, and yet the denomination is still afflicted with creeping Unitarianism. Outside the Lent and Easter seasons, the liturgy begins, “Blessed be God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,” and yet still too much of what’s said in too many Episcopal pulpits amounts to encouraging us to direct our prayers “to whom it may concern.” 

I say all this as someone nevertheless quite passionate about liturgy. I believe that words matter, that beauty matters, that the church ought to pray this way. And yet.

The structure of liturgy is, in the end, little more than the regulation of the “traffic pattern” of the church’s life: It is the lines on the road, the yield signs, the traffic lights, the guardrails when we’re going around the bend, all of which we need. I don’t blame evangelicals for wanting these things. But if you come to the next town over, you’ll see that people still run red lights and roll through stop signs. Liturgy is intended to ensure that the church’s worship is deliberate and faithful, but by itself it doesn’t guarantee vibrant Christian faith and practice any more than decent road infrastructure guarantees good drivers. 

For that, you’ll need something more. Conveniently, I think evangelicals already have what it takes.

Matthew Burdette is a religion scholar, writer, and editor. You can read his work online at Theology of Culture with Matt Burdette.

Lucian Mustata stands against a post-Communist architectural concrete building.
Testimony

The Father to the Fatherless Sang a New Song over Me

Abandoned at birth, I grew up in Romanian orphanages. Today I lead Eastern Europe’s largest Christian music festival.

Christianity Today May 27, 2025
Photography by Ioana Moldovan for Christianity Today

I was born in Romania in 1989, just nine months before the Communist dictatorship of Nicolae Ceaușescu ended and the world learned of the horrors of Romanian orphanages. Between 1966 and 1989, up to 20,000 children died of neglect in squalid residential facilities.

I spent my first four years in one of these orphanages. I don’t remember much, but what I do remember is shrouded in terror.

Confined to the room where they put children with disabilities, I was daily told I was stupid and was physically abused. Sometimes the other children stole my daily ration, leaving me without food. There was always the sound of screaming and crying.

I still carry physical and emotional scars from those dark days.

In 1993, the organization SOS Children’s Villages, based in Austria, set up a new private orphanage in Bucharest. I was chosen as one of the children to be relocated there. Where my first orphanage had 50 children under the care of a single staff member, SOS’s cluster of 15 homes had just 7 children per house, with a dorm mother in each one.

Daily life improved for me drastically, but there were still many difficulties. For one, the dorm mothers never stayed for long. In a single year, we could have two or three different caretakers, who left because of burnout or career changes. For us children, these dorm mothers were the most important people in our lives, and each departure only served to harden our hearts further.

Romania is a deeply Eastern Orthodox country, so my first experiences of Christianity were Sunday services and the religion class at school, which all of us were required to participate in. I don’t recall ever reading Scripture on my own, but I learned to speak to God about my life and to search for him out of my desperation—though I did not learn to call him Father until much later.

All of us orphans wanted to know more about our families and our own painful pasts. So when I turned 12, I asked my caseworker to tell me the details of my family.

I learned I had two older half brothers, one of whom had been adopted and lived in the United States. Our mother had the mental capacity of a six-year-old, the caseworker told me, due to a severe childhood brain injury. I was born as the result of her being raped, and she abandoned me at birth. That was how a doctor had found me and placed me in the government-run orphanage. No one had ever found out who my biological father was.

As difficult as it was to learn about my past, my story was not unusual for those I grew up with. Still, learning about my past only made me feel my isolation and loneliness more keenly.

The years passed until I turned 18: the year when I was cast out into the world, alone.

On the Christmas Eve after I left the orphanage, I was walking through Bucharest, hoping to listen to some carols. I hoped that maybe, even for a moment, I could feel a little less alone and taste a bit of the Christmas spirit.

As I walked through the city, someone handed me a flyer for exactly what I had been looking for: a free Christmas carol concert. I had no idea it was organized by a Baptist church. I didn’t know much about it at all, but I decided to go anyway.

From the moment I walked into the building, I felt that something was different. It was very crowded, so I had to stand in the stairwell and listen as the music began. I had grown up with somber sounds in ancient words. But inside the church that night, God sang a new song over me that flooded into my heart.

When the carols ended, the pastor gave a ten-minute message about the meaning of the holiday. He spoke about the incarnate Son of God, and about how Bucharest’s famous Christmas pageantries were empty trappings—celebrations without the one we were celebrating.

The pastor’s message resonated deeply with me as the Holy Spirit stirred in my soul. My life story testified to the vulnerability of being a child in a cruel world. Yet it was into that very world that the infant Jesus came.

After that Christmas Eve concert, I started to attend the church regularly, sitting in the back row of the 400-person service. Each week, I felt a new wound heal as God’s Word began to transform my life. I no longer reacted angrily if someone caused me offense. I felt the real encouragement and love of a Father whose heart goes out especially to the fatherless.

So I kept coming, week after week, and gradually gave my life to Christ.

Still, being an orphan in Romania meant bearing the badge of shame, marking me as unfit to belong in society. I knew receiving an education was essential to my ability to find a job and support myself. I did not want to become another statistic, one more orphan to succumb to poverty or even suicide. Yet I had no money to enable me to afford college.

In the absence of an earthly father, my heavenly Father began to provide for me. I passed the college entrance exam and was accepted as an information technology (IT) major at Bucharest University of Economic Studies, but I wondered how I would ever be able to pay for it.

Unbeknownst to me, God was stirring the heart of a woman from the admissions board to pay for my tuition. For three consecutive nights, she felt God calling her to support me—even though she had only met me for five minutes during the admissions interview. Two days before the payment deadline, she called to tell me that she and her husband had decided to cover all financial costs for my studies.

After completing two master’s degrees and working for the World Bank, I launched my own IT and digital marketing company and partnered with many renowned brands, including the royal house of Romania and the Ministry of Education. The local press began to call me the “Mark Zuckerberg of Romania.”

But God’s provisions weren’t only material. One summer, I signed up to go to a camp organized by my church. Due to an oversight, I was left out of the car assignments—an unfortunate incident that almost kept me from going.

One of the pastors, Boingeanu Cornel, noticed what had happened and kindly offered me a seat in his car for the three-hour drive. That journey marked the beginning of a beautiful and lasting friendship. Today, he has become like a father to me.

Following Jesus does not mean we will necessarily be successful in this life, and the gospel does not promise wealth or health. But after I experienced so many years of abandonment and pain, God’s providential care in my life was—and still is—cause for loudest praise. I learned that I have a good Father who cares for me even in the most ordinary of ways.

As I grew in faith, I wanted to find ways to serve the God who loved me. I began to see how the darkness of my childhood had carved out a bigger well within me for compassion for others and a desire to be a witness. My heart ached for those who did not know Jesus Christ—especially young people—and I began to pray for a way to share his love.

The seed that was planted in my heart at that Christmas Eve service has since grown into the vision of  HeartBeats Christian music festival, the largest of its kind in Eastern Europe. For the past three years, by nothing short of a miracle of God, HeartBeats has grown beyond Romania to Korea, Kenya, and Brazil, with over 500,000 attending in-person gatherings and many more joining via livestream in 2024.

Most importantly, through HeartBeats, thousands of young people around the world have found salvation in Jesus Christ as they worship and come to know our Father, just like I once did at a Christmas Eve concert in Bucharest.

I came to my Father’s house broken and empty. I came with nothing to lose and everything to gain for his sake—and he gave me everything.

Lucian Mustata is the founder and CEO of HeartBeats Festival and the web development company Lucian & Partners.

Sara Kyoungah White is an editor at Christianity Today.

News
Wire Story

Cooperative Baptists Welcome Afrikaners to North Carolina

Refugee resettlement group says faith mandate won’t allow discrimination.

Afrikaners arrive in the US with new refugee resettlement agreement.
Christianity Today May 27, 2025
Craig Hudson For The Washington Post via Getty Images

The 12×30-foot storage unit in a Raleigh, North Carolina, suburb is crammed full of chairs, tables, mattresses, lamps, pots and pans.

Most of its contents will soon be hauled off to two apartments that Welcome House Raleigh is furnishing for three newly arrived refugees. It’s a job the ministry, which is a project of the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship of North Carolina, has handled countless times on behalf of newly arrived refugees from such places as Afghanistan, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Syria and Venezuela.

But these two apartments are going to three Afrikaners—whose status as refugees is, according to many faith-based groups and others, highly controversial.

Last week, Marc Wyatt, director of Welcome House Raleigh, received a call from the North Carolina field office of the U.S. Committee for Refugees and Immigrants asking if he could help furnish the apartments for the refugees, among the 59 Afrikaners who arrived in the US last week from South Africa, he told Religion News Service. It was a common request for the ministry that partners with refugee resettlement agencies to provide temporary housing and furniture for people in need.

And at the same time, the request was extremely challenging. After thinking about it, consulting with the Welcome House network director and asking for feedback from ministry volunteers, Wyatt said yes.

“Our position is that however morally and ethically charged it is, our mandate is to help welcome and love people,” said Wyatt, a retired Cooperative Baptist Fellowship missionary who now works for CBF North Carolina. “Our holy book says God loves people. We don’t get to discriminate.”

He recognized that Afrikaners are part of a white ethnic minority that created and led South Africa’s brutal segregationist policies known as apartheid for nearly 50 years. That policy, which included denying the country’s Black majority rights to voting, housing, education and land, ended in 1994, when the country elected Nelson Mandela in its first free presidential election.

Like Wyatt and Welcome House, many faith-based groups are now considering whether to help the government resettle Afrikaners after the Trump administration shut down refugee resettlement for all others.

This month, the Episcopal Church chose to end its refugee resettlement partnership with the U.S. government rather than resettle Afrikaners. Presiding Bishop Sean Rowe said his church’s commitment to racial justice and reconciliation, and its long relationship with the late Anglican Archbishop Desmond Tutu made it impossible for the church to work with the government on resettling Afrikaners.

In January, in one of his first executive orders, President Donald Trump shuttered the decades-old refugee program, which brings people to the US who are displaced by war, natural disasters or persecution. The decision left thousands of refugees, many living in camps for years and having undergone a rigorous vetting process, stranded.

But then Trump directed the government to fast-track the group of Afrikaners for resettlement, saying these white farmers in South Africa are being killed in a genocide, a baseless claim. The order left many refugee advocates who have worked for years to resettle vulnerable people enraged.

“Refugees sit in camps for 10, 20 years, but if you’re a white South African Afrikaner, then suddenly you can make it through in three months?” asked Randy Carter, director of the Welcome Network and a pastor of a CBF church. “There’s a lot of words I’d like to attach to that, but I don’t want any of those printed.”

Carter said he respects and honors the Episcopal Church’s decision not to work with the government on resettling the Afrikaners, even if his network has taken a different approach.

“The call to welcome is not always easy,” Carter said. “Sometimes it’s hard.”

At the same time, he said, it’s important resettlement volunteers keep in mind that the ministry opposes apartheid and racism, both in the U.S. and abroad, and is committed to repentance and repair.

The North Carolina field office for the USCRI resettlement group also recognized how fraught this particular resettlement is for its faith-based partners. 

“In our communication with them, we said, ‘Look, we know this is not a normal issue. You or your constituencies may have reservations, and we understand that. That should not affect our partnership,’” said Omer Omer, the North Carolina field office director for USCRI. “If you want to participate, welcome. If not, we understand.”

Wyatt got nearly two dozen comments on his Facebook post in which he announced his decision to work with the refugee agency in resettling the Afrikaners. Nearly all wrote in support of his decision. “I’m up sleepless pondering this,” acknowledged one person. “Complicated, but the right call,” wrote another.

USCRI did not release the names of the three Afrikaners who chose to settle in Raleigh, a couple and a single individual. Other Afrikaners chose to be resettled in Idaho, Iowa, New York and Texas.

Secretary of State Marco Rubio suggested last week that more Afrikaners are on the way. The Trump administration argues white South Africans are being discriminated against by the country’s government, pointing to a law potentially allowing the government to seize privately held land under certain conditions. Since the end of apartheid, the South African government has made efforts to level the economic imbalance and redistribute land to Black South Africans that had been seized by the former colonial and apartheid governments.

The South African administration got a chance to rebut the Trump administration’s claim when President Cyril Ramaphosa visited the White House on May 21.

However, Wyatt, who has been running the Welcome House Raleigh ministry for 10 years, providing temporary housing and a furniture bank for refugees, and now asylum seekers, said he has settled the matter in his mind.

“My wife and I have come to the position that if it’s not a full welcome, just like we would with anybody else, then it’s not a welcome,” he said. “If we don’t actually seek to include them into our lives like we would anybody else, then we’re withholding something and that’s not how we understand our holy book.”

News

Fuller Seminary Reaffirms Historic LGBTQ Stance

Some at the evangelical institution wanted to allow same-sex relationships, but trustees voted to maintain “historic theological understanding.”

Fuller Seminary building
Christianity Today May 23, 2025
Jeff McLain / Unsplash

Fuller Theological Seminary is sticking to its position on human sexuality.

After several years discussing and debating the evangelical institution’s stance—and considering changing policies impacting LGBTQ students, faculty, and staff—trustees voted to reaffirm Fuller’s “historic theological understanding of marriage,” while noting the school’s position that “faithful Christians” can hold other views.

“Fuller Seminary has historically shunned ideological polarities,” president David Goatley wrote in an email summarizing the May 18-19 board meeting. “We continue to seek another way—a Fuller way—that is a critical contribution to the church and the world.”

Board chair Shirley Mullen said the decision was made after years of long, thoughtful discussions about issues dividing Christians and about Fuller’s core identity. 

“This is a signal that Fuller is Fuller, Fuller will be Fuller,” Mullen told CT. “Fuller has sought to be a seminary that transcends the polarization of the moment. … We will be criticized by both sides, but we want to complicate the polarization and call people to the richness of the gospel.”

An academic task force considered other “third way” solutions to the ongoing conflict over sexual ethics. One proposal, circulated widely in 2024, opened the possibly of allowing same-sex relationships at Fuller. 

A draft of revised standard for sexual ethics said everyone at the multidenominational seminary would be asked to “live with integrity consistent with the Christian communities to which they belong.” Faculty and staff would be further required to support Fuller’s position and “contribute constructively to nurturing the seminary’s relationship of trust with global evangelical theological communities.”

If the school had decided to adopt that stance, members of the United Methodist Church, the Disciples of Christ, the Mennonite Church USA, the Metropolitan Community Church, American Baptist Churches, and mainline Lutheran, Presbyterian, and Episcopal denominations would have been allowed to work and study at the school while in LGBTQ relationships. 

Fuller is the eighth-largest seminary in the United States and one of the largest without a denominational affiliation. Professors all sign Fuller’s statement of faith and agree to uphold community standards, including the standard that says “sexual union must be reserved for marriage, which is the covenant union between one man and one woman.” But the school employs people from a wide range of Christian traditions and more than a dozen current faculty members belong to affirming churches. 

Fuller also has about 400 full-time and 1,500 part-time students who come from more than 100 different denominations. Online enrollment has grown in recent years.

Fuller founder Harold Ockenga hoped the institution could train ministers to go into denominations that were not evangelical and help reclaim them. Under his leadership, Fuller hired its professor of “ecumenics” in 1949, two years after its founding. The hire sparked fierce controversy and many critics questioned whether the school was really committed to its evangelical identity. The professor was let go after a few years, “sacrificed for the sake of expedience in the midst of a deep cultural and theological conflict,” according to historian Cecil M. Robeck.

The current president, Goatley, says the school continues to embrace that evangelical-ecumenical vision, through all the controversy.

“The Board of Trustees is committed to continuing Fuller’s long history of educating leaders in various fields of theology and psychology with the competencies needed for the various settings and contexts God calls them to serve,” Goatley said. 

Debates over what that means for LGBTQ students and faculty have roiled the seminary in recent years.

In 2019 and 2020, two former students sued Fuller, alleging discrimination. They claimed they were expelled for being in same-sex relationships and that violated the federal law prohibiting discrimination based on sex. The courts sided with the seminary, dismissing the case on First Amendment grounds. 

In 2024, Ruth Schmidt, senior director of Fuller’s Brehm Center for the arts and worship, was fired after she refused to sign the school’s statement of faith. 

Schmidt, who identifies as queer, had previously signed the statement as a student and an employee. But as she prepared for ordination in the United Church of Christ, she decided she was no longer willing to do it. 

“Even though I’m able to navigate this space, I can’t put my signature next to something that will harm the people that I’m called to serve,” she told Religion News Service. 

Schmidt was fired, prompting protests. A group of students took the stage at the end of a chapel service with signs saying  “LGBTQ+ Let’s talk about it,” and “I want to talk in safety.” They demanded a moratorium on expulsions and firings. A larger group of about 40 protested outside. 

Goatley asked for patience. 

“This is the journey that we’re on,” he said, “and we have to work with delicacy and with diligence because these matters are impactful—personally, ecclesiologically, communally, and institutionally.” 

Goatley said the trustees had tasked him, two deans, and six faculty members with reviewing the school’s community sexual standards and reporting to the board. When the group reported in May 2024, however, trustees did not vote on the report or any specific proposals but asked for further study and formed a new task force with members of the faculty, staff, and trustees, to be chaired by Mullen. 

That group met seven times but did not reach a consensus and did not make a recommendation to the trustees, Mullen said. Trustees looked at minutes of the meetings, letters from task force members, and a draft of a final report before voting to reaffirm the school’s position. 

“Fuller will assume that Fuller faculty and all those involved in mediating the educational experience will be committed to respecting and articulating the institution’s position on sexuality without feeling either morally or intellectually compromised,” Mullen said. 

The decision is unlikely to satisfy Fuller’s critics on either side. Mullen said that’s to be expected and is part of Fuller’s calling and identity. 

A statement of belief on the school’s website notes that the institution has regularly rejected conservative calls for stricter gatekeeping and finds many debates about the boundaries of evangelicalism to be distractions from the actual tasks of evangelicalism. 

“We are not perfect,” the statement says. “We do not have to be. We have God’s sure Word to guide and correct our steps; we have Christ’s sure grace to forgive our errors; we have the churches’ continued goodwill as, to the glory of God, we fulfill our mission and theirs.”

News

Murdered Staffer Had Deep Ties to Messianic Community in Israel

Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Milgrim appear to be the latest victims of a global wave of antisemitic violence.

Mourners light candles during a May 22 vigil for the victims of the Capital Jewish Museum shooting, Israeli embassy staffers Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Lynn Milgrim.

Mourners light candles during a May 22 vigil for the victims of the Capital Jewish Museum shooting, Israeli embassy staffers Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Lynn Milgrim.

Christianity Today May 23, 2025
Kevin Dietsch / Getty Images

They were just days away from a marriage proposal when a gunman cut their lives short. 

Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Milgrim were leaving a reception for young Jewish diplomats at the Capital Jewish Museum in Washington, DC, on Wednesday evening when a man fired into their group. The young couple, both employees of the Israeli Embassy, were killed.

Lischinsky, a 30-year-old Israeli citizen, had deep ties to his country’s Messianic Jewish community. 

“He was a godly young man, and he really just wanted to serve God and Israel with all his heart,” said Sandy Shoshani, whose husband, Oded Shoshani, pastors a Hebrew-speaking congregation in the King of Kings network in Jerusalem. “The family are precious friends and believers, strong in the Lord, and lovers of Israel.” 

Shoshani said Lischinsky’s family has been a part of her congregation for more than 20 years, and all five of the family’s kids have served in the Israel Defense Forces. Lischinsky finished his master’s degree three years ago and immediately began working for the Israeli Embassy in Washington, according to Shoshani. She described him as an intelligent, warm, and funny guy who loved everyone he met. 

Milgrim, 26, grew up in Kansas, where she was involved in Jewish student organizations. As a teenager, she witnessed an antisemitic hate crime that made her think about the threats faced by Jews in America. 

“I worry about going to my synagogue,” she told a local TV station in 2017. “That shouldn’t be a thing.” 

The couple attended the new members class at Church of the Ascension and Saint Agnes, an Episcopal church in Washington, Ryan Danker, a scholar at the John Wesley Institute, told CT. 

Federal authorities are investigating the Jewish museum shooting as both a hate crime and act of terrorism. They have charged 31-year-old Elias Rodriguez, a Chicago resident, with first-degree murder. Rodriguez reportedly told the arresting officers, “I did it for Palestine, I did it for Gaza.”

Antisemitic attacks have dramatically increased since the start of the war in Gaza, following the Hamas attacks in October 2023. New York City, home to the largest Jewish population in the world, experienced a 30 percent increase in antisemitic hate crimes between 2022 and 2024, according to one report

Jews for Jesus CEO Aaron Abramson said Jewish people always fear the violence underneath criticisms of the state of Israel. 

“This is part of the landscape of the hatred that we [live in]. And it’s scary for Jewish people,” he said. “It feels like it’s percolating just beneath the surface, and we know historically that antisemitic hatred, it doesn’t take long for it to turn into things like what happened in DC.”

The Messianic Jewish community in Israel is close-knit, and Abramson said many of his team members attended youth camps with Lischinsky growing up. 

According to Israel’s Central Bureau of Statistics, there are roughly 188,000 Christians in Israel. Three-quarters of them are Arab Christians. David Pileggi, rector of Christ Church in Jerusalem’s Old City, also knew Lischinsky and worked with his father for three years. 

Pileggi said Lischinsky frequently visited his church and enjoyed the Anglican liturgy. He said they talked several times about the possibility of reconciliation between Arabs and Jews. 

“The small Christian and Messianic Jewish community in Israel is paying a heavy price for the Gaza war,” he said. 

The deaths of Lischinsky and Milgrim drew widespread condemnation from world leaders, including US president Donald Trump, who posted on social media, “These horrible D.C. killings, based obviously on antisemitism, must end, NOW!” 

Culture

Why We Visit Graves on Memorial Day

Rituals of death can remind us of America’s “new birth of freedom”—and our rebirth and renewal through Christ’s sacrifice.

A military grave with flowers located at Arlington National Cemetery.
Christianity Today May 23, 2025
Katelyn Rindlisbaker / Getty

On Memorial Day we are meant to visit the dead. 

This duty was clearer when the Grand Army of the Republic (GAR) first inaugurated the holiday, then known as Decoration Day, in 1868. In General Orders No. 11, the GAR proclaimed that the 30th of May would be given to the “purpose of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country.” 

These days, the legal proclamation for Memorial Day no longer encourages Americans to decorate cemeteries. Yet the tradition endures. Across the country, local officials, veteran and military family organizations, and ordinary citizens still put flowers, flags, and other markers on service members’ graves. 

That’s not to say we find it the easiest tradition to keep. For many Americans, visiting a cemetery is an uncomfortable thought. Our spiritual but irreligious age shies away from the physicality of death. 

We prefer memorials that emphasize life, as if the final act is an inconvenience we can ignore. We rationalize our preference by saying it’s what the dead would want, when in truth, it reflects our waning capacity to confront death. We’ve lost “rituals of closure,” the forms and customs that once enabled us to embrace both ends and beginnings, as philosopher Byung-Chul Han argues in The Disappearance of Rituals. Absent such rituals, we “slip through” time, incapable of carving out the space to experience both the full magnitude of loss and the much greater promise of resurrection found in death.

The military is a rare domain that preserves a ritualistic approach to death. By necessity and custom, death is treated not as an aberration or inconvenience but as an inevitability. It shows up in daily events—with mission briefs, for example, detailing who will assume command should leaders fall in battle. 

Similarly, death has a prominent presence in institutional ceremonies. At the battalion ball my unit held before we deployed to Afghanistan, we kept a table empty, a place for our “missing man,” to honor our fallen, missing, or imprisoned brethren. These rituals, lacking in most civilian contexts, help the military community treat death with reverence, holding space for both intense grief and a profound sense of awe. 

Such reverence is visible to anyone who goes to a military cemetery on Memorial Day. This holiday brings hard men and women to their knees. Warriors who can stay calm as bullets and explosive devices rip through steel, bone, and flesh will kneel before graves, tears pouring from their eyes as they place their hands on the headstones of fallen brothers or sisters in arms. 

Yet however painful such moments are—and they are painful—the day ends in gratitude, not grief. We honor the men and women beneath the ground for their willingness to die for our country. Before we depart the cemetery, we stand and salute, knowing that what Abraham Lincoln once called America’s “new birth of freedom” comes through the willingness of Americans to lay down their lives. 

For even longer years and deeper reasons, the church, too, approaches death with reverence. We know that death is neither a discomfort to avoid nor an ethereal abstraction; it is a viscerally physical reality and, in some senses, a necessity. As Paul writes, “We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life” (Rom. 6:4, ESV throughout). As Christians, we believe in the resurrection not only of the soul but of the body as well. Our rituals for death embrace the physical, reminding us of our complete rebirth and renewal through Christ’s sacrifice.

Early Christians manifested this embrace with a commitment to burying the deceased, even though that went against many of the prevailing customs. In funeral liturgies, we continue, as theologian Timothy George put it, to “solemnize the departure of our loved ones.” In so doing, we recall the words of Isaiah, who rejoiced that God “will swallow up death forever” (25:8). 

For the church and military alike, our rituals make the gravesite sacred terrain. Joyce Kilmer, a Catholic soldier who fought in World War I, gave voice to this truth in a poem he wrote about a new grave formed in the woods of France:

In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet
There is a new-made grave to-day,
Build by never a spade nor pick
Yet covered with earth ten metres thick.
There lie many fighting men,
Dead in their youthful prime.

There is on earth no worthier grave
To hold the bodies of the brave
Than this place of pain and pride
Where they nobly fought and nobly died.

Kilmer wrote in honor of the men of his unit, the 165th Infantry Regiment, American Expeditionary Force, who were killed in March 1918 near the Rouge Bouquet part of the Parroy Forest in France. Their graves, formed by falling shells and explosions, became a “place of pain and pride” that fused death and life, he said. Kilmer himself would die in battle shortly after composing this verse.

Over 1 million Americans have died in service to our country, and over 5 million people are buried across more than 150 national cemeteries maintained by the Department of Veterans Affairs. Arlington National Cemetery alone is the resting place for more than 400,000 service members and their families, and hundreds of thousands of others lie in family burial grounds or small local cemeteries. 

Yet regardless of whether a grave is marked by a solitary headstone buried by overgrowth or found among the thousands of immaculate tombstones in Normandy or Tunisia, each is a place for remembrance and contemplation. For me, words come to mind from the hymn first composed for Lincoln’s burial in 1865: “Grant that the cause, for which he died, / May live forevermore.”

As Americans, we visit graves on Memorial Day to hear those words. Even more, we can own those words. We sit with the dead to recognize that the future for which they died is only what we, the living, make of it. Rituals of death foster our determination to make that future worthy of the sacrifices so many have made. 

And for us as Christians, visiting gravesites is a way to physically bear witness to the words Jesus said to Lazarus’s sisters: “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die” (John 11:25–26). With every grave we pray over and headstone we touch, we can give thanks to Christ, who forever vanquished death, our final enemy. 

Dan Vallone is an Army veteran and founder of Polarization Risk Advisory. He writes on the Army and its place in American society at Army 250.

History

Remembering Cherokee Tears and Dying Groans

How some Christians warned about and mourned the Trail of Tears.

Indigenous people walking the Trail of Tears
Christianity Today May 23, 2025
Illustration by Christianity Today / Source Images: Wikimedia Commons

May 26, 1838, was the start of what we know today as the Trail of Tears, the forced deportation of 16,000 members of the Cherokee tribe. This year, the anniversary falls on Memorial Day, America’s national commemoration for brave soldiers.

But not every solider wears a uniform. Some wield pens occasionally—but not usually—mightier than swords, as one Christian journalist who stood up for the Cherokee learned.

Jeremiah Evarts was born in 1781, eight months before the Battle of Yorktown brought American independence. He graduated from Yale in 1802 and edited the Panoplist, a monthly Christian magazine that later changed its name to Missionary Herald. (Panoplist means someone dressed as a soldier—or equipped with the shield of faith, the belt of truth, and other tools of a reporter as well as a warrior.)

During the 1820s, Evarts served as a missionary to the Cherokee and a columnist for the National Intelligencer, a Washington, DC, newspaper. In 1829, he wrote 24 articles opposing a forced move of the Cherokee from their farms in Eastern states to wilderness across the Mississippi River.

Evarts expressed sympathy for a tribesman scheduled to become “a vagabond, even while standing upon the very acres, which his own hands have laboriously subdued and tilled.” He tried to awaken readers’ sympathy for the Cherokee, “bound to us by the ties of Christianity which they profess … fellow Christians, regular members of Moravian, Presbyterian, Baptist, and Methodist churches, fellow-citizens with the saints and of the household of God.”

Theodore Frelinghuysen, a first-time senator from New Jersey, read the articles and decided to risk his political future. In 1830, in a Senate packed with orators such as Henry Clay, Daniel Webster, and John C. Calhoun debating “Indian removal,” Frelinghuysen spoke up, asking whether the obligations of justice change with the color of skin.

“Is it one of the prerogatives of the white man [to] disregard the dictates of moral principle, when an Indian shall be concerned?” he asked, telling fellow legislators that their plan would “blot the page of our history with indelible dishonor [and] inflict lasting injury upon our good name.”

Frelinghuysen said the cries of the exiled “will go up to God—and call down the thunders of his wrath.” He complained about “oppressive encroachments upon the sacred privileges of our Indian neighbors” and a lack of due process: Has America become “Asiatic despotism, sinking under the crimes and corruptions of by-gone centuries, feeling no responsibility and regarding no law of morality or religion?”

The United States in 1830 had an operating Congress. The debate was lively, but both the House and the Senate approved the deportation plan as Southern Democrats fell in line.

Evarts in the National Intelligencer quoted one congressional leader explaining, “We have succeeded in making the Indian subject a party measure. There may be some chicken-hearted fellows at the North, who will not stand by the party; but we shall carry the measure in both Houses.”

Theodore Frelinghuysen c. 1840 (left) and Jeremiah Evarts c. 1817 (right).WikiMedia Commons
Theodore Frelinghuysen c. 1840 (left) and Jeremiah Evarts c. 1817 (right).

That’s what happened, although a few Southern Democrats resisted. Rep. Davy Crockett of Tennessee said the treatment of the Cherokee was “unjust, dishonest, cruel, and short sighted in the extreme.” He said he had been “threatened that if I do not support the policy of removal, my career will be summarily cut off.” That’s what happened: Crockett, with his political career ended, eventually had a brief military career in Texas at the Alamo.

Other leaders did not want any delays. When a Georgia court condemned to death for murder George “Corn” Tassel, a Cherokee, and others questioned the verdict, Georgia responded by immediately executing him. When Cherokee chief John Ross was preparing to head to Washington with hopes of delaying removal by force, his opponents imprisoned him in a cabin with the decaying corpse of a hanged Cherokee dangling from the rafters.

By then, Evarts was dead: tuberculosis. We have records today of the pleas of Cherokee Christians. One protest stated, “Our cause is your own. It is the cause of liberty and justice. We have learned your religion also. We have read your sacred books. Hundreds of our people have embraced their doctrines. … We are indeed an afflicted people! … Spare our people!”

To no avail: The Cherokee removal deadline became May 1838. The first general in charge of preparation, John Wool, had some compassion. He ordered the purchase of 7,000 blankets, 4,000 pairs of shoes, and 4,000 “yards of assorted cloth goods from New York to distribute among poor Indians.” The War Department said no because the secretary of war, told to make the move as inexpensively as possible, had not authorized the purchase. Wool complained and gained reassignment to the Canadian border.

Some among the Cherokee did not believe America would be brutal. In May 1838, fake news spread through the tribe: The deadline would be extended for two years! They were surprised when soldiers arrived on May 26 and at gunpoint drove them toward wooden stockades, not even giving them time to pack.

A correspondent of The New York Observer, a conservative Presbyterian newspaper, publicized eyewitness reports of families “startled by the sudden gleam of bayonets in the doorway. … Men were seized in their fields or going along the road.”

Private John Burnett, who worked as an interpreter, said, “In the chill of a drizzling rain on an October morning, I saw them loaded like cattle or sheep into six hundred and forty-five wagons and started toward the west. … Many of these helpless people did not have blankets and many of them had been driven from home barefooted.”

Probably about 4,000 Cherokee died on the trail of tears. In 1841, John Quincy Adams said the use of force would be “among the heinous sins of this Nation for which I believe God will one day bring them to justice.”

In 1890, Burnett, 80 years old and still mourning, said, “Let the Historian of a future day tell the sad story with its sighs, its tears and dying groans. Let the great Judge of all the earth weigh our actions.” 

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