How Messianic Jews Are Serving Israelis Displaced by Hamas and Hezbollah

Heather M. Surls

In Israel’s only communal village of believers in Jesus, three women reflect on loving their neighbors—and their enemies—in the midst of war.

School principal Chani Kalni surveys damaged classrooms at Shalhavot Chabad elementary school in Gedera, Israel.

Leon Neal / Staff / Getty

As the sirens wailed on October 1, Nirit Bar-David took refuge in her familiar safe room. Iran had just launched another 180 missiles at Israel, and she had about a minute to take cover. So did the other 350 residents of Israel’s only Messianic Jewish moshav.

Sitting on a pine-covered ridge about ten miles west of Jerusalem, the Yad HaShmona community has lived in steady tension over the past year of war with Hamas in Gaza—now extended against Hezbollah in Lebanon. Thirty members of the community have served with the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) on both fronts, severely disrupting their families’ lives.

Yad HaShmona’s sirens did not sound on April 14, when Iran first launched drones and missiles at Israel, because the projectiles did not come within range of the village. But Bar-David, a financial manager who has lived at Yad HaShmona since she was seven years old, took cover in her bomb shelter anyway. Intelligence reports indicated that the unprecedented Iranian attack would arrive at night, so she decided to play it safe. She slept in the shelter attached to her home—an enclave with thick cement walls and a heavy metal door—and all the while, surrendering herself to God’s sovereign care.

“A bomb can ruin my whole house—not only this room,” she said. “I really believe that God is here and will protect me—and if not, it will be his decision, not a mistake.”

Since October 7, members of the moshav—a community resembling a kibbutz but with more individual autonomy—have had to make similar decisions over and over again: how to act quickly while trusting God.

At 6:30 a.m. that morning, Ayelet Ronen, chair of Yad HaShmona’s management committee, turned on the radio and heard the initial reports of a security breach on the border with Gaza. One of her sons, a member of IDF, wanted to ride her husband’s motorcycle south to help. Ronen and her husband convinced him to stay, but two hours later, he and around two dozen others from the community were officially called up to serve.

That was a Saturday, the morning after the moshav celebrated the end of Sukkot, the Jewish Festival of Booths. As a leader in the village, Ronen worked to soothe shock and panic in those who remained. While older men patrolled the village’s perimeter, she and the staff of the moshav’s Logos Hotel started to receive calls from Israelis fleeing the towns and kibbutzim near the Gaza Strip.

“By Tuesday we were fully booked,” Ronen recalled. “To all of them, we just said, ‘Come, we’ll figure out the funds later.’”

Yad HaShmona—which in Hebrew means “memory of the eight”—was founded in 1971 by a group of Finnish Christians who wanted to atone for the sins of their country in a tangible way; during World War II, Finland had surrendered to the Nazis eight Jews, seven of whom died in Auschwitz. Miraculously, Israel granted land to this group of Gentiles, who envisioned building up the Jewish state alongside Jewish believers in Jesus, known in Hebrew as Yeshua.

Fifty years later, Yad HaShmona is home to around 60 families. A member of the moshav must be a believer in Jesus, an Israeli citizen for at least 10 years, and willing to serve beyond his or her immediate family for the collective success of the village.

“Yad HaShmona has played an essential role in the formation of the Messianic community’s identity in Israel,” said Danny Kopp, general secretary of Evangelical Alliance Israel. Not only does the moshav host national gatherings for believers, he elaborated, but also it models communal life while remaining integrated with the broader society.

Within a week after Hamas’s attack on Israel, Yad HaShmona had welcomed around 200 evacuees—a fraction of the 200,000 Israelis displaced in the conflict’s early months. Since evacuees were housed in small hotel rooms without kitchens, the moshav’s management decided to convert a large hall into a common area for them. Between piles of donated clothes and toys, observant Jews gathered to pray. Sometimes men of the moshav would join them to make a minyan—the quorum of ten Jewish men needed for prayer.

“The religious people didn’t want to talk about [faith],” Ronen says, “but whenever we had an opportunity, we would tell them.”

Evacuees learned about the Christian organizations that helped pay for their room and board before Israeli government aid kicked in, a month and a half after the start of the conflict. And as they were able, moshav residents testified to their belief in Yeshua as Messiah.

Ronen recounted the story of an ultra-Orthodox woman who was driving to stay at Yad HaShmona when she received a phone call.

“Don’t go there,” her caller warned. “Those people are dangerous; they will change your faith.”

She immediately purposed to reverse her course. But Highway 1, a major road between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, had no place for a U-Turn. She ended up at the moshav, and sometime during her stay, expressed her appreciation for the community’s welcoming members.

“You’re nothing like what people told me,” Ronen said the woman concluded.

Historically, Israel’s Messianic community has been maligned, especially by ultra-Orthodox Jews, who are estimated at 10 percent of Israel’s Jewish population. But with conservative estimates of 30,000 believers in Israel worshiping in at least 75 congregations, Ronen thinks secular Israelis increasingly consider Messianic Jews an acceptable stream of society.

When the first group of evacuees was able to return to their homes after a three-month stay at Yad HaShmona, the moshav received a new group of 25 families, who stayed in temporary housing until the end of August. And since Israel’s offensive in Lebanon began in late September, in response to near-daily rocket exchanges with Hezbollah, more than a dozen families from northern towns have taken refuge at Yad HaShmona.

Mona Pelled, a guide with the Messianic Jewish travel agency Sar-El Tours, has lived at Yad HaShmona since 2017. Last fall, she interacted with her displaced neighbors at a sandwich bar opened in the moshav parking lot by the Christian Broadcasting Network. When anyone asked questions about Jesus, she shared the gospel in ways appropriate to each person’s background.

“We need to respect everyone,” Pelled said, “and if they see Yeshua in you, they will discover the truth.”

Pelled’s friendships extend beyond her Jewish circles as well. For 12 years, she has regularly met with Arab Israeli Christian women for fellowship and prayer. Most of these women are pacifists, she said, and she wishes she could be one too. But her parents and grandparents were Libyan Jews sent to a work camp in Italy at the end of World War II. As a Jew living in a state facing hostile extremist groups, her instinct for self-protection runs high.

Hamas’s massacre was a mini-Holocaust, she said. Though Israel must maintain a strong military because of its many outspoken enemies, she lamented the isolation Jews feel now that international opinion has turned against them.

“People in the world do not understand that this is the only land we have,” Pelled said.

Ronen’s background also informs her position on politics; in 1948, her grandfather came to Palestine during the British Mandate with an Auschwitz ID tattooed on his arm. Within a month, he enlisted with the Haganah—the early Jewish paramilitary organization—to fight for Israel’s independence.

Since October 7, Ronen said the people of Yad HaShmona have spent many hours studying the Bible and considering the meaning, in light of their new reality, of the Messiah’s command to love one’s enemies—a complex discussion, she admits. Distinguishing between armed militants and Palestinian civilians who are suffering the consequences of war, her community agrees that Hamas is not the enemy Jesus meant for them to love.

Believers are called to love enemies in close proximity to them, Ronen said, individuals who spitefully use and hate them. Jesus commanded love and prayer for these because he knows it is human nature to despise people who wrong them. To these people, she said, Jesus’ followers are called to “turn to them the other cheek” (Matt. 5:39), to do good (Rom. 12:20), and to share God’s transforming message of salvation.

But as an evil organization that opposes God’s plan for the Jewish people in their covenant land, Ronen said, Hamas differs from these individual, personal enemies. Citing Psalm 83:1–4, she said that any group set on Israel’s annihilation is in fact an enemy of God. As such, war can be waged against these groups without transgressing Jesus’ command.

“You can actually fight an enemy—fight a just war—and not develop hatred in your heart for the individual person before you,” Ronen said.

In agreement, Pelled added that Jesus does not intend for believers to love the “demonic,” which is how she characterizes Hamas.

“If the enemy comes against you, you have to protect yourself,” Pelled said. “It doesn’t mean I don’t love them or that I don’t pray for them. We do pray for them … we pray for the Gazan people, for those that are innocent. We pray for the children. We pray for a future for them.”

Nirit Bar-David also mentioned wicked spiritual forces at work, calling Hamas’s animosity toward Israelis “the work of the devil.” But even in the face of attacks against her people, she said she turns to God and prays that everyone—including her nation’s enemies—will find salvation in Jesus. Their repentance is necessary, she said, to halt the evil Hamas perpetuates.

“We need this change,” Bar-David said. “And having this attitude which Hamas has toward Israel, I think it comes from a very deep, wrong place that really needs healing—if they would choose that.”

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Theology

My Friend, Bill Pannell

Edward Gilbreath

A reflection on the trailblazing Black theologian and his influence on American evangelicalism.

Photo courtesy of Fuller Seminary

I first met the late William Pannell in 1993 in a hallway of Christianity Today. I was in my early 20s, just a year removed from graduating college. Dr. Pannell was visiting his old friend, former CT president Paul Robbins, and the pair was on a leisurely tour around the office.

I remember being enthralled by this dashing Black man in a tailored suit, his throaty laugh echoing around the building. Excited to see a young Black editor on CT’s payroll, Pannell greeted me with that winsome smile that had launched a thousand provocative sermons.

We were both slightly taken aback to see another African American in an office that was then so thoroughly white. At the time, I was one of only two or three people of color employed by CT and the lone Black person on the editorial team. What I didn’t know then was that I was shaking hands with one of the people who had helped create the conditions for me to hold that very role.

Pannell was a trailblazer whose leadership at organizations such as Youth for Christ, Tom Skinner Associates, and Fuller Theological Seminary had unlocked doors for later generations of Black evangelicals to enter through. Long after that first meeting, he would tell me, “When we [pioneering Black leaders] were taking our lumps in the ’50s and ’60s at evangelical ministries, colleges, and publishers, we were imagining a future where leaders like you could be possible.”

Over the years, I had the privilege of interviewing Pannell for various articles, books, videos, and other projects, both public and personal. In each interaction, he was brilliant and exceedingly generous with his time. Although he was a walking embodiment of “speaking truth to power,” he always led with humor and humility.

I quickly learned that I was not alone in my fandom; he was a mentor to scores of women and men—pastors and preachers, scholars and activists, folks who had passed through his classrooms at Fuller, as well as scraggly strays like me whom he happened to find along the way. When I wrote my 2006 book, Reconciliation Blues, about being a Black evangelical in mostly white settings, I was taking cues from what he did in his groundbreaking 1968 tome, My Friend, The Enemy, a passionate corrective to a white evangelical community that he both loved and distrusted.

Pannell loved Jesus and his church. As a preacher, his heart beat for the gospel and its biblically rooted values of evangelism, discipleship, and justice. His teaching was grounded in a strikingly honest understanding of how Christianity and the church really operate in the world. He was frank about how they are often accessories to the sins of racism and social injustice rather than proponents of reconciliation.

A lack of real discipleship was at the core of our troubles, Pannell believed. “Christ’s parting command was that we go and make disciples of the nations,” he wrote in his last book, an expanded edition of his 1993 release, The Coming Race Wars? “It wasn’t build more churches; it was make disciples. It seems fairly clear today that we have far more churches and Christians than we have disciples.”

Before going into hospice care earlier this month, Pannell more or less worked until his 95-year-old frame could go no further. He preached via Zoom, finished a memoir, and conducted interviews for two documentaries, including one about his life and ministry. Throughout our three decades of acquaintance, he and I would periodically call or send a text to check in on one another. I never took the gift of his friendship for granted, but now that he’s gone, I’m appreciating those exchanges even more.

My final text from him came early Sunday, September 22. I had sent him a message the day before to congratulate him on The Gospel According to Bill Pannell, a documentary that had its premiere that weekend. “Beautiful film about an amazing man of God! That Bill Pannell is a remarkable fella,” I wrote.

His reply: “Thanks be to JESUS! And to his friends like you.”

Edward Gilbreath is the author of Reconciliation Blues and Birmingham Revolution.

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Ideas

What Are Parents For?

Nadya Williams

Contributor

Scripture has a clear vision for parents as stewards of our children. It’s not an instruction manual for modern parenting spats.

Illustration by Elizabeth Kaye / Source Images: Getty / Wikimedia Commons

In his 1990 essay collection, Wendell Berry considered the question “What are people for?” The answer, in true Berry fashion, is a beautifully intricate web of answers that add up to human flourishing.

That flourishing is connected to the flourishing of the environment around us, and this answer also has deep theological roots. God’s promises in the Old Testament repeatedly revolved around blessing the land and the people together, not separately. We flourish when planted, rooted, and nurtured together, with others around us. Most of all, we flourish when rooted not only in human community but also in a covenant with God.

From the premise that people are made for flourishing, we can ask the same question about specific human roles, like that of a parent: “What are parents for?” What guidelines does the Bible offer in answering this question?

The timing of my exploration is not accidental. Over the past couple of years, I’ve seen vicious attacks within Christian circles against Christian parents who embrace public schooling and those who choose homeschooling.

And there’s no shortage of other parenting wars, both within the church and outside of it. Parenting Facebook groups have become legendary for all the wrong reasons. They’re the place to berate and be berated for every parenting choice imaginable: breastfeeding or bottle, Tylenol or no, travel sports or local only. Outspoken anti-vaxxers meet weekend-warrior dewormers meet all-natural-raw-foodists and many, many more—each convinced that their answer alone will save not only their children but also the world.

It would be funny, except the anxiety is far too real for anyone to be laughing. There’s no essential oil blend to help with this.

I contend that, like so many other problems we face, this one is theological at its root. We’ve lost track of any real theological imagination for understanding the purpose of parents. That’s true of the church and our broader society today, and we are the worse for it.

True, the Bible isn’t an encyclopedically precise instruction manual—you can’t just go to the index, look up “public schools” or “vaccinations” or “diapering options,” and find out exactly what the Lord has ordained on each particular issue. And if that’s what we are hoping to find, even subconsciously, that’s another problem that lies with us. It means we’re viewing parenting as a set of instrumentalized tasks—to feed, to wash, to chauffeur to activities—and losing track of the larger vision, a true calling for a purpose much larger than any list of tasks.

As it happens, the Bible does offer such a vision: Parents are called to be stewards of our children. Whether we’ve given birth to these children ourselves or have adopted or fostered them, we receive them as a gift for just a short time. During this time, we are but stewards appointed by God to hold in trust the treasure we have been given: image-bearers with immortal souls! At the end of their growing-up years, in most cases, off they go, on to adulthood.

But—and this is key—while the Bible’s teaching on this overall vision is clear, we also see repeatedly that there is more than one way to be a faithful steward.

In one of the most poignant passages, the opening section of the Shema prayer and the instructions that follow it in Deuteronomy 6:4–25, we learn of parents’ obligation to teach our children constantly about God, at home and outside, sitting and lying down and walking about during the day. Children raised in such households will ask earnest spiritual questions:

In the future, when your son asks you, “What is the meaning of the stipulations, decrees and laws the Lord our God has commanded you?”tell him: “We were slaves of Pharaoh in Egypt, but the Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand.Before our eyes the Lord sent signs and wonders—great and terrible—on Egypt and Pharaoh and his whole household.But he brought us out from there to bring us in and give us the land he promised on oath to our ancestors.The Lord commanded us to obey all these decrees and to fear the Lord our God, so that we might always prosper and be kept alive, as is the case today. And if we are careful to obey all this law before the Lord our God, as he has commanded us, that will be our righteousness.” (Deut. 6:20–25)

We see here that it is our duty as parents to keep teaching our children about God at every chance we get. It is also our duty to be prepared to answer deep theological questions from our children when they inevitably arise.

Without parental teaching, the passage implies, how would the next generation even know anything about God? This makes the task of theological education and spiritual formation that is entrusted to parents all the more urgent and necessary. The loss of key theological truths is always just one generation away.

This process of telling children about God through every activity imaginable adds up to what we today call discipleship. Though direct teaching is commanded, too, this modeling of the Christian life is primarily caught, not taught. It’s through everyday life in family, in other words, that children learn to follow Jesus. Designated times set apart for explicitly spiritual things are not enough.

Of course, another way to see it is that all of family life itself is a designated time set apart for discipleship. Every moment of life is God’s, and we as parents should model this truth. Such discipleship is how we live out our call to be faithful stewards of our children.

God expects much from those to whom he has given a trust, 1 Corinthians 4:2 reminds us. The parable in Matthew 25:14–30 elaborates further. In this story, Jesus tells of a master who entrusted various amounts of gold to three different stewards—to each “according to his ability.” Two of them invested the funds and made a profit, earning praise and further rewards. But the third simply hid the gold in the ground and returned it to the master exactly as he had received it, without any profit. He earned a harsh rebuke for his laziness.

Presented in a series of stories illuminating God’s kingdom, this parable is not about the virtues of wise financial investment. The real investment, rather, is in people. The stewards are—or should be—sharing and growing their knowledge of God. That includes parents teaching our children in word and example, preparing them to become thoughtful believers themselves.

Other passages also describe the high expectations God has for stewards to whom he entrusts serious responsibilities. And yet, Matthew 25 also makes it clear that there’s more than one way to be a good steward. Not every praiseworthy steward made the same decision, yet as long as they each wisely invested the treasure given to them, the master was happy.

Of course, we could also note the many unfortunate stories of parents and children throughout the Bible. These are examples of what happens when parents do not steward our children well.

This is a major theme of 1 and 2 Kings, where the kings of ancient Israel repeatedly appear to be terrible fathers who neglect their children’s spiritual education, largely ignoring their sons except when considering their potential as heirs. The result is one disastrous king after another, failures not only in spiritual terms but also by any earthly metric. And in each of those cases, Scripture describes spiritual and relational failures within the family. The problem is never the sort of parenting choices we bicker about: education styles, sports teams, or diet.

I’ve written before about the strong preferences that I have for my children, the image-bearers I have personally been called to steward and disciple together with my husband. But my investment choices are not what every other good and faithful steward will select, and Christian parents have the right and responsibility—spiritually as well as legally—to make those investment choices for themselves, informed by prayer, Scripture, and sound counsel as needed.

This knowledge of God’s praise for stewards with varying investment strategies should reconcile us to differences in parental and educational decisions among Bible-believing Christians. We need not all steward identically to be faithful servants.

Nadya Williams is the author of Cultural Christians in the Early Church and Mothers, Children, and the Body Politic: Ancient Christianity and the Recovery of Human Dignity (IVP Academic, 2024).

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News

When the Elder Calls—From Outer Space

Emily Belz

Two sick church members in their 90s got a pastoral “visit” from a friend—an astronaut stuck on the International Space Station.

Astronauts Barry "Butch" Wilmore and Suni Williams were the first humans to fly a Boeing Starliner to the International Space Station.

Courtesy of NASA / Robert Markowitz

Billy Adkison, 91, spent his life farming in East Texas; he never wanted to go to outer space.

“I don’t want to be higher than pulling corn and lower than digging taters,” he told CT.

All the same, he has watched the skies from his yard to catch a glimpse of the International Space Station passing by—“like a big old star,” he said.

Adkison wanted to keep an eye on one of his church elders, astronaut Barry “Butch” Wilmore, whose weeklong trip to space has been extended to eight months.

Wilmore and his fellow astronaut Suni Williams left Earth in June as the first humans to ride a Boeing Starliner spacecraft, but the craft had helium leaks and thruster problems during the launch. NASA decided to return Starliner to Earth without its human passengers for safety, leaving the two astronauts for a much longer mission than they anticipated.

NASA recently launched a SpaceX Dragon capsule to the International Space Station with two empty seats. It will bring Wilmore and Williams home in February.

This is Wilmore’s third expedition to space. Adkison has tracked him in space on his iPad since that became possible, knowing where Wilmore was any time of the day or night.

What Adkison didn’t know was that Wilmore, who is one of his elders at Providence Baptist Church in Pasadena, Texas, was keeping an eye on him too.

While Wilmore was in space this summer, Adkison was admitted to the hospital with a serious heart problem. Wilmore heard the news from his wife, Deanna Wilmore, and called Adkison to check on him from the space station.

“It surprised me, but it made me feel very good,” said Adkison, who is now out of the hospital and back at his assisted living facility, although he has struggled with other ailments lately.

In the 17 years that Adkison has known him through church, Wilmore has never acted “high class” as an astronaut, he said. “He’d find people like us that were having trouble.” Adkison said. He’s not sure why, but Wilmore always calls him “Mr. Billy.”

Over the years, the Wilmores have visited Adkison regularly and made him birthday cakes. Adkison said Wilmore would drive him home from visits, knowing Adkison didn’t like to drive at night. When Adkison’s wife of 64 years died in 2020, Wilmore gave a sermon at her funeral.

“I plan on him doing mine,” Adkison said, but since Wilmore is stuck on the space station, “I’m going to have to hold off for a bit.”

That wasn’t the only pastoral call Wilmore made from space. Providence Baptist pastor Tommy Dahn’s mother-in-law, Suda Smith, lives with him and his wife. Smith turned 93 this summer, and Wilmore called her on her birthday. Wilmore called her again at the end of August. She is blind and had just gotten out of the hospital.

“Her countenance of course lifted, her eyes sparkled, and that’s all I can say,” said Dahn. “She was just thrilled.”

She tells everyone she meets, “I got a call on my birthday from space,”he said.

NASA astronauts have access to the internet to make calls when they’re off duty. Dahn said other than calling the older invalids, Wilmore mostly stays in touch with his wife.

“That’s the epitome of Barry’s personal ministry—he looks for those who are down and outers,” said Dahn. “He could not have loved my mother-in-law and Billy any more than a simple phone call. … It’s more almost than him coming to see them in one sense, when he’s here.”

Other NASA employees go to Providence Baptist, a church of about 250 attendees. Astronaut Tracy Dyson, who just returned from the space station on a Soyuz capsule after six months in outer space, is a member there.

Wilmore and his family have been at Providence for 17 years, Dahn said.

“He’s really put his life into the church. … For us as a church, we miss him,” added Dahn. “All the glory goes to God. He does not take the glory to himself.”

The church had considered cutting the livestream of its services since the pandemic ended because leadership didn’t want people to stay home instead of coming to church. But they decided to keep it for the people like Adkison who were homebound and couldn’t attend. And now Wilmore is streaming the services from space.

Dahn said NASA allowed the church to be linked into the space station at one point for Wilmore to do a devotional, and the congregation on Earth sang songs like “Amazing Grace” with the astronauts at the station.

When Wilmore was last on the space station in 2014, he sent Adkison’s wife a video of him praying for her from the station’s cupola. Adkison said he accidentally erased the video from the iPad at some point.

“I thought I would send Barry back up there to get another ,” Adkison quipped.

In a NASA press conference after the announcement that the astronauts would be stranded for additional months, Wilmore and Williams remained upbeat about their extended stay. Wilmore, 60, said the gravity-free environment would give him relief from his aches and pains.

Retired astronaut Terry Virts, who commanded the space station in 2014–2015, was stranded on the station in 2015 for an extra month after a cargo capsule blew up. He saw that as “bonus space time.” But he said an eight-month extension was a long trip.

“There’s been astronauts that got stuck or delayed—never as dramatically as the two Boeing astronauts,” he said in an interview with broadcaster Pablo Torre. He added that the families of stranded astronauts are the ones who bear the brunt of the extension, often with spouses having to care for children on their own.

On a personal level, Wilmore is missing the bulk of his youngest daughter’s senior year of high school. In his press conference from the space station, Wilmore said astronauts train for the unexpected.

“It’s a very risky business,” he said. A reporter asked him about his faith sustaining him, and he said he didn’t want to speak outside of his role as an astronaut but said anyone interested could look at 2 Corinthians 12:9–10.

Those verses say in part, “‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ … for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.”

He added: “You’ve got to be resilient and go with whatever the good Lord gives.”

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News

Died: Jack Iker, Anglican Who Drew the Line at Women’s Ordination

Daniel Silliman

The Texas bishop fought a bitter legal battle with the Episcopal Church and won.

Courtesy of Jack Iker / Edits by Christianity Today

Jack Iker, a Texas bishop who took 48 congregations and 15,000 parishioners out of the Episcopal Church USA and helped start the Anglican Church in North America (ACNA), died on October 5. He was 75.

Iker was a conservative Anglo-Catholic who made common cause with evangelicals—whom he called “strange bedfellows”—in order to fight against liberal theological revisionism. He was especially opposed to the ordination of women. He would not accept women as priests in his diocese nor submit to the leadership of a woman elected as presiding bishop over the Episcopal Church in 2006.

“It puts me in a compromising position,” Iker told the Fort Worth Star-Telegram at the time. “It’s not against women. It’s a theological position. We believe the ordination of women … is a fundamental break with apostolic tradition and biblical teaching.”

The Texas bishop became one of four bishops to found ACNA in 2009. He continued to quarrel with the more conservative ACNA over the issue of women in ministry, however. The Anglicans ordain women as priests in some dioceses, but not others. For Iker, this was a line in the sand.

“It would be a bad legacy to be remembered as the bishop who didn’t ordain women,” he said. And yet he believed he had to fight to protect Episcopalians and then Anglicans in America from becoming “a church that acts more and more like a rebellious Protestant sect and less and less like an integral part of the one holy catholic and apostolic church.”

Iker was a polarizing figure, especially in Texas, where his followers were sometimes derisively called “Ikerpalians.”

“He didn’t back down from what we’ve received in terms of Biblical faith,” said Ryan Reed, the ACNA bishop who succeeded Iker in Fort Worth after Iker’s retirement. “His stance for the biblical Christian faith made him either a hero … or it made him despised.”

Many of the men who served under Iker in Texas praised him for his faithfulness in the face of sustained opposition. The word they used most often was steadfast.

Iker was “an incredible example of a Godly man faithfully living the gospel of Jesus Christ,” according to Mark Polley, an Anglican priest in Bedford, Texas. “God only knows how many people he positively influenced with his faith, courage, steadfastness.”

Iker was born in Cincinnati on August 31, 1949. He said little publicly over the years about his childhood, early faith, or call to ministry. He got married in a Methodist Church in 1968 as a freshman at the University of Cincinnati and pursued ordination in the Episcopal Church after graduation. He was ordained at St. George’s Episcopal Church in Dayton, Ohio, in 1974 and went on to serve quietly as a priest at Church of the Redeemer in Sarasota, Florida, for 15 years.

Iker didn’t become a public figure—or a lightning rod—until he was nominated to become a bishop in 1992.

The Episcopal Church had allowed women in ministry for 16 years at that point, but church canons could not force a bishop to ordain anyone. A bishop’s authority over his diocese was considered inviolate. And Iker said he wouldn’t ordain women, nor allow them to serve in any parish under his care.

One female critic said Iker’s nomination was “appalling” and predicted he would hold the Episcopal Church “hostage” to misogyny.

Iker was narrowly elected, however, with the support of John Shelby Spong, the liberal Episcopal bishop who rejected traditional Christian doctrines including Jesus’ resurrection and even theism itself. Spong said that though he wanted to force the church to evolve and believed it had to change or die, he thought Episcopalians should also tolerate traditionalists.

Spong later complained that “the act of gracious inclusion has never been reciprocated.”

Episcopal leaders may have also been reticent to oppose Iker because the church had a century-long tradition of electing those who were nominated. Episcopal elections were seen as polite and deferential, with the good manners necessary to maintain unity.

Some critics also said they admired Iker’s character even though they disagreed with his views.

“He was forthright in his opinions … and showed considerable integrity in remaining steadfast,” said one minister who supported him despite their disagreement. “He was patient and thoughtful in answering my questions.”

Five years later, however, the Episcopal Church decided bishops would have to accept women’s ordinations, setting Iker on a collision course with his church. He said at the time that radical feminists were trying to get revenge, seeking to oppress conservatives like him.

“In the heart of radical feminism, there is a lot of internal anger,” the bishop told the Associated Press. “I think we saw that here.”

Iker pointed out that Jesus’ 12 disciples were all male. He also argued that any hope of unity with Roman Catholics and the Eastern Orthodox would require a return to an all-male priesthood. He could not seem to persuade other church leaders, however.

Despite the new rule, Iker managed to keep women almost entirely out of the pulpits and away from the altars in his diocese. He couldn’t stop women from guest preaching, though, and couldn’t stop the denomination from appointing a woman over him as presiding bishop.

Katharine Jefferts Schori was made head of the Episcopal Church in 2006. Iker and other conservatives were dismayed. In addition to differences over gender roles, Anglo-Catholics and evangelical Episcopalians were upset by Schori’s support for the consecration of Gene Robinson, the church’s first openly gay bishop, and by statements that seemed to suggest that Jesus was just one way among many that people could be reconciled with God.

“I think that we may well be at that point where there are irreconcilable differences in theology and church discipline and so on,” Iker said. “Perhaps the best thing to do is say, ‘How can we have an amicable divorce?’”

It was not amicable.

Iker left the Episcopal Church on November 24, 2008. He took the majority of the Fort Worth diocese with him: 48 out of 56 congregations decided to leave.

But leaving, for them, didn’t mean going anywhere.

The conservative majority said they would keep using the name “The Episcopal Diocese of Fort Worth” and maintain ownership of their church buildings, bank accounts, and other property, which was estimated to be worth about $100 million.

Texas Monthly called this “a startling assertion of temporal power,” but Iker maintained that the churches followed proper procedure, adhered to canon law, and had a right to the real estate. The breakaway group was, after all, the majority. The Episcopal Church decided to test that in court.

They sued. And then sued again.

Iker ended up defending himself in three different cases, in three courts, in two Texas counties. He called himself “the most sued Anglican bishop in all of North America.” His supporters gave him the admiring nickname “the lion of Fort Worth.”

Iker, who continued his oversight of about 80 clergy and dozens of churches and ministries, complained his time was too often dominated by legal matters.

“I seem to spend more time now with groups of lawyers than groups of priests,” he said in 2010. “Almost every day I am in conversation with one of our attorneys. We have engaged six different law firms to respond to the litigations brought against us.”

The legal battles dragged on for 12 years before Iker and the Anglicans ultimately won. Finally, a Texas Supreme Court judge ruled that “under the governing documents, the withdrawing faction is the Episcopal Diocese of Fort Worth.” The national church appealed, but the US Supreme Court declined to take the case, letting the ruling stand.

Throughout the long legal battle, Iker maintained there really was only one thing at stake: whether or not the church was going to remain committed to the faith handed down by the apostles.

“The real issue is the faith. We are taking a stand for the historic faith and practice of the Bible, as we have received them,” Iker said.

For the Texas bishop, that was also the only real issue at stake in the new Anglican denomination. And there, again, he was deeply troubled by women in ministry.

A few years before he retired, Iker addressed the official gathering of ACNA leaders and told them that the compromise the church had worked out in its constitution, where some dioceses would ordain women while others would not, was no longer tolerable. Women in the pulpit and at the altar is a recent innovation, according to Iker, breaking from apostolic tradition and catholic order, and should not be acceptable among orthodox Christians.

As long as women were allowed to be ordained in parts of ACNA, “we are in a state of impaired communion,” Iker said.

The debate was not resolved in 2017. It still divides Anglicans today.

Iker predicted the tension would be a problem for the ACNA going forward, just as it had been the cause of so much conflict and the ultimate breaking point for the Episcopal Church.

“We see the ordination of women … as a departure from the witness of Holy Scripture and the apostolic practice of the ancient Church,” Iker said. “Pray for God’s guidance as we seek to resolve this deeply divisive issue, in the interest of deepening our unity in Christ.”

Iker retired in 2019 after receiving a cancer diagnosis. He is survived by his wife, Donna Bowling Iker, and their three daughters. A requiem mass for the bishop was offered on October 11 at St. Vincent’s Cathedral Church in Bedford, Texas.

- More from Daniel Silliman

Culture

The Robot Will Lie Down With the Gosling

Mia Staub

In “The Wild Robot,” hospitality reprograms relationships.

Roz voiced by Lupita Nyong’o (left) and Brightbill voiced by Kit Connor (right) in The Wild Robot.

In an animation landscape full of sequels, prequels, and remakes, The Wild Robot is a welcome respite.

Based on Peter Brown’s eponymous 2016 novel and brought to the screen in painterly style, the film tells the story of a robot stranded on an island and forced to adapt to her woodland surroundings. Programmed to be helpful, she soon takes as her task raising a gosling and preparing him for an upcoming migration.

Reminiscent of Ice Age, Wall-E, and The Iron Giant, The Wild Robot speaks to the vocation of motherhood, the clashes between nature and technology, and climate change. It also beautifully demonstrates the humility involved in hospitality. For the Christian, it’s a reminder of the countercultural practice of welcome.

The robot, Roz (Lupita Nyong’o), is an outsider eager to help others in her newfound community. Fink (Pedro Pascal), a quick-witted fox, is an outcast. Brightbill (Kit Connor), Roz’s adopted gosling, is the lone survivor of an accident.

Often looked down on by the rest of the island’s creatures, the trio bonds over their “otherness” despite the unlikeliness of their friendship. As a fox, Fink is Brightbill’s would-be predator. As a robot, Roz can be dangerous. The other animals refer to Roz as “the monster”; from the film’s beginning, we see how easily (even accidentally) she can cause destruction.

But raising Brightbill requires the fox and the robot to set aside their “programming,” to strip themselves of preconceived notions of what’s natural. Fink has to disregard his nature as a predator; Roz has to recalibrate herself to take on her role as a mother. “Sometimes to survive,” she muses, “we must become more than we were programmed to be.”

Roz and Fink aren’t the creatures we assume would offer care to an orphaned bird. Their choice feels as unlikely as a Samaritan stopping to help an injured man on the side of the road, his physical needs overcoming any historical tension between people groups.

Hospitality is more than opening your home for dinner with friends, more than being kind when it happens to be convenient. Oftentimes, hospitality requires sacrifice. That sacrifice includes putting aside our grievances, spending time with people who aren’t like us, and even offering forgiveness.

In the second and third acts of The Wild Robot, Roz and Fink extend their hospitality to the creatures on the island that previously rejected them. Once Brightbill goes off with the other geese, her surrogate parents feel purposeless. Then, an unruly winter storm hits, and Roz immediately springs into action, attempting to save the freezing animals.

As predators and prey squeeze into tight, warm quarters, Fink reminds the group that the only way to survive the storm is to put aside their differences. He reminds them that Roz’s sacrifice is an act of undeserved grace. They rejected Roz as a monster; she responded by saving their lives. Moved by his speech, a beaver timidly cuddles with a bear.

The bear sleeps next to the beaver in the same way that the lion will sit next to a lamb and the leopard with the goat, the same way that our Savior sat next to tax collectors (Isa. 11:6, Mark 2:15–17). In The Wild Robot, as in the Christian life, unlikely associations are the very point.

In fact, our hospitality stems from the unlikeliest association of them all—an almighty God who involves himself with mere humans, who graciously intervenes on our behalf. The church extends hospitality to others because God extended hospitality to us (Ex. 22:21). As Colossians 4:5 puts it, “Be wise in the way you act toward outsiders; make the most of every opportunity.”

The Wild Robot reminds us that if our hospitality comes with qualifications—political party, gender, race, whether we usually eat another animal for lunch—then we are allowing lesser things to get in the way of Jesus’ command to love God and our neighbors. To pick up other people’s crosses (Gal. 6:2–5), to weep with those who weep and rejoice with those who rejoice (Rom. 12:15), we have to actually encounter one another. We can’t be the church without the countercultural sense that the things that reconcile us are greater than the things that divide us, whether ideologies or customs or mere social norms.

As the creatures in The Wild Robot encounter this reconciliation, they are changed and challenged. Hospitality changes the very nature of reality. It rewires a robot; it turns prey into a friend.

Mia Staub is editorial project manager at Christianity Today.

- More from Mia Staub

Ideas

Why Can’t We Talk to Each Other Anymore?

Kaitlyn Schiess

Online interactions are draining us of energy to have hard conversations in person.

Illustration by Elizabeth Kaye / Source Images: Getty

Years ago, I taught a Bible study that I knew would be controversial. I was a couple years into seminary, and my church asked me to join a team of teachers for the weekly women’s Bible study. We were going through Genesis, and I received the sign-up sheet after everyone else had already selected their texts, leaving me with one option: Genesis 18–20. Next to the chapters listed on the sheet, it simply read, “Sodom and Gomorrah.”

Though I was mildly horrified by my assignment, I ended up teaching a lesson on the theme of hospitality across the three chapters. I explained that God judges multiple nations in these chapters by their willingness or unwillingness to welcome foreigners. I employed all the tools of my seminary education, and I was confident in my interpretation.

But a few days before I was to give my lesson, our governor enacted a ban on any refugee resettlement in the state, preventing (carefully vetted) refugees from settling in the state. It seemed to me that there was a clear application of the text in our present circumstances, and while I was afraid of criticism, I decided to make the connection.

A few hours after my lesson, the pastor I was working under at the church texted me, “What did you say in Bible study this morning? Some of the women are coming to meet with me tomorrow to talk about it.” I was terrified and spent the rest of the afternoon working up my defense.

I had recently started spending a lot of time talking about politics on Twitter, and I’d interacted with lots of Christians critical of the refugee resettlement program, some of them making xenophobic or racist arguments in support of their position. As I prepared to defend my lesson, those were the voices shaping my approach. I regretfully returned to work the next day ready to fight, convinced of the malevolence of my detractors before I’d even heard their concerns.

Much has been written about the corrosive effects of the internet on our civic life: how virtual relationships have replaced in-person connections, how algorithms fuel polarization, how the proliferation of sources drives misinformation.

I am concerned, however, not merely about how the internet teaches us to talk to each other on social media platforms but also about how those exhausting interactions drain us of the resources we need to have hard conversations offline.

Our malformed communication habits do not stay on the internet. The way we learn to talk to each other in the cramped context of algorithm-fueled social media platforms shows up at our dinner tables, church pews, and neighborhood sidewalks. We learn to fear or detest anyone from the other party, we learn what form and tone criticisms should take, we learn where battle lines have been drawn.

Perhaps more concerning than all of that, though, is the way our energy is drained online—leaving us without the strength and emotional bandwidth necessary for discussing contentious issues with the people in our real lives.

Debating trolls, slogging through bad-faith arguments, and shielding ourselves from ad hominem attacks online leaves limited emotional and mental resources for in-person conversations. We might be forgiven for learning, over repeated interactions online, that people from the other party are unambiguously evil or stupid. It is natural to become defensive and frazzled after facing an onslaught of cruel attacks. It is reasonable to assume the worst of people when you’ve been exposed to the dark side of humanity over and over again.

We need more than good policy proposals and party platforms for a healthy election season. We need people who are “quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry” (James 1:19), who rid themselves of “anger, rage, malice, slander, and filthy language” (Col. 3:8), and who refuse to tell lies about their opponents but live peaceably and gently (Titus 3:1–2).

This is a task that sounds simple but may require us to actively detach ourselves from the platforms that drain us of the internal resources necessary to resist their corrupted norms.

The day after the Bible study, I went into my boss’s office with a ten-point argument prepared, but I never had to make it. I discovered that the women who had met with my boss, the pastor over missions and outreach, had come to him with one question: Why aren’t we doing more to serve our refugee neighbors?

I had been grievously wrong about the women I served. While I did later discover deep divisions and distrust in that community, I was wrong about this instance. I was wrong for many reasons that shape our dysfunctional political life these days: I made judgments about these women based on their age and race; I assumed the worst of others; I was quick to jump to defensiveness when I feared criticism. But there’s another reason I was wrong: I was spending more and more of my time debating about politics on the internet.

If that meeting at my church had gone differently—if the women had come with criticisms of my lesson or questions about the appropriateness of my application—I would not have addressed their concerns with kindness and grace. I was primed by my internet activism to treat their concerns with condescension and to assume the worst of their intentions.

More than that, I was exhausted by the constant criticism, anger, and cruelty all around me online. I was too tired to muster up compassion for their concerns, too beaten down to remain open to the possibility that they might have something to teach me.

I spend a lot of my time talking to pastors and churches about political life, and many of them ask me to come speak right before an election. They are rightly discerning that this season is uniquely challenging and they will need help guiding their congregations into healthier ways of living together. Yet I wish more of our churches instead asked together: What do we need to do now so that we have the capacity to serve our neighbors when the election is over?

This election will have material effects on our most vulnerable neighbors. But regardless of who wins the presidency and what party is in power, our neighbors and neighborhoods will need people who can serve them, be in relationship with them, and collaborate with them on the greatest needs of our communities.

We need to remember that we are finite creatures whose resources will be depleted by tense and difficult conversations—and to discern where those resources will be best spent. We should consider whether the energy we are exerting trying to persuade strangers on the internet could be conserved for the sake of our physical neighbors.

There are a variety of tangible ways to seek the good of our communities: showing up to a city council meeting, volunteering at a local public school or crisis pregnancy center, hosting the neighborhood for a potluck.

We don’t all need to swear off social media. But we can consider the cost of it more seriously and allocate our limited resources more thoughtfully.

Kaitlyn Schiess is the author of The Ballot and the Bible: How Scripture Has Been Used and Abused in American Politics and Where We Go from Here.

- More from Kaitlyn Schiess

Church Life

How Priscilla Shirer Surrenders All

Rachel Pfeiffer

The best-selling Bible teacher writes about putting God first in her life and how healthy Christian discipleship requires sacrifice

Photography by Andrew James Abajian / Courtesy of Lifeway Resources / Edits by Christianity Today

Priscilla Shirer remembers the advice she got earlier in her ministry career: You cannot do a thousand things to the glory of God, but you can do one or two.

“I’ve never forgotten that,” she said. Each season of life, she prays and discerns what priorities she believes God has laid out for her. Whatever doesn’t align with those is a “no for now.”

“This is not always easy,” she said. “No, it’s a constantly saying, ‘Lord, please help us to have a little bit of discernment and wisdom. … give us enough courage to be willing to say the nos so that we can say our best yeses to where you want us to be.’”

The best-selling Bible study author, teacher, and speaker recently said yes to another movie by the Kendrick Brothers—the evangelical producers Shirer previously worked with on War Room and Overcomer—and an accompanying devotional book.

The Forge, released in August, was a project that made sense for her as a 49-year-old mom of three boys in their teens and early 20s. Shirer’s character works to get her 19-year-old son on track and prays for him to know Jesus.

“I felt really compelled to be a part of telling a story of a young man whose life is completely shifted because someone older and wiser affirms him, challenges him, and encourages him to rise up in manhood,” she said.

Shirer—who comes from a ministry family as the daughter of pastor Tony Evans—was inspired by the movie to write about discipleship and surrender. She and her husband live in Dallas, where they run Going Beyond Ministries.

Her Going Beyond Live events feature Bible teaching, prayer, and worship led by her brother, singer Anthony Evans. Over the summer, she held the largest live event Lifeway has hosted since the pandemic, with 5,600 women in person in Athens, Georgia, and around 50,000 watching the simulcast online.

This weekend, she’ll host the final Going Beyond Live event of the year in Cincinnati.

Recently, Shirer sat down with CT to discuss her latest projects, what it looks like to turn over our lives to God in the day-to-day, and why she sees surrender as the key to finding peace and hope.

How did the movie The Forge inspire your new book?

The Kendrick Brothers asked if I would be interested in writing a companion book geared specifically toward women that might see the movie and then be thinking about discipleship and surrendering to the Lord fully in their lives. How could they actually take whatever the Holy Spirit may have done in their heart while they were watching it and put feet on it?

Sometimes we have a sense of what we would like to do, but we’re actually not sure how, so this book gives a little bit more detail on what it looks like to live a life that is fully surrendered to Jesus. Not just at church on Sundays, and not just sort of doing the dutiful thing that we are supposed to do as Christians, but actually living a life where your heart is yielded to the Lord.

In I Surrender All, you wrote, “If you and I are struggling to surrender our all to Jesus, it most likely has something to do with our estimation of His identity.” Many in the church have heard time and again who Jesus is, so how do we keep from getting complacent about Jesus’ identity?

I think one of the main ways is that we remember what he has delivered us from. We remember what we would have been, had it not been for the grace and the mercy and goodness of God.

Every one of us has a testimony. Some of us have a more stark, striking testimony than others, but all of us were in sin, and all of us would have had an eternal destination that was separated from God. If it weren’t for the grace of God, none of us would be able to experience freedom or victory and a life that is filled with peace and stability of heart and mind.

So the first thing that keeps us calibrated to make sure our heart is turned toward him sincerely is remembering what could be all of our lot if it weren’t for his grace and mercy. That makes you continually grateful.

What other barriers do you think that Christians, especially Americans, encounter when it comes to surrendering their lives to God?

There’s a constant competition in the culture we live in about what our priorities should be. We want to be comfortable; that is the Western view of what happiness is, that your life is comfortable and easy and everything’s going like you would like for it to go. That has been misunderstood and misconstrued as the favor of God on you, but that’s not the way Jesus described discipleship. In fact, in many ways, it’s the opposite.

Jesus said, If anyone will be my disciple, they’ll deny themself and take up a cross. We don’t live in a culture that values self-denial and restraint. As disciples of Jesus Christ, we have to remember that he’s the priority, being willing to lay down our lives for him and surrender sometimes our ambitions and our goals, the way we thought our life would be, the family dynamic we thought we’d have, the way it would look. Laying down those sorts of things becomes a way that we’re able to begin to recalibrate again.

How has your understanding of surrender has changed over the years?

One of the things that occurred to me is that surrender looks different in every season but that we’re always being asked to surrender something. At every season of life, there is another level of surrender, and on the other side of that surrender, there’s a new facet of abundant life and an experience with God. Surrender looked different in my 20s, and what I sensed the Lord asking me to release in my 30s is different than it is now in my 40s.

As I move into the next decade and season of life with my children now growing up, flying the coop, and the house getting a little emptier and quieter, I’m asking, “Okay, Lord, now what would it look like for my life to be surrendered to you here, and am I willing to lay down my thoughts of what this season should be, or what I want it to be, if you ask me for something different? Will I be willing to walk with you in this season in the new ways that you call me to?”

What does it look like practically for someone to be truly surrendered to God in their everyday life?

Well, one of the main things is starting the day with a perspective of, “Lord, this is your day. There are things you already have planned for me in this day that I don’t even know yet. There are strangers that I’m going to meet. There are frustrating circumstances that are going to happen. So, Lord, would you help me to hold my hands loosely on the 24 hours that you have ahead of me and to be tender of heart enough that I can be aware that every derailment, every potential frustration, every encounter that I have, any of those things can be shimmering with divine possibility.” To me, that’s what it is. It’s not always easy, by the way.

Both in the movie and in your book, there’s this connection between surrender and discipleship. What is the key element of needing to surrender in order to be a disciple?

The entire disciple’s life is one of surrender. When you look in the Scriptures, you see Jesus basically saying to those 12 disciples, “Follow me.” They had to actually leave behind physical comforts, physical realities, like when Peter was fishing.

It’s a requirement for discipleship, because in order to fully honor Jesus and to keep him first, we can’t be allowing that priority to bump heads with the things we treasure, whether it’s an ambition, or whether it’s a comfort in unforgiveness, or whether it’s a story of success that we’ve written in our minds as to what our success is supposed to look like. Being able to release that and let it go is a requirement for us to fully follow Jesus.

How can the church better step into this space of mentorship? What are some things the church body can do better to disciple young people?

I think one of the main ways is by highlighting to younger people in the church the need that they have for the more seasoned, more mature believers. Let those young believers know, The resources you need to be successful in your marriage are sitting right around you if you would be receptive, teachable, and humble enough to hear wisdom. Same thing for business builders, young entrepreneurs. There are businesspeople that have been doing this longer than you. They are your resources for how to honor God, have integrity in your business but also do it with success.

The very reason why online church is fantastic but can’t be a replacement for a local gathering is because community was the whole point to begin with. It was supposed to be iron sharpening iron.

It has to be something that [we talk about] just as clearly as we speak about salvation and just as clearly as we talk about the Holy Spirit or the fruit of the Spirit—we talk about some things very didactically and clearly from the pulpit—this should be one of them as well. Discipleship is available to us in this body, if we’ll just take advantage of it.

- More from Rachel Pfeiffer

Books

Church Disappointment Is Multilayered

Interview by Harvest Prude

Jude 3 Project founder Lisa Fields speaks about navigating frustrations with God and fellow believers.

Illustration by Christianity Today / Source Images: Getty

Why are people leaving the church or their faith behind? Some answers boil down to platitudes, like a supposed desire to pursue a sinful lifestyle. But apologist Lisa Fields has found the reasons to be much more complex.

Fields, founder of the Jude 3 Project, which equips Black Christians to know what they believe and why, has sat across from many people leaving the church. During these “exit interviews,” she’s discovered that somewhere in nearly every story lurks the specter of personal disappointment with God or Christianity. She addresses this thorny issue in a new book, When Faith Disappoints: The Gap Between What We Believe and What We Experience.

CT national political correspondent Harvest Prude spoke with Fields about walking with God in the midst of a broken world and our own disappointments.

Something from your book that really struck me is when you talk about unanswered prayers. How do we navigate times in our faith when we’ve sought out God for something and we feel overlooked because he doesn’t seem to answer?

For me, when God doesn’t answer my prayers, I have to have a real conversation with him about what he has not answered. My relationship with God is very open. There are times where I’m angry, and I have to get those feelings out of my mouth and out of my heart—because when I don’t voice my frustrations, I end up filled with bitterness and resentment.

There’s a quote from Tim Keller where he says—and I’m paraphrasing—that if we knew what God knows, we would want our prayers answered the way he answers them. I’ve had this experience in my own life. I remember a time when I wanted to connect with a particular person, a major donor who could help my ministry. But I didn’t have enough extra income to get to New York City, where he was based. I remember being frustrated, feeling like there were all these obstacles to networking and getting ahead. Only later did I learn that this person had just gotten arrested for embezzlement.

Sometimes, in your disappointment, you realize that God is letting you see things that you wouldn’t see otherwise or protecting you from dangers that you didn’t know about. In the book, I talk about a man I had been dating for almost four years. In the middle of our relationship, he got married to a woman he had been involved with behind the scenes for most of the time. This other woman had been married herself during most of the affair.

That whole time, I had been praying that God would make this man my husband. But I didn’t realize that he was actually protecting me from someone who had poor character, despite being a preacher. In the middle of my disappointment, I voiced my frustration. Then I gave myself time to ask what God might be trying to protect me from. What different direction was he trying to push me in?

In the book you talk about doing exit interviews with people who are leaving the church. As a reporter, I cover the intersection of faith and politics. How do you think political conversations have impacted people’s relationship with faith?

I think the political climate in America has really impacted how people there think about faith. Christians often go to rhetorical and ideological extremes in the name of faith. Recently, I noticed a group of faith leaders on social media saying that if you’re voting for Kamala Harris, you can’t be a Christian. Rhetoric like that, I think, creates this confusion gap for many in our culture, where they don’t understand what we’re talking about. Because the Bible doesn’t tell you which political candidates to vote for. In fact, it doesn’t even speak about voting in any conventional way, because the world of the biblical writers was a world ruled by kings and emperors.

When there’s a gap between what the Bible says and what some believers claim it says, for political reasons, it makes a lot of people want nothing to do with the church, especially when political leaders hijack the church for their own gain. And it makes believers look like hypocrites, which creates a problem for those who want to be part of something genuine.

In your conversations, how often do you find that people leaving the church are struggling with its failures and flaws? And how often, by contrast, do they seem motivated more by a desire to live without moral restrictions or guilt?

I think both answers can be correct, sometimes at the same time. Church disappointment can have so many layers. Perhaps we’re disappointed with God. Or we’re disappointed with God’s people, or people in general. And then there are certain things we just desire and want to do in our flesh.

There’s always a multiplicity of factors. When I’ve done exit interviews with people leaving the church, I’ve seen that it’s never just one thing. It’s layers of things that rock them.

If you could design a toolkit of practices for being a faithful witness to those who are struggling with the church or their faith, what would you include?

The first thing I’d encourage is to live out what you believe as best you can. And that doesn’t mean perfection, but it does mean progression. If I hold to the Bible being the Word of God, then I obey the Word to the best of my ability.

Because we all fall short, though, we have to be honest about when this happens. If I portray myself as living a sinless life, I’m actually undermining the authority of Scripture, because Scripture tells us we’re born and shaped in iniquity. Living out our faith means acknowledging our sins and committing to repent of them.

Another essential habit is loving people well. In The Message Bible paraphrase, there’s a passage in Philippians that I post every Valentine’s Day, where Paul is saying, don’t just “love much” but “[love] well” (1:9–11). That really struck me when I read it years ago, because there’s a difference between loving somebody much and loving somebody well. I want to be someone who tries to love people well. That means listening attentively and holding space for their doubts and frustrations.

Third, I think we need to practice being merciful. Like Jude says, “Be merciful to those who doubt” (v. 22). Remember what it’s like to have doubts of your own, and treat others who doubt accordingly.

And finally, remember to pray with people. With my own friends, I’ve been enjoying a beautiful season of us praying together. I can’t give any prescription on how to do it right. It’s not like we’re doing anything grand. We simply share our frustrations; I pray, they pray, and healing has taken place. And it’s not like my friends are well-known spiritual leaders. But that’s just a reminder that you don’t need somebody to be a spiritual leader for their prayers to make a difference in your life.

You write about the importance of forgiveness to any process of healing from faith disappointment. How do we respond well when a fellow believer has hurt us or broken our trust?

In my own life, I was having trouble trusting someone who had sinned against me and claimed to have repented. My therapist said, “I’m not asking you to trust them. I’m asking you to trust God.” And that has helped me a lot.

I enter into relationships that have been broken, knowing that the person, being human, could break that trust again. But I’m aware that I’ve probably caused hurts myself and I could do it again. And because I want grace, I know I need to give it as well.

That doesn’t mean it’s easy. I spoke earlier about the man who cheated on me during our relationship. It took me years to get to this point, but by now I’ve seen him many times since he got married. By the time he apologized, I was able to accept his apology. I was able to trust that it was sincere because I had done a work in my heart to forgive him.

Sometimes, you have to give yourself time. Years ago, I read a book on forgiveness. It said there are occasions when we tell people we’ve forgiven them too abruptly because we don’t know the full impact of their actions. If we announce forgiveness too soon, we’re only forgiving the initial impact when we don’t yet know all the layers. How will these actions affect me a year from now? I might have to forgive again, but at least I’m choosing forgiveness. I’m choosing not to treat you like you owe me because you hurt me.

When Christians face disappointment, you argue, a sort of syncretism can creep in. They might seek out New Age practices, for instance, if they feel that God has failed them. How should we approach apologetics in a culture marked by intense interest in alternative modes of spirituality?

Before criticizing the what in these alternative approaches, try to find out the why. Perhaps you know someone who uses crystals or consults horoscopes. Well, what’s behind that? Figuring out the why will help you get to the root of the issue.

Maybe this person was going through a difficult time and heard from a friend about something that could help manage the stress. And so, okay, so that’s how you got into that. Maybe this person had tried prayer and Christian faith but, for whatever reason, didn’t find them adequate. You can help someone walk through these deeper issues. For me, this is a far better approach than simply saying, “Don’t use crystals—they’re demonic.”

Love is a better draw than fear. As a pastor’s kid, I used to go to youth conferences around the country, and there was always an element of fear in the way we were encouraged to give our lives to Christ. And so everybody gave their life to Christ at every event—the same people every year. I “became” a Christian probably a million times as a teenager because I was scared.

But when life disappointed me, that fear wasn’t what was holding me. It was God’s love. I believe in a real hell, and I believe that Jesus is the only way to eternal life, but we can communicate that with love, rather than fear, as the motivator. Because the fear will always wear off. Fear will never be your keeper.

- More from Harvest Prude

Ideas

You Don’t Need a Rule of Life

Myles Werntz

Contributor

What you need is a church.

Documerica / Unsplash

Contemporary culture is brimming with exhortations to discipline. From Jordan Peterson’s runaway bestseller 12 Rules for Life to Ryan Holiday’s The Daily Stoic to James Clear’s Atomic Habits, we have no shortage of guidance for embracing a life of order. And that guidance isn’t all bad; wisdom from many corners can deepen our understanding of how to live well. Psychologists, Stoics, and even motivational speakers have contributions to make.

Some are even noticeably resonant with Scripture. Peterson’s rule “Set your house in perfect order before you criticize the world” echoes Jesus’ admonition to “take the plank out of your own eye” before issuing judgment (Matt. 7:3–5). And Clear’s suggestion that we reduce exposure to bad habits before building good ones fits well with Psalm 1:1. For popular fare, we could do worse than commending self-control in a culture entranced by the illusion of endless possibility.

The Christian take on this genre is more explicitly scripturally attuned and increasingly described, with a nod to the monastics, as a “rule of life.” These books offer practical instruction for Christians seeking to bring their finances, prayers, and daily habits into one cohesive vision, and some try to recover classical disciplines rooted in the Decalogue or in historic catechisms. But they can evince too little distinction from their secular counterparts and, relatedly, too little use for the church.

Of course, it makes a difference that Christian books cite Scripture instead of Cicero, advise habits of prayer instead of silence, and teach self-discipline in service to the mission of God instead of success in business. But whether secular or sacred, contemporary rule-of-life material tends to function at the level of technique (tactics to make our lives more streamlined) rather than discipleship (which frequently doesn’t move in such a straightforward fashion). These are programs by which we may pull the fragments of our lives into a coherent whole, and we are generally expected to do so alone, or at least alone with Jesus.

Some Christian rule-of-life authors recognize this, to an extent. Consider, for example, John Mark Comer’s enormously popular Practicing the Way. “The current micro-resurgence of Rule of Life in the Western church is a joy to my heart,” Comer writes. “Unfortunately, it’s mostly being run through the grid of Western-style individualism, with individual people writing their Rule of Life.”

Comer is correct as far as he goes. But if one goes looking for an antidote to that individualism, “community” and “church” appear very briefly, discussed explicitly in just over 4 pages out of over 200. Comer offers resources for churches beyond the book, which makes it all the more surprising that even here, church community is more an appendix than a core element of these rules.

Comparing modern rules of life to their ancient counterparts is instructive. In some ways, the concerns about loss of discipline and meaning are very similar across the centuries. Monks of the fifth century complained about not being able to focus for long periods of time, just as we do today. Christians of the ancient world bemoaned being tired, distracted, envious, and divided in their lives.

But after that common starting place, these books’ guidance for a coherent, Christ-centered life differs dramatically from modern recommendations. Reading The Rule of Saint Benedict, we should be struck by a very curious thing: The first five chapters almost never discuss things you should do.

Instead, the prologue begins with a vision of the Christian life as one that is traveled in the company of others. The book’s intention is to establish “a school for the Lord’s service,” and it is not remote learning. The opening chapter, which catalogues different kinds of monks, allows that select monks who “have come through the test of living in a monastery for a long time” are able to go out into the world alone after benefitting from “the help and guidance of many.” But most of the instruction is for monks living together, gathered under a rule with their leader, the abbot.

The rule put forward by Augustinian monks has a similar orientation. It too begins with an admonition that assumes participation in a larger body of believers: “The chief motivation for your sharing life together is to live harmoniously in the house and to have one heart and one soul seeking God.” Before beginning to speak about the values or habits of monasticism, this rule spends the whole first chapter describing how monks prepare for the common life.

The pattern holds beyond monastics, too. Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Life Together gives ample discussion to habits of prayer, eating, and personal disciplines. But the first thing he discusses is the necessity of pursuing discipline in common. The Christian, he writes, is “the man who no longer seeks his salvation, his deliverance, his justification in himself,” but recognizes that “God has put this Word into the mouth of men in order that it may be communicated to other men.”

To put a fine point on it, modern rules of life too often omit what Bonhoeffer and the ancients took for granted: that the ordered life cannot be lived alone. This omission may not be surprising in secular books of our isolated age. But we should not see it in Christian rules. Contemporary Christians should take for granted that our spiritual lives are knit together and indeed are impossible under ordinary circumstances without a gathered community: the church.

When the Gospels speak of Jesus’ mission, they speak of a rabbi who gathers a community of disciples. And the apostle Paul’s preserved writings, with few exceptions, are letters to whole communities. His instructions to seek the mind of Christ (1 Cor. 2:16) and pursue lives of humility (Phil. 2:1–3) were not first given to individual Christians. They concerned virtues to be pursued together. Indeed, Paul’s caution against being “yoked together with unbelievers” (2 Cor. 6:14) assumes a common—and communal—way of life for all believers, joined together as the people of God (2 Cor. 6:16).

Why do contemporary Christian rules of life no longer begin with this vision of the church? I suspect it’s because we can no longer count on the church life presupposed by Christians in older eras—and this loss is precisely why individualistic rules are proliferating. We still long for discipline and order, and if we don’t find it in a local congregation, we turn to these books and their individual programs instead.

That’s understandable, but we can do better than accommodating ourselves to the situation at hand. Singlehandedly pulling together the fragments of our lives may be possible, but the ancients wisely never thought it sustainable. “When God created man, in order to commend more highly the good of society, he said: ‘It is not good for man to be alone: let us make him a helper like unto himself,’” reflected Aelred of Rievaulx, the 12th century author of Spiritual Friendship. “How beautiful it is that the second human being was taken from the side of the first.”

Here Aelred points us to the weakness of making do by ourselves: To be a human is to be drawn from the body of another, and to be a Christian is to belong utterly to another. Whatever rule we adopt, whatever order we seek, we must not do it alone.

That doesn’t mean there’s no place for personal disciplines in the Christian life. Benedict’s Rule recognizes that the spiritual life is not a one-size-fits-all vision. There’s ample room to apply the rule according to particular needs. Not all the monks need the same attention or struggle with the same vices, and the abbot tailors the rule for each. But the worshiping community still worships together, and its members do not first follow individual rules that pull them away from life together as the church.

So none of this means that there’s no place for individual rules. A common life provides the space for nuance, for tailoring. Benedict noted that some monks would need more sleep or more food than others; Augustine’s rule made provisions for monks who needed different work to do; Bonhoeffer speculated on what life together might look like for families with young children or work schedules that make gathering difficult. But while you can improvise from a common premise, it’s difficult to build a common life if everyone already arrives with their own rule firmly in place.

To reclaim this older vision, we must begin by unlearning deep habits of solo reading, praying, and planning for isolation. We must calibrate our sermons less to individual application and more to common aims. We must foster spiritual practices that require our assembly together instead of assume our absence.

This is not as daunting a task as it may sound, for, by God’s grace, we already have what we need to pursue it: the Scriptures, ample historical witnesses, and a clear hunger for disciplines and communion with others. What remains now is to count the cost, and then to begin.

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

- More from Myles Werntz

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