I’m Estranged from My Parents. I Still Love Them.

Even when family ties are severed, God does not cut off his care.

Illustration by Jennifer Sampson

The box was a fire I could not touch.

It arrived at our house one summer evening, handed off to me by my in-laws. I stuck it in the garage, thinking that if I ignored it, it would disappear. With each passing day, it became buried under a thin layer of West Texas dust and the stuff of life—stray cups from the car, pool floats, my daughter’s viola. Months passed. Yet I could still see my father’s distinct handwriting peeking out, the thick black lines scrawled across the top in Sharpie: “GIVE TO CARRIE.”

Ten years had passed since I last spoke to my parents. But each time I walked by the box, I’d hold my breath—as though my father’s anger might bleed out of the letters of my name and back into my life.

There were things I longed to find in the box, like my treasured collection of Nancy Drew books, which I imagined arranging on my daughter’s shelves. But there was likely a darker inheritance lurking inside too, so I put off unpacking it.

Across the US today, there are maybe 68 million boxes like mine hiding in garages—one for each of the 1 in 4 Americans who reports being estranged from a relative. The estrangement between my parents and me is the most difficult kind to reconcile: the kind rising out of trauma, abusive parenting, and mental illness in the family system.

The outside world may look at my situation and say that I had every right to walk away. Others, like my parents, think estrangement is never the answer. But I have spent more than a decade somewhere in between, asking myself how I can remain a faithful follower of Jesus while denying my parents access to my life. I am convinced that cutting off ties was my only escape hatch, but my desire to follow Jesus keeps me wrestling with persisting questions of obedience and grace.

How can I honor my father and mother if I refuse to see them? If I say I take Jesus’ teachings on forgiveness and reconciliation seriously, does being estranged mean I’m a hypocrite—bitter and unforgiving?

I am both estranged from my parents and alarmed by the casual way the topic is discussed in Western culture today.

“It’s better to become an orphan than remain a hostage” is a catch-phrase of licensed therapist Patrick Teahan, who has built a successful career around supporting those who decide to cut off their families. Going “no contact” with parents and relatives, what one New Yorker article calls “the process by which family members become strangers to one another,” is normalized in some circles.

Teahan’s advice on writing a no-contact letter epitomizes our current cultural stance toward estrangement: “Short, to the point. Don’t tell them why. ‘You’re toxic’ is all you need to say.”

Cultural observers worry that, in particular, estrangements caused by significant differences in core values, like political convictions, are experiencing an uptick. As our society grows more polarized, especially in brutal election seasons, advice like Teahan’s is becoming increasingly acceptable. But what are we left with when we cut the ties that bind?

After ten heartbreaking Thanksgivings, here’s what I have learned: Empty chairs always take up the most space. Empty chairs always shout the loudest.

One day on the social platform X, I read the story of James Merritt and his son Jonathan. By contemporary American cultural standards, there’s every reason for them to be estranged. Jonathan is a self-described “progressive gay man” living in New York City and writing about faith and culture. James is a pastor and the former president of the Southern Baptist Convention; he describes himself as “to the right of Ronald Reagan.” And yet, according to the post, the two “maintain a close relationship.” Intrigued, I messaged Jonathan, and we set up a time to talk with his father.

I learned that after Jonathan’s homosexuality was made public in 2012, forging a new relational path forward wasn’t easy for either of them. Jonathan, in particular, understood well the enticing pull to sever relationships with those with whom we disagree. Cutting off a primary relationship due to disagreements—even profound ones—might feel like it will reduce one’s emotional distress, Jonathan said, but it’s only sending conflict underground, where it “gets exported to other relationships, which start to suffer.”

Jonathan’s mentors helped him process his pain and discern that his father’s disagreements with him were not a rejection of him. Meanwhile, James refused to go after his son publicly over views opposed to his own, even when his silence made other people angry.

In spite of their differences, the two Merritts have been able to stay in relationship because they both subscribe to the same principle: It is almost impossible to love someone if you are consumed with trying to change them.

“The bottom line is this: When we stand before the Lord, each one of us is going to give an account for his own heart and his own life,” James said. “I can’t change Jonathan even if I wanted to, and vice versa is true too. … That’s God’s job.”

James and Jonathan are not cut off from each other the way I am from my parents, and talking to the father and son left me longing for my relationship to look more like theirs. But our conversation also helped me understand that the Merritts and I, estranged or not, have come to know how very little is within our control.

“Can we please clean out the garage?” my husband finally asked last fall, after we’d stepped around the box for at least six months.

So, one afternoon when the house was empty, I unpacked it. Sitting on the dusty floor, I sifted artifacts from my childhood into piles around me: pictures of first crushes, favorite teachers, and cousins at Christmas; my high school graduation cap; stuffed animals; countless trinkets whose importance had been lost to the decades.

Ten years ago, on the day of my sister-in-law’s baptism, I watched my parents walk out of the church and to their car. I didn’t know it was goodbye; I only knew I couldn’t bear to see them the next day. I never dreamed that I’d stack day upon day until I’d built a life apart from them, with little more than the contents of a box to prove I’d once lived as their daughter.

Leading up to that Sunday, I’d done everything I could to find a different way. I navigated every encounter like a game of chess, plotting three moves ahead, attempting to keep us far from the terrifying terrain of my father’s unmanaged, self-treated mental illness, with its delusions and increasing unpredictability.

I chose alcohol-free restaurants, keenly aware of how booze unleashed my alcoholic father’s poisonous tongue. I listed out safe conversation topics in advance—the weather, funny things the kids did, a recipe I tried and liked—keeping a wide berth around the minefields of politics and theology. But every encounter, at best, left my father mollified, my mother pretending all was okay, and me anxious and knotted up.

It worked until it didn’t. That Sunday afternoon, my plotting failed. I was in checkmate, clutching the hand of my toddler as I realized that no matter how I contorted myself, it was never going to be enough. Decades of manipulation and verbal abuse had proven my father had room in his life for only one version of me, fashioned in his own image, faded and blurred until I existed only as a reflection of his own thoughts and beliefs.

As I listened to a fresh round of his accusations, blame, and defensiveness, the truth settled over me with clarity: He would never stop trying to control my every thought, and I, if I remained, would never stop trying to manage our every interaction.

In the aftermath of my decision, I learned there are few people who understand that you can love someone and still walk away—and even fewer people in the church. Even my most supportive friends and family weren’t quite sure how to support me through this sort of loss. Their confusion echoed my own: Was my sadness evidence that I’d made a grave mistake?

When my parents sold and cleaned out my childhood home, they sent me the box. In the garage that afternoon, a wave of grief hit me as I neared the bottom. The Nancy Drew books weren’t there. I pictured myself, ten years old, all knees and elbows, lying on the floor of my bedroom as I disappeared into a world where mystery, fear, and uncertainty were safely resolved by the last chapter.

I reached for the final item in the box: a blue Bible with a tattered cover. See, it wasn’t all terrible, I reminded myself. I could still picture the day Brother Eddie at First Baptist Church in White Deer, Texas, placed it in my hands on the occasion of my baptism.

Was I seven or eight years old? I opened the cover to search for a date and was caught off guard by a new message, scrawled in my father’s heavy hand: “If God does call you into the kingdom in this life, you will start living the fifth commandment and repent and call your mother!”

Shame—estrangement’s close friend—rose up like bile in my throat. You are a terribly cruel daughter. And just like that, the inheritance of my life blackened, turned to ashes by my father’s words.

In the early years of my estrangement, I’d sometimes wake up at night panicked, dreaming I had lost my parents in a crowded street, an endless forest, or a stormy sea. Even now, I feel the visceral heaviness of their absence, like a phantom pain. At Christmas, I imagine my parents sitting in their home, bereft of grandchildren, our memories as an extended family permanently stunted.

But I cannot go back to the way things were. It is as simple and as infinitely complex as that. And it has taken me a long time to accept that God’s grace covers this too, for he is no stranger to messy families.

The Bible itself is full of estrangement stories. Esau, enraged by his father’s favoritism and his brother’s trickery, vows to kill Jacob (Gen. 27). Absalom, David’s favorite son, is driven into banishment (2 Sam. 13). The prodigal son, in Jesus’ well-known parable, takes his father’s wealth and disappears (Luke 15).

In other parts of the Gospels, Jesus speaks about human relationships plagued not just by rank sin and selfish ambition but by disordered loves and misplaced priorities. He tells his followers to let the dead bury their dead (Luke 9:60) and redraws the boundary lines of family around those who do his will (Matt. 12:48–50). These are difficult teachings that reiterate the importance of letting nothing come between us and Christ—not even our families or communities.

These biblical examples show that estrangement is not only a cutting off but also a letting go. One person gives up control over the actions and life choices of the other. Jacob flees; David turns away and weeps; the father hands over the inheritance and waits. And over and over again, the letting go in Scripture comes with a promise: Even when family ties are severed, God does not cut off his care.

The two ways our society tends to deal with ruptured relationships pale when we take God’s care out of the picture.

If the box in my garage is a metaphor for the process of estrangement, some people take the whole of it to the dumpster. This is the wisdom of the contemporary age: Everything is disposable and replaceable—especially people whose views rub us the wrong way—and life’s purpose is to “live your truth” with a mantra of “you do you.”

Others go to the opposite extreme. We take the whole box into the heart of our home and unpack it there. “Forgive and forget,” we tell ourselves, even while cutting our fingers on fractured vases. In many churches, people are told that the proper response to strife is either to ignore it or to reconcile at all costs. But sometimes it’s more complicated than that.

The Bible’s take on estrangement offers a third way for those of us living with severed relationships, one that neither gives in to the pull toward easy estrangement in an age of contempt nor allows the false, uneasy peace of pretending nothing is wrong.

Instead, the gospel equips us to navigate the complicated landscape of broken human relationships. It teaches us to seek biblical reconciliation with the long view in mind. Like the prodigal’s father, we learn to watch the horizon for signs of restoration and return. Like Moses, far from his Egyptian family and shunned by the Israelites, we wait in the wilderness as the unapproachable fire becomes holy ground.

In my garage that day, sitting with my defaced childhood Bible in my lap, the sharp edges of my father’s handwriting were suddenly softened by the tenderness of my heavenly Father’s voice: You are my beloved child, and you are already part of my kingdom.

It was up to God to intervene in their lives, not me. His only request for me was to let go of them and cling to his hand.

This side of Eden, human family systems can be dangerous and dishonoring. Estrangement can be a necessary step because to remain embedded in such families is a degradation of the imago Dei present in each of us. God does not delight in our suffering or our abuse.

Even less corrosive situations, like stark differences in political views, can expand into insurmountable relational rifts. Sometimes difficult choices must be made. But choose estrangement carefully, knowing its costs, only after every other avenue has been tried. Ten years on this path has taught me the road is rocky and difficult—you will not emerge without a limp.

“If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone,” the apostle Paul wrote in Romans 12:18. “As far as it depends on you” calls us to radical humility, forgiveness, and forbearance, but it also calls us to honesty.

There are relational circumstances—choices made by other fallen humans—that remain outside our influence, no matter how much we long otherwise. There are limits to how far our imperfect love can go, walls beyond which we cannot see. In such moments, Romans 12:18 makes way for us to say, “This is as far as I can go,” looking to the one who can take things from there.

Not every fraught relationship can be like James and Jonathan Merritt’s; some will end like mine. Yet even here in the wilderness of estrangement, there are valuable gifts.

In the absence of my parents, I have found Christian community that has been my surrogate family these last ten years. I have found wisdom and counsel in spiritual shepherds who have helped me discern my way forward. I have leaned on the love of my husband, friends, and extended family, who remind me of my worth even when I cannot see it myself. God has been constantly present in every big and small moment of my grief, restoring my identity in him, tenderly healing my wounds.

The enemy wants me to see my childhood Bible as a symbol of bitterness, grief, and fracturing—to wear it, and all that it represents, like a shackle around my neck. But I, like Joseph, can instead say, What was intended to harm me is being used for good (Gen. 50:20). What was meant to wound me now instead trains my eyes toward the horizon, and I long for my parents to experience the same grace.

That Bible is now on a shelf in my house—not the inheritance I imagined, but a good and beautiful one nonetheless.

Carrie McKean is a West Texas–based writer whose work has appeared in The New York Times, The Atlantic, and Texas Monthly magazine.

This article appeared in the November/December 2024 issue of Christianity Today as "Unboxing Estrangement".

- More from Carrie McKean

Theology

Let Heaven and Nature Wail

Russell Moore

Editor in Chief

In this season, a baby’s cry can say more than a simple “Merry Christmas.”

Illustration by James Walton

To see how much we really want to peer into the mystery of the Incarnation, go to a Christmas pageant and note whether there’s a plastic doll in the manger or a live baby.

The doll makes more sense, of course, because babies aren’t predictable. A director can’t give notes as to when a cry might drown out a shepherd’s lines or when loud wailing might ruin the mood leading into the singing of “Silent Night.” In the crying, though, we hear a better echo of Bethlehem.

Our life histories start with our own “nativity scenes”—usually, these days, under fluorescent hospital lights. We don’t remember any of that about ourselves, of course, but some of us get to see that origin story of a child. The moment leaves some people, such as writer Carlos Fuentes, silent with awe.

“I cannot explain it. Nor can I imagine it. I can only bear witness to it,” Fuentes wrote of watching the birth of his first child. “The moment Cecilia emerged and cried out for the first time, I knew that I was hearing a proclamation of nature, the newest, but also the most ancient.”

He continued,

To hear the voice of a human being coming into the world is to hear the echo of the origin of all things. To hear an impassioned song. When a little girl is born she doesn’t cry out simply because it’s the most natural thing to do. Her true nature is asserting itself at that moment, through her voice, the conduit that carries her toward society, culture, love. The miracle of birth is nothing more than that.

Human babies cry. In those cries we hear pleas to be fed, to be held or changed, or to be sheltered from loud noises or bright lights. Sometimes we don’t know how to decipher what’s behind those yells and tears.

Literary scholar Jonathan Rogers once noted that the English word infant is rooted in language for one who is “too young to speak.” The cry, and the response to that cry, is part of how an infant learns to attach to parents.

“In responding to the child’s needs for food, for relief from pain, for loving contact, the parent is helping her identify her wants, and how they can be fulfilled,” writes philosopher Charles Taylor. “What could otherwise turn into emotional storms of frustration are given a definite purpose and a recognizable remedy.” It’s from this interchange, which Taylor calls “communion,” that language emerges and a life is given shape.

Sigmund Freud saw in the state of the demanding, crying infant a kind of “limitless narcissism,” and he saw the longing to return to that state as being part of the motivation for spirituality. “The origin of the religious attitude can be traced back in clear outlines as far as the feeling of infantile helplessness,” he wrote. “There may be something further behind that, but for the present it is wrapped in obscurity.”

The words something further behind that are carrying a lot of weight there. As in many areas, Freud’s reductionism doesn’t fare well in further study.

Ariel Dorfman notes that psychologists have discovered an infant cries louder when hearing the distressed cries of other infants. That’s true even compared to playing back an audio recording of the baby’s own cries. Dorfman said,

Think about it: a baby is more upset by the voice of someone else’s agony than by her own troubles. The baby intensifies the cries in solidarity with the other, shares the pain, signals to the other child that he is not alone. For me, this is proof, if we ever required it, that compassion is ingrained in our species, coded inside the circuits of our brain. This is how we managed to become human, by creating the conditions for a social network where the suffering of others is intolerable, where we need to pity and comfort the afflicted.

But, as with other matters of human motivation, Freud is partly right. A cry does reveal the baby’s utter dependence and vulnerability before powers out of the baby’s control, powers that Freud labels “fate.”

The apostle Paul called such uncontrollable forces the “elementary principles of the world,” to which we were once enslaved (Gal. 4:9, ESV throughout). That slavery is to what Paul labeled “the flesh”—our chaotic desires and needs severed from the God who loves us. The interruption of that slavery does not start with heroic action or even with disciplined maturity but with a cry, as if from a baby: “Abba! Father!” (Rom. 8:15).

That cry isn’t a fully articulated or articulatable expression of needs but rather the vulnerable dependence sometimes conveyed as “groanings too deep for words” (v. 26). That’s because we, like a newborn, cannot verbalize or conceptualize what we want, much less what we need.

Jesus taught us that we did not need to approach God with “many words” or “empty phrases,” since our Father knows what we need before we ask him (Matt. 6:7–8). Our prayer, then, isn’t an advance into spiritual mastery but a falling back into something so primal that it’s what we were trying to do when we still had our umbilical cords. We learn to say “our Father” before we even learn to ask for “our daily bread” (vv. 9, 11).

It is only to be expected that what the Spirit does in us immediately after our second birth is what the Word that called us into existence primed us to do: cry out. And in the second birth, as in the first, we sometimes thrash around, alarmed by what seems to be chaos. Only later do we see that what seemed to be a crisis was the entrance into life.

One of the mysteries of the Incarnation is that the Word who called the heavens and earth into being became flesh—beginning right where we did, as a baby whose words were only wails. Those crying baby sounds say more than a cheery “Merry Christmas” ever could. And when they interrupt our pageants or carols, let’s stop, just for a moment, in awe.

Let heaven and nature scream. In those cries, we just might hear a familiar voice.

Russell Moore is CT’s editor in chief.

This article appeared in the November/December 2024 issue of Christianity Today as "The Incarnation of Jesus Lets Heaven and Nature Scream".

Ideas

Pilgrim at Plaster Creek

Sara Kyoungah White

Christ comes to make all things new—even West Michigan’s most polluted watershed.

Illustration by Mallory Rentsch Tlapek / Source Images: Getty / WikiMedia Commons

I live by a creek, Plaster Creek, in a former oak grove in West Michigan.

Every so often, I walk down a busy street in my part of Grand Rapids, past rows of brick and vinyl-sided houses, a church, and two schools, and turn onto a path that takes me to the sound of rushing water.

The creek is difficult to find unless you know where to look. Parts of its arms have long been buried in tunnels beneath the asphalt to make way for busy streets and big-box stores. Each time I reach it, my heartbeat quickens, as though I’m hearing the voice of a friend.

This friend is deathly ill. Its 25.9 miles of length is overrun with toxic substances, thermal pollution, and E. coli contamination—sometimes orders of magnitude higher than what is safe. When it rains, flash floods eat away at its jagged banks. The neglected undergrowth is caked in layers of old garbage, and plastic bags are caught in the branches of overhanging trees—many of which lie tipped on their sides, roots exposed. A sewage smell hangs in the air.

One early winter day last year, I arrived at the creek to find two rotting pumpkins sticking out of the water like orange sores. Human contact with the water is prohibited, so I simply stood on the bridge for a few moments.

Looking at the overwhelming list of creation care priorities—disappearing rainforests and glaciers, species on the brink of extinction, extreme weather patterns, the warming ocean—it would be easy to wonder why one creek should matter. But when I stand on the bridge over Plaster Creek, I am reminded that the story of humankind began near running waters like this one, in Eden, where Adam and Eve were formed in its heart and tasked with tending it.

Only after the Fall was humanity separated from the garden and its life, set at odds against each other and the earth. “Cursed is the ground because of you,” God says to Adam in Genesis 3 before he banishes man and wife, setting “a flaming sword flashing back and forth to guard the way to the tree of life” (vv. 17, 24). Our rejection of God broke our relationship not only with him but with his creation. Millennia later, the proof is in the creek.

It’s true—gloriously so—that we are not condemned to remain in brokenness forever. We celebrate Christ’s incarnation in this season, and all around us are reminders that a return to God’s Edenic intent is nigh.

But that time has not yet come in full. We are still singing, “O come, O come, Emmanuel,” and all of creation joins us in our longing for the day when threat and decay will be no more and even the smallest creeks will be made new.

Two hundred years ago, Plaster Creek was called Ken-O-Sha (“water of the walleye”) by the Ottawa people who lived along its banks.

The Ottawa had a tenuous relationship with European settlers in the young city, as treaties were increasingly driving the Indigenous peoples farther west. Mayor Charles Belknap recounted a disagreement that happened during this time between an Ottawa elder named Mack-a-de-penessy (Chief Blackbird) and a Christian missionary.

Chief Blackbird said the best place to encounter God was outdoors; he couldn’t see why the missionary kept trying to convince his tribesmen to go inside a building. So the chief invited the missionary to come with him in his canoe to where the Ken-O-Sha met the Grand River. There, an impressive waterfall cascaded over a huge orange rock. This, the chief said, was where he and his people met the divine.

The missionary sent a sample of that outcropping to Detroit for analysis. The results confirmed that the rock was gypsum, a valuable resource used as a fertilizer and for making plaster. Until this time, plaster had been imported from as far away as Nova Scotia. But now it could be mined locally.

The first plaster mill in West Michigan opened on Chief Blackbird’s sacred spot in 1841. Not long after, Ken-O-Sha’s name was changed to Plaster Creek. By 1850, the company was mining 60 tons of gypsum a day, and by 1890, there were 13 mines in the area, shipping the resource as far away as California.

At the same time, the walleye fish that once teemed in the creek vanished, along with the Ottawa and other Indigenous groups. In 1910, one local, Charles W. Garfield, wrote, “Instead of being the beautiful even-flowing stream throughout the year, as in my childhood, [Plaster Creek] is now a most fitful affair. … A near sighted utilitarianism has snatched it away.”

As Grand Rapids moved on from gypsum mining to furniture making, the creek became a dumping ground for toxic waste. The poor water quality meant humans were not allowed to touch it, much less wade in it, while the nonhuman life in and around the creek suffered, including the endangered snuffbox mussel, sunfish, and salmon, as well as minks, herons, deer, and foxes. People growing up in the 1960s recalled that the creek would sometimes be bright red, sometimes green, from various paints poured into it, and there was always the lingering scent of lacquer.

By the early 2000s, Plaster Creek had become West Michigan’s most polluted waterway.

The creek in my neighborhood is only one example in a national epidemic. Today, nearly half of all rivers and streams and more than a third of all lakes in the US are so polluted that swimming and fishing in them are banned. A 2021 Gallup poll found that the pollution of drinking water—more than global warming, air pollution, or the extinction of plant and animal species—is the No. 1 environmental concern among American adults.

In 1975, Annie Dillard won the Pulitzer Prize for her book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, a poetic chronicling of her creek-side year in Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains. But even Dillard’s Tinker Creek was not immune to the effects of industrialization and pollution.

In 2012, Virginia was listed as the second-worst state in the country for toxic chemical dumping in waterways, with more than 18 million pounds of chemicals like arsenic, mercury, and benzene released annually into streams. In 2017, a chemical spill in Tinker Creek killed 40,000 fish, and in 2020, petroleum-based contaminants created a malodorous sheen on the water, resulting in a ban on human contact.

If Dillard had been writing her book in the 21st century, she may not even have been able to touch it.

Waterways like Plaster Creek are small veins in a huge system, but what happens in them has large-scale consequences. Plaster Creek empties into the Grand River, and the Grand River flows into Lake Michigan, connected to the other Great Lakes. Together, the lakes comprise nearly one-fifth of the planet’s total fresh water supply.

There is a long tradition, especially in America, of seeing the ideal state of nature as pristine and removed from the bustle of civilization, what some have called the “wilderness myth.” When Yosemite National Park was promoted to the American public, for example, it was portrayed as wild, unspoiled lands, intentionally wiped clean of traces of civilization. In truth, early photographers like Ansel Adams “assiduously avoided photographing any of the local Miwok who were rarely out of his sight as he worked Yosemite Valley,” noted journalist Mark Dowie.

Environmental historians like William Cronon have said that seeing nature in this idyllic way sets up a false, mutually exclusive dichotomy between nature and people, leading to neglect and exploitation. But there’s a theological dimension here too: The wilderness myth is not just wrong; it is unbiblical.

When God made the world, he did not put humans in one place and Eden in another. He formed man from the dust of the garden and said it was very good. And even after the Fall, when the Son of Man came to earth, he did not cut humans out of the picture. He united himself with us as a helpless baby, as a man who wept and ate and slept and prayed, as a man who died. There were no rose-tinted glasses or carefully filtered photographs when Jesus shouldered the full weight of creation’s sin and decay.

“In Jesus, God dwelt among us, taking on flesh and entering into creation, participating in the very life and matter of the world,” states Christian environmental group A Rocha International’s Commitment to Creation Care. And through Jesus’ death, “God defeated the power of sin and death and accomplished the reconciliation of all things—human and nonhuman—giving hope for all that is broken and spoiled, and eternal life to all who receive Him.”

In Christ, humanity—and all of creation—is not mythologized or cut out of a picture but redeemed. In Christ, God looks at all he has made and says once more that it is good.

And just as at the dawn of creation, his words have the power to enact what they pronounce.

One snowy Sunday afternoon, 40 members of my church donned work gloves and winter coats to pick up trash along two sections of Plaster Creek. Before heading out, my husband, the pastor, read from Our World Belongs to God, our denomination’s hymn-like articulation of Reformed confessions:

As followers of Jesus Christ,
living in this world—
which some seek to control,
and others view with despair—
we declare with joy and trust:
Our world belongs to God!

With this proclamation echoing in our ears, we reached the creek. The kids in our group treated the cleanup like a treasure hunt, comparing who could get the grossest find—my 9-year-old son proudly held up a dirty diaper while his friend boasted about a moldy bottle. On my way to drop off some glass shards in the sharps pile we had demarcated with a circle of twigs, a young woman in our group silently pointed out a person sleeping in the ledge beneath the bridge, wrapped in what looked like a large plastic sheet.

At the end of an hour, we filled the entire back of a van with stuffed trash bags. The group at the other section filled a trailer and a pickup truck. I overheard someone remarking in the parking lot, “We could have done this for four more hours and still picked up more trash.” Everyone’s cheeks were red in the blustery wind, and we blinked snowflakes out of our eyelashes.

In the early 2000s, Plaster Creek wasn’t on the radar of churches like ours, and no Christian organizations advocated on its behalf. That changed when Gail Heffner, then the director of community engagement for Calvin College (now Calvin University), together with Dave Warners, a Calvin ecology and biology professor, heard that the Plaster Creek watershed was “in really bad shape.”

Watersheds—areas of land that channel precipitation and runoff into a common body of water—are connected, like bowls that flow into larger bowls. More importantly, every human on earth lives in one. For Heffner and Warners, Plaster Creek wasn’t just any watershed—it was the one the college is located in.

“We started going to some community meetings just to listen, to find out what they were telling us,” Heffner said, shifting in her seat in the small conference room at Calvin’s Science Building where we met. “At that point, we didn’t know a lot about the Plaster Creek watershed.”

Most of the pollution in Plaster Creek today is not because of hazardous waste dumping like it was in earlier decades. That was curtailed by national laws like the Clean Water Act of 1972. Heffner and Warners learned the pollution was mostly caused by agricultural runoff from upstream areas south of Grand Rapids. When it rained, stormwater washed huge amounts of excess fertilizer in the form of high phosphorus and nitrogen content into the creek, which became increasingly polluted with livestock excrement, runoff sediments, garbage, and oils as it moved downstream into poorer urban communities like ours before joining the Grand River.

The upstream agricultural community was also made up of many Christians. In 2008, a senior staff member of the Michigan Department of Environmental Quality turned to Warners and Heffner for help. “They said, ‘Look, there are Christians upstream who are refusing to listen to us,’” Heffner recalled. “‘But maybe they’ll listen to you.’”

Heffner and Warners launched Plaster Creek Stewards (PCS) shortly thereafter in 2009 as one of the country’s only Christian watershed programs and one of the few connected to a university. But they quickly found that few believers were interested in the health of the creek. In fact, some directly opposed the work of PCS, going so far as to send physically threatening messages to its staff.

One way to help decrease pollution in waterways like Plaster Creek is to slow down the flow of water coming into it in the first place. PCS thus focuses on installing porous parking lots, rain gardens, bioswales, retention basins, and floodplains. When PCS tried to install a large floodplain at a local park, however, widely circulating misinformation led the community to believe that their beloved Dutton Shadyside Park was about to be ruined.

“We learned the hard way that public projects require intensive listening to and partnering with the community,” Warners said.

After two years of wading through an appeal process in courts, PCS received a permit to proceed, with significant adjustments to honor some of the concerns expressed by the park users, like preserving several historical trees, keeping a green space for an annual dog show, and adding a new pedestrian bridge.

When construction finally began, hundreds of local students, churches, businesses, and neighbors came to help.

“In its consciousness, ours is an upland society,” essayist and poet Wendell Berry notes. Indeed, we are unaware of the outcomes of our consumptions and practices. “The ruin of watersheds, and what that involves and means, is little considered.”

Consciousness stirs when creation care is no longer an abstract concept but actual dirt on our hands. At our church’s cleanup event, my son, his bag of litter slung over one shoulder, looked up at me and said, “Mama, this is our creek, right?” An act as simple as picking up a soiled candy wrapper sends a message: I care about the cleanliness of this place. I care about it like it’s my own.

Churches, including ours, have found that this kind of hands-on care also resonates with the communities they’re trying to reach.

“We find that a lot of folks, [when] we’d say, ‘Come to our church picnic,’ they’d say, ‘No, thanks,’” shared one man interviewed by Heffner and Warners in their book, Reconciliation in a Michigan Watershed: Restoring Ken-O-Sha. But when neighbors would find out the church was going to clean up the creek, he said they’d respond, “‘Can I come with you?’ And then it is something that we are doing alongside our neighbors, [where] we get to illustrate God’s love for creation, and his love for this neighborhood.”

Restoring the creek is slow work. Contaminants in moving bodies of water are notoriously hard to measure due to their erratic fluctuations. “It’s taken several hundred years for the creek to get this bad,” Warners said. “It’s going to probably take several decades of concerted effort to be able to get it better.”

Some of the people most passionate about PCS’s work are young people. For many students, learning, research, and experimentation extend beyond academics. They’re a tangible act of caring for the earth among a generation where more than 4 in 10 say we’ve hit “the point of no return” with the environment, according to a 2021 Deloitte survey.

Engineering students at Calvin have built a hydraulic model of a section of the creek to aid research. History students have studied land-use patterns over time in the watershed. One year, a taxonomy group found beak grass, the only known patch of the endangered species in the county.

Warners recalls how one student came to his office firing off questions about PCS’s work before saying tearfully, “It’s been hard to have hope lately. But what you’re doing for this creek is beautiful.”

When we are children, our backyards and parks are our wildernesses—every tree and bush aflame with glory. I remember my siblings and I spending a summer hunched under the tent-like canopy of a pine tree, only several feet from the sidewalk, imagining that we were in a forest. In the winter, we tried our best to walk without a sound across the snow, exploring our tiny plot of land in an Ohio suburb. New discoveries—the long icicles on the edges of the house, the tracks of a creature leading into the brush—were as mysterious as finding a lamppost in the middle of a snowy wood.

Childlike wonder is something we as adults must relearn this side of the Resurrection: a re-visioning of nature as our home and our keeping, as something more like Eden, where creation flourished in the care of humankind.

Here in southeast Grand Rapids, that happens when I look up into the massive crown of the ancient oak tree in our yard and when I trace the hairline fractures in our old plaster walls. It happens each time I walk to our neighborhood creek and recall the vision in Revelation and what it means for creeks like this one.

Courtesy of Gail Gunst Heffner

College students collect data for a biology class at Plaster Creek.

It is a vision toward which all of history is pointing: a re-peopling of Eden, not as an untouched wilderness but as a garden-city through which runs the river of life, “clear as crystal” and “flowing from the throne of God” (Rev. 22:1). Along its banks will be planted the tree of life, the apostle John tells us, whose leaves will be used for the healing of the nations (v. 2).

That healing is not an abstract concept for nature “out there” and temporally far away. It is a promise for our own backyards, our neighborhood parks, our creeks—every place where we walk, day in and day out.

I have faith that when the new creation comes, the healing leaves will be brought to Plaster Creek too; that children, including my own, will be able to splash in its waters without fear. On that day, even the impossibly high cost of forgiveness for all that was wrought—the violent expulsion of the Ottawa, the exploiting of land and water, the conflicts that rend the body of Christ—will be paid for in full, even to overflowing.

Even now, there are glimmers of newness in every direction. Warners says that, in the spring, when new species of butterflies or birds visit native gardens they’ve placed in the neighborhoods alongside the creek, it’s like the triangle of God, humankind, and creation is restored. It’s then that he can keep hoping and working toward the day when Plaster Creek will be called “water of the walleye” again.

Meanwhile, each year in our neighborhood, I see more and more houses transforming the strips of grass between sidewalk and curb into rain gardens. Last summer, hundreds of community members painted a mural along a neglected 2,000-square-foot stretch of cement wall beside the creek. There are reports that sturgeon, another species of fish that disappeared, are returning to the Grand River.

On our neighborhood Facebook page, there’s a long thread about how we can care for those without homes camping near the creek, especially as winter draws near. Next summer, like every summer we’ve lived here, teams of high school students with PCS will walk laughing down the sidewalk outside my window with shovels in hand, off to sow more seedlings. People at our church are asking when the next cleanup day will be—pilgrims, all of us, beside Plaster Creek, waiting as we listen for resurrection to be spoken over every rivulet.

Sara Kyoungah White is an editor at Christianity Today.

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News

Biblical Archaeology Gets Subatomic Help

Gordon Govier

New tool finds use where digging is practically or politically impossible in Jerusalem.

Some of the ancient history underneath Jerusalem is easily accessible.

Pilgrims and tourists can get their feet wet in the Siloam Tunnel, carved by order of King Hezekiah to bring water inside the walls of the city (2 Kings 20:20). The Western Wall Tunnel, excavated in the late 20th century, traces a first-century street from the Western Wall to the path that Jesus is traditionally thought to have walked to his crucifixion. Archaeologists are currently excavating another street that pilgrims used in Jesus’ day to go from the Pool of Siloam (John 9:7) up to the Temple Mount.

But other parts of the city’s 5,000-year history are harder to get to—if not impossible. Practical and political problems prohibit access, even for the experts trying to do research.

Now, however, physicists have come up with a new way to dig without digging: muography.

Muons are tiny subatomic particles that are everywhere on earth, according to physicists. They are created when cosmic rays smash into the Earth’s atmosphere, showering the surface of the planet with about 10,000 of the particles per square meter.

In recent years, scientists have figured out how to use muon detectors to map inaccessible subterranean cavities, creating images of rooms inside Egyptian pyramids and magma chambers deep in volcanoes. Now they’re using them to map the streets Jesus once walked in ancient Jerusalem.

Last year, a team of Tel Aviv University archaeologists and physicists shoehorned an unwieldy homemade muon detector—you can’t buy one from a store—into a rocky cavern close to the Gihon Spring in the Kidron Valley. They placed another detector behind a rocky bulwark called the Stepped Stone Structure. Then they pointed them both toward the Temple Mount and turned them on.

Here’s how they work: Muons have about 10,000 times the energy of a typical x-ray. They can easily pass through rock and earth—and anything less dense, like plants and people—but the denser the material they pass through, the quicker they lose their energy.

When muons hit the detectors with different energy levels, an image can be created of the density of the matter through which they passed. Empty spaces are easily distinguished. And archaeologists can “see” underground.

Eventually the Tel Aviv team hopes to have 10 or more detectors near the Temple Mount, the contested holy site where traditional digging would create an impossible uproar.

“Jerusalem would seem to me to be as good a place as you could ever have for exploring this new technology,” said John Monson, professor of Old Testament and Semitic languages at Trinity Evangelical Divinity School.

Monson grew up in Jerusalem, where his father taught at the Institute for Holyland Studies (now Jerusalem University College).

He can tell hundreds of stories about the biblical sites he visited as a child and later as a student and professor. He loves the history of archaeology and the evolution of archaeological methods. In many cases, Monson said, new discoveries have come through the development of new tools, which open up new ways of exploring.

“When you look at Jerusalem, exploration has been pushed forward by whatever technology has been available across the generations,” he told CT. “This looks to me to be a very, very promising tool.”

At the same time, Monson acknowledges that every technology has downsides. And there are always limitations.

That’s a caution echoed by Jodi Magness, author of the new book Jerusalem Through the Ages.

Magness, professor of early Judaism at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, says any kind of new technology will yield new information. But it may not be very much or very useful.

Archaeologists are already aware they won’t work in every situation. Muon detectors need to be placed beneath the areas they are imaging, which limits where they can be used. Also, each detector costs about $100,000 to build.

The new tool has other obvious limitations. Archaeologists may be able to see an image of a cavern, but the muon detector “won’t tell you what it is, or what its date is,” Magness said. “It can be used in conjunction with other methods, but it’s not going to be a substitute for them.”

It still may, however, lead to significant new discoveries. Israeli archaeologists have been peeling back the layers of history underneath what was once the Givati Parking Lot, just outside the Temple Mount area.

Their digging has discovered remains of palaces and other significant buildings, identified the location of the mysterious Acra fortress of the Maccabees, and revealed a previously unknown moat that defended the city, perhaps as far back as the time of David.

The opportunity to excavate such a comparatively large space in a city like Jerusalem is rare.

“Usually you’re just excavating one little part and trying to figure out what the rest is,” Magness said. “When you get the opportunity to excavate in a large area like this, you’re able to get a much bigger picture—a broader and more accurate picture.”

The muon detectors, as they’re currently deployed, are pointed toward an area next to the Givati excavation. Perhaps they will help answer some of the questions raised by the archaeologists digging in the parking lot. Perhaps they will show the length of the newly discovered moat.

Or perhaps archaeologists will make altogether new discoveries with muon detectors.

Wherever the technology leads, though, scholars are glad to have more options. It’s good, too, to have ways to see under the surface of the city that are less invasive than traditional means of uncovering the past.

“What we are doing in archaeology is essentially destructive when we dig,” Monson said. “Maybe muography offers … something that’s not destructive.”

Gordon Govier writes about biblical archaeology for Christianity Today, hosts the archaeology radio program The Book and The Spade, and is the editor of Artifax.

This article appeared in the November/December 2024 issue of Christianity Today as "Seeing Under Jerusalem".

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News

Evangelicals Tap Power of the Sun—and Government Rebates

Daniel Silliman

More churches embracing solar power to care for creation and cut energy costs.

Campton Baptist Church used to have an annual fundraiser to pay the power bill. Heating the eastern Kentucky church building cost thousands of dollars every winter, and the small Southern Baptist congregation of about 25 didn’t get that kind of money in the collection plate.

Today, the church still has the fundraiser, but the money all goes to scholarships, helping young people from one of the poorest counties in America pay for the first year of college.

The church’s electricity bill is $0.

“We have 22 solar panels on our parsonage,” said Zach Collier, the church’s pastor, who also teaches science at the local high school and drives a school bus. “The main church building has 30 panels on one part, 28 on another, and then 20 on the education building. Enough to cancel out our utility bill.”

Campton is one of about 2,500 houses of worship that have switched to solar power in the last decade. Most are liberal Protestant: Quakers, Mennonites, Lutherans, and Episcopalians. But a handful of evangelical congregations have gone green too.

Baptists from the Appalachian Mountains to the Mojave Desert have hooked up solar arrays. The sun now powers a Bible church in central Pennsylvania, an Assemblies of God church in California’s San Joaquin Valley, a Christian Reformed Church in cloudy Michigan, and about a dozen other evangelical congregations.

The World Evangelical Alliance (WEA) once hoped to get 20 percent of its members converted to clean energy by 2025. They fell far short.

“It was aspirational,” Chris Elisara, executive director of the WEA’s Creation Care Task Force, told Christianity Today. “We just haven’t been able to follow through, to be frank. That was prior to COVID, and things pretty much shut down over COVID.”

But some evangelical congregations did move forward with solar power projects. And they are reaping the benefits.

Many of them are concerned about climate change and want to find ways to better steward God’s creation, but they are also motivated by practical realities and basic financial concerns.

“I don’t know many ministries that have tons of money,” said Allen Drew, a Christian Reformed Church pastor in Pennsylvania and a regional organizer for the denomination’s Climate Witness Project. “You have an open roof space? You have the capacity to generate revenue for the church and its ministry. Fund your ministry! God’s given you a fusion reactor in the sky. You just need a way to tap it.”

Accessing the power of the sun has gotten easier for churches since the passage of the Inflation Reduction Act in 2022. The legislation addressed environmental concerns more directly than economic ones (despite the name of the bill) and was hailed by President Joe Biden’s administration as “the most significant action Congress has taken on clean energy and climate change in the nation’s history.”

The new law included a provision offering rebates to nonprofits that install solar energy systems.

President George W. Bush signed a similar provision into law in 2005, giving tax credits to people installing solar setups on private residences. Industry experts say it had a dramatic impact. The total number of homes with solar panels increased from about 100,000 in 2005 to 3.2 million today. The Inflation Reduction Act could do something similar for churches.

Projects cost between $20,000 and $300,000, according to experts who spoke to CT. Now, churches can file tax forms to receive a 30 percent refund.

Interfaith Power and Light, a Washington, DC, nonprofit, has helped more than 30 congregations navigate the unfamiliar process.

“A church I was talking to recently had to figure out how to get a tax ID number,” said communications manager Jessica Quinn. “A lot of them don’t have one because they’re not taxed, but they have to file for tax credits through the direct pay program.”

Solar Faithful, a Muskegon, Michigan, company that specializes in working with religious organizations, has recently installed solar arrays for 10 congregations. All of them applied for and received government rebates. More than 150 other Michigan churches have reached out to Solar Faithful, expressing interest in getting solar power systems set up.

Churches generally pay for installation with a combination of building funds, special donations, and grant money. There are also more complicated financial arrangements that have emerged in recent years to make funding easier for churches:

The expertise and financing have been missing,” said Rob Rafson, president of Solar Faithful. “The Inflation Reduction Act has attracted a lot of finance groups to support development and even specialty financing, things like bridge loans—pieces of the financial puzzle that weren’t available before.

Solar Faithful sets up a power-purchasing contract with the churches, so they don’t have to pay anything up front. The company owns the solar panels on the church, and the church buys the electricity they generate, with prices guaranteed to be at least 10 percent below what they paid before.

That is an increasingly common financial arrangement.

Palm Valley Church in Goodyear, Arizona, recently agreed to a deal like this. The nondenominational megachurch worked with WattHub Renewables, a commercial developer, to install a 622-panel solar array on its vast, big-box roof. The panels are projected to reduce the church’s carbon emissions by about 375 tons per year and its energy bills by 30 percent.

Funding for the project was arranged by Sunrock Distributed Generation, a two-year-old company that specializes in financing this kind of development. Founder and CEO Wilson Chang said the company has successfully recruited major investors by packaging the small and medium-sized projects into investment funds that are very attractive on Wall Street.

“We’re putting it in a pool so there’s a very diversified risk,” Chang told CT. “At the end of the day, people pay their utility bills.”

The government rebate to offset initial costs makes the math even better for potential investors, Chang said. And it’s good for churches: They don’t have to pay anything up front, and solar panels help them hedge against rising energy prices.

Sunrock’s formula for calculating costs assumes that energy rates will increase about 3 percent per year. In 2022, however, consumers saw prices go up an average of 14 percent, more than twice the rate of inflation, according to government reports. Inflation is down in 2024, but electricity costs are still up nearly 4 percent for the year.

Aging power grid infrastructure could also cause prices to spike in the future, according to Chang.

“People want … to use clean power,” he said. “This will also save them money.”

There are other creative ways to finance solar power. Eight members of Bethany Christian Reformed Church in Gallup, New Mexico, started a limited liability company that paid to install 100 solar panels during a building renovation. It cost about $90,000, which was brought down to $63,000 by the rebate.

Now the group sells power to the church at a fixed price. They are not seeing the 5 percent returns they had originally projected, partly because they paid for more solar panels than they needed and the price the utility company pays for excess electricity is very low. They also set their rates low so Bethany saves more money.

That’s fine with Rick Kruis, the longtime member and retired doctor who headed up the project. He’s been working on creation care since he started a recycling program as a student at Dordt University.

“I’ve been a ‘tree hugger’ since college and before that, my dad was a lay preacher who installed solar in our home in the late 1960s,” Kruis said. “A lot of people in our congregation are concerned about the environment. We’ve talked a lot about climate change and creation care and wanted to do something.”

Even where climate change is not a top priority, however, more evangelicals are embracing solar power.

In eastern Kentucky, Southern Baptists don’t talk about the environment all the time. Collier, the pastor at Campton Baptist Church, told CT he couldn’t remember that he’d ever preached on the topic.

“Climate change is, by its nature, a slower process, so most people here don’t worry about it every day,” Collier said. “We do worry about whether we can pay the bills. We want to have more programs in our building and love our neighbors, and solar power helps with all of that.”

Daniel Silliman is senior news editor for Christianity Today.

This article appeared in the November/December 2024 issue of Christianity Today as "Solar Money Empowers Churches".

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News

Soccer Fans Warned about Losing Souls

Daniel Silliman

And other news briefs from Christians around the world.

Illustration by Diana Ejaita

Soccer fans who watched Spain celebrate its dramatic 2–1 victory over England in the European Football Championship also got an unexpected Bible message. The camera showed the trophy being engraved with the word Spain at the stadium in Berlin. Behind the engraver, Matthew 16:26 was written on the wall in German: “What good will it be for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul?” Most Spanish and British viewers couldn’t read the German, of course, but 67 percent of people living in Germany also watched the match. A majority of Germans say they have never read the Bible.

United Kingdom: ‘Gandalf’ church restored

Two churches in Kent have reopened as historic sites more than 650 years after they were shut down during the Black Death. One of them was built by a Norman monk named Gundulf—believed to be the inspiration for J. R. R. Tolkien’s character Gandalf.

Czech Republic: Theologians ID evangelicalism’s core

Evangelical theologians and Bible scholars gathered to discuss the definition and unity of evangelicals in Europe. Secularization, shifts in continental and global politics, and new criticisms of evangelical history have heightened the need for better articulation of core commitments. “We need to discuss again what is at the heart of evangelical belief and theology and what is more secondary,” said Dutch Bible scholar Gert Kwakkel. The meeting was organized by the Fraternity of European Evangelical Theologians, in cooperation with the European Evangelical Alliance and the Czech Fellowship of Evangelical Theologians. Papers presented at the five-day conference will be published in the future.

Ghana: Company triple tithes to build rural churches

A for-profit company announced plans to build 50 Assemblies of God churches and 50 two-bedroom parsonages as part of its tithe. First Sky Group is a holding company with subsidiaries involved in constructing roads, mining asphalt, selling energy, and running rural banks. In 2016, First Sky committed to a triple tithe, giving 30 percent of profits to “kingdom work.” The company supported the first kidney transplant clinic in West Africa. Now First Sky is building churches in rural areas where Christians are meeting in classrooms and under trees.

Uganda: Anglicans try to stop others from wearing vestments

The national Anglican Church has trademarked priests’ vestments in an attempt to stop evangelicals and Pentecostals from wearing the attire indicating ordination and office. Bishop Nathan Ahimbisibwe said people who are not Anglican priests have been abusing the vestments and the trademark gives the Church of Uganda a legal tool to stop it. “We wish to inform you that this is our attire so that once you are arrested, you will have no defense,” Ahimbisibwe said. At least one evangelical minister plans to sue.

Egypt: Christian man gets ID papers corrected

A Christian man had the religious affiliation on his national identification fixed 10 years after a clerical error accidentally listed him as a Muslim. Because of regulations on religious practice set by the Department of the Interior, the man could not send his children to a Christian school. His lawyers, working with the Alliance Defending Freedom International, say that repeated requests to fix the mistake were denied. Egypt has been criticized for making conversion technically impossible, despite guarantees enshrined in the constitution.

Nicaragua: Authoritarian crackdown hits Christian ministries

The government revoked the registrations of 695 religious nonprofits, continuing a yearslong crackdown on any part of civil society that can critique President Daniel Ortega. The official reason for shutting down the Catholic, evangelical, and Pentecostal groups was improper financial reporting. The government has now shut down more than 5,000 nonprofits. A United Nations spokesperson warned that civic space is being “fundamentally eroded.”

United States: Minister behind ‘Jesus Calling’ investigation leaves PCA

The teaching elder who called for the Presbyterian Church in America (PCA) to investigate the orthodoxy of the devotional Jesus Calling has left the denomination. Benjamin Inman told his presbytery he has become convinced Christians should sing only the Psalms in worship and wants to transfer his ordination to the Reformed Presbyterian Church in North America. Before officially ending his PCA membership, he proposed the investigation of Jesus Calling—20 years after its publication and 10 months after the death of PCA author Sarah Young. The denomination approved the measure 947–834 at its annual meeting. Two committees will report back in 2025. Jesus Calling and its spin-offs have sold more than 45 million units in 30 languages, making it the bestselling devotional ever.

America average in prayer

Roughly half of the world prays more than Americans do, and half the world prays less. According to a Pew Research Center survey of more than 100 countries, 45 percent of all Americans pray daily, as part of any religion. That’s a bit higher than the rate in Romania and lower than in Armenia. People pray the most in Indonesia, Nigeria, and Senegal. They pray least in the United Kingdom, Switzerland, and Austria.

Hymn singing is good for heart health, study finds

A study of the physiological effects of vigorous singing found that belting out a tune for 30 minutes produced “acute improvements” in vascular blood vessels. Curiously, “Amazing Grace” improved heart health than other songs, including Dolly Parton’s “Jolene” and The Beatles’ “Hey Jude.” Researchers from the Medical College of Wisconsin say it’s too early to draw conclusions, but the findings “might be hypothesis-generating for future research in music medicine.”

Brazil: Most São Paulo evangelicals are Black women

A new study found that the largest group of evangelicals in São Paulo is Black women. According to a survey of city residents that included more than 600 self-identified evangelicals, evangelicals are 5 percentage points more likely than the general population to be female and 24 points more likely to be Black. One out of every four residents in the city is evangelical.

Vietnam: Imprisoned Christians are missing

Eleven Christians who are part of the Montagnard ethnic minority groups have gone missing in prison, according to International Christian Concern. Five Indigenous Protestants and six Catholics, part of an ethnic group that allied with the US during the Vietnam War and converted to Christianity in large numbers, were arrested about 10 years ago for “undermining national unity policy.” Their churches are not allowed to register with the government. The 11 have been sentenced to more than 90 years combined. But now their locations in the prison system are unknown, raising concerns about their well-being.

India: Hindu nationalist speaks against evangelism

A Hindu nationalist leader speaking at the National Conservatism Conference in the United States said the relationship between the US and India could be improved if Westerners would stop funding evangelism in India. Hindu nationalism is quite tolerant, according to Bharatiya Janata Party leader Swapan Dasgupta, but “the idea of converting to another faith” is considered “abhorrent.” Dasgupta said nationalists in the US and India have a lot in common and encouraged people at the conference to stop supporting evangelicals.

This article appeared in the November/December 2024 issue of Christianity Today as "Unexpected Bible message at Euro Cup".

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News

Winning the Pro-Life Battles, Losing the Persuasion War

Daniel Silliman

Americans support right to abortion more than any time in recent history.

Illustration by Christianity Today / Source Images: Getty

The pro-life movement won a historic victory at the US Supreme Court with Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization. It has not, however, won over many hearts and minds. In fact, polls show a substantial shift in opinions on abortion for the first time in decades—more people now believe abortion is a right that should not be restricted.

When George W. Bush was running for president, he said the only way to build a lasting culture of life in a democracy is to persuade people, winning voters over to the pro-life position. If that’s true, then the recent success of the defenders of the unborn may turn out to be hollow.

This article appeared in the November/December 2024 issue of Christianity Today as "Pro-Life Victories May Not Be Viable".

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Church Life

Do I Have to Go to Church with My Folks?

Beth Moore, Kevin Antlitz, and Kiara John-Charles

CT advice columnists also weigh in cringing at Christianese and the importance of attraction.

Illustrations by Marcos Montiel

Q: After I moved away, my parents joined a church in a different denomination from the church of my childhood. If I’m visiting at Christmas or Easter, am I obliged to attend with them? I’d much rather go to a local congregation in my church’s tradition, but I know my parents want me to come meet their new friends and pastor. —Troubled in Texas

Beth Moore: God alone knows how many people are struggling with the same question amid culture wars, divisions, and honest differences in generational perspectives.

Your family is a step ahead if you’re planning holidays together, and you should be free of obligation to attend your parents’ church. No one in my four family groups attends the same denomination; I’m just glad they like their churches!

I’d advise grappling prayerfully with three questions, though: Would your parents be offended if you didn’t attend? How offended? And if your answers are yes and very, is it worth it?

On the other hand, if you already know their church would bring out the worst in you (a danger to your parents’ hearts) or bring out your fight-or-flight response (a danger to your own heart), it’s wisest and most loving to attend different churches.

But keep in mind that, often, it’s not just what we do but how we do it. Might you be willing to say some version of this? “I love you dearly, and I love that you love your church, but I’d like your blessing to attend my own tradition this holiday.”

You’re a full-grown adult. You don’t need your parents’ permission to follow your convictions! But asking their blessing might soothe the sting. And if they give it, their blessing this time may free you up to bless them another time.

Beth Moore and her husband, Keith, reside outside Houston. She has two daughters and an armful of grandchildren. Beth leads Living Proof Ministries, helping women know and love Jesus through Scripture.

Q: My church is leaning into cringey “Christianese” to the point that church life drastically differs from normal human interactions. Sermon points are forced into rhyme; women’s events center on flowers and men’s on grilling; and we were told to be intimate “prayer sisters” with people we’d just met. Am I wrong to be uncomfortable? —Muddled in Michigan

Kevin Antlitz: I believe I was born again with an allergy to Christianese. Not long after my conversion in high school, I had the chance to share about a church retreat I’d attended. I said I felt “on fire for Jesus” then added—with a straight face—that I was excited to go light my friends on fire. I’m not sure if my hearers knew I was being cheeky.

Why do Christians talk and act like this? The same reason most groups develop shared habits: Common language and practices bind us together and foster belonging.

Theologians have likened conversion to becoming fluent in a new language. We learn the stories, symbols, and habits of Christianity the way we acquire a new tongue. Much of this is inevitable and good.

But groups also tend to drift toward jargon and cliché. This is not so good, and it ultimately makes the church less hospitable. It excludes people unnecessarily and makes belonging more difficult.

From the outside looking in, there’s already enough about Christianity that can seem foreign and hard to understand (2 Pet. 3:16). We needn’t make it less accessible by peddling cringe or reinforcing stereotypes. You’re not wrong to feel uncomfortable.

To riff on Marilyn McEntyre’s Caring for Words in a Culture of Lies, I encourage you to care for words in a subculture of cringe. Call your church to the missionary task of translating the gospel into language that resonates with your neighbors. And who knows? Maybe one day you and your prayer sisters can meet over steaks.

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

Q: I’m in my early 30s and want to get married. I’ve been seeing a Christian guy I really respect, but I’m not sure I find him attractive or feel like we have a connection. How important is this when our values and lifestyles align? Would I be settling if I made it work? Would I be letting a good match go if I stopped seeing him? —Doubtful in Delaware

Kiara John-Charles: I empathize with your urgency to marry in your early 30s. And I’m sure you’ve heard advice like, “Don’t be too picky.” “At least he’s Christian.” “Don’t make marriage an idol.”

This guidance is based in some truth—sometimes we are too picky, shared faith is important, and nothing should rival our worship of God—but it isn’t always enough. Shared values and lifestyle are foundational to marriage, but they don’t guarantee compatibility. After all, there are likely multiple people in your church who fit these criteria.

You should genuinely enjoy the person with whom you plan to spend the rest of your life. Our society can reduce attraction to superficial concerns, but personality, presence, and temperament matter. So does the sense that your spouse values and cares for you.

Consider how you’d feel if the Christian guy you’ve been seeing said of you, “I respect her, but I’m not sure I find her attractive or feel like we have a connection.” Would you want your future husband to think of you this way?

Marriage is a covenant that reflects God’s love (Eph. 5:25–33), and we should enter into it with reverence, not halfheartedly. “Settling” is in the eye of the beholder, and perhaps your connection will grow if you make it work with this person. But you deserve to marry someone whom your heart loves (Song 3:4), and so does he.

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

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

This article appeared in the November/December 2024 issue of Christianity Today as "Qualms & Proverbs".

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

Theology

The Consolation of Providence

Brad East

Contributor

The doctrine of God’s wise and sovereign governance doesn’t make history easy to interpret. It makes living through it endurable.

Illustration by Matt Chinworth

Christians believe in providence, which holds that God is the wise and sovereign governor of all creation. But what is providence for?

Unlike some doctrines, this one refuses to stay in the study or pulpit. Providence makes public claims—about the public, the shared space and time in which we all live together. It gets called in to do work whenever something momentous happens.

Not just Christians, but most people look at an event and point and wonder, Is this the work of God? And if so—or at least, if it unfolded in accordance with God’s purposes—does that give the event a stamp of divine approval?

That’s what many of us are after, if we would admit it: confidence that God is with us, with our tribe, or with our country. Though often bent into a too-narrow shape, this longing is the right one; it’s an instinctive search for Immanuel. It’s a question, therefore, that we should keep asking, but we should do so while on guard against easy answers or convenient solutions.

Claims and counterclaims of providential affirmation invariably intensify during election seasons and the interregnum period that follows. And this political year has been especially rocky. A presidential candidate was nearly assassinated—more than once. The sitting president announced he would not run for reelection. November was heralded, as it is every cycle, as the most important vote of our lifetime, its stakes existential.

I’m writing these words before that vote is counted, and you’ll likely read them after the winner—and whatever else awaits us between Election Day and the Inauguration (not to say Judgment Day)—is revealed. But the very point of the doctrine of providence is that I don’t need to know that outcome to trust that God will be with us in the weeks to come.

In fact, the doctrine of providence has a number of roles to perform, and one of them is to turn down the volume on the frantic speculation to which we are prone in such moments. Providence isn’t a decoder ring for history, and it certainly isn’t for the present. To switch metaphors, it’s got bigger fish to fry.

But that’s not to downplay its power. Providence is a lifeline for Christians in a fallen world where chaos threatens to overwhelm us. But we need to understand what it is and what it teaches before we can receive the consolation it is meant to offer.

Providence begins and ends with God, his identity and activity. God alone is maker, sustainer, and savior. “For all the gods of the nations are idols, but the Lord made the heavens” (Ps. 96:5). Loving what he has made, God rules wisely over his creation. As part of his rule, he orders all things to their final end in himself.

Providence is the word Christians use for this hidden, ordered provision guiding history to its appointed terminus. Every book of the Bible testifies to this divine prudence, though one could construct a theology of providence out of nothing but the Psalms, perhaps even Psalm 104 alone. There we learn of God’s universal creative power, his unrivaled sovereignty, and his immediate, active care:

These all look to thee,
to give them their food in due season.
When thou givest to them, they gather it up;
when thou openest thy hand, they are filled with good things.
When thou hidest thy face, they are dismayed;
when thou takest away their breath, they die and return to their dust.
When thou sendest forth thy Spirit, they are created;
and thou renewest the face of the ground. (vv. 27–30, RSV)

Absent the Lord’s hand, the history of not only humanity but the whole universe would be meaningless. Lacking all order, it would have no
rationale or goal.

Thankfully, the universe is not meaningless. God’s providential care is boundless. “All things are subject to divine providence,” writes medieval theologian Thomas Aquinas in his Summa Theologiae, “not only in general, but even in their own individual selves.” Or take Augustine in the fifth century, in a more elaborate passage from his treatise On the Trinity:

The whole of creation is governed by its creator, from whom and by whom and in whom (Rom 11:36) it was founded and established. And thus God’s will is the first and highest cause of all [creatures and events]. For nothing happens visibly and in a manner perceptible to the senses which does not issue either as a command or as a permission from the inmost invisible and intelligible court of the supreme emperor, according to his unfathomable justice of rewards and punishments, favors and retributions, in what we may call this vast and all-embracing republic of the whole creation.

Let me unpack these claims, because although they are dense, they are universal across Christian tradition. Three are paramount, and simply stated.

First, God’s providence is comprehensive; nothing is excluded from it. Second, God wills some things actively, and these are “incontrovertibly good,” as the seventh-century monk John of Damascus puts it in Exposition of the Orthodox Faith. Third, God permits other things, and these are defects, errors, sufferings, or evils, including those of the political variety.

At this point, differences arise between theologians and denominations—the position of sin in relation to God’s plan, the reason he allows evil, and the role and character of fallen human will—but agreement is firm on this point: Nothing falls outside the sovereign power of God. Nothing is outside his providential grasp. If anything were, then some things would exceed his reach. And if that were true, God would be unable to save us. Either providence is all-encompassing or our redemption is in jeopardy.

That’s not to say the world is as it should be. If it were, Jesus wouldn’t command us to pray that God’s kingdom come and his will be done on earth as it is in heaven (Matt. 6:10). Such a prayer would be redundant if the status quo left nothing to be desired. In that case, earth would already be heaven.

But providence holds together two truths in a single mystery: Regarding God, “everything that he wills comes to pass,” John of Damascus says. If that weren’t true, God wouldn’t be God. God is good and does good; he abhors sin; he cannot be an author of evil.

Regarding us, we do what is wrong: We sin, transgress, and turn away from God’s love. And because of our first sin, this world is sunk in evil and death—the two very enemies opposed to life that God sent his Son to defeat.

Taken together, it appears that the horizon of God’s will overlooks or permits—with patience but never resignation—rebellion and defection from his manifest purposes for our good. But he never causes, desires, or blesses those evils.

Hence, providence does not mean that evil does not happen. Providence means that evil is not ultimate, that it does not and will not have the last word. It means, further, that in spite of the evils we witness and suffer, God has not abandoned us; the story is not without a plot; the author has not lost control of his narrative.

As theologian John Webster puts it in an essay on the doctrine, “Providence is not asserted on the basis of the insignificance of evil but on the basis of the belief that God outbids any and all evil.”

Indeed, in his famous treatise on The Bondage of the Will, Reformer Martin Luther once observed that if all we had to go on was the evidence of the world, we would conclude that God is evil or must not exist.

Providence, therefore, is not an empirical doctrine; it’s not a reasonable guess based on the way our lives go. Rather, it’s a confession of faith in God incarnate, the God of Calvary, whose death on a cross seemed to almost every onlooker to refute his message.

Providence, in short, makes a promise. It says that human history may sometimes seem like one long crucifixion, but at the end of it lies an empty tomb. Confidence in providence thus begets perseverance. It takes God at his word no matter how dark life becomes.

According to each of the theologians I’ve cited, the truth of providence has great theological stakes because it is rooted in the nature of God, both his goodness and his power. His goodness, because the evils of the world seem to belie it; his power, because none but God can bring good out of evil. The watchword for providence in all ages is Joseph’s response to his brothers: You intended it for evil, but God intended it for good (Gen. 50:20).

John of Damascus saw two sides to providence: a practical charge and a theoretical danger. On one hand, with a view to the life of faith, he writes that “when they are accepted with thanksgiving, all the vexatious things that happen to us are laid upon us for our salvation and most certainly become occasions of benefit for us.” On the other hand, he warns that “the ways of God’s providence are many and can neither be explained in words nor grasped by the mind.”

Put these together, and you come to see that providence is a call not for speculation but for action. It is a gospel truth built on the rock of Good Friday and Easter Sunday, meant for our consolation and hope in the face of trials, sufferings, and calamities. Providence names a mystery deep in the heart of the church’s life, one that explains her courage, her boldness, her stubborn refusal to shrink back from faith. Providence is a secret whispered from one martyr to another until the end of time.

We’re now far afield from contemporary political turmoil, and rightly so. The church’s teaching about providence preexists American and modern politics. It stands wholly independent of the day’s news.

In the summer of 1933, following Hitler’s rise to power and the Nazis’ intrusion into church affairs, Swiss theologian Karl Barth composed a plea for Christians to stay faithful to the gospel. He asserted that, for his part, he would carry on with theology as if nothing had happened.

This bald claim has scandalized many of his readers over the past century, even as it did at the time. But Barth didn’t mean that Christ-ians should remain aloof from the events of their era. This is the same man, after all, who the following year helped draft the Barmen Declaration against Nazi influence in the German churches. By saying he would carry on as if nothing had happened, then, Barth meant that the gospel stands or falls on its own terms, not the world’s.

The axis of history turns on the resurrection of Jesus. If Hitler or Stalin could bend the arc of history to their will—if theology had to “change” in light of later events—then God would not be sovereign. A rival would sit on the throne, and our trust in his promise would be called into question.

Providence, therefore, is not affected by the news. But neither is it rendered inert by current events. True, we’re not meant to speculate; that would mean looking at providence rather than using it, properly, as a lens to view our lives. Looking through providence, we see a fallen creation governed by its loving Lord, not random atoms colliding aimlessly or human happenings devoid of meaning and, often, full of terror.

This is why it is perfectly reasonable for people to wonder about God’s involvement in shocking, significant, unexpected, or improbable events. The conversion of Constantine, the fall of Rome, the battle of Tours, the rout of the Spanish Armada, the evacuation of Dunkirk—many Christians, rightly or wrongly, believed they could discern the Lord’s hand in these events.

The trick is to avoid cherry-picking. Vulgar providentialism sees the smile of heaven in any happy occurrence and its absence whenever things—whether in reality or from our own perspective—go wrong. Worse, such convenient providentialism can become confirmation bias projected onto history: When my guy wins, when my policy passes, when my promotion goes through, I know that I was right because God is telling me so. Of course, when my guy loses or my policy fails or my promotion stalls, I don’t assume I was wrong all along. I know that life’s not that simple.

Here’s the difficult truth: The sheer fact that something has happened—that God willed or allowed it to happen—tells us nothing whatsoever about the thing itself. It may be a cause for celebration or lament or, more likely, a mixture of both. On their own, events are illegible. We may never know in the moment what God is up to, much less how God might work good out of some bewildering or shocking occurrence.

Wise discernment and faithful response are a long game, so long that you and I may not live to know the answer. Sifting history for the work of God is thus a task for a community, not an individual, over a span of centuries, not weeks or months or the few moments it takes to post on social media. At any given time, what seems like a very good thing may turn out for ill, just as a very bad thing may turn out for blessing. The people of God must be patient. Spiritual hindsight is the prerogative of the church, and even then it’s touch and go.

For these reasons, providence is an ill-shapen tool for imprinting Christ-ian approval on current events, and this realization should help believers turn popular recourse to providence inside out. Far from a means of explaining why something has happened, it should instead become an occasion for humility: We simply do not know. Our trust in God remains unshaken, but rarely if ever can we predict or unveil his purposes with confidence. We know the final outcome—each of our graves vacant in a flash (1 Cor. 15:52)—not the twists and turns by which it will arrive.

Scripture supplies many examples of this fundamental ambiguity of providence. Foreign empires appear on Israel’s borders. Is this from God? Yes, it is. They threaten to attack God’s people. Is this too from God? Yes—though repentance could change their fate. Soldiers lay waste to the temple and perpetrate injustice against the innocent. Could this also be from God? Well, the answer is complicated. Isaiah 47 reveals that God did employ the Babylonians to punish Israel but they went too far; now he will raise up another empire to punish them for their transgressions.

Or consider ancient Israel’s monarchy. A line of kings is a key component of God’s purposes for Jacob’s children, for it will culminate in Jesus. Yet when the people beg for a king, it is an act of mistrust on their part; they spurn the Lord in order to be like the other nations (1 Sam. 8:4–9). And as it turns out, Saul, David, and many of David’s descendants often prove disastrous for Israel. The lesson for us: Be careful what you wish for. And perhaps also: Be cautious in divining the Lord’s will. In the moment, it may seem clear what he is doing and why. In the long run, though, you may live to regret your rush to judgment.

And yet: Out of the long disaster of the Davidic kingship God brought Jesus, the Son of David and the final king of Israel. It only took a thousand years. Perhaps it will likewise take a millennium for keen-eyed observers to gain true clarity on our own political trials and conflicts.

In any case, the rule stands: For all Christians, whether Calvinist or Methodist, Catholic or Baptist, providence is by nature ambiguous. God permits things; God wills things; God does things. We do not always know which is which, and we very rarely know why—and never without a long backward glance. Even when we are sure God’s hand was at work in an event, his purposes are likely to be obscure, especially to contemporaries.

We must remember to root the doctrine of providence in the good news of Christ—his cross and resurrection, his love and promises for his people, his pledge to be with us to the end. Recast in that light, providence doesn’t make history easy to interpret. It makes living through it endurable.

Brad East is an associate professor of theology at Abilene Christian University. He is the author of four books, including The Church: A Guide to the People of God and Letters to a Future Saint.

This article appeared in the November/December 2024 issue of Christianity Today as "Our Strength and Consolation".

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Books

Review

What to Salvage from Fundamentalism

Matt Reynolds

Like Richard Mouw, I’m reluctant to discard everything about this flawed heritage.

Illustration by Tara Anand

In a fallen world, reform efforts never perfectly hit their marks. They address one problem only to sow the seeds of others. Or they so aggressively attack an infection that they weaken or destroy what’s healthy and vital.

Blunders in this delicate dance between correction and overcorrection are familiar in the political arena. Yet the same pattern is found in matters of religion, as Reformation people can readily understand.

Around a quarter century ago, theologian Richard Mouw wrote a short book surveying the evangelical landscape of that time. He had much to celebrate. But he worried that evangelicalism had too thoroughly eclipsed the fundamentalism that preceded it. His reflection, titled The Smell of Sawdust: What Evangelicals Can Learn from Their Fundamentalist Heritage (2000), models a healthy approach to reckoning with a flawed past that still tugs on your heartstrings.

In one sense, evangelicalism has existed ever since Jesus first gave us the Good News to share with the world. As a contemporary movement, however, it emerged in the 20th century as a correction to the fundamentalist overcorrection.

As I never tire of reminding those who casually deploy fundamentalist as a slur, the term is no mere synonym for Bible-thumping zealot. Fundamentalism responded to the late 19th-century advent of “modernist” Christianity, which reengineered supernatural elements—like Jesus’ virgin birth or bodily resurrection—that offended science-loving contemporaries.

Fundamentalists drew essential lines in the sand. (The name derives from The Fundamentals, an essay collection defending core Christian doctrines.) But over time, they turned quarrelsome and insular, growing preoccupied with moral-purity tests and esoteric threads of Bible prophecy. Rattled by cultural rejection, they devoted more energy to speculating about the world’s demise than to shining the light of Christ within it.

The Smell of Sawdust asked evangelicals at the turn of this century: Are you flirting with overcorrection?

For Mouw, the subject is deeply personal. Born in 1940, he grew up immersed in a tight-knit fundamentalist world. He learned dispensational theology at its Bible conferences, staffed kitchens at its summer camps, and inhaled the aroma of its revival tents, which his title evokes.

Like many believers of his generation, however, Mouw ended up charting a different course. Anxious to avoid modernist heresies and fundamentalist habits of cultural retreat, he took the “neo-evangelical” path that launched leaders like Billy Graham, publications like Christianity Today, and institutions like Fuller Theological Seminary (where Mouw served 20 years as president).

Mouw doesn’t regret that journey. In fact, much of the book champions evangelical achievements. But for all this, he retains a sense of “indebtedness to . . . the fundamentalism that nurtured me in my early years.”

My own childhood had few, if any, fundamentalist hallmarks. Still, The Smell of Sawdust moved me to ask which features of that inheritance may be worth salvaging. I can’t cover everything here, but 25 years after Mouw’s book, I’ll propose three areas where the pendulum might be swinging too far toward overcorrection.

The first concerns personal piety and morality. Fundamentalists weren’t shy about setting behavioral boundaries. That often led to legalistic dead ends and petty judgmentalism about drinking, dancing, cards, and other presumed gateways to naughtiness. But they weren’t wrong to guard against a sinful world’s enticements.

My wife and I sometimes joke about evangelical writers enlisting the Incarnation as a versatile moral permission slip. Jesus lived on earth, you see, which means the world is good, not tainted. Presto! A handy rationale for tasting its fruits with an untroubled conscience.

That’s a caricature, of course. Rightly understood, evangelicalism rejects antinomian license and follows Jesus in looking at the heart’s posture. I don’t want evangelicals to be known primarily for the priggish hang-ups of yesteryear. But when I think of how I’ve reassured irreligious friends with my conspicuous lack of hang-ups, I worry I’m failing to seek the set-apartness that God commands of his people.

Second, I’ve come to value fundamentalist warnings about the pitfalls of intellectualism. Contrary to the lunkhead stereotype, Mouw notes that fundamentalists often brought prodigious intellectual energy to their pursuits. At their worst, they also cultivated an unhealthy suspicion of secular knowledge as a distraction, an irrelevance, or a rival to biblical authority.

That mindset clashes with my dearest convictions about the inherent goodness of reading and learning. Mouw has little patience for it either. But he shows where the fundamentalist caution is worth heeding: Theology can lodge in the head without transforming the heart, and some strains of Enlightenment rationalism do rule out religious belief.

I’d add another danger of intellectualism, one that rises as we evangelicals ponder our place in America’s social hierarchy. Evangelicals should always obey God’s call to renew the mind. But when braininess functions as a status symbol, intellectual ambitions can devolve into quests for esteem from secular peers or distance from fellow evangelicals.

Finally, I think we could stand to recover something of the fundamentalist emphasis on the eternal fate of individual souls.

Mouw writes of revivalistic altar calls “where people were encouraged to make deep and abiding commitments.” He knows, of course, that emotional appeals can yield ephemeral professions of faith. He knows, too, that cathartic moments of conversion can’t substitute for regular church fellowship and patient discipleship. But he helpfully stresses the high stakes involved. It matters whether people get saved!

Obviously, evangelicals believe this. But in recent years, evangelical leaders have taken great pains to portray the cosmic scope of God’s redemption. God isn’t just gathering lost souls and depositing them in paradise. He’s renewing creation itself and reigning as King forevermore.

I want pulpits to ring out with this glorious message. But I cringe at the thought of dismissing a perennial source of existential dread—What happens after I die?—as selfish or unimportant. The gospel promises abundantly more than “going to heaven,” but surely not less.

I give thanks for the evangelical tradition, warts and all. But like Mouw, I remain grateful for the fundamentalist streams still nourishing it. Yes, you’ll find some corroded junk in those waters. But also some precious gems.

Matt Reynolds is senior books editor at CT.

The Beckoning Nightstand

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