A Renewed Invitation to Seek the Kingdom

In these fractured times, we want to focus on Jesus’ call to chase after his will.

Illustration by Elizabeth Kaye / Source Images: Unsplash

Consider this a reintroduction.

In our March issue, I explained that 2024 would be a transformative year for Christianity Today. This magazine is the first deposit on that promise. Everything from the wordmark to the colors, fonts, layout, and structure have been reimagined and remade. We hope you agree that this delivers a more compelling experience. We want each issue to be a jewel, a work of art, a feast of stories and ideas that conveys the richness of living and thinking with Christ and his church.

Over the remainder of the year, I will explain why we are charting this course. For now, I wish to explain the language you will often see alongside the wordmark.

Before I came to Christianity Today, I led a creative agency that helped hundreds of organizations refine their branding and messaging. Yet I have never thought about Christianity Today as a brand. It is an effort to illuminate what it means to follow Jesus faithfully in our time.

We have, however, a fundamental invitation. It’s not a tagline or a slogan but an invitation: Seek the kingdom.

I will say more about our calling to the kingdom of God in subsequent issues. For now, I want to say one simple thing.

The kingdom of God is elusive. Jesus likens it to a seed, a pearl, a treasure, a vineyard, and a banquet. He speaks of the “secrets of the kingdom of heaven” (Matt. 13:11) and calls us not to chase after the things of the world but to “seek first his kingdom and his righteousness” (6:33).

“Seek ye first” was the first song I remember singing. It was before my baptism, before I knew Jesus, before I knew how beautiful and broken the world and the church could be. But it was, in its simplicity, the invitation that summoned me to Christ and to serving the reign of Christ’s love in the world.

Perhaps we don’t always recognize the kingdom when we see it. But we should know what it is not. The world today is fractured by wars and hatred, oppression and abuse, and scorn for truth and virtue. Our cover image shows a church, like the garment of Jesus at the foot of the cross, divided up for power and profit. This is not it. This is not the kingdom of God.

But we invite you to seek it with us. In Scripture. In the work of God around the planet. In the lives of individuals and families, near and far, who bring Jesus into broken places. Seek hope, seek Jesus, seek the kingdom, and perhaps together we will find it.

Timothy Dalrymple is president and CEO of Christianity Today.

This article appeared in the July/August, 2024 issue of Christianity Today as "Why Seek the Kingdom?".

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News

J.D. Vance, the VP Pick for a Party Made in Trump’s Image

Harvest Prude

The Catholic convert brings a fighter persona and outsider’s view to politics.

Republican Vice Presidential candidate J.D. Vance at the Republican National Convention in Milwaukee

Andrew Harnik / Getty Images

Donald Trump’s first running mate, Mike Pence, appealed to conservative evangelical voters by offering what Trump lacked: political experience, a pro-life record, a steady demeanor, and outspoken Christian faith.

Two presidential elections later, Trump’s 2024 pick for vice president, J. D. Vance, appeals to conservatives by being like the former president: a fellow political newcomer, a populist, and a fighter unafraid of shaking up the system.

He’s “somebody who can carry on the core of what President Trump did in his first administration for a while to come,” said Aaron Baer, president of Center for Christian Virtue, based in Vance’s home state of Ohio.

Vance rose to national prominence through his 2016 bestseller Hillbilly Elegy: A Memoir of a Family and Culture in Crisis, which drew attention to the lives and faith of working-class rural Americans.

Since then, he’s converted from evangelicalism to Roman Catholicism and from a Never Trump conservative to a faithful “Make America Great Again” Republican, successfully running for US Senate with Trump’s endorsement in 2022.

Political commentators are already talking about how a victory for the Republican ticket in November would put Vance in a strong position to contend for the nomination come 2028—under a national conservative or America First style of politics that comes as a departure from the old guard conservatism that someone like Pence represented.

“He appeals to the kind of younger, religious, political evangelical,” said author Hannah Anderson, who has written about rural life and ministry and reviewed Vance’s book for CT. “There’s a lot of questions of whether [the movement] will survive Trump, and if it’s going to survive, it’s going to be through someone like Vance.”

On the campaign trail, Vance regularly described himself as someone who will fight for Christian values.

“I just feel like people don’t actually have somebody that stands up and fights for them, that’s willing to speak loudly and powerfully on the issues that they care about,” he told the Christian Broadcasting Network. “They’re really worried, whether at their workplaces or on social media, can they actually speak their mind, can they actually speak about Christian values without being shut down?”

Vance’s selection as the Republican VP candidate has excited some evangelical voters, even if they have reservations about his recent moves away from a strict pro-life stance and about his opposition to providing aid to Ukraine in its fight with Russia.

Like Pence, he is at home speaking to culture-war issues or family values that resonate with social conservatives.

Baer had been skeptical of a big persona coming in and running for office in Ohio, but he felt more assured after talking with Vance during the campaign. “He understands what’s happening to families and happening to kids, as well as or better than political leaders, better than a lot of folks who lead pro-family organizations,” Baer said.

As the Republican Party shifts on abortion, Vance, like Trump, has deferred to the state’s role in determining abortion policy, acknowledged exceptional cases where abortion should be permitted, and supported access to the abortion medication mifepristone, The Hill reported.

“I will not be celebrating the pick of a newly self-professed pro abortifacient VP,” Jordan B. Cooper, a Lutheran pastor and podcast host, responded on Monday, calling Vance “a coward who gave up his pro-life principles when it benefited him.”

Baer said the move on abortion was concerning from an electoral enthusiasm point of view as well. Trump has “been very strong for us on the life issue,” he said. “But that’s the kind of thing that could lose pro-lifers and lose Christians that need to turn out to vote.”

Vance also lines up with the former president when it comes to one of the defining moments of Trump’s political career—the fight to overturn the 2020 election results.

“He still retains that kind of religiosity, but he’s ‘the fighting religious person’ whereas Pence was not going to fight in that way,” said Anderson. “Pence wasn’t going to take part in January 6. Vance would have.”

Vance has said as much himself: He’s stated that he would not have certified the 2020 election results, had he been in Pence’s place, on January 6, 2021, and instead said he would have pushed for the states to send multiple slates of electors.

After the attempted assassination of Trump on Saturday, Vance was also quick to blame Democrats for the shooting.

“The central premise of the Biden campaign is that President Donald Trump is an authoritarian fascist who must be stopped at all costs,” he wrote on X. “That rhetoric led directly to President Trump’s attempted assassination.”

So far, as a politician, the 39-year-old has carved out a reputation as being a young face of a conservative movement that embraces isolationism on the global stage, a protective trade policy over a free trade approach, and strict immigration and border policies. In the Senate, he’s been one of the most outspoken opponents to further financial aid to Ukraine, though that did not stop additional aid from clearing the chamber.

For a Republican politician, his targets are not always orthodox: On the Senate Banking Committee, he teamed up with Democrats like Sen. Elizabeth Warren of Massachusetts to go after big bank executives, though the effort also never passed.

At the time of his conversion in 2019, Vance had endorsed Catholic social teaching as his ideal for forming public policy, challenging the party to make social conservatism not just “about issues like abortion, but it has to have a broader vision of political economy, and the common good.”

His memoir detailed a fraught relationship with the church: Vance described his grandmother (and primary caregiver) as suspicious of organized religion, but she still taught him about Jesus and the Christian message. Vance had “an angry atheist phase,” but by the time he was leaving law school, he became reinterested in Christianity. As an adult, he never committed to a particular Protestant denomination, as he explained in an interview for The American Conservative, but converted to Catholicism at St. Gertrude Priory in Cincinnati. If elected, he would be the second Catholic vice president—following the current Democratic president, Joe Biden.

“I became persuaded over time that Catholicism was true,” Vance said. “When I became more interested in faith, I started out with a clean slate, and looked at the church that appealed most to me intellectually. But it’s too easy to intellectualize this. When I looked at the people who meant the most to me, they were Catholic.”

Vance said in other interviews that his wife, Usha, who was raised Hindu, encouraged him to explore his Christian faith. Usha Vance is a corporate lawyer (who recently left her law firm) and is the daughter of Indian immigrants. The couple met at Yale Law School and married in 2014. They have three children.

Vance is a former Marine who went to Silicon Valley to work in biotechnology after law school. He also worked as a lawyer and venture capitalist in Washington, DC, before moving back to Ohio to mount his Senate campaign.

He beat out VP contenders such as South Carolina Sen. Tim Scott, North Dakota Gov. Doug Burgum, Florida Sen. Marco Rubio, House Republican conference chair Elise Stefanik, and Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis.

In Monday’s announcement, which came after Trump officially secured the GOP presidential nomination for the third time, the former president said Vance “will be strongly focused on the people he fought so brilliantly for”: “the American Workers and Farmers in Pennsylvania, Michigan, Wisconsin, Ohio, Minnesota, and far beyond.”

Five years ago, Vance criticized the way some evangelicals had embraced Trump as president. “But I also know that most of them aren’t doing it because they are sycophants,” he told Rod Dreher with The American Conservative. “They’re doing it because they don’t think they have a better option.”

In 2024, he’s challenged with convincing conservative voters that Trump is a good option—during a race when most Americans are dissatisfied with the names at the top of the ticket.

Vance seems to have little doubt of prevailing, however.

“What an honor it is to run alongside President Donald J. Trump. He delivered peace and prosperity once, and with your help, he’ll do it again,” he wrote in his first social media statement after the announcement was made. “Onward to victory!”

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Theology

Our Culture Is Obsessed with Being Seen. But Jesus Calls Us to Be Hidden.

Rich Villodas

In an age of social media celebrity and showy spirituality, we are invited into a holy unawareness.

Illustration by Christianity Today / Source Images: Unsplash / Getty

If a good deed done is not posted on social media, did it really happen? If an act of generosity is not caught on camera and never goes viral, was it a worthwhile gesture? These questions, facetious as they seem, point out something I’ve observed in my own life: a deep desire to display my goodness to others. There’s even a modern term for it: virtue signaling.

According to Jesus, this is an ancient struggle, a primal temptation. We long to be known and seen, but if we aren’t careful, this longing can lead to a kind of performativity that corrodes the soul.

In Matthew 6—the center of the Sermon on the Mount—Jesus flips showy spirituality on its head: “Be careful not to practice your righteousness in front of others to be seen. … But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing” (vv. 1, 3). Jesus reveals a key characteristic of his narrow path: hiddenness.

That is an important word for those who, like me, intuitively strive to be noticed. Can you relate? Social media has created (or perhaps revealed) the hunger within us to be seen. As some have aptly said, the current generation of young adults—and emerging ones—can be described as “Generation Notification.”

Each time we get notifications—those coveted red or blue circles with a number in them—dopamine releases in our brains. The cycle is hard to break. Even if a comment is negative, receiving one is still addicting because being seen is better than remaining invisible.

To be known and seen is one of our deepest longings. But left to our own devices (pun intended), we get stuck in a never-ending cycle of performative spirituality, where we seek to get from others what can be given only by God.

Jesus’ warning to us, then, is not just good spirituality; it’s good psychology. To be his disciple requires being a whole person, not merely doing religious things. What often stands in the way is a lack of self-awareness—not knowing our inner selves. How do we overcome this?

To combat the unrelenting desire to be seen by others, we are called by Jesus to hiddenness. Once again, the paradox of the kingdom of God is evident. The narrow path of Jesus says that if we want to be strong, we must be weak; if we want to be first, we must be last; if we want to be great, we must be least. It’s the same pattern here: To be truly seen, we must be hidden.

This hiddenness is challenging because Jesus doesn’t primarily mean hiddenness from the world; he means hiddenness from ourselves. To better understand this, it might be helpful to contrast good self-awareness with bad self-awareness.

Good self-awareness sees areas of our lives that are constraining us. It helps us name the forces that keep us from living free, full, and loving lives. Good self-awareness focuses on our reactions and triggers. It reflects on the things we’ve done, and the things left undone. Good self-awareness leads to humility and invites us into a process of growth.

When Jesus says, “Do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing” (Matt. 6:3), he invites you into a “holy unawareness.”

Which leads me to the temptation of bad self-awareness. Self-awareness becomes damaging when the focus is on our righteousness, when we’re caught up in our own goodness, living a self-congratulatory existence. Bad self-awareness fixates on our deeds and exaggerates our spiritual growth. There have been many times when I’ve obsessed over my progress.

When I exercise, I tend to look in the mirror way more than I need to. After 25 pushups, my chest feels like that of a professional bodybuilder, so I go to the mirror to confirm my suspicions (and am sorely disappointed each time). My tendency to document my growth roots me in despair or pride, depending on the day. In all this, I’ve discovered that the most mature people are not consumed with their fruitfulness, nor do they wallow in their failures.

It’s exhausting to live a life of performance. Jesus offers a better way. Aren’t you tired of always having to be “on”? Isn’t it draining to work for constant approval? Do you ever feel as though God will be disappointed if you don’t have everything in order?

Jesus doesn’t lead us into a scrupulous spirituality in which we agonize over every decision. Rather, he calls us to examine the ground from which our good deeds grow. Why? So we don’t entrap ourselves in self-righteousness or idolatry: self-righteousness because our goodness can cloud the grace of God; idolatrous because, without knowing it, we worship acclaim from others instead of from God.

When our deeds are practiced in front of others, we forfeit the rewards we will receive from the Father. Instead of receiving commendation from God, we settle for admiration from people. Of course, Jesus is not saying that all recognition and reward is incongruent with life in the kingdom. He’s clarifying that to live for it is folly. Applause from others, social media likes—it all fades quickly. Only the affirming word of the Father can fill our hearts.

What does this hiddenness look like in real life? Because Jesus embodied it perfectly, let’s consider his life for guidance.

Let this blow your mind: Jesus spent 30 of his 33 years on earth (about 90 percent of his life) in relative obscurity. As someone who regularly leads and speaks in front of lots of people, I find this so challenging. Ron Rolheiser explained how we can follow Jesus’ example: “Ordinary life can be enough for us, but only if we first undergo the martyrdom of obscurity and enter Christ’s hidden life.”

To value hiddenness doesn’t mean we must become members of a monastery, tucked away from the world. Rather, hiddenness is freedom from the shallow praise of the world.

In the Gospels, Jesus is constantly swarmed by admirers of his teaching and miracles, yet he refuses to capitalize on it. In modern terms, he doesn’t post selfies (#LeperBeClean). On one occasion, when people are amazed at his miracles, here’s how Jesus responds: “While he was in Jerusalem at the Passover Festival, many people saw the signs he was performing and believed in his name. But Jesus would not entrust himself to them” (John 2:23–24).

Even when people want to make him a celebrity, Jesus holds back. He’s not wooed by platform. Even in his resurrection, Jesus prizes hiddenness. If it were me, I would show up at the home of those who crucified me to scare them to death and demonstrate my power over all things. Jesus, however, simply finds his friends and, rather than storming the world, tells them to share the good news.

To live this way is difficult, especially for those of us who use social media. It lures us into believing the primordial lie of the serpent: You can be like God (Gen. 3:5). Social media creates the illusion that we can know all things, be everywhere, and use our words for the sake of power. It’s the seductive lie that we can be omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent.

What’s stunning about God’s kingdom is that even though he is all-powerful, all-knowing, and everywhere-present, his presence and activity are often centered in places far from the masses:

In the fifteenth year of the reign of Tiberius Caesar—when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, Herod tetrarch of Galilee, his brother Philip tetrarch of Iturea and Traconitis, and Lysanias tetrarch of Abilene—during the high-priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness. (Luke 3:1–2)

Luke lists all the political and religious leaders in power, then surprisingly highlights how the word of God bypassed them and came to John in the wilderness. The locus of God’s presence and activity is not found in the corridors of great power. The Gospels tell of a God who shows up in surprising places. His greatest place of action is hidden from the eyes of the socially powerful. His reach touches everything, but the center of it is hidden.

One of Jesus’ best lessons on the importance of hiddenness is something he says about the Holy Spirit. It’s easy to miss if you’re not looking for it, so let’s slow down and take a look.

While wrapping up his time with his disciples before going to the cross, he utters this poignant line about the Holy Spirit: “When he, the Spirit of truth, comes, he will guide you into all the truth. He will not speak on his own; he will speak only what he hears, and he will tell you what is yet to come” (John 16:13). Eugene Peterson paraphrased Jesus’ words, saying the Spirit “won’t draw attention to himself” (MSG). That is why some people refer to him as the “Hidden Spirit.”

The Holy Spirit shows deference to Jesus. His inclination is to spotlight another rather than hog the limelight, delighting in making the Son central. Jesus says, “He will glorify me because it is from me that he will receive what he will make known to you” (v. 14).

Within the Trinity, there is no jockeying for position. The three persons are radically other-focused. Just look at how their interaction is recorded in Scripture. The Father affirms the Son. “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased. Listen to him!” (Matt. 17:5). The Son is always pointing to the Father. Jesus says things like, The Father is greater than all. I do only what I see my Father doing (John 5:19, 14:28). And the Spirit always points to the Son.

Here’s the main idea: If the Spirit is secure in the love of the Trinity and if the Spirit lives inside you, he wants to make you secure too. He wants to remind you that you are loved by God. You are accepted by God. But ordering life around that theological truth requires concrete, counter-instinctual practices. We must remind ourselves what it looks like to live an anti-performance life like Christ—and to get off the treadmill of endless posturing.

Excerpted from The Narrow Path by Rich Villodas. Copyright © 2024 by Richard A. Villodas. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Rich Villodas is the best-selling author of The Deeply Formed Life (winner of the Christianity Today Book Award) and Good and Beautiful and Kind. He is the lead pastor of New Life Fellowship, a large multiracial church with more than 75 countries represented, in Elmhurst, Queens, and Long Island, New York.

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News

El Salvador’s Prisons Are Full. Prison Ministries Are Not.

Franco Iacomini

Christian organizations are struggling to reach prisoners in a country where 1 in 56 people is in jail.

Inmates wait as 2,000 detainees are moved to the Terrorist Confinement Centre in El Salvador.

Handout / Getty

In just over two years, El Salvador’s government has sent 80,000 people to prison. With over 111,000 people incarcerated, the country has the world’s highest proportion of people behind bars—one inmate for every 56 people.

The current situation stems from a zero-tolerance policy toward the gangs that once proliferated in the country. Salvadoran gangs are considered transnational crime organizations responsible for taking murder rates to levels only seen during the 1979–1992 civil war.

In March 2022, President Nayib Bukele decreed a régimen de excepción (state of exception), which suspends a significant number of civil rights and makes it easier to arrest and prosecute suspected gang members. Though the administration initially promised the decree would last for a month, it has since been renewed 27 times by the Salvadoran congress, lasting nearly two and a half years.

El Salvador has never had a significant prison ministry presence. But for those few that have worked in prisons, the régimen de excepción has both presented an opportunity and revealed a set of problems.

On one hand, leaders say, there’s a real chance for a substantial number of inmates to turn their lives around through the gospel. “Most of them know they need a physical transformation. Evangelism may show them they need a spiritual transformation too,” said Raúl Orellana, a regional ministry leader who has served in El Salvador’s prisons since 2008.

On the other hand, for a variety of reasons, few Christians have shown interest in prison ministry, work that has only become more difficult as the government has increased restrictions on civilian visits in prison.

All of El Salvador’s detention centers in the country, except the maximum security penitentiary, have historically been open to ministers. “The government is very open to evangelical Christian churches that want to preach in prisons,” said Orellana—but the recent strong-arm policy against the gangs has also toughened access for churches and pastors.

A dozen or so years ago, pastors could spend evenings sitting side by side with inmates, counseling them and sharing the gospel. When he visited the prison then, Orellena recalled, he knew about the availability of drugs and electronic devices for inmates, and sometimes saw questionable visitors.

Now, greater government oversight of prisons has increased restrictions on evangelizing to the incarcerated. Many prisons have banned face-to-face interactions between pastors and inmates. Instead, pastors can only speak to groups for a maximum of one hour.

“I understand the authorities’ perspective,” said Orellena. “The inmates had total control and it shouldn’t have been like that. Today, the authorities are in control.”

Prior to 2022, in some prisons, several ministries came to preach every week. Today, prison authorities allow Christian groups to enter once a week on a set schedule, with some exceptions for evangelistic events. For example, for Mother’s Day this year, Kenton Moody, an American missionary who leads Vida Libre, a rehabilitation center for juvenile offenders, threw a big party in the Santa Ana women’s prison.

The ministry provided sodas, pan dulce, and Bibles for 10,000 people. Though authorities only allowed 2,800 women to attend, by the end of the service, 295 raised their hands in answer to a conversion call.

Troubles with gangs and government

Although leaders like Orellena and Moody say they have seen God at work in Salvadoran prisons, many Christians they meet are reluctant to participate in prison ministry, afraid of encountering dangerous criminals. For years, large parts of the country lived under violence and bloodshed caused by gangs like Mara Salvatrucha (MS-13) and Barrio 18 (known also as 18).

Historically, the country has had one of the highest homicide rates in the world; at its peak in 1995, there were 139 murders for every 100,000 inhabitants. Since the beginning of the 2000s, MS-13 and 18 have fought a long-lasting territorial battle with a massive death toll. In 2015, the gangs decreed a ban on all bus routes in the capital, San Salvador, and on the first day of the ban, five bus drivers were killed. In 2016, some estimated that the groups had extorted about 70 percent of all businesses in the country, and the extortion rates were so high that they ultimately led to an increase in consumer prices.

Official numbers show a 70 percent decrease in the murder rate in 2023 in comparison to 2022, as a result of changes in the law and the application of the régimen de excepción. The government has edited the legal code to formally equate terrorism with local criminal associations, and a new law has criminalized tattoos, street graffiti, and any other mark that resembles gang symbols.

But the decrease in homicide rates has also come with a cost. Human Rights Watch has described the changes as a “we can arrest anyone we want” policy that allows detentions based on the appearance and social background of detainees, anonymous calls, or even social media posts.

In this environment, nearly anyone with any relationship to a gang member is at risk of being arrested and sent to prison. That includes former gang members that have served time and returned to civilian life, some of whom have converted to Christianity. Even pastors who minister to current gang members may be seen as collaborators or gang sympathizers and are at risk of incarceration.

“My work with the inmates and former prisoners used to be dangerous because of the gangs. Now it’s dangerous because of the government,” said Moody. “They can throw us in prison at any moment for allegedly helping the gangs.”

Local churches are afraid to risk getting into trouble with both the gangs and the government if they do ministry in prison, he said. “The pastors tell us, ‘How wonderful it is what you are doing,’ and ‘God bless you’—but they don’t participate.”

The continuing work of witness

Throughout Central America, evangelicals have nearly outpaced Catholics in numerical growth. In El Salvador, almost a third (30.9%) of the population now identifies as evangelical.

The percentage of evangelicals is highest in the poorer strata of society—the very segments from which people join gangs and end up in the prison system, says Stephen Offutt, the author of Blood Entanglements: Evangelicals and Gangs in El Salvador.

Between 50 and 70 percent of the people in El Salvador’s prisons come from evangelical families. “I would dare to say that everyone who is in prison has heard of Jesus Christ,” says Orellana, but he adds that the number of true converts is probably small.

For gang members tired of violence, Christianity offers one pathway out.

“Gangs allow people to get out if they show a real conversion,” said Offutt. It’s not as simple as declaring oneself a Christian and being free. “Those gang members that allegedly convert to Christianity are kept under surveillance because there are also fake conversions and fake pastors who try to manipulate the gangs.”

Under the régimen de excepción, some genuinely converted gang members are being dragged back to prison, opening a door for evangelism to take place where the institutional church cannot go.

“A disciple in prison can bring the gospel to many others,” says Lucas Suriano, Latin America coordinator at Prison Alliance, a North Carolina–based ministry that creates discipleship programs and distributes Bibles and Christian literature to inmates around the world.

Although no one sees what happens inside prisons like the Centro de Confinamiento del Terrorismo, the maximum security detention center for 40,000 people that President Bukele opened last year, Offutt is certain that God continues to work there.

“Some years ago,” he recounts, “I had a pastor friend whose house was in the shadow of a prison in El Salvador. On Sunday evenings, we could hear Christian songs coming from the prison.”

“People are trying to witness to the gospel in the best ways available. They are finding ways to worship there—it’s inconceivable to me that it’s not happening.”

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Books

The Art of Fashioning the Soul

Lanta Davis

An excerpt on faith and sight from Becoming by Beholding: The Power of the Imagination in Spiritual Formation.

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

I grew up fearing the power of the eyes. I was supposed to avert my eyes from certain television shows, movies, books, and images. When it came to men, I was afraid of my gaze—and doubly afraid of theirs. Just looking at the sale rack was risky if I wanted to avoid envy and irresponsible spending. Even at 40, I still hide my eyes when I feel afraid.

But I’ve come to realize that for all the time I spent worrying about where not to look, I should have spent a lot more time thinking about what my eyes should be fixed upon. I feared what I saw would corrupt me. It never occurred to me that what I saw could also save me.

Scripture tells us faith begins with a vision. “Behold! The Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!” John the Baptist declares in John 1:29 (NKJV throughout). See your salvation, he entreats us. Look and be saved. John’s words refer to another story of salvation through sight: the bronze serpent. When the Israelites wander in the wilderness, several of them die from poisonous serpents. Yahweh intervenes and instructs Moses to create a bronze serpent, so that “everyone who is bitten, when he looks at it, shall live” (Num. 21:8). Jesus compares himself to the serpent, saying, “As Moses lifted up the snake in the wilderness, even so must the Son of Man be lifted up” (John 3:14). The serpent of sin has bitten us, and its poison courses through our blood. But if we look at Christ, we will live.

Scripture includes a few suggestions on when to avert our eyes (1 John 2:16; Matt. 18:9), but far more frequently, it invites us to behold, to look, to pay attention. Behold often introduces the unexpected and captivating. It asks us (quite literally) to hold on to what we see, to contemplate and be transformed by it. When John tells us to “behold” the Lamb of God, he’s not just telling us, “Look over here for a second.” He’s telling us to look so carefully, with such utterly captivated attention, that we are changed by what we see.

The apostle Paul likewise directs us to gaze upon Christ so that we may be changed, speaking of Christians who, “beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from glory to glory” (2 Cor. 3:18). Both John the Baptist and Paul are clear: We behold Christ so that we might become like Christ.

This idea may seem simple enough. Then again, Jesus walked on earth in flesh for only a short time, so how exactly are we supposed to “behold” him now?

Thankfully, we have an extra “eye” for just this occasion. It’s invisible, but it shapes how we see the visible world. It’s connected to the physical eyes, but separate too. Sometimes called the eye of the soul, it’s better known as the imagination. And it needs our attention.

We perhaps think about imagining as something active, a deliberate line of thought or game of make-believe. But ancient and medieval thinkers primarily thought of the imagination as something received. They used wax and seals to explain how the imagination shapes our spiritual and character formation. Our souls are like wax, they thought, pliable and moldable. Wax takes on the shape of whatever seal, or stamp, is impressed upon it. Imaginative forms, such as images and stories, are like seals that imprint themselves on us. We are transformed by—and into—what captures our attention.

Even the word imagination is related to imitation. Children imitate pirates, princesses, and superheroes, but they also imitate what they see their parents doing. And when we grow up, we don’t lose this imitative instinct. Our conversations may include a tangle of quotes from movies we love. We may echo the opinions of our favorite news channel. We may try to dress like our favorite musician or influencer. If something captivates our imagination, we cannot be objective observers. If we behold something, it becomes part of who we are and how we see the world.

But not all imaginative “stamps” are equal. Some are beautiful and good, and some quite ugly. Paul warns us in Romans 12:2 (CEB) not to “be conformed to the patterns of this world.” These “patterns” may appear true, but they offer a false vision of what is important. They distort and malform us, impairing our ability to accurately see God, ourselves, and the world around us.

Take the famous example of Don Quixote. He feasts so heavily on chivalric tales of knights, adventures, and courtly love that he puts on a coat of armor, hops on his old horse, and goes off in search of knightly adventures. No matter whom he meets or where he goes, he sees everything as if it were one of his adventure books: A rundown inn becomes a castle, and an unattractive, scheming woman a beautiful maiden in need of rescue. Most famously, Don Quixote chases windmills in the mistaken belief that he is ferociously fighting giants. He has been so shaped by the knightly imagination that no logic can ever convince him he is anything but a shining, heroic knight.

Today, we may not be putting on a coat of arms and brandishing a sword, but the patterns of our age—consumerism, nationalism, individualism, or moral relativism, to name just a few—can likewise distort our vision and influence our beliefs, practices, and character in ways that are not so different from Don Quixote chasing windmills. We too may be guilty of seeing a reality completely divorced from the reality we inhabit.

Indeed, some of the most pressing problems facing the church today are rooted in a failure of the imagination. We often approach them as if they were political or intellectual problems that could be solved with reason, but logic does not work on a diseased imagination. The only way to correct a malformed imagination is re-forming the imagination.

If we become what we behold, we must ensure that what we behold is what we want to become. Becoming a people transformed into the image of Christ rather than the patterns of our age requires reorienting our gaze and reshaping the wax of our imaginations. If we want our lives to reflect Christ, we must imprint his image onto our souls. If we want to align our lives with the gospel, we must let its story become our story.

Ancient and medieval Christians understood that something as powerful as the imagination must be shaped and disciplined. The first generations of Christians expressed their beliefs in both words and images. The fish symbol, for example, is one of the earliest, most basic professions of our faith: A fish, ichthys in Greek, acts as a symbolic anagram for Jesus (i) Christ (ch), God’s (th) Son (y), Savior (s). They also used anchors, phoenixes, palm branches, and many other symbols to profess their beliefs.

These simple symbols are an early example of a practice that forms the soul by forming the imagination. To ensure that their beliefs, practices, and character aligned with the gospel, ancient and medieval Christians practiced the “art of fashioning the soul,” a devotional exercise that intentionally selected and imprinted images onto the soul. For centuries, Christians trained their spiritual eyes with sculptures, symbols, and stories, frescoes and friezes, morality plays and mosaics. They etched glass and illuminated manuscripts, designed churches shaped like boats and crosses, and decorated the places of the dead with the art of resurrection.

No matter which of the many forms it took, this art for fashioning the soul always sought to imitate Christ. Since beholding Christ captivates, surprises, and transforms, so too do these works of the Christian imagination. Filled with distorted faces and penetrating eyes, surreal shades of gold and blue, roses made from blood, and rainbow-colored panthers, the historic Christian imagination invites us to stop, blink, and behold the utter strangeness we see.

Many evangelical Christians have, unfortunately, forgotten or otherwise neglected our inheritance of the Christian imagination. But these works can still help form our souls by training us to see the beautiful, upside-down truths of the gospel. Their strangeness disorients us, inviting us to look away from the unhealthy patterns of the world and to be stamped anew with love, gratitude, and a sense of wonder rooted in the good news of the gospel.

Behold, the historic works of the Christian imagination still implore us, and become like Christ. Look—and live.

Lanta Davis teaches classes on the sacramental imagination, beauty, and great texts for the John Wesley Honors College at Indiana Wesleyan University. She is the author of Becoming by Beholding: The Power of the Imagination in Spiritual Formation.

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Ideas

Christian Duty in a Spiral Toward Unrest

Bonnie Kristian

CT Staff; Columnist

Political violence looms large in our national history, to our shame. It does not have to define our future.

Former President Donald Trump is covered by U.S. Secret Service agents after an assassination attempt during a rally in Pennsylvania.

Anna Moneymaker / Staff / Getty / Edits by CT

Foreign policy theorists have a term for when two countries unwillingly drift toward war. It’s called a security dilemma, and as Harvard international relations scholar Stephen M. Walt has explained at Foreign Policy magazine, it’s a scenario where “the actions that one state takes to make itself more secure—building armaments, putting military forces on alert, forming new alliances—tend to make other states less secure and lead them to respond in kind.”

“The result is a tightening spiral of hostility,” Walt wrote, “that leaves neither side better off than before.”

It’s easy to understand how this plays out internationally, with armies and bases and bombs. If Washington is concerned about a rising China, for example, it might expand US naval presence in the Indo-Pacific. But then Beijing, seeing American warships massing off its shores, might reasonably conclude our plans are more aggressive than we’re letting on—and amp up its weapons development and naval drills in turn. And so we could go round and round until one side or the other, perhaps in an unintended failure of communication, starts a world-altering war.

In the aftermath of the attempted assassination of former president Donald Trump on Saturday, it’s time to apply this concept closer to home: America’s right and left, Republicans and Democrats, are in a security dilemma. This tightening spiral of hostility is dangerous, and it must be unwound.

This is not a prediction of a second civil war in the style of the first, with large-scale armies and battles in the streets. I’ve long been skeptical of such forecasts, and I remain skeptical now. But an American version of Ireland’s Troubles, in which we live in fear of sporadic political violence, is increasingly plausible. All it would require is for a very small portion of the public, numbering in the thousands or tens of thousands at most, to see their rivals’ fear as fight and then match deeds to words.

Political violence is off the table for Christians, full stop. If we are to be “holy and pleasing to God,” living in “true and proper worship,” we will leave vengeance of wrongs against us in God’s hands alone. We will “not repay anyone evil for evil,” be “careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone,” and live at peace with all, so far as it depends on us (Rom. 12:1, 17–21).

Our citizenship is in heaven, and we do not “live as enemies of the cross of Christ,” on which Christ died for his enemies (Phil. 3:18–20; Col. 1:21). Jesus commanded us to “not resist an evil person,” to allow people of ill will to take advantage of us, to love and pray for our enemies, that we “may be children of [our] Father in heaven” (Matt. 5:38–45). If we love him, Jesus said, we will keep his commandments (John 14:15), including these very difficult ones that run contrary to our fallen instincts and corrupted common sense.

Ours is an increasingly post-Christian country, but let us not exaggerate the decline. It is still the case that a majority of Americans declare themselves followers of Jesus—people who have, whether they know it or not, committed themselves to serving a God of peace and acting as his emissaries.

For a country in which two of every three people claim the name of Christ to devolve into routinely hosting political violence would be a disgraceful and pathetic thing. Violence looms large in our national history, and that too is to our shame. But it does not have to figure prominently in our future.

There are Christians in the Republican Party, and there are Christians in the Democratic Party. Faithful followers of Jesus will vote for President Joe Biden (or whoever is on the Democratic ticket) this November, and faithful followers of Jesus will vote for Trump. This is a fact. It may be a regrettable fact; as a member of no political party who has never and will never vote for either man, I am inclined to say it is. But it is also a fact God can use for good, perhaps even for “the saving of many lives” by having voices for peace on both sides of the aisle (Gen. 50:20).

When two countries are in a security dilemma, the spiral of hostility tightens because neither side is willing to be the first to disarm. Neither is willing to take a step back down the spiral, to close a military base or call a warship back to port or dismantle a nuclear weapon. They are each unwilling precisely because they are afraid and do not trust the other’s attempts to allay their fears. The other side is wholly foreign, frightening, a threat.

But American Christians with different domestic politics than ours—however wrongheaded and mistaken and perhaps even deceived or stupid we believe them to be—are not a threat to us. They are not frightening. They are not our enemies. “The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I don’t need you!’ And the head cannot say to the feet, ‘I don’t need you!’” (1 Cor. 12:21). If we are the body of Christ, we remain of one piece even if the hand checks the wrong box on the ballot.

In our domestic security dilemma, then, Christians of all political persuasions have a duty to God and neighbor to be the first to “disarm.” That means, first, absolutely forswearing violence ourselves. It means obeying Jesus.

This obedience is not something anyone can learn overnight. It is a long-term project of endlessly reorienting our wayward selves toward costly, deliberate peacemaking against all our inclinations to fight. It is a project in which we will undoubtedly fail but must forever resume. It is a project in which the God of peace will be with us (Rom. 15:33).

Beyond that, we cannot control what others will do. As we were reminded on Saturday, the violence of a single person may change everything. Every professed Christian in this country could be wholly obedient to Christ and troubles might yet come.

But we each contribute, in some intangible and unmeasurable way, to the norms and culture of our country. We are each responsible, by simple virtue of living here, for standing in the breach against chaos, for doing constant maintenance to keep our free and functional society afloat. We each have some small influence on what Americans are like as a people, on what the United States is as a polity.

This is true even of those of us who are completely disengaged from politics and public life; think of how powerful a witness for forgiveness were the famously apolitical Amish when violence came to them.

The wisdom of our fallen world is a wisdom of violence. It is a wisdom of “bitter envy and selfish ambition,” of “disorder and every evil practice” (James 3:13–16). As true as it is that the political stakes are very high, that we are dealing with incommensurate aims for this country’s governance, this must not—cannot—be our wisdom. For “the wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure; then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere” (v. 17).

Nowhere does Scripture guarantee that our peacemaking will bring peace to us, that it will be surprisingly successful, an unanticipated strategic asset. The final verse of James 3 promises peacemakers a harvest of righteousness, not triumph. Nowhere does Jesus say obeying him will be a backdoor to victory. Victory is his business. Ours is peace.

Bonnie Kristian is editorial director of books and ideas at Christianity Today.

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Theology

Trump’s Would-Be Assassin and the Twisted Quest for Human Glory

Russell Moore

Political violence offers a false sense of meaning. The church must model a different kind of glory.

The Butler, Pennsylvania, fairgrounds where Donald Trump survived an assassination attempt at a campaign rally.

Jeff Swensen / Getty Images

In the hours of confusion and chaos since the assassination attempt at a Donald Trump rally in Pennsylvania on Saturday, in which the former president was injured and several others killed or critically wounded, partisans of all sorts immediately began to speculate about the motives of the shooter.

For many, this raised a weighty question about radicalization and what’s gone wrong in American democracy. Others’ musings came from a hope to “own” the other side. Some noted that, whatever the shooter’s political views or lack thereof, this episode probably says as much about the mental health crisis in American life as it does about our civic crisis. But what if these two crises are not as unrelated as we imagine?

Most Americans recognize the names of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, along with presidents closer to our own time. Many would struggle, though, to remember when James K. Polk and Franklin Pierce were inaugurated. Yet even those of us fuzzy on much of presidential history can probably identify immediately John Wilkes Booth and Lee Harvey Oswald—just as many who couldn’t name one of Ronald Reagan’s cabinet secretaries know the name of John Hinckley, his would-be assassin. Household names of 1968 like Edmund Muskie or Curtis LeMay have faded out of our memories, but we still know James Earl Ray and Sirhan Sirhan.

Psychologists tell us that people who engage in terrorism of any sort are often well aware of how lasting this kind of notoriety can be. For many, it’s the point of their violence. When all is stable, that sort of perversion can be channeled into more benign vanities. But when—as now—the country seems to be teetering on the edge of something awful, those perversions can turn violent. Under certain conditions, they can tip a society into a cycle of rage and horror.

How are Christians to understand this?

A Christian vision of human depravity recognizes that God is not the author of evil and that evil itself is rooted in human longings and desires (James 1:12–18). The Serpent of Eden did not create a desire to see food as good; it merely appealed to that longing in a way that drew humanity away from God (Gen. 3:1–6). Likewise, the desire to worship, created good, can be perverted into idolatry. The desire for intimacy, created good, can be redirected toward lust.

From Scripture, the Christian tradition classifies evil as rooted in the world, the flesh, and the Devil (Eph. 2:2–3). We recognize that human nature is itself corrupted. We understand that we live in a world that, as the apostle John put it, “lies in the power of the evil one” (1 John 5:19, ESV throughout). And we recognize also that evil is oftentimes provoked by the context of the world around us. The woman caught in adultery was not threatened with being hit by one rock from one man; she was at the mercy of a mob, the function of which undoubtedly amplified and stirred the individual sins of each mob member (John 8:1–11).

Human fallenness does not change with the times, but certain conditions can direct that fallenness in different ways. Lust and idolatry, for instance, are never absent this side of the apocalypse. But they may be present in a specific way in the ecosystem of temple prostitution, as was the case in much of the world of the early church. Likewise, the perversion of the desire for meaning and recognition is always around us and within us. But, during certain times of world history, this perversion gets expressed in political violence.

“You desire and do not have, so you murder,” the apostle James wrote. “You covet and cannot obtain, so you fight and quarrel” (4:2). What is desired in a murderous rage? Often, it is the created but twisted longing for recognition—for notoriety—and meaning. Cain was incensed when his brother’s sacrifice was recognized and his own was not (Gen. 4:1–12), and the Bible tells us this darkness was not limited to a primeval moment of sibling rivalry (1 John 3:11–15).

We don’t know, yet, the specific motives or mindset of this killer. But we do know the inner violence of this time. We see it all around us in broken relationships, screamed accusations, and a social media atmosphere that almost all of us recognize as toxic, but which very few of us are willing to leave.

The vast majority of Americans, even those most inflamed by partisan political passions, do not resort to the kind of violence we saw in the attempted assassination of Trump or during the insurrectionist riots of January 6, 2021, or in the threats to the life of Supreme Court Justice Brett Kavanaugh.

Whatever their political views, most people want the same thing for someone who would murder this way: justice. Most Americans, though, also recognize that something is awry with our time: the conflation of politics with a sense of one’s belonging, of one’s identity, of one’s purpose and mission in life.

We are created to want glory, which includes recognition and ultimate purpose. But the glory for which we are created is the glory that comes through the power and wisdom of Christ. It cannot come from any of the substitutes on offer.

When we expect of politics what can only arise from worship, it’s all too easy to find ourselves speaking, whether explicitly or implicitly, in the language of spiritual warfare, making our political rivals not opponents to be persuaded but enemies to be vanquished. In that sort of cosplay apocalypse, one can feel “alive” and significant—for a moment—by hating the right people enough. And when we add to that the fact that a significant part of our population is struggling with mental health, we should not be surprised that the result includes bloodshed.

Experts tell us that shooters and other terrorists tend to be lone wolves of a certain sort: those who are isolated in real life but find a semblance of “community” online, frequently in radical and radicalizing spaces. The Bible tells us that sin often comes from the pursuit of a kind of “glory” given by other human beings rather than the glory that comes from God (John 12:43). That may be the glory of a specific community—whether real or virtual—or it may be a desire for glory in the minds of anonymous strangers in headlines and history books. We should see this pursuit for what it is: a satanic pull into mutually assured destruction.

The state has an obligation to fulfill—to prevent these acts of terrorism and to hold accountable those who carry them out. Civil society has a responsibility too: to conserve the sorts of norms that rule out political violence, even when “emergency” language might seem to justify it.

And the church has a mission here too. We need to proclaim a different sort of significance, a different sort of meaning, a different sort of belonging. We can remind ourselves that we need not clamor for our own glory, whether in heroic acts of goodness or in notorious acts of violence. We can find it by humbling ourselves before the future glory that is hidden now in Christ.

We can embody what it means to be a genuine community: one that sees the glory of God in the face of Jesus, not through the scope of a gun.

Russell Moore is the editor in chief at Christianity Today and leads its Public Theology Project.

News

‘We Praise You That Trump Is Gonna Be All Right’

Harvest Prude and Kate Shellnutt

Evangelicals respond to the apparent assassination attempt at the former president’s campaign rally in Pennsylvania.

(Al Drago/Bloomberg via Getty Images)

Evangelical leaders and politicians offered prayers for former president Donald Trump and thanked God for sparing his life following an apparent assassination attempt at a campaign rally in western Pennsylvania on Saturday.

Thousands of supporters joined a prayer call hosted by America First Policy Institute, hours after a bullet fired toward Trump grazed his right ear while he spoke before a crowd in Butler, Pennsylvania.

“We praise you today that President Trump is gonna be all right,” said Jentezen Franklin, a Georgia pastor who serves as one of Trump’s faith advisors. “We thank you, Lord, that he was wounded but he was not killed. So we thank you that you were there. You preserved his life.”

Franklin has prayed for and encouraged Trump through three campaigns now, commending his leadership and love of America. Franklin’s voice quavered as he described getting the call that “President Trump has been shot.”

“He knows now, like never before, that he is not immortal, that one day he will stand before you in fear and trembling,” Franklin prayed. “God, make him a man on a mission now. Make him a man, oh God, who you have raised up, like you did King David for Israel. Raise this man up for America, to keep us strong and powerful.”

In the comments, supporters added amens and posted Bible verses. One commenter referenced Psalm 91, which is a prayer with themes of divine protection. Another viewer, Ethelene White, wrote, “The angels [encamp] around President Trump and the families of those who passed away and were injured in this process,” a reference to Psalm 34:7.

Americans across the political spectrum condemned the attack—thought to be a possible assassination attempt and consequence of the country’s heated political climate—which killed one attendee and left two more critically injured.

Trump was rushed off the stage by Secret Service personnel, giving his supporters a fist pump as blood flowed down the side of his face.

“God protected President Trump,” Sen. Marco Rubio said on X.

Trump said in an online statement he “knew immediately that something was wrong” when he heard “a whizzing sound, shots, and immediately felt the bullet ripping through the skin.”

A campaign spokesman said soon after the shooting that the former president was “fine” and was with doctors. Secret Service communications chief Anthony Guglielmi said that the suspected shooter “fired multiple shots toward the stage from an elevated position outside of the rally venue.” He said Secret Service personnel “neutralized the shooter, who is now deceased.”

President Joe Biden offered a televised statement, saying, “There’s no place in America for this kind of violence” and “everybody must condemn it.”

The Family Research Council, Focus on the Family, and the Southern Baptist Convention’s policy arm, the Ethics and Religious Liberty Commission (ERLC), all offered statements.

“The reality that this has taken place tonight should bring us to our knees,” ERLC president Brent Leatherwood said.

“We are praying earnestly for Mr. Trump and his family,” Jim Daly, president of Focus on the Family, said in a statement. “It is in no way premature to call for Americans of all ideological perspectives, Republicans and Democrats alike, to commit to bringing greater civility to their advocacy in the public square.”

A nearby Catholic church, All Saints Parish in Butler, had moved its Saturday programming due to road closures during the rally. “There are feelings of fear, hurt, anger, and sorrow in our community right now,” All Saints pastor Kevin Fazio said in a statement Saturday night. “As Christians, we need to remember that during times of darkness, we are called to reflect the light of Christ.”

The Catholic Diocese of Pittsburgh also responded and called for prayer “for an end to this climate of violence in our world.”

Pastors and politicians repeated calls for unity, peace, and healing.

“No matter your politics, please pray for Donald Trump and pray for America,” Rep. Dean Phillips, a Democrat from Minnesota, said.

“Karen and I are praying for President Trump and urge every American to join us,” Trump’s former vice president, Mike Pence, said.

Trump’s daughter, Ivanka Trump, thanked her father’s supporters in a statement that offered a window into how the event had impacted her personally.

“Thank you for your love and prayers for my father and for the other victims of today’s senseless violence in Butler, Pennsylvania,” she wrote. “I continue to pray for our country. I love you Dad, today and always.”

The Trump campaign and the Republican National Committee confirmed in a joint statement that Trump will still be attending the Republican National Convention in Milwaukee next week to officially accept his party’s nomination.

Church Life

One Body, Many Denominational Meetings

Hannah King

Our anxiety over church factions should lead us to dependence on Christ.

Illustration by Mallory Rentsch Tlapek / Source Images: Unsplash / AP Images

When I was in seminary 12 years ago, most of my classmates and I were discerning which denomination to join. Since many of us in our nondenominational seminary felt called to church leadership, this was a big decision. It’s one thing to worship somewhere, but it’s another to take ordination vows.

Being a pastor is a bit like being married: We pledge faithfulness to God within a specific family of people. The stakes felt high as we weighed which denominational family we should commit to—theological stances, interpersonal quirks, and structural problems included. Our seminary professors modeled that even the most ecumenically minded church leaders remain deeply impacted by their denominational context.

This is not a bad thing. Belonging to a specific body encourages us to invest in the health and integrity not only of our individual congregations but of our congregational networks. Ordained or not, we should be willing to engage in difficult conversations about the leadership structures and theological convictions and core values that characterize our respective traditions.

This summer, Christians from a variety of denominations (including the Southern Baptist Convention, Presbyterian Church in America, Anglican Church in North America, and Christian Reformed Church) held national meetings to discuss these convictions and values.

Denominational meetings aren’t always comfortable. This year, Baptists debated whether female staff members could be called pastors; Presbyterians disagreed about how to address the political polarization happening in their churches; and Anglicans discussed how to respond to and communicate about clergy misconduct. These conversations are worth our investment and effort.

But they can also create anxiety, especially when they precipitate change. In my own denomination, the Anglican Church in North America, anxiety ran high at times leading up to our national gathering as we anticipated the election of a new denominational leader.

Anxiety is a natural response to concern. It’s a sign that we are invested in the future. But if we operate from anxiety, we are more likely to exacerbate the problems we are hoping to solve. We become more polarized and more embedded in our ideological factions; we caricature those we disagree with or express our opinions in uncharitable ways. As one denominational meeting after another has come and gone this summer, my social media feed has reminded me that this temptation knows no theological boundaries.

But our shared anxiety can also lead us into a shared humility. It can remind us that every denomination has its challenges and uncertainties. All of us are wrestling with hard questions about important issues like child safety, transparency, and qualifications for leadership, to name a few.

It is humbling to realize that no church polity, size, or structure can filter out conflict or corruption entirely. Even nondenominational churches and networks face these realities. No tradition—Protestant or otherwise—is immune to problems. If any of my seminary classmates or I thought we might find a perfect denomination to join, we were mistaken.

But this recognition shouldn’t cause us to replace anxiety with apathy. Acknowledging our universal need for renewal isn’t the same as making peace with our problems. Nor is it an excuse to avoid the hard work of self-reflection about our individual contexts. Rather, it is an invitation to deepen our trust in the one who alone can bring the renewal we seek.

In Matthew 16, Jesus asks his disciples a confrontational question. His ministry was growing, and the crowds had begun to theorize about Jesus’ identity; but in a private moment, he asks his followers, “Who do you say I am?” (v. 15).

Peter’s bold answer and profession of faith—“You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God”—distinguishes the disciples from the crowds, and it precipitates the first mention of the church in Matthew’s gospel. Jesus responds to him, “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah. … I tell you that you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not overcome it” (vv. 16–18).

Whatever else we make of Peter’s profession and his primacy in the early church, we can be encouraged that Jesus’ promise still rings true: The church is God’s project. He is the one who will build us up, who cannot be stopped by any power of hell. Our primary work is to practice allegiance to him in all things—whether we are Baptist or Presbyterian, pastors or congregants, proud of our theological tribe or disillusioned by it. The fact that we don’t know exactly where this will lead us is part of the point. We are not sovereign over Jesus’ plans.

As we seek to be faithful in our respective corners of the church, Peter’s historic confession sets another example for us: It reminds us that whatever influence or leadership we have rests on the understanding that we are not the Christ. No church leader, with his or her opinions, is the Christ. No congregation or denomination or system of governance is the Christ. The church is not made up of people who get everything right. It’s made of people who get one thing right: Jesus is the Christ. Our strength lies in the fact that we are not its source.

The church belongs to Jesus, not to us. And yet, just as he called Peter and the original disciples, he calls us to partner with him in his project. This project is much bigger than any one denomination. But we can offer our small spheres of authority and responsibility to him with confidence that through us, he will continue to build his church.

Rehearsing this truth protects us from both cynicism and burnout as we pursue health and holiness in our denominations. We can and should continue to act on our convictions for the sake of God’s people, even when that leads to disagreement. But we must do so with integrity, knowing to whom we will give an account for our ministry.

Paul models this in his letter to the Corinthians:

Therefore, since through God’s mercy we have this ministry, we do not lose heart. Rather, we have renounced secret and shameful ways; we do not use deception, nor do we distort the word of God. … But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. (2 Cor. 4:1–2, 7)

In whatever corner of the global church we’ve been called to serve, our labor is limited but it is not in vain. Jesus has promised to finish what he started. Our short-term gains and losses belong to a larger work that includes all of his children.

Hannah King is a writer and priest at The Vine Anglican Church in Waynesville, North Carolina and is the author of a forthcoming book about living with hope in the presence of pain.

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Theology

Our Old Leaders Won’t Walk Away, and That’s About More Than Politics

Russell Moore

What the presidential debate and its aftermath should tell us about our culture of geriatric childishness.

People watch the CNN presidential debate between US president Joe Biden and former president Donald Trump.

Mario Tama / Staff / Getty / Edits by CT

This piece was adapted from Russell Moore’s newsletter. Subscribe here.

A friend of mine told me that he was at a long-planned gathering of half Republicans and half Democrats for the purpose of talking through partisan polarization. They watched the presidential debate together, and everyone was nervous that the respectful disagreements would devolve into the cheering and booing of team sports. He said it was actually the most unifying two hours of the entire meeting, because everyone was feeling the same thing: embarrassment.

No matter whether Team Red or Team Blue, the viewers recognized that our presidents once said things like, “We have nothing to fear but fear itself” and “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall.” Two weeks ago, from two 80-year-old men, one of whom is to lead the country for the next four years, we heard instead such lines as “I didn’t have sex with a porn star” and “Anyway … we finally beat … Medicare.” That was before they incoherently bickered about their respective golf handicaps.

When we ask, “Is this the best we can do?” we actually all know the answer. But neither man will step away, and there are no grownups that can make them.

This would be bad enough if it were only about which octogenarian will be occupying the only assisted living center in the world with a press office and a Situation Room. But the fact that our elderly leaders—one struggling to put sentences together, the other ranting with insanities and profanities—won’t leave the scene is about more than an election year. It’s about what it means to live in an era of diminished expectations.

For years, sociologists and philosophers have warned us about the dangers of a cult of youth, that behind all of the Botox treatments and cosmetic Ozempic regimens, there’s a more fundamental denial of death. We want to put aging out of sight because we don’t want to be reminded that it’s the way we will all one day go. That this is, at least when it comes to the presidency, no country for anything but old men, would seem to indicate that we’ve moved past that infatuation with youth. But the opposite is actually the case.

We live in a moment of a paradoxical juvenile gerontocracy. Never have our leaders held on with such stubbornness to the quest for power well after they have the cognitive or physical abilities to do so. And never have our leaders seemed so childish. How can both be true?

Communications theorist Neil Postman warned us that we were entering this era over 40 years ago. Children find their way in the world, he said, through wonderment. Curiosity leads to questions, and questions lead the quest to find answers. “But wonderment happens largely in a situation where the child’s world is separate from the adult world, where children must seek entry, through their questions, into the adult world,” Postman wrote. “As media merge the two worlds, as the tension created by secrets to be unraveled is diminished, the calculus of wonderment changes.”

“Curiosity is replaced by cynicism, or even worse, arrogance,” Postman continues. “We are left with children who rely not on authoritative adults but on news from nowhere. We are left with children who are given answers to questions they never asked. We are left, in short, without children.”

Keep in mind, Postman was worried about television and was writing long before the internet and social media era. At first glance, the digital era would seem to have given us the opposite problem. Jonathan Haidt, for instance, argues compellingly that one reason for the spike in anxiety among children and adolescents is the anxiety of their parents, an anxiety that leads to a smothering, overly protective parenting.

In reality, though, the “helicopter parenting” that Haidt and others describe is precisely the problem about which Postman warned, just from the other end. Parents are anxious, at least in part, because they feel scared and unequipped, with few models for to how to transition themselves into a different phase of life while preparing the next generation to take the helm.

The symbol of our age is less that of the wise old leader, giving the offertory prayer at the Sunday morning service or presenting the trophy to the young winners of the Pinewood Derby, and more that of the Margaritaville-themed retirement home filled with oldsters pretending to be right back in their teenage years, complete with the latest gossip about who has a crush on whom.

Probably every one of us knows the crushing feeling that comes with realizing that a mentor or a role model isn’t who we thought. Most of us have come close-up enough to realize that someone we thought could guide us with wisdom and maturity is actually a slave to temper, pride, ambition, lust, or greed. To some degree, that’s always been the case. T. S. Eliot wrote in the middle of the last century:

What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,
Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity
And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us
Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders,
Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?

At this point, though, our culture seems especially riddled through with this realization that those we thought were grownups are old, exhausted, and childish. An obviously declining president refuses to live in a world where “Hail to the Chief” is played for a new generation of leaders. The rest of the country looks to a porn-star-chasing former reality television host who says he wants to terminate the Constitution and put his enemies through televised military tribunals—and the country just laughs and enjoys the show.

We can’t do much about the cultural situation of 2024. We can, though, resolve to see and to embody a different model. The Bible upends the combination of childishness and age denial that we see all around us. Instead, the Scriptures give us the mirror-image paradox: a people who are both childlike and mature.

Jesus said that only those who become as little children will inherit the kingdom of God (Matt. 18:3; Mark 10:15). This is not, though, about childishness. Inheritance is not a pile of stuff but a stewardship, a responsibility, a vocation for grownups who have learned from, as Paul put it, “guardians and managers” (Gal. 4:1–7, ESV throughout).

The Bible gives us a glimpse of the childlike maturity paradigm at the beginning of the life of Solomon. The new king asked God for wisdom, saying, “I am but a little child. I do not know how to go out or come in” (1 Kings 3:7). He knew he was dependent. That wisdom manifested itself in the kind of maturity that knew how to not please himself but to govern a “great people” (v. 9). That didn’t last, of course. Solomon veered off to the immaturity of being governed by his appetites rather than by wisdom, and his kingdom came tumbling down.

We can thank God that Jesus tells us, “Behold, something greater than Solomon is here” (Matt. 12:42). We can walk in that way and embody it in our churches if we reject the kind of childishness that clings to power and the kind of childishness that sees power itself as a game. We can model the sort of maturity that cultivates character and equips the next generation with the hopes that they will outpace us when they do.

Our childish old-culture is embarrassing. We see it not only on a debate stage in our country but in church after church that’s segregated by age, pulpit by pulpit where the options seem to be either staying too long or being replaced by youth for the sake of youth itself. There’s a different way. There are no grownups coming to save us. We were supposed to be them.

Russell Moore is the editor in chief at Christianity Today and leads its Public Theology Project.

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