F O R E WO R D BY D. A.

C A R S O N

E L L I OT C L A R K
Evangelism as Exiles:
Life on Mission as Strangers in Our Own Land
Copyright © 2019 The Gospel Coalition

Cover Design: Eleazar Ruiz

Interior Design: Eleazar Ruiz

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“Few things are harder, in the time of our sojourn in this
present age, than to see ourselves as we are, as pilgrims.
But harder than that, it seems, is the challenge of carrying
out our calling as bearers of the good news. We seem to
want to embrace the world in all the ways we shouldn’t, while
avoiding engaging the world in all the ways we should. Elliot
Clark offers us a vision of how we evangelize in an American
context. His vision is drawn from his years of ministry
overseas and a heart for the local church. May this book
prompt us to live as exiles and evangelists, at the same
time.”

—Russell Moore, president of The Ethics & Religious Liberty

Commission of the Southern Baptist Convention

“What a profound, important, and timely book Elliot Clark

has given to God’s exiled peoples! We all know the world has
changed around us. And we realize our gospel proclamation
needs to change as well. Evangelism as Exiles helps us make
the necessary shifts. And it does so with humble grace and
deep theological reflection. I’m very grateful for this book
and the insights it delivers.”

—Randy Newman, senior teaching fellow at the C. S. Lewis Institute

and author of Questioning Evangelism

“Even as Christianity cedes its pride of place in North

America, the sky isn’t falling according to Elliot Clark. Having
spent years outside the United States, Clark recognizes
the hopefulness of exile for Christians. By God’s grace,
we can be rescued from our bigotries, our cowardice, even
our moral laxities and delivered into greater boldness. I’m
both chastened and compelled by Clark's powerful, poetic
words—and inordinately hopeful that we will reclaim the
radical mission of proclaiming the gospel of Jesus Christ.”

—Jen Pollock Michel, author of Surprised by Paradox and Keeping

Place

“A helpful, hopeful, and very practical treatise from Elliot

Clark. Evangelism as Exiles offers a much-needed real world
perspective: cultural hostility against Christianity—often
seen as a purely negative force by Western believers—can
actually energize and revitalize the church’s evangelism.”

—K. A. Ellis, director of the Center for the Study of the Bible and
Ethnicity, Reformed Theological Seminary, Atlanta

“As sojourners and strangers in a secular age, the call to

Christian witness is one that can feel daunting to many of us.
But as Elliot Clark’s wonderful new book demonstrates, the
opportunity is not to be missed. If you want to be challenged
and equipped for greater faithfulness in personal evangelism,
this is a book you can’t afford to ignore. Through keen
theological insight and careful pastoral wisdom framed by
his own experience, Clark’s Evangelism as Exiles is a powerful
reminder that times of greatest spiritual darkness are also
those of greatest opportunity for the light of the good news
of Jesus Christ to shine all the more brilliantly.”

—Matthew J. Hall, dean of Boyce College and senior vice president

of academic strategy at The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary

“Perhaps you have practically given up on personal

evangelism—maybe because you’ve depended too much on
the attractional model of evangelism or because you fear the
social stigma of speaking the gospel of Christ boldly. For those
of us who are overwhelmed by the mounting evangelistic task,
Evangelism as Exiles: Life on Mission as Strangers in Our Own
Land offers us the biblical help and doxological motivation to
confidently initiate gospel conversations in a society that is
becoming increasingly hostile toward Christianity. The author
takes us back to an approach that we should’ve never left,
and I feel confident that you will be, as I was, greatly profited
by this book.”

—Mark Allen, executive director of the Center for Apologetics and

Cultural Engagement at Liberty University and professor of biblical
and theological studies at the Rawlings School of Divinity

“Elliot Clark’s perspective is desperately needed—it’s

grounded in Scripture and relevant for the context in which
the American church finds herself. He clears up so many
misconceptions about evangelism that I lost count. I’m
praying this book and its influence reaches far and wide to a
great and lasting effect.”

—Gloria Furman, crosscultural worker and author of Missional

Motherhood

“We are reminded in this challenging book that there is a

cost to evangelism, that we are exiles and strangers, that we
too often long for comfort and popularity instead of speaking
up boldly as disciples of Christ. Clark’s book is convicting,
reminding us of our great responsibility to proclaim the good
news about Jesus even in adverse circumstances.”

—Thomas R. Schreiner, professor of New Testament interpretation

and professor of biblical theology at The Southern Baptist Theological
Seminary
“This book offers conviction and challenge we urgently need
in regard to evangelism. It asks believers in Christ to grasp
hold of our identity as sojourners and exiles. It speaks from
the ground of Scripture. And it lets us in to stories of witness
and faith in parts of the world where Christians know hard
exile and vibrant hope. It’s a book that helps wake us up.”

—Kathleen Nielson, speaker and author of Women and God: Hard

Questions, Beautiful Truth

“Having lived a good portion of my life as a stranger in

other lands I identified with Evangelism as Exiles. Elliot Clark
issues a clarion call to believers in America to realize the
opportunity for evangelism in a society that is more and more
similar to the society that faced the early church—and we
know what happened then! It’s good to be reminded that
though society has changed, the power of the gospel has
not. Use the wisdom in these pages to fuel your evangelism
in the modern world.”

—Mack Stiles, pastor of a church in Iraq and author of Evangelism:

How the Whole Church Speaks of Jesus and Marks of the Messenger:
Knowing, Living and Speaking the Gospel
CONT E N TS

FOREWORD 10

INTRODUCTION

EMBRACING EXILE 14

CHAPTER 1

THE HOPE OF GLORY 26

CHAPTER 2

FIGHTING FEAR WITH FEAR 46

CHAPTER 3

WITH RESPECT FOR ALL 64

CHAPTER 4

DECLARING HIS PRAISES 86

CHAPTER 5

V I S I B LY D I F F E R E N T 110

CHAPTER 6

THE GOOD NEWS OF HOME 130

CONCLUSION 150
FOREWO R D

A rising number of Christians in the West are coming

to grips with the reality that the Judeo-Christian
worldview no longer holds sway. Of course, we've always
known that there are parts of the world where missionaries
undertake their work in the teeth of opposition—opposition
that is sometimes cultural, sometimes judicial. At home,
however, we didn’t deploy missionaries: we deployed pastors
and evangelists. But as the folk song puts it, “The times they
are a-changin’.” In the Bible Belt, especially in the population
that is 35 or older, it’s still perfectly acceptable to be a
nominal Christian: the subculture reinforces us as we lurk in
our pious comfort zones. Elsewhere in the country, however,
and just about everywhere for young people, nominal
Christianity is becoming obsolete: it costs too much, with no
real advantages. Decidedly non-Christian and anti-Christian
agendas, riding the digital waves, increasingly prevail.

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It turns out that’s not entirely a bad thing. As the number of
nominal Christians thins out, it’s becoming a little clearer
who is a Christian and who is not. Christians are encouraged
not to be like the culture, but to be countercultural. Pastors
and others enjoin us to be like the people the apostle Peter
addresses: sojourners, aliens, exiles. Instead of whining and
feeling sorry for ourselves because the culture is becoming
unrecognizable, Christians should align their vision with that
of the most mature first-century Christians. If opposition
mounts to the place where it can be rightly called persecution,
well, then we are called to follow the apostles, who “left the
Sanhedrin, rejoicing because they had been counted worthy
of suffering disgrace for the Name” (Acts 5:41). After all,
hadn’t the Master, only a short while earlier, told his followers
that if people oppose Christ they will oppose Christians (John
15:18–25)? So stop living your life in fear, and wear the
cultural dissonance as a badge of honor. Fear no one but
God.

Elliot Clark takes the argument one step further. The shifts
in our culture, he argues, ought to modify our expectations
as to what evangelism is, as to what evangelists do. Many
of us think of Billy Graham as the archetypal evangelist. He
sometimes went abroad, but primarily he ministered here: he
was our guy, and he was feted in many contexts, sometimes
labeled “America’s Pastor.” Now, however, the changes in the
culture mean that, just as Christians face skepticism and
mild opprobrium, so do evangelists. As Christians in general
are thought to be too exclusive and narrow in their claims, too
right-wing and old fashioned in their moral perceptions, and
too out-of-touch when it comes to the freedom our culture
hungers for in the domain of personal identity, so Christian
evangelists fall under the same condemnation. Christian

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evangelists are not being celebrated in dinner meetings with
the local mayor, but are quietly engaging in a one-on-one
Bible study with an unbeliever, meeting in a Starbucks.

In short, Clark asks, what does evangelism look like once

we see ourselves as exiles and sojourners? Where can we
find our cues and learn some lessons? Clark draws from his
experience living and serving in a Central Asian country, a
country that is overwhelmingly Muslim. The West still enjoys
more freedoms than Christians in that country do, but the
question to ask is obvious: What should we learn about
evangelism when we see ourselves as exiles and sojourners?

In one extended introduction and six crisp chapters, Clark

lays out the answer he learns from Scripture—Scripture
that is read when one is living as a cultural and religious
minority. The clichés of our faith take on new and life-
changing significance: what it means to live with the hope
of glory shaping our priorities, what it means to offer respect
to all (whether Nero in the first century or an imam in ours),
what it means to declare God’s praise to the nations, and so
forth. None of these priorities is unknown or new, but they
are configured with great freshness in the context of living as
exiles. Read with care: this book may change your views on
evangelism.

D. A. Carson
President, The Gospel Coalition

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14
“ TO T H OS E W H O A R E E L E C T
E X I L E S . . . ACCO R D I N G TO T H E
FOREKNOWLEDGE OF GOD.”

— P E T E R T HE A P OST LE ( 1 PET. 1:1–2)

P icture an evangelist.

For many of us, our minds immediately scroll to the image

of someone like Billy Graham—a man, maybe dressed in a
suit and tie, speaking to a large audience and leading many
to Christ.

As such, we tend to envision evangelism as an activity—

more commonly a large event—that requires some measure
of power and influence. In communicating the gospel, one
must have a voice, a platform, and ideally a willing audience.
It’s also why, to this day, we think the most effective
spokespeople for Christianity are celebrities, high-profile
athletes, or other people of significance. If they speak for
Jesus, the masses will listen.

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But this isn’t how it has always been. Not throughout history
and certainly not in much of the world today.1 And I suspect
it will soon not be the case in the West either, as Christian
power and influence fade into the cultural background in the
span of our own lifetimes, as we lose our public and respected
“voice” and perhaps even as we encounter persecution.

So we must learn what it means to do evangelism as exiles,

as strangers and outcasts in our own land.

EM BRACIN G EXILE

I remember the first time it dawned on me that I wasn’t a

normal missionary. I was returning to visit the United States
after serving in a Muslim-majority nation in Central Asia
for a couple of years, and someone asked me a question I
couldn’t answer: “What does a normal day look like for you?”

I knew I couldn’t point to any sort of regular ministry routine

or schedule. Living in a Muslim country, I wasn’t technically
a missionary (not operating under a religious worker visa). I
didn’t have an office—not even a ministry budget. We didn’t
have facilities or a compound or a church building. We didn’t
run an English club, summer sports camp, or a VBS. We
didn’t operate a clinic or a non-governmental organization
(NGOs weren’t generally allowed in our country because
of their association with mission activity). Any ministry we
did was through relationships developed in our community

1 Granted, we have examples from around the world today of large crusades. We can
also find biblical examples of Peter speaking to thousands at Pentecost (Acts 2) and Paul
reasoning with the crowds in Athens (Acts 17) or in Ephesus (Acts 19), but these were
more often spontaneous and public gatherings, not exactly the same as planned events
or crusades in the modern era.

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or through my work, and we did it all out of our home—or
meeting at a local café.

Honestly, there were days when I longed for the opportunity

to operate as a “traditional” Christian minister. I thought it
would all be simpler if I could only be known in the community
as a missionary and have a visible platform for introducing
people to Christ.

Looking back, what I now appreciate about that experience

is that it forced me to approach evangelism and discipleship
without the typical trappings of our Western ministry culture.
It forced me to rely on the Spirit and the Word more than on
evangelistic programs and events. It forced me to learn what
it has meant for Christians in much of history to speak for
Christ in their everyday lives, as sojourners and foreigners in
their own land.

But embracing exile didn’t come naturally to me. How exactly

do you preach the gospel when both you and your message
are unwelcome? How do you witness when you have neither
a place nor a position? How do you practice evangelism as a
stranger and outcast? Or, we might also ask, how did Jesus
do it?

OUR EXILED KIN G

When Peter the apostle wrote his first letter to Christians

living in Asia (not too far from my former home) he
addressed them, curiously, as exiles. But these people
were not literal exiles. They were not, as we might imagine
them, like the desperate refugees and wayfaring immigrants
flooding the West today from the war-torn Middle East or
famine-stricken Africa.

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This was long ago. Before Nero. Before Christianity became
criminal in the Roman Empire. Before death sentences
and political persecution. Instead, we might categorize the
ridicule and social exclusion faced by most of those early
believers as only soft persecution. Those Asian Christians
lived with some measure of stability and comfort, yet
they experienced repeated reviling from family members,
neighbors, and coworkers. Friends openly mocked them for
their faith, maligning them for their unwillingness to join in
debauched parties and sexual escapades (4:4). “Christian”
became the cultural byword for idiot or, if they had such a
word, bigot.

When we read Peter, we might be surprised to see that he

labeled such inconveniences and harassments as “fiery
trials,” even including in his definition of Christian exile the
everyday challenge of having an unbelieving spouse and an
unjust master. That’s what suffering looked like for them. And,
from such a perspective, it doesn’t take much imagination to
see how their situation mirrors our own.

However, Peter was most concerned with demonstrating

how their circumstances reflected the life and afflictions of
Christ. In the opening of his epistle, Peter tipped his hand to
a theme he would develop throughout his correspondence:
when the church is ostracized and suffering, we’re following
in the footsteps of Jesus. We’re joining our King in exile.

In his greeting, Peter addresses these Asian believers as

those who were elect according to the foreknowledge of
God. Now, much has been debated about what exactly such
foreknowledge implies, especially how God’s knowledge of
the future relates to our election. But that isn’t our focus—

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nor do I think it was necessarily Peter’s.

Rather, Peter’s aim was to highlight the overlapping realities

of their experience with the Savior’s. Jesus, too, was elect.
He was chosen by God and precious (2:4). In fact, however
we understand God’s foreknowledge, we should take into
account that Jesus himself was foreknown before the
foundation of the world (1:20). In starting his letter with
God’s similar election and foreknowledge of his recipients,
Peter showed their solidarity with Christ, who was himself
foreknown and chosen by God.

But Jesus wasn’t merely God’s elect. He lived in the world

as an exile. The stone God chose was rejected by men,
becoming to them a rock of stumbling and offense (2:8).
To paraphrase the words of John, Jesus came to his own
people, but even they didn’t want anything to do with him.
And as we’ll see in chapter 6 on hospitality, Jesus wasn’t
only rejected by the Jewish religious leaders of his day; even
his own family opposed him. Foxes and birds had more of a
home in this world than the Son of Man did.

Over and over in his letter, Peter compared the identity and
experience of his Asian readers to that of the exiled Christ.
They too were chosen stones.2 They too were experiencing
rejection and exclusion. Like Christ, they suffered for doing
good deeds (2:21). In such cases, Peter challenged them
with Jesus’s example of entrusting himself to a faithful
Father who judges rightly (2:23), an example they were
expected to imitate in the midst of their own unjust suffering

2 A metaphor that should catch our attention coming from Peter who, as “the Rock,” had
already connected his identity and experience to Christ’s.

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(4:19). Because, as Peter explicitly stated, they were sharing
in Christ’s afflictions.

Now, we might wonder, if this is what union with Christ means

for the believer, why would anyone sign up for such a life?
Where’s the dignity and privilege in being chosen by God if that
same calling destines you to a life of shame and ostracism
in the world? Why would anyone want to be associated with
this Jesus? Then again, what did we Christians expect when
we chose to follow a King on death row?

But here Peter answered with the New Testament’s other-

worldly and upside-down perspective. When we realize we’re
foreknown like Jesus, when we realize our sufferings are
like his, and when we realize Jesus’s rejection and his cross
weren’t a mistaken dead end but the foreordained onramp to
resurrection and glory, then our faith in God explodes with the
hope of our own future glory (1:21). The logic of the apostles
is simple: If we share now in Christ’s sufferings, then we will
share in his glory. This is the ground of Christian joy. A living
hope. In a world of seemingly unending shame, opposition,
struggle, weakness, affliction, and persecution, the certainty
of future glory is the unstoppable heartbeat of our enduring
hope—and it will be our topic for chapter 1.

L EARNING IN EXILE

This is a book about evangelism. Such a book will inevitably

talk about what the gospel is and why we preach it to others.
However, this book will primarily address how we live on
mission when we’re strangers and sojourners in our own
land. It’s about how we present the gospel and represent
Christ when we lose our positions of cultural power and

21
influence, when the world has pushed us to the margins,
when those around us oppose the message we’re called to
proclaim. It’s about how we live on mission when we’re exiles
in our own land: in our workplace, our neighborhood, and
even in our own homes.

As we start this journey—learning what evangelism can look

like in the post-Christian West—we’ll take as our guide Peter’s
letter to the exiled church in first-century Asia. I will also draw
from my experience and perspective from years of ministry
as an unwelcome minority in the most unreached nation
in the world. But the lessons don’t end there. Because as
I’ve returned to my home country—a country I almost don’t
recognize for its new laws and new loves—I’ve also returned
to a church environment that is deeply concerning.

So often now American evangelicals are despondent and

hopeless, specifically in light of our fading cultural power and
social influence. Our knee-jerk reaction is to bemoan what
is lost, to throw up our arms and call foul. As the ground
erodes beneath our feet, we tend to fight for our rights in
the public square and slam our opponents on social media.
We’re fearful about our future. Yet fear of the future isn’t
necessarily the problem. We actually don’t seem fearful
enough, not nearly as exasperated or concerned about the
certain and dreadful end of our unbelieving neighbors as we
should be.

More and more I see Christians incensed when the world

mocks us and our faith. But we seem to have no trouble
disparaging others with whom we disagree, whether it’s for
their position on the environment or economics, guns or gays.
Meanwhile, we unnecessarily disenfranchise unbelievers

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by becoming ardent apologists for relatively unimportant
opinions, such as our preferred diet or sports team. But, at
the same time, we somehow lack an authoritative voice on
far weightier matters. Few of us would ever risk offending
someone by actually proclaiming the good news of Christ.
Instead, we’ll only passively or reluctantly share the gospel
provided someone else is inclined to listen.

We stand opposed to so much of what we dislike in the

world, but then we live much like the world. Our churches
mimic the value system of corporate America, promoting
our professional ministries with the tools of marketing and
amusing ourselves with endless entertainment. Then we’re
surprised when the world sees us as phony. So many of us
are in love with this present world, yet it seems we’d rather
keep the world—or, more accurately, its sinners—at much
more than arm’s length. Far too often we’re a happy and
hope-filled people as long as our churches are prospering,
as long as we have a seat at the cultural and political table.
But it’s highly unlikely we’ll invite the world—other races and
creeds and lifestyles—around our own kitchen table. We’re
of the world but somehow not in it.

So we must repent. We must learn and apply the proper

dispositions of a church on mission, living as strangers in
our own land. While these lessons are found throughout
Scripture, we encounter them most clearly in 1 Peter, a letter
of increasing relevance for our day and time. These lessons
are by no means exhaustive, but they are essential for any
church in exile—especially so for us. Because these biblical
characteristics are the ones that seem so glaringly absent in
the American church today.

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In the chapters that follow we’ll consider six essential
qualities of a Christian exile on mission. With the help of
God’s Spirit, such believers will be simultaneously (1) hope-
filled yet (2) fearful. They will be (3) humble and respectful,
yet speak the gospel with (4) authority. They will live (5) a holy
life, separate from the world, yet be incredibly (6) welcoming
and loving in it. While these three pairs of characteristics
appear at first glance to be contradictory, they are in fact
complementary and necessary for our evangelism as exiles.

YOU ’RE N OT A LONE

We all know a seismic cultural shift is taking place in our

land. The social pressures crashing against Christians
and Christianity are on the rise and aren’t likely to recede
for some time. The West is fast becoming post-Christian,
post-truth, and perhaps even post-tolerant. Our exile and
persecution doesn’t seem any longer to be a question of
if or even when, but how far. How far will we slide? How
much will we lose? How long will it last? And while those
are all reasonable questions, the more pressing and biblical
question is this: How will the church respond?

When you’re a stranger, when you’re on the outside looking

in, you think what you’re experiencing is abnormal. That you
yourself are strange. But one of the essential lessons of 1
Peter is that this suffering and social exclusion is actually
the most normal thing in all the world (4:12). It was normal
for Jesus. It’s common for our brothers and sisters around
the world today. It has even been the norm for our African
American brothers and sisters in the United States for
centuries.

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For many in the African American community, suffering and
exile aren’t distant or abstract concepts. These are lessons
they already know; as such, we have much to learn from
them. In fact, I’ve found that if you read old Negro spirituals,
you’ll quickly discover many of the themes outlined in 1 Peter
(and this book).

You’ll easily notice their overwhelming joy and hope of glory.

You’ll see repeated announcements of fearful judgment.
You’ll read lines about respect and hard-working humility—
profound in light of their many unjust masters. If you listen
carefully, you’ll also hear a powerful authority and conviction
in their voices. You’ll recognize them singing about “holy
livin’” and most certainly their home in heaven.3

So, at the outset of this book, I want to acknowledge that

while my primary experience of being a stranger and outcast
occurred outside my homeland, and while those experiences
will shape much of what is in this book, we should recognize
that many of our American brothers and sisters have already
lived through social exclusion and oppression within this
country. For them, doing evangelism as exiles isn’t a new
subject.

I don’t write that to shame those of us who are white and

Western, those of us who are privileged with a history of
relative ease. I write it to emphasize that we’re not alone in
this journey. You’re not alone.

3 I should emphasize that I don’t share this as one who has first-hand knowledge of the
African American experience but as one who has observed these qualities in the beautiful
lyrics of Negro spirituals. For one historian’s perspective on how the Bible informed and
inspired their worship, including how it specifically shaped their understanding of exile,
see Allen Dwight Callahan, The Talking Book: African Americans and the Bible (New Haven,
CT: Yale, 2006).

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When Muslim-background individuals would finally confess
faith in Christ in our former home, one of the first things
I’d do is encourage them with the broader, worldwide body
of Christ. They weren’t alone. There were other believers in
their city (I had to say this because I rarely met a Muslim
who personally knew a single Christian). There were even
other churches in their country. There were followers of
Christ all around the world praying for them (this was true
because of our faithful prayer partners). If you’re a solitary
believer stepping out on your own and away from all you’ve
ever known, it’s important to understand you have a grand,
global family.

So too, as you walk the lonely dirt road into a shameful exile,
away from what you’ve known in a sheltered American past,
you’re not alone. In fact, you’re not even excluded. Just the
opposite. You’re being included into God’s global family.
You’re joining Christ outside the camp (Heb. 13:13), bearing
the shame and reproach he bore. But insofar as you share
in his sufferings, you’ll also partake in his glory. This is the
solid basis of our living hope, a hope to which we now turn.

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 C H A P T E R 1

T H E

H O PT EH EO F

HGOL POER YO F

G L O R Y
CHAPTER 1

“ B U T I N YO U R H E A R T S H O N O R
C H R I S T T H E L O R D A S H O LY, A LW AY S
B E I N G P R E PA R E D TO M A K E A
D E F E N S E TO A N YO N E W H O A S K S
YO U F O R A R E A S O N F O R T H E H O P E
T H AT I S I N YO U ; Y E T D O I T W I T H
G E N T L E N E S S A N D R E S P E C T. ”

— P E T E R T HE A P OST LE ( 1 PET. 3:15)

O ur family’s apartment building sat at the edge of a

small city huddled on the skirts of a rolling Central
Asian mountain range. On any given evening, from our third-
floor kitchen window we could watch the orange sun plunge
behind the ridgeline and spill pinks and purples all over the
surrounding plateau. Turning to the southeast, half a mile up
the hillside we could also see the last rays of sun glinting off
the metal roofs from the nearby village. From there herdsmen
would rise early each morning to lead goats and cattle out
to pasture just beyond our gravel lot and across the bald
steppe.

One afternoon, as my wife was working in the kitchen, I heard

a sudden and sharp gasp. Then, without hesitation, she
cried out for me to come. I immediately hurried to her side,
assuming she was hurt. But there, from our kitchen window,

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CHAPTER 1

I found her staring out toward the opposite hill between our
home and the village. I followed her sightline to the silhouette
of our 11-year-old son standing on a mound of dirt more than
a hundred yards away. Across from him was a group of boys,
a village troupe we both easily recognized, a gang known by
kids in our neighborhood as the “Rough Uncles.”

As we squinted into the distance, our eyes locked onto the

boy closest to our son. From his body language, we could
sense this was a confrontation. In the village boy’s hand was
a large rock about the size of a football. We both watched, in
stunned silence, as he cocked his arm and raised the stone
in anger over our son. I froze.

For that brief moment we felt helpless and hopeless as

parents, unsure of what to do and completely unable to
rescue our son. Looking back, I realize I could have thrown
open the window and yelled at the village boys. Or I could
have raced down the stairs and outside to come to my son’s
aid. But would that have helped? Or made things worse? It
all happened so fast—or maybe I was too slow.

But before we could muster any semblance of a response,

the situation was somehow defused. The boy lowered the
rock, and our son came hurrying back to the house, his face
mixed with concern, shame, and uncertainty. As soon as he
walked in the door, we embraced him and asked what had
happened.

He told us the Rough Uncles had come upon him without

warning (neighborhood kids usually avoided any contact with
them). The group knew he was a foreigner and thus presumed
he was a Christian. They asked if he believed Jesus is God’s

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Son who died on the cross. When our son answered in the
affirmative, the boys were incensed and threatened him with
stoning.

My wife, who by this time was almost beside herself, then

asked, “So what did you do?” To which he responded, “I
told them I wasn’t afraid of them. I told them they could kill
me, but that didn’t matter, because I would just end up in
heaven.”

HOPE IN FU TU RE GLORY

The indestructible future glory of Christians dominates the

short epistle of 1 Peter. Writing to a group of believers in a
world swirling with trials—opposition and rejection, sneers
and put-downs, shaming and reviling—Peter’s primary goal
seems to have been encouraging his readers with the stable
and assured future awaiting them at the revelation of Christ.
So into their fiery crucible of suffering he injected a surprising
word—a word of hope.

After acknowledging their status as elect exiles, Peter joyfully

opens his letter with praise to God for their new birth by his
mercy, a new beginning in life that leads to a living hope. But
such hope isn’t based in this life. It’s a hope settled on the
certainty of the life to come through Jesus’s resurrection.

Peter then proceeds to dig deeper into this reality by revealing

the Christian foundations that undergird such resurrection
hope. As we’ve already noted, despite being foreknown by
God, Jesus endured incredible injustice and suffering. As we
know, he even walked the exile road all the way to execution.
But that’s not the end of his story or ours; God raised him

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from the dead and gave him glory so that our faith and hope
would be in God (1:21).

We must linger here. Peter’s logic invites our meditation.

In Jesus’s death and resurrection we find an unanticipated
motive in the mind of God: the Father raised him and gave
him glory in order that we might hope in God. Not just hope
that our story’s hero made it—that he’s no longer dead. Not
just hope that Jesus’s kingdom would survive a lethal blow.
But a living hope in our heavenly Father that he’ll likewise
raise and exalt us.

Peter wanted his readers to understand that God glorified the

Son in order to give us, his children, hope for our own exile.
Because when we consider all the trials Jesus faced, and
when we see how they intersect with our own suffering and
social exclusion, we realize we’ve yet to reach the end of our
own story. Just as we’ve been united to Christ in his suffering
and death, we’ll be united with him in resurrection and glory.

Does that seem too good to be true? Does it seem impossible

(or even unjust) that God would give us glory with Christ? Yet
that’s exactly what Peter said is going to happen in the age
to come, and it’s the source of overwhelming joy that led
him to give praise to God amid suffering. “In this,” he wrote,
“you rejoice” (1:6). You rejoice because you realize earthly
struggles pale in comparison to the glory and honor that will
be yours when Christ returns.

Here’s a truth we don’t contemplate nearly enough in our

prosperous Western context. When God set out to save us
in his divine foreknowledge, he didn’t merely devise a plan to
remove our guilt and forgive our sin. He didn’t merely provide

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a way to give us the perfect righteousness of his Son. He

also didn’t stop when he supplied us his Spirit to seal, guide,
and sanctify us. No, his foresight and predetermined plan
from the beginning was to lead us—you and me—out of our
shame and all the way to glory.

Now, when some of us read “glory” we automatically equate

it with a place. Over time, glory has become a synonym for
heaven, but there is much more to its meaning. Peter wrote of
our future hope more in terms of an experiential inheritance,
a reward with social and even emotional dimensions. He
included in that definition the tangible reception of praise
and glory and honor by us at the revelation of Christ (1:7).

This is so astonishing it almost sounds blasphemous. If it

wasn’t in the Bible, we’d never believe it. But God has called
us to share in Christ’s inheritance and glory. To Christians
suffering the pain of social exclusion, Peter asserted that
God’s plan for their lives wouldn’t be complete until he had
given them praise and honor with Christ at his return. So if
you suffer now with Christ, rejoice! Rejoice because you’ll
also share in his glory.

Could there be a more unexpected promise in all of Scripture?

But don’t be mistaken. This isn’t hyperbole. This isn’t isolated
conjecture. This isn’t Peter being nice and trying to bandage
our wounded hearts. This is the clear and repeated message
of the New Testament.4

The apostle Paul says that if we suffer with Christ we will

4 For more verses on this topic than are mentioned in this chapter, see also Matt. 5:11;
Rom. 2:7, 10, 29; 8:17; 1 Cor. 4:5; 2 Cor. 4:17.

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reign with Christ (2 Tim. 2:12). In fact, he calculates that the

suffering we endure (and Paul endured incredible affliction)
can’t even be compared to the glory that is to come for all
of us (Rom. 8:18). Reflecting on our great salvation, Paul
lays out the blueprint of God’s redemption plan: he foreknew
and predestined us; he called and justified us; he sanctified
us and, as if that wasn’t enough, he will glorify us (Rom.
8:29–30).

Christian, you know God loves you and has sent his Son
to save you from your sin. You also likely know your great
purpose in life is to glorify God for that salvation. But did you
know God’s grand salvation plan is to glorify you? This is what
Paul calls our “hope of glory” (Col. 1:27). Peter concludes
his letter by reminding his readers that they have been called
to eternal, undiminishing glory (1 Pet. 5:10). One day, at the
proper time, God will exalt us along with Christ (5:6).

When we face relational suffering and social exile, this hope-

filled eternal outlook is what we most need. That hope, as
our son expressed it, is a hope of heaven. Yet it’s so much
more. Peter wanted us to know that even though we face
shame and scandal in this world, God’s plan is to grace us
with his honor (2:7).

SHAME S ILEN CES

OU R WITN ESS

So, you might be wondering, what does all this have to do

with evangelism? How does a hope of future honor and glory
change the way we preach the gospel?

We need to hear and believe the promise of our future

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exaltation in order to overcome the threat of shame and

disgrace that would silence our witness. The dominant
reason for our lack of evangelism in America isn’t the fear of
death. We aren’t in danger of being imprisoned or tortured.
Rather, we’re just beginning to face, like the recipients of 1
Peter, soft persecution. We face being ignored or excluded.
We face ridicule or reviling. If we open our mouths with the
gospel, we run the risk of others thinking we’re closed-minded
or unloving. And, at least in my own life, the mere potential
for such shame, the possibility of being made an outsider,
hinders me from practicing bold evangelism.

The reality is, feelings of shame and abandonment are

among the most difficult for those facing exile. It may not
be overt persecution that crushes your spirit or tamps down
your witness; it can simply be the shame of having those
closest to you consider you to be foolish, ignorant, arrogant,
misguided, or a prude. Or it can be the threat of isolation,
of being perpetually uninvited, unrecognized, or unwanted.
Shame and the fear of exclusion combine like nothing else
to quench our spirit for evangelism.

But from the perspective of 1 Peter, the antidote to a silencing

shame is the hope of glory, the hope that earthly isolation
and humiliation are only temporary. God, who made the world
and everything in it, will one day include us in his kingdom
and exalt us with the King, giving us both honor and also a
home. We desperately need this future hope if we want the
courage to do evangelism as exiles.

Yet all around us today Christians seem to be losing hope.

We may not think we’ve lost it, but so often we convey an
attitude of fear or frustration about changes in our society or

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laws. We make desperate attempts to forestall what seems

to be the inevitable decline of the church in our Western
society. During all of this, the world is watching our tweets
and Facebook posts. They hear us grumble when we’ve lost
the latest battle in the culture wars. They listen when our
leaders lobby for what is rightfully ours, and they see us
grabbing for power and recognition, for glory and honor in
this life.

Confidence, assurance, and joy are the treasured

possessions we often leave behind when we walk the road
into exile. But I also believe the exchange can happen the
other way round. Because sometimes resurrection hope is
the first thing we discover when we’ve been freed of earthly
dreams and distractions. Christians who have their hopes
and worldly goods stripped from them in this life seem to
have the most to teach us about a lasting hope in the next.
They always seem to have the greatest joy, the deepest faith,
the most invincible hope. They also seem to be most likely to
proclaim that hope to others.

JOY IN S U FFERING

An example of this incredible joy can be found in our black

sisters and brothers in Christ who suffered as slaves in
America. Many times their white masters—often the very
ones who introduced these Africans to the Bible—hindered
them from full fellowship in the body. On Sundays, blacks
might be forced to work or, if they were given rest, not
permitted to worship in the white churches. Meanwhile,
some slave owners also forbade them from meeting alone.

As a result, many of these believers resorted to clandestine

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gatherings for fellowship, preaching, and singing. They held

secret church services anywhere they could get away from
the watchful eye of masters, meeting in swamps, gullies,
abandoned cabins, thickets, or ravines that came to be
known as “hush harbors.” In order to remain hidden, they
would whisper as they prayed, sing behind damp quilts, or
preach over a vessel of water to drown the noise.

They did this ready to suffer for Christ’s name. They knew
that those who were caught could expect many lashings.
Masters wouldn’t tolerate disobedience or insurrection.
Charlotte Martin, herself a former slave, recounted how her
oldest brother was once caught stealing away to a secret
worship gathering. He was whipped to death.5

But these dangers didn’t quench the Negro spirit or stifle

their singing. If anything, their torturous environment gave
rise to spiritual songs of lively hope. Peter Randolph, himself
a slave in the mid-1800s, chronicled in his autobiography
how these underground worship services were actually an
outlet for their joy in suffering and the hope of glory.

He wrote that slaves would wander off plantations to

assemble in a secure location. Once everyone arrived,
they would first ask each other how they were feeling.
Preaching, prayer, and singing would then follow until
all “generally feel quite happy.” During this experience,
Randolph recounted how the sufferings of the previous
week would seem to temporarily vanish. As they closed the
meeting, they would sing one more hymn reminding each
other of the joys of heaven that awaited them and exclaim:

5 Mark Galli, “Defeating the Conspiracy,” Christian History 62 (1999), 10.

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“Thank God, I shall not live here always!”6

Throughout history and around the world, Christians who

have encountered incredible suffering have exhibited
incomprehensible joy. This year I had the opportunity to walk
through a former prison in Romania. There, during the reign
of Soviet communism, multitudes of Romanians, including
many Christians, were tortured as criminals of the state. I
toured cells where men were chained to the floor and forced
to stand naked and upright day and night on bare, cold stone
with their feet submerged in icy water.

One such political prisoner was Richard Wurmbrand, a Jewish

Christian minister. He was ultimately released and later went
on to found Voice of the Martyrs. But one of his memories
from that time in jail is fitting here:

It was strictly forbidden to preach to other prisoners.

It was understood that whoever was caught doing this
received a severe beating. A number of us decided to pay
the price for the privilege of preaching, so we accepted
their terms. It was a deal; we preached and they beat us.
We were happy preaching. They were happy beating us,
so everyone was happy.7

Such joy in suffering, such happiness and hope—and how

that hope fueled his gospel proclamation! It’s that kind of
hope that’s incomprehensible to Communist jailers; it’s the
kind of inexplicable hope that marked Negro slaves and

6 Peter Randolph, From Slave Cabin to the Pulpit: The Autobiography of Rev. Peter
Randolph (Boston: James H. Earle, 1893), 202–3.

7 Richard Wurmbrand, Tortured for Christ (New York: Bantam, 1977), 29.

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made them sing. It’s a hope that can still be baffling today to
doctors, counselors, classmates, or the next-door neighbor.
And it’s exactly the kind of hope we need to have amid our
suffering and social exclusion.

But when we suffer, if our collective Christian tone is

complaint, if we constantly lament our loss of cultural
influence or social standing, if we weep and mourn as if
Jerusalem has fallen when our chosen political agenda is
overlooked, then we expose our true values. Those troubling
circumstances have a way of unmasking our highest hopes.
Sadly, far too often they reveal our hopes have actually been
in this present age and not in the one to come.

Maybe some of you reading this book are old enough to

remember when car alarms first became popular. You would
be at a shopping mall and hear the scream of a blaring alarm.
Everyone within earshot would suddenly stop to listen. Their
heads would pop up, and they would immediately scan for
the carjacker.

But nowadays car alarms are just annoying. If you’re sitting

in church and one goes off in the parking lot, nobody
moves. Instead, we have one of two possible yet unspoken
responses: Is that my car? or Somebody turn that off. We
don’t listen because the wailing car alarm has become a
nuisance. We’ve learned that, more often than not, no one is
stealing the car. The security system is likely overreacting to
a non-issue, so we just want the noise to stop.

That’s how it is with our witness. If all people hear from

Christians is alarm bells, they won’t listen when we actually
have something important to say—when we actually have

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something to warn them about. They won’t listen if they come

to expect brash tones and useless panic.

As freedoms slip away and suffering draws near, we must

not be known as an exasperated people always ready to
give an answer for our protest and grievance. Our collective
tone can’t be like a caustic car alarm. And we must not be
a people always longing for the past—for the glory days—
but as those looking to a certain and truly glorious future.
Then we’ll have opportunities to reason with others about
the hope we possess.

The reality is, in this life, the rich have reason to hope. The
comfortable have every reason to hope. Beautiful people
have, at least in the world’s eyes, reason to hope. Powerful
people have reason to hope. New England Patriots fans
(this coming from a beleaguered Cleveland Browns fan)
always seem to have a reason to hope. But when our hope
is inexplicable, when it doesn’t make sense, that’s when
people open their ears to hear what we have to say.

HOPE CREATES
OPPORTU N ITIES

That brings us to another evangelistic purpose in our hope.

Peter wrote to encourage Asian believers with the hope of
future glory, but he also expected that such hope would have
an influence on those around them. He expected that their
evident hope amid suffering would be the catalyst for many
unbelievers to inquire about their faith (3:15). Because hope
doesn’t merely open our mouths with the gospel; visible
hope can also open others’ hearts to Christ.

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I first met Nuri 10 years ago while riding in the back of a van
through a large Asian metropolis. I quickly learned he was
facing an ongoing court case because of his faith. I didn’t yet
speak his language, but a mutual friend introduced us and
explained how Nuri had been charged with a crime against
his homeland—simply for proclaiming Christ. If my friend
hadn’t told me the back story, I never would’ve guessed from
Nuri’s countenance that he was living as an exile in his own
country. He exuded far too much joy and confidence.

Some years later—the trial now resolved—I reconnected

with Nuri when I found out he had a passion for the remote
Central Asian city where our family was living. Nuri had spent
time there fulfilling his compulsory military service many
years earlier. Ever since then, I learned, he had been praying
for God to send laborers to that place, so he was eager
to connect with us and support our ministry in whatever
capacity he could.

For Nuri, that meant regularly traveling to our home, some

750 miles away from his own, in order to help in our
outreach ministry. Whenever he came, we’d introduce him
to new believers or those to whom we were witnessing. He
always came with a powerful authority and positive outlook
that obviously influenced those around him. In fact, when
we baptized the first believers, Nuri was there in the water
with us. Only years later did I learn more of Nuri’s testimony,
including the experience that cemented his passion for our
city.

Nuri was a Muslim and had, by all accounts, a materially

successful life. But at one point as a young adult he began
to face emotional and mental suffering, depression, and

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what he describes as an utter hopelessness that made it

impossible to get out of bed or go to work. After a full year
of trying every possible alternative (seeing Muslim teachers,
counselors, physicians, and a psychiatrist), he was ready to
give up. Suicide was the only way out. But that’s when Nuri
cried out to God in his pain, asking for God to reveal himself.

That night, Nuri had a dream. He remembers vividly seeing an

arm reached out to him to pick him up out of his trouble. But
he couldn’t see the man’s face. Then, suddenly, he realized
the man who could help him was his coworker, a man he
knew was a Christian. Nuri went to him and asked if he could
explain the dream. The rest, as they say, is history.

By the time Nuri entered military service and was assigned

to a base in our city, he was already a passionate evangelist
speaking openly to his Muslim countrymen about the hope
he had found in Christ—hope that had delivered him from
darkness and into light. While still a soldier, he even started
a small Bible study.

One day, his commanding officer told him it had to stop. Nuri
couldn’t be a soldier and a Christian. In the middle of the
night, the officer took him outside and beat him within inches
of his life. There he lay on the ground: almost unconscious
with a gun to his head. Then the officer gave him one last
opportunity to deny Christ. But Nuri refused. The officer
struck him again and left him helpless on the ground.

Two other soldiers who were looking on eventually came

to Nuri’s aid. They helped him inside. Nuri, apparently not
having learned his lesson, proceeded to preach the gospel
to both of them. And they believed. His hope in Christ was,
and still is, contagious.

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Whenever I think of Nuri’s story, my mind returns to the

account in Acts of Paul and Silas in Philippi (Acts 16:16–
40). There, in a dark cell and chained to a wall, Paul and
Silas didn’t lose confidence in God. Instead, they prayed and
sang hymns together, worshiping God and rejoicing in hope.
Luke records that other prisoners were listening to them
sing. Presumably the jailer was as well, for he was specially
assigned to guard them.

An earthquake shook the prison. Doors opened. Chains

broke. Paul and Silas were free. The jailer, assuming his
personal prisoners had escaped, drew his sword, ready to
take his own life. The shame and punishment for such a
failure was likely more than he was prepared to face.

But Paul cried out to let him know they had not fled the
scene. Probably shocked and in disbelief, the jailer entered
the dark rubble to find Paul and Silas. He then proceeded
to do what Peter said would happen when Christians exhibit
a strange hope amid suffering. The jailer asked a question:
“What must I do to be saved?” (Acts 16:30).

HOPE IN PRES ENT

P ROVIDENCE

If you or I were in the same situation as Paul and Silas,

I doubt we’d be singing God’s praises and rejoicing in
hope. More than likely our response would be to question
God’s purposes or doubt our understanding of God’s will:
“Maybe God didn’t send us here after all”; “We probably
shouldn’t have been so bold or confrontational”; or “Did we
misunderstand the Macedonian call?”

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But hope for the Christian isn’t just confidence in a certain,

glorious future. It’s hope in a present providence. It’s hope
that God’s plans can’t be thwarted by local authorities or
irate mobs, by unfriendly bosses or unbelieving husbands,
by Supreme Court rulings or the next election. The Christian
hope is that God’s purposes are so unassailable that a great
thunderstorm of events can’t drive them off course. Even
when we’re wave-tossed and lost at sea, Jesus remains the
captain of the ship and the commander of the storm.

What might surprise us when we read Peter’s letter is that he

doesn’t cast blame for his readers’ exile entirely on society.
He could’ve easily portrayed their situation and struggle as an
“us vs. them” battle. Instead, Peter repeatedly suggests that
God himself was behind their suffering. The rulers over them
were sent by God (2:14). God is the one who gave slaves
their masters, so they should, like Jesus, be mindful of God
when submitting to authorities (2:19). In their suffering, they
should humble themselves under God’s mighty hand (5:6),
because they were suffering according to God’s will (4:19).

Again, this point gets back to the pattern of Jesus’s own life.
He entrusted himself to the Father amid suffering. Jesus,
whose future was foreknown and planned by the Father, had
to hope in his Father’s good purposes—not just for the future
joy set before him, but trusting God’s perfect judgment and
providence when experiencing temporary trials.

But what does hope in God’s present providence have to do

with evangelism?

As we’ve already seen, hope leads us to speak. Hope in

future glory fills our hearts with joy and animates our witness,

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even overcoming hindrances to evangelism like shame and

exclusion. But hope in God’s active providence in our present
circumstances also loosens our lips to preach the gospel.
Why? Because we recognize that God has put us where we
are “for such a time as this.”8

Esther was a woman in literal exile. She was away from home
and alone in the strange land of Persia. While her experience
as a beautiful woman living in a harem was likely one of
relative comfort and ease, her position was anything but
desirable—especially for a God-fearing young Jewish woman.
But Esther had hope. Through the influence of her cousin
Mordecai, she had enough hope to risk her life for the sake
of her people.

The children of Israel were in grave danger. A plot to

exterminate the Jews, themselves an exiled people, was
reaching full maturity under the reign of King Ahasuerus.
But Esther, with her unique access to the throne, had the
opportunity to influence policy. However, Esther knew that
to approach his majesty on such grounds was unthinkable,
even illegal. It would almost certainly be her death sentence.
Yet Esther did it anyway.

Why? Because of two kinds of hope. We find them in

Mordecai’s encouragement to her: “For if you keep silent at
this time, relief and deliverance will rise for the Jews from
another place, but you and your father’s house will perish.
And who knows whether you have not come to the kingdom
for such a time as this?” (Est. 4:14).

8 I find it interesting to ponder why Paul and Silas didn’t run from prison immediately
following the earthquake. They seem to have been thinking of the people around them, as
well as God’s purposes in that time and place.

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Mordecai, and Esther through him, had hope in a promised

future. They knew the Jewish people wouldn’t be exterminated,
for that would contradict God’s covenant promise. So they
had a future hope that couldn’t be shaken. But they also had
expectant confidence in God’s present providence. Esther
was in the king’s court for a reason. Her arrival in the harem
was no accident. God had brought it about—no matter how
unseemly it must’ve been. So how was she to know whether
her suffering and exile weren’t planned for the salvation of
God’s people?

So it is with us. We may be strangers and sojourners in

uncomfortable or less-than-desirable conditions. We may
have had our rights and privileges stripped away from
us. We may have neither the community nor the personal
comfort we want. We may have been forced into unpleasant
situations or relationships we’d never choose. But what if
God’s providential hand has put us right where we are with
a specific purpose—to bring about the salvation of his own?

How can we not open our mouths and speak the gospel?
How can we keep silent? If we have hope in our future and in
our present, if we have a hope in God overseeing it all, then
how can we not speak to our friends, neighbors, coworkers,
and family members? God has put us in these places,
positions, and relationships for a reason, and that reason,
among others, is to proclaim the good news of Christ. Even
if that means, like Esther, breaking the law and risking our
necks. Even if it means conquering our greatest fear.

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46
 C H A P T E R 2

F I G H T I N G

F E A R

W I T H

F E A R
CHAPTER 2

“A N D I F YO U C A L L O N H I M A S
F A T H E R W H O J U D G E S I M P A R T I A L LY
ACCO R D I N G TO E AC H O N E ' S
D E E D S , C O N D U C T Y O U R S E LV E S
WITH FEAR THROUGHOUT THE
T I M E O F YO U R E X I L E .”

— P E T E R T HE A P OST LE ( 1 PET. 1:17)

I t had been more than a year since we’d made the terribly
difficult decision to leave our mountainous home in
Central Asia. Ever since our family’s tearful departure we’d
been counting quarters and dreaming of the day we could
make a return visit. But as it turned out, our trip came a
little sooner than expected. The following autumn our good
friends were getting married in two separate weddings over
the same weekend in the same city at the end of a trip I’d
scheduled to teach pastors in Ethiopia.

So, through the marvel of modern travel, we arranged for me

to break up my itinerary—I’d cross the Red Sea to the north
as my family flew eastward over the Atlantic—resulting in
us arriving a few hours apart and less than a day before the
first wedding.

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Weeks before making the trip, I posted our travel plans

on Facebook to let friends know we’d be coming their way.
The goal was to see as many people as possible in a short
week, though we’d prioritize opportunities to encourage the
isolated believers in our former city. But when I imagined
all our potential reunions, one person who didn’t make my
mental list was Hasan.

Hasan wasn’t a Christian. He was just a friend of a friend,

an acquaintance with whom I’d shared only a few passing
greetings. But he was the first to respond to my post, letting
me know he wanted to get together. He was willing to make
it work whenever I was free. So I took his message as God’s
providence, and we made plans to meet.

The day came when Hasan and I settled into a discussion

at a table in my favored coffee shop near his university. Our
initial exchange stayed safely within the bounds of small talk,
ranging from family to work, my travels to his PhD program.
After 45 minutes or so, I sensed the conversation had stalled.
Meanwhile, I’d been praying all day for an opportunity—one
that wasn’t presenting itself. Finally, at a period of silence
I turned to Hasan and asked, “What exactly do you think I
believe?”

Hasan knew I was a Christian (he was good friends with other
believers from our house church). But I was curious what
he, a Muslim, thought that meant for me. Actually, I wasn’t
too curious, because living in Central Asia had taught me
that just about all Muslims had made up their minds about
Christianity. They had all memorized the standard answers.
But I knew I needed to nudge the conversation toward the
gospel, and that initial question did the trick.

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Hasan countered with the expected Islamic challenges.

Our respectful debate also revealed some common
misconceptions. But through it all I tried to patiently articulate
the gospel, doing so clearly and with some urgency. Then,
after a half hour of back and forth, Hasan paused, pulled
back in his chair, and raised an exasperated question I
couldn’t answer: “Why didn’t you ever tell me this is what
you believed? Because then,” he continued, “you could have
had more time to explain it.”

L ACK OF FEAR

Most Christians would identify fear as the primary reason

why we don’t speak the gospel to others with more frequency
or fervency. But I have my doubts. As we explored in the
last chapter, I suspect the slightly more accurate reason is
shame: We don’t evangelize because of the expected social
and emotional ramifications for us. If we’re honest, the
real reason we don’t preach the gospel to our neighbors is
because we don’t want to be embarrassed. At least that was
my reasoning when it came to Hasan.

From my perspective, it wouldn’t make sense for me to talk

with him about Christ. After all, he really wasn’t a close
friend. Anything I say would come across as preachy or
insincere. Also, he had Christian friends. I’m sure they had
talked with him about the gospel. He probably wouldn’t be
interested. Not to mention, if I bring up Christianity, he’ll peg
me as a missionary—a derogatory term for a foreigner trying
to subvert his culture or undermine his country. I could lose
his respect or lose the opportunity for a future relationship.
Better instead to have the conversation arise organically, out
of a natural relationship, all of it totally natural and anything
but uncomfortable.

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For many of us, when it comes to personal evangelism,

comfort has usurped our calling. We speak the gospel when
it seems appropriate. We open our mouths when we perceive
an opportunity—that is, a willing audience. We’ll bring up
the topic of faith so long as it won’t threaten our image,
our credibility, or our relationships. If we made an honest
assessment we’d have to admit we’re often ashamed of our
Lord. And such shame silences our witness.

That said, fear is closely related to shame and is still a real

factor in our evangelism. In fact, as I’ll argue in this chapter,
I believe one of the greatest hindrances to evangelism is
fear. Or, more accurately, a lack of fear. As feelings of anxiety
and dread well up within us and drown out our evangelistic
zeal, the solution isn’t to eliminate all fears. Our absence of
appropriate fear is actually part of the problem. The solution
we find in 1 Peter is to fight fear with fear—to grow in our fear
of God and our fear for (not of) our fellow man.

Now, you might question such thinking. After all, doesn’t the
Bible say perfect love casts out fear? Is there really any place
for fear in the Christian life? Doesn’t God’s unconditional
love (a concept we will return to in chapter 5) mean we have
nothing to fear but fear itself?

But here’s where we encounter some of the strangeness of

Peter’s first epistle. Because as he wrote to exiled Christians
encompassed by fears small and great, Peter repeatedly
encouraged them to fear. Such an approach, at least to our
American mindset, seems counter-intuitive if not counter-
productive. If we were writing a letter to instill hope in
struggling Christians, we wouldn’t think to encourage them
to fear.

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It’s not as though Peter didn’t recognize the negative

repercussions of fear for those experiencing social exclusion.
He didn’t want his readers to be afraid (3:6). Even amid real
suffering, he exhorted them not to fear or be troubled by
their opponents (3:14). But Peter also challenged them to
conduct their lives with fear throughout their exile (1:17).
Rather than releasing any and all sense of fear, he expected
them to chart their course through shadowy exile by the
constant lodestar of Godward fear.

We should also note that for Peter such God-directed fear

was in no way contradictory to hope.9 In what is likely the
most well-known passage on evangelism and apologetics
from 1 Peter, we often miss the strong link between hope
and fear. In the preceding verse, Peter began by writing that
Christians shouldn’t fear opposition. Rather, “in your hearts
honor Christ the Lord as holy, always being prepared to make
a defense to anyone who asks you for a reason for the hope
that is in you; yet do it with gentleness and respect” (3:15).10
In other words, being ready with the gospel is directly
connected to these two dispositions: (1) not fearing others,
and instead (2) honoring Christ as holy.

We need to take a moment and examine this second idea.

We get number one. Don’t be afraid. That makes sense for
our evangelistic efforts. But what does it mean to honor the
Lord as holy? What is Peter referring to when he uses this
curious phrase?

9 Peter connects fear and hope in 3:5–6, 3:14–15, and 1:17–21.

10 The word translated “respect” in 3:15 is phobos, the same Greek word which occurs
in 3:14 referring to the “fear” they shouldn’t have toward their opponents.

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First of all, the verb he uses hearkens back to the Lord’s

Prayer where Jesus teaches us to ask for God’s name to be
hallowed—to be honored as holy. But that doesn’t take us
back far enough. Writing centuries earlier, Isaiah prophesied
of the coming Assyrian invasion by which Israel would be
taken captive and exiled. Then God gave Isaiah this personal
word of instruction: “Do not fear what they fear, nor be in
dread. But the LORD of hosts, him you shall honor as holy.
Let him be your fear, and let him be your dread” (Isa. 8:12–
13).11

Isaiah had been commissioned by God to preach a message

that would mostly fall on deaf ears. It was a message
predicting God’s judgment and the people’s ruin, as well as
the hope of future salvation. But given that commission,
Isaiah wasn’t to succumb to his hearers’ fears: the fear of
their opponents or the fear of rejection. Instead, Isaiah was
to honor the Lord as holy. To put it another way, he was to let
God be his greatest dread, the fear above all fears.12

Bringing that idea forward into the letter of 1 Peter, we

see the apostle’s implicit reasoning by his use of Isaiah’s
verbiage. We see that being ready with the gospel doesn’t
involve completely eliminating our dread, but redirecting it.
We recognize the greatest hindrance to our evangelism isn’t
necessarily a stifling fear, but a lack of fear. This revelation
helps us understand how fearing God can actually be the
remedy to any and all fears which would otherwise silence
our witness.

11 This same passage speaks of a stone of stumbling and rock of offense, earlier
referenced by Peter in 2:8.

12 Jeremiah’s calling mirrored that of Isaiah in that he was sent to preach to those who
would oppose his message, but God challenged him by saying, “Do not be dismayed by
them, lest I dismay you before them” (Jer. 1:17).

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PREACHING SCA RED

Yusuf was our family’s pastor for about a year. An endearing

older gentlemen, he possesses the kind of grandfatherly
disposition that can warm any child’s heart, the sort of glad-
hearted greeting that can make any stranger an instant
friend. Hidden within his small stature he also conceals a
booming voice fit for the largest audiences in the grandest
halls. However, Yusuf only has a small flock, a congregation of
about 30 that gathers in a nondescript basement apartment
in the midst of a sprawling Central Asian metropolis. His little
church was less than a one-mile walk from our first home
overseas.

On my introduction to Pastor Yusuf, he welcomed me into his

church and showed me a Bible on his desk, complete with
an unmistakable bullet hole—a real conversation starter for
what he’d endured as a minister of the gospel. Not too long
after that first meeting, our family joined his fellowship in
what became one of the fondest years of our ministry.

During our time there, on a Saturday evening before Easter,

Yusuf sat in his small church office preparing and praying for
the coming Lord’s Day. That’s when he heard a commotion
outside and a call at the gate. He rose from his study, opened
the screeching metal door, and climbed the concrete steps
into the night air. There at the front entrance was a group of
young men waiting for him.

What happened next was a mixture of the shocking and

predictable. The young thugs immediately launched into a
tirade of hate-filled speech, threatening Pastor Yusuf. They
said his church had no place in their Muslim community.

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They accosted him for corrupting the neighborhood. They

told him he and his church were no longer welcome. Then,
almost without warning, one ruffian kicked him in the chest,
knocking Yusuf’s small frame backwards. He tumbled down
the concrete stair. The assailants fled.

The next morning when we arrived for church ready to

celebrate our Lord’s resurrection, we were met with news
of the attack. Members spoke in hushed tones, wondering
who had done this and if it was an isolated event. We were
concerned about our pastor’s condition, as well as the
danger for our own gathering on a day of such significance to
potential attackers. The joy of Easter was quickly threatened
by genuine fear.

But by the time our worship began, nerves seemed to have

settled a bit. We all took our places, including Pastor Yusuf
sitting in his usual front-row seat. The service opened with
prayer and song. Then, about halfway through the time of
worship, a group of three men entered the back door. We
had visitors.

In much of the world today, having visitors at church

means something totally different from what it does in our
comfortable American context. The whole situation can be
a bit tricky. Are they friendly? Are they government officials
or informants? Could they be seekers? Or terrorists? So
whoever it is, you greet them with a smile—and fervent
prayer.

But this particular day we were especially on edge. I remember

how, as the three men sat directly behind my wife and three
young kids, a million scenarios raced through my mind. My

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throat tightened while I voiced the words of the hymn. When

other members slowly turned to notice the guests, tension
clouded the room. But I could also tell that Yusuf still didn’t
know they were there.

As the final song came to a close, our pastor stood and

approached the front. He opened his Bible, turned, and looked
up. Then he saw them. We all noticed him notice them. No
one knew what would happen next. What, if anything, would
the strangers do? How would Yusuf respond? What were we
to do?

After an initial pause that seemed like ages, Pastor Yusuf

launched into his sermon. To this day I don’t actually know
what he had prepared to preach that Easter Sunday, but
I suspect his topic shifted. With trembling in his voice he
immediately spoke of Christ and the gospel, his death and
resurrection, and the need for all people to repent and believe.
His tone was forceful. His eyes locked to the congregation.
I sensed his gaze focus past my brow and directly to our
visitors. Yusuf had taken inventory of the fear in the room
and he decided to stock the shelves with an even greater
fear: the coming judgment of God. His Spirit-filled boldness
was amazing.

COMING JU DGMENT

Jesus knew that in such terrifying moments we’d be tempted

to swallow our tongues. But he warned that all who are
ashamed of him before others would have the Son of Man
ashamed of them when he comes in glory (Luke 9:26).
Jesus called us to shake off our fears when maligned and
threatened by the world. We must neither be afraid of our

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hearers nor embarrassed by Christ. Why? Because only

then will we have the chutzpah to speak a message that’s
regarded as foolishness to the wise and weakness to the
strong (1 Cor. 1:18–31).

But Jesus had more to say. According to Matthew, as he

sent out his chosen disciples with a message to proclaim,
he called them to fear something greater than their worst
enemies—they were to fear God and his coming judgment:

So have no fear of them, for nothing is covered that will

not be revealed, or hidden that will not be known. What
I tell you in the dark, say in the light, and what you hear
whispered, proclaim on the housetops. And do not fear
those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather
fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell.
(Matt. 10:26–28)

If you read through a collection of old Negro spirituals,

you’ll observe that those beleaguered slaves sang about
judgment and damnation in ways that would cause most
of us to blush. Their ability to harness the passions of the
imprecatory psalms and simultaneously drive them toward
an evangelistic appeal is astonishing, if not jarring. In one
line they can revel in God’s retribution; in the next they can
summon sinners to repent.

How could they do this? I suspect it’s much like their hope-
filled hymnody. Just as those who face earthly shame grow
in their expectation of eternal glory, those who suffer under
constant fears and injustice have a greater anticipation for
the coming Judge of all the earth. Those well acquainted with
earthly terrors—if you have a chance to meet them—have a

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keener sense of the fear of God, a greater wakefulness to

his wrath. Their earthly troubles and sorrows can easily lead
them to long for the day of reckoning.

So it’ll likely be for us. As fears increase in the American

church, we’ll have the opportunity to resurrect a holy fear of
God in our midst. As we suffer under the temporal judgment
of God as weary sojourners, we may just find a stronger voice
to warn others to flee from the wrath to come. As we sense
the nearness of the day of retribution, we may speak once
again with unction and holy disquiet.

But over the last decades, in our efforts at evangelism and

church growth in the West, the characteristic most glaringly
absent has been this: the fear of God. We’ve believed the
most effective witness for Christ is positive and encouraging.
We’ve assumed the way to win the masses is by rebranding
our churches and offering people a better life. We’ve believed
our greatest apologists are successful CEOs or professional
athletes. The gospel has become one-dimensional: it’s all
about accessing blessing without the need to avoid judgment.

Yet in the book of Acts, the early church grew and flourished
as they lived in the fear of the Lord (Acts 9:31). The apostle
Paul wrote to the Corinthian believers, calling them to be
ambassadors for Christ in view of God’s judgment. “Knowing
the fear of the Lord,” he explained, “we persuade others”
(2 Cor. 5:11). Jude also encouraged us to save others by
clutching them from the fire, showing mercy with fear (Jude
23).

This was also the perspective of Peter writing to exiled

Christians in ancient Asia. They were experiencing shame

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and reproach. Like their Savior, they were rejected by the

world and maligned for good deeds. Their suffering and
trials, at one level, could even be described by Peter as
God’s judgment. Through ongoing difficulties and flaming
opposition, the Father was actively working to refine and
purify them. But if such judgment comes on God’s people,
“what will be the outcome for those who do not obey the
gospel of God?” (4:17). This is why the gospel must be
proclaimed, because all will give an account to One who is
ready to judge the living and the dead (4:5–6).

Have we really taken into account the end and outcome

for our friends, relatives, neighbors, and coworkers? Is our
failure to evangelize really an issue of fearing too much, or
not fearing nearly enough? Do we cherish our comfort and
others’ respect more than we cherish God’s glory and their
deliverance? Will we love them enough to fear for them,
to show them mercy and kindness by warning them and
snatching them out of the fire? The consistent testimony of
the New Testament is that if we have the appropriate fear for
them and of God, we’ll preach the gospel. We’ll speak out
and not be ashamed.

W E PL EAS E THOS E WE FE AR

But what does it actually look like to fear God? Am I

suggesting that the Christian life demands we walk around
with a Bible in one hand and a lightning rod in the other?
Conversely, am I suggesting that bold evangelism involves
shouting down strangers on a street corner with warnings
of impending doom, or venting on social media about the
wickedness of sin?

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To get an answer, I think we can actually learn something

from our experience. When we observe that our problem
in evangelism is fearing others too much, we should note
the form such fear takes. We typically aren’t running from
people in terror. We aren’t cowering in a corner.13 More often
than not, we’re not even faced with the kind of fear Yusuf
experienced. Rather, fearing others more than God usually
demonstrates itself in trying to please them more than God.
To put it another way, you know you fear someone when you
desire their approval and live for their praise.

But as we explored last chapter, the Christian in exile is called

to embrace the shame and social humiliation that comes as
a package deal with the cross. We’re called to live for the
approval and honor of King Jesus alone. We’re to be first
and foremost God-pleasers and not—as the old King James
Version says—man-pleasers (Gal. 1:10). In fact, Paul’s letter
to the Colossians is helpful to see this connection. He wrote
that servants shouldn’t live to please their masters but fear
God (Col. 3:22). In other words, fearing is paralleled with
pleasing. We seek to please most those we fear most.

Here again, Scripture connects this heart attitude and

disposition with faithful gospel proclamation. Christians
who try to please people ultimately fail at pleasing God and
fail at proclaiming his gospel.14 And far too often this is the
problem in our evangelistic endeavors: We’re fundamentally
committed to keeping people happy and having them like us,
having them think we’re smart, contemporary, hip, tolerant,

13 In the same way, fearing God in the Bible doesn’t mean avoiding him. It’s evidenced
by our desire to please, live for, and be with him.

14 See 1 Thess. 2:4 and Gal. 1:10.

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progressive, fun, approving—and the list goes on. We want

to please them, and we want them to approve of us. As was
the case for me with Hasan, we can fear losing a friendship
more than we fear losing a friend.

We withhold the truth for the sake of acceptance. We polish

our social media persona to remove the rough edges of
religiosity. And we nurture relationships with unbelievers
for years without broaching the subject of Christ. Why? To
please people. In our twisted understanding, we reason such
people-pleasing efforts are for the sake of future gospel
opportunities. But in reality, we’re often just fearing others
instead of God.15

F EARI NG GOD A MID A ND

ABOVE A LL FEA RS

In calling his readers to fear God and not others, Peter was
in no way naïve about the cost involved. He wasn’t glossing
over real trials. He wasn’t ignorant about what it means to
lose friends over the gospel.16 After all, as we’ve come to
see, he labeled such relational discord and emotional injury
as harsh exile.

In the same way, I don’t intend to downplay the challenge this

call to preach the gospel brings for us. Nor would I wish to
insinuate that the soft persecution we face is insignificant.

15 Some helpful resources on this topic would include Lou Priolo, Pleasing People: How
Not to Be an Approval Junkie (Phillipsburg, NJ: P&R, 2007); Ed Welch, When People Are
Big and God is Small: Overcoming Peer Pressure, Codependency, and the Fear of Man
(Phillipsburg, NJ: P&R, 1997).

16 Paul challenged Peter for his people-pleasing that initially led Peter to misrepresent
the good news.

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I’m also not suggesting that we in America don’t have

substantial cause for alarm in our own land. In fact, it’s
one primary reason for writing this book—our entrance into
fearful exile is happening now.

Yes, Christians in America are increasingly isolated and

denigrated. Yes, our cultural and social capital is vanishing
before our eyes. Yes, in the span of one short week the
Supreme Court could easily rewrite our futures and remove
many freedoms. Yes, public school curricula are being
weaponized to indoctrinate children in secular dogma and
a new sexual ethic. It doesn’t even take much imagination
to envision how well-intentioned laws against discrimination,
hate speech, or terrorism could one day be used to justify the
imprisonment of Christians. And it doesn’t end there.

On a personal level, we have plenty more room for fear. By

standing up for Christ we run the risk of forfeiting promotions
or positions, of missing out on tenure or a contract. We
might even lose our families. But this shouldn’t surprise us.
Jesus said he didn’t come to bring peace but a sword (Matt.
10:34). We have much to lose.

Yet none of that—none of that—justifies Christians being

terrified. We must not, according to Peter, tremble in fear
at the thought of surrendering a job or business, at a
failed school board initiative or a particular Supreme Court
decision. Because if we do, we’re preaching the completely
wrong gospel to the world. We’re telling them our greatest
fear is the loss of money and power and influence, the loss
of our beloved comfort. But as long as that is the case, we
show that our fear (and our gospel) is no different from theirs.

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Nehemiah was a man surrounded by danger. The biblical book

that bears his name begins with him in exile under Persian
rule. The remainder of the story focuses on Nehemiah’s
time in Israel as he sought to rebuild the walls of Jerusalem.
However, back at home, Nehemiah was still a stranger and
sojourner, though now in his own land. His attempts to lead
the people to restore the holy city were constantly under
threat. His opponents were unrelenting in their criticism and
activism against his efforts. In fact, we read that their explicit
goal was to frighten him (Neh. 6:19).

But the book of Nehemiah is also the record of a man who

feared God more than people. His courageous and benevolent
leadership, his commitment to God’s glory, and his ultimate
success were owing to his all-surpassing reverence for God.
It was the kind of fearful faith that led his followers as they
were surrounded by blood-thirsty enemies, saying: “Do not
be afraid of them. Remember the Lord, who is great and
awesome” (Neh. 4:14).17 Through his fiery trials and amid
earthly fears, Nehemiah’s perspective was the same as
Isaiah’s before him: Don’t be afraid; fear God.

This became the motif of Peter’s letter written to a

community of exiles—not removed from their land, but living
normal, everyday lives in their hometowns while surrounded
by countless opponents. Their exile was one of constant
criticism and reviling. They were mocked for foolhardy faith

17 This verse seems to hearken back to Moses’s similar instruction to Israel in relation
to the surrounding nations of Canaan from Deut. 7:21. It’s not immediately clear from
the English translation of Neh. 4:14, but the word that refers to God and is translated as
“awesome” is the Hebrew yare’, the same word also translated “afraid” in this verse. So
Nehemiah was calling his fellow citizens to remember their dreadful and awesome God
rather than fear their opponents. In fact, the whole book of Nehemiah is a story about
overcoming the fear of man with the fear of God.

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and slurred for clean living. Their opponents slandered them

and, perhaps like Nehemiah’s adversaries, would’ve liked
nothing more than to have them shaking in their boots.

But Peter called his readers not to dread anything that might
frighten them (3:6). What’s especially interesting is how he
did this with a level of nuance. Peter called for slaves to
respect18 their masters, but to do so “mindful of God.” He
instructed wives to be subject to their unbelieving husbands
with the same respect, yet not exhibit fear in doing so. He
also recognized the need to honor human authorities, even
the godless Roman emperor. But Christians were not to
honor him in the same way they feared God (2:17).

In a world teeming with reasons to be terrified, the only

rightful recipient of our fear, according to Peter, is God. So as
we consider our heart-disposition in speaking with neighbors
and friends about Christ, we must keep this distinction in our
minds: We fear God, not people. We aim to please him, not
others. We seek his approval; he alone deserves our highest
respect.

That fear of him, along with a fear of coming judgment, is a

compelling motivation to open our mouths with the gospel.
But we do not open our mouths with hate-filled bigotry, with
arrogant condescension, or with brimstone on our breath.
According to Peter, we fear God and honor everyone else.
So as we take the gospel to others, even to our opponents,
we’re called to approach them with kindness, gentleness,
and respect.

18 The word translated “respect” in relation to masters, husbands, and others is from
the Greek phobos, which can also be translated “fear.” So there is a measure of fear (re-
spect) that is appropriate for human institutions and authorities but which is categorically
different from the fear that God demands.

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 C H A P T E R 3

W I T H

R E S P E C T

F O R A L L
CHAPTER 3

“BE SUBJECT FOR THE LORD'S SAKE

TO E V E RY H U M A N I N ST I T U T I O N ,
W H E T H E R I T B E TO T H E E M P E R O R
AS S U P R E M E , O R TO G OV E R N O R S
AS S E N T BY H I M TO P U N I S H T H OS E
W H O D O E V I L A N D TO P R A I S E T H OS E
WHO DO GOOD. FOR THIS IS THE
W I L L O F G O D , T H AT B Y D O I N G G O O D
YO U S H O U L D P U T TO S I L E N C E T H E
IGNORANCE OF FOOLISH PEOPLE.
LIVE AS PEOPLE WHO ARE FREE,
N OT U S I N G YO U R F R E E D O M A S A
COVER-UP FOR EVIL, BUT LIVING
A S S E R VA N T S O F G O D . H O N O R
E V E RYO N E . LOV E T H E B R OT H E R H O O D.
FEAR GOD. HONOR THE EMPEROR.”

— P E T E R T HE A P OST LE ( 1 PET. 2:13–17)

T wo hours away from our former home, a barren stretch

of highway ribbons westward through ravines and
craggy massifs until it gradually opens to a broad plain and
to civilization—a city of about 100,000 that, as of five years
ago, was home to exactly one follower of Christ.

Aisha lived there without any church, much less a single

Christian friend. We first learned about her situation through
an acquaintance who knew her 10 years earlier, back when
Aisha was a new convert. But they had since lost regular
contact, so we set out to find this sister in the Lord separated
from us by some 120 miles.

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After eventually reaching Aisha via phone, we traveled to visit

her. Under a leafy canopy in the middle of a city park, we sat
at a picnic table sharing tea and stories. It was then, at our
first meeting, that I realized just how lonely she was. Her
unbelieving husband, Metin, was in prison. Meanwhile, her
two grown children were away at college. She was entirely
alone.

As much as possible, I tried to encourage Aisha while trying

to grasp what life as a disciple of Christ looks like when you
have no possibility for believing community. If anyone was
ever a Christian exile, she was. And the result, as you might
imagine, was threadbare faith for Aisha.

Over the next several months we did what we could to stay

connected. We invited her to our city, and she would take
the nauseating bus ride through mountain passes to see us.
Or, more often the case, we would drive to see her. But one
particular day I remember receiving a WhatsApp message
from Aisha. Her husband had been released from jail, and
she wanted us to meet him. So Aisha suggested we bring
the whole family, kids and all, and stay with her over the
weekend.

As parents, we didn’t know what to do. What are the

appropriate risks to your family when trying to bring the
gospel to a city—or just one person? At this point we hardly
knew Aisha, and Metin was a convicted criminal. Do you
take your young girls to sleep in the home of a felon? We
also suspected that Aisha didn’t have beds for all of us.
This clearly wasn’t going to be a relaxing getaway. But we
accepted.

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That first evening our introduction to Metin went smoothly.

He was anything but shy, his chattiness perhaps owing
to extended time in prison. We talked at length about
everything: the weather, his work, politics, religion, even art.
He showed us multiple oil paintings he’d completed during
his incarceration. The portraits showed some real skill,
though they were more valuable as a window into his past.

The next morning Aisha made us all breakfast. Later we

walked around town. Then we picnicked at the park. Metin
grilled up our kids’ favorite: succulent lamb and spicy chicken
wings, plus eggplant, peppers, and tomatoes. We spent
hours together but never really broached his run-in with the
law. We just did our best to treat him as a person, someone
we were happy to meet as the husband of our dear sister
in Christ. And, of course, we were praying all along—for our
safety and his salvation.

W I NN IN G OTHERS
W I THOU T WORDS

When Peter composed his letter to suffering believers in first

century Asia, he had in mind women exactly like Aisha. His
concern was their position of weakness and isolation, and
he encouraged them to relate to their unbelieving husbands
with humility and gentleness. The goal was their spouse’s
salvation.19 As such, his full instruction to these women
provides a perfect case study for how we can conduct
evangelism as exiles:

19 We should note that Peter’s encouragements to gentleness and humility were for the
purpose of promoting their witness and thus don’t represent a comprehensive Christian
approach to situations of domestic violence or sexual abuse. We also shouldn’t overlook
the subtly subversive and culturally surprising disposition Peter calls for by encouraging
these women to not follow their husbands in religious matters but seek instead their
conversion to Christ.

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Likewise, wives, be subject to your own husbands, so

that even if some do not obey the word, they may be
won without a word by the conduct of their wives, when
they see your respectful and pure conduct. Do not let
your adorning be external—the braiding of hair and the
putting on of gold jewelry, or the clothing you wear—but
let your adorning be the hidden person of the heart with
the imperishable beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit,
which in God's sight is very precious. For this is how the
holy women who hoped in God used to adorn themselves,
by submitting to their own husbands, as Sarah obeyed
Abraham, calling him lord. And you are her children, if
you do good and do not fear anything that is frightening.
(3:1–6)

In this short passage we see several themes found

throughout the entire letter. Peter spoke of holy women who
hope in God, who don’t fear anything, and who respectfully
submit to their husbands for the sake of the gospel. Such
godly and courageous women show the posture of an exiled
evangelist.

What took priority, though, in Peter’s address to these wives

was respect for their husbands. This particular section
continues Peter’s extended discussion on submitting
to authority. As such, we should see that their humble
decorum—their “gentle and quiet spirit”—was meant
to adorn the gospel before their husbands. And Peter
understood that their respectful disposition was of such
importance—it was so effectual—that their husbands
could be brought to faith in Christ by merely watching the
consistent respect of their wives. When they demonstrated
a surprisingly humble submission, these hope-filled wives

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could win their husbands without a word.20

I’ve spent extended time with many believers like Aisha

who suffer in the loneliness and isolation of a single-
believer household. Especially in the case of first-generation
Christians, it can be incredibly difficult to live in the same
four walls as others who oppose the gospel. Not only do
they not believe like you do, they can also use their collective
influence to manipulate, shame, exclude, provoke, and
intimidate.

But Peter called those in such a difficult situation to live with

the utmost respect, dignity, patience, gentleness, quietness,
and humility. And while we might think Peter was asking a
lot of these women, the reality is he expected the exact
same disposition of all believers—even us—as we live as
strangers and sojourners in this world.

HONOR FOR EVERYON E

As mentioned above, Peter’s specific instruction to believing

wives is part of a larger section on the Christian posture
toward all people. Humility and gentleness aren’t just the
appropriate approach of a woman in a patriarchal society.
It’s also not just the necessary attitude of slaves living under
lopsided authority. No, all Christians everywhere are called
to honor everyone.

This can be incredibly difficult when we feel pushed into

20 Being won “without a word” doesn’t imply these husbands could believe a gospel they
never heard. According to Peter, these men already knew the Word but had not obeyed it.
Therefore, we can’t use this passage to justify the worn-out and wrongheaded advice on
evangelism to “preach the gospel and if necessary use words.”

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a corner as exiles. When criticized and scorned, we often

respond in kind. That’s because the natural inclination of
every human heart is to play dodgeball with shame. If we’re
mocked, then we’ll mock back. If we’re trolled, then we’ll
be sure to troll back—only one better. But Jesus left us a
different example. When he was reviled, he didn’t revile in
return (2:22–23).

Furthermore, Peter didn’t simply challenge his suffering

readers to passively receive the world’s abuse, as if that’s
what it means to turn the other cheek. Instead, we’re to
actively pursue honor.21 We’re to seek peace (3:11). We’re
to bless and not curse (3:9). We’re to respect our authorities
and dignify our enemies, whether they be deadbeat dads or
despots. So yes, according to Peter, we’re to honor everyone.

Take a moment and turn that thought over in your mind.

You’re called to show honor to every single person. Not
just the people who deserve it. Not just those who earn our
respect. Not just the ones who treat us agreeably. Not just
the politicians we vote for or the immigrants who are legal.
Not just the customers who pay their bills or the employees
who do their work. Not just the neighborly neighbors. Not just
kind pagans or honest Muslims. Not just the helpful wife or
the good father.

As Peter wrote to servants who suffered unjustly, what good

is it if we’re only nice to the people who are nice to us?
Rather, it’s a true sign of God’s grace in our lives when we
can be respectfully submissive to unpleasant and unfair

21 As Jesus said, if someone would seek your tunic, let him have your cloak as well
(Matt. 5:40).

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authority (2:18–20), when we do to others as we wish they

did to us (Matt. 7:12).

It’s also important to note that Peter didn’t merely write to

people languishing under oppressive leadership—whether
governmental, occupational, or domestic—as if the only
people called to a humble disposition are those of low
estate. No, he wrote to all kinds of Christian exiles, people
who were mocked by their peers. He wrote to believers who
were slandered by their neighbors and friends.

Perhaps after reading the last chapter some concluded that

since we don't fear others, and since we don't try to please
them, we don’t care what they think or feel.22 That when we
preach the gospel, we shame others. That the Bible gives us
permission to bludgeon unbelievers with our doctrine and
their sin. Or that we have a pass to criticize our enemies
and their causes, dragging them behind us in the dust of our
righteous ridicule.

I doubt many of us are guilty of browbeating anyone with

the gospel. But if we’re honest, we’re often culpable for
not respecting our opponents. For not showing due honor.
For using our words to shame our enemies or attack their
agendas. For casually slandering those with whom we
disagree, even rejoicing when our sarcasm gets laughs or
our meme gets likes.

It should be noteworthy to us, then, that from the outset of

22 Paul, who spoke ardently about not pleasing others, also modeled an appropriate
kind of people-pleasing for the sake of their salvation (1 Cor. 10:33). So there must be
an appropriate social or cultural accommodation that makes the gospel more clear, while
other forms of accommodation ultimately undermine our evangelistic endeavors.

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his letter Peter was concerned that his readers who faced
regular insult for their faith be quick to “put away all malice
and all deceit and hypocrisy and envy and all slander” (2:1).
Those are strong and comprehensive words. But Peter knew
that Christian exiles easily slip into an unending volley of tit
for tat. Of hurting those who hurt them. Of showing spite to
their accusers. Of harboring malice toward those who put
them down. Of mentally standing on their toes, like a tennis
player, ready to return serve.

W I TH GENTLENESS
AND RESPECT

But Peter wrote his letter so we’d have a different kind of

readiness. He wants us to be prepared to give an answer for
the hope in us—yet do so with gentleness and respect (3:15).
As we have already explored, such gospel preparedness
comes from fearing God first and demonstrating an evident
hope. But our manner of speech should also exhibit a certain
kind of fear toward those to whom we witness, a gentle spirit
and a humble respect. Such a disposition is critical for exiled
evangelists.

Just as our enduring hope can be a compelling testimony

when we suffer, showing respect to our rivals has a way of
validating the gospel we preach. Many times people won’t
be compelled to listen to our message on account of sound
arguments or persuasive evidence. Instead, their ears will
only open when we demonstrate inexplicable kindness,
meekness, and compassion.

The fact is, ridiculing your opponents is the privilege of

the powerful. But now, as an excluded minority, American

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Christians no longer have the upper hand. Maligning our

cultural and religious adversaries is therefore no longer
an effective strategy. The days of mocking atheists, crass
joking about homosexuals, slurring Muslims, and making
derogatory remarks about political rivals need to end. They
should have never existed. But the church could get away
with such impudence when we were the cultural majority. Not
anymore.

As we face increasing opposition, we can either turn up the

volume on our vitriol, or we can follow the instruction of Peter
and put aside all malice and slander. We can approach our
enemies with gentleness and respect. And if we do, we’ll
have an incredible opportunity for the gospel.

James Lankford, a believing U.S. Senator from Oklahoma,

recently spoke to this issue in an interview with Christianity
Today.23 He specifically referenced the stunning words
of 1 Peter, linking the testimony of our lives with honoring
authority—even the godless authority of a Roman emperor.
As he suggested, if Peter could call his readers to honor
Caesar, do we really think we can get away with dishonoring
our own authorities?

Lankford then went on to critique the pervasive culture of

disrespect in Washington. But he suggested that this culture
presents Christians with a unique opportunity to be truly
revolutionary. Because, as he has experienced first-hand, if
you show honor to others it provides an opportunity for the
gospel.

23 “On Being an Evangelical Senator During the Trump Presidency,” Christianity Today,
March 21, 2018. https://www.christianitytoday.com/ct/2018/march-web-only/james-lank-
ford-senator-oklahoma-evangelical-trump.html

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But we must admit that glad-hearted respect isn’t our normal

response. The American cultural proclivity to reject authority
and put down opponents has bled into the church, staining
all our attempts to win a hearing for the gospel. So if we truly
desire an open door for evangelism, we in the church can’t
be those who sling mud on political rivals and throw shade
on their followers. We can’t succumb to the rancor of the
24/7 news cycle. Perhaps most important of all, we can’t
dishonor our opponents by dehumanizing them.

In my observation, our social dialogue naturally slides toward

such dehumanization, especially in a technological age that’s
disconnected from personal relationship and the natural
decorum that often flows from it.24 Social media are the prime
example of disconnection, functioning like the digital version
of bumper-sticker Christianity. On these media we parade our
views on any number of issues with casual indignity. After all,
we won’t ever see half the people who read our tweets. But
we also won’t know half the disrepute we bring to Jesus’s
name. It’s just like a shiny, chrome fish symbol stuck on a lift
gate that has been crowded out by tacky, passive-aggressive
decals. Our gospel is obscured.

SI L EN T FOR THE SAKE

OF THE GOS PEL

For this reason, I think one of the most important lessons

we can learn is the virtue of silence. This lesson became
most clear to me in Central Asia as I met regularly with a
few engineering professors at our local university. These men

24 For a more detailed reflection on this reality, see Alan Jacobs, How to Think: A Survival
Guide for a World at Odds (New York: Currency, 2017).

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were highly intelligent, deeply spiritual, and committed to

their Islamic faith. However, they were also open to religious
dialogue such that they were willing to meet once a week to
discuss Christianity.

On Wednesday nights we’d gather around a cluttered desk

in one instructor’s small office, sipping tea and debating
religion for hours on end. After a few weeks of back and
forth, we eventually settled on a format where we’d discuss
a chosen topic (such as obedience, judgment, sacrifice, or
end times). Both sides would come prepared to describe how
their holy book addressed the given subject.

The format worked well (particularly as a means to highlight

the unique Christian gospel). We were able to dialogue
respectfully, taking time to humbly learn each other’s core
beliefs (sometimes finding points of agreement), but also
having the opportunity to argue for our own perspective.
However, some nights the discussion inevitably strayed from
our appointed topic. Current events or politics would take
over.

One particular subject that repeatedly crept in was the

9/11 attacks in New York. These professors were convinced
that George Bush, aided by Jews infiltrating the American
government, had planned and executed the destruction
of the Twin Towers. It was all a cunning ruse to demonize
Muslims at home and advance a Western imperialist agenda
abroad. And they had YouTube videos to prove it.

It’s amazing what emotions can well up within an American

citizen when a group of Muslim men insists that your
government has plotted against its own people and

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committed mass murder in order to wage a greater war on

Islam. The very idea made me ill. I wanted to lash out with
the best arguments I could muster, or at least come back the
next week prepped and ready to demolish their theory. But I
didn’t. I couldn’t.

I couldn’t allow my national pride or a commitment to “the

facts” to jeopardize my greater commitment—to humbly
present the gospel.

When we seek to do evangelism as exiles, we already have

a really hard sell. We’re trying to convince people that a
Jewish carpenter was God’s Son, come from heaven to die
for our sins. He was buried, and three days later he rose from
the dead and now reigns over all. Not only that, we’re also
calling them to join us as social outcasts. Must we also try
to persuade them about matters of history or geopolitics? Do
we really want to argue for our opinion on the environment
or economics? Or could those hobby-horse topics end up as
barriers to Christ’s gospel?

Please don’t hear me say that Christians should never

address controversial topics. Or that we shouldn’t speak out
against evil and injustice. Of course we should. But the value
of silence still stands. It’s a lesson I’m even trying to learn
as a parent: You have to pick your battles. You can’t take
offense at every turn. You can’t address every problem or
every infraction. And most of all, the dominant message must
not be constant displeasure or disagreement. Otherwise
we’ll lose our audience before we get to the most important
message of all.

We must learn to triage our agendas. We must learn to

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prioritize our preaching. Some things are of higher value;

others are likely not even worthy of comment. Because as
much as people can be won to Christ through our witness,
they can also be lost by our words. Our endless social
commentary and political engagement can be off-putting.
So better to be quiet and respectful than bold and boorish.
Better to sometimes be silent.

You probably wouldn’t expect a book on evangelism to talk

about the necessity of being quiet for the sake of the gospel.
But this is exactly what Peter advocates for in his instruction
to believing wives. And I think it applies to more than just
their situations.

The apostle Paul, addressing Timothy and the Ephesian

church, wrote that prayers should be made for all people,
specifically those in authority. The purpose of those prayers
was that Christians might lead a peaceable and quiet life,
godly and dignified in every way. But even that doesn’t
seem to be Paul’s ultimate purpose. He concluded that this
approach is good because God desires all people to be saved
(1 Tim. 2:1–6). In other words, the ultimate goal of prayerful
respect and a quiet life is seeing all kinds of people saved.25

In a similar vein, Paul wrote to his protégé Timothy to avoid

needless controversies and endless debates—again for the
sake of the gospel. The servant of the Lord, he insisted,
shouldn’t be quarrelsome, but kind to everyone, patiently
enduring evil. What was the reason for such a passive

25 This passage shouldn’t be understood to suggest that our responsibility to live in god-
liness depends upon external circumstances and peace. Christians are nowhere told that
their behavior and witness are ultimately governed by their situation. As Knight observes,
the “quiet” prayed for is for the sake of the gospel, though it “does not mean a sheltered
life.” Knight, The Pastoral Epistles (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1992), 117.

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approach from Paul, the flaming evangelist? “God may

perhaps grant them repentance leading to a knowledge of
the truth” (2 Tim. 2:23–25).

So, again, we should highlight that gentleness and respect

aren’t just the requisite deportment of women and slaves
who wish to magnify Christ. This is for all of us. We must be
kind to all. We must honor all. We must shun the invitation to
speak out on every issue, defend every position, or answer
every opponent, because God may use such silence to save
others.

BL ESS A ND DO N OT CU R S E

We still haven’t really talked about what it actually means to

respect others. For me, describing disrespect is easier than
defining honor. That’s likely owing to the fact that honor as a
virtue is lacking in Western culture. We don’t have a plethora
of good examples. But Paul’s instruction to the church in
Rome (which mirrors Peter’s in many ways) can help us fill
out some of what it means to honor our opponents. Below
is my own paraphrase of his words to believers living in that
hostile environment:26

Bless those who persecute you. Be kind to them with

your words and wish them well. Don’t curse them to their
face or berate them behind their back. Instead, when

26 Rom. 12:14–21 represents a distinct unit of instruction regarding believers’ relation-

ship with non-believers. According to Dunn, “In vv 14–21 Paul broadens his perspective
from the internal relationships within and among the Christian congregations to take in
their relationships with the wider community within which they had to live” as an “en-
dangered species.” He also notes how Paul, certainly aware of hostility and provocations
against the believers, does not merely call for “passive resistance” but “a positive
outgoing goodness in response.” Dunn, Romans 9–16, Word Biblical Commentary 38B
(Dallas: Word, 1988), 755.

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they are happy, be happy for them, even with them.27

Rejoice at their successes, and tell them how glad you
are when they get a raise or a new grandbaby. Be sorry for
their losses. Weep and mourn when they are sorrowful,
when they lose a loved one or even suffer the natural
consequences of their sin. Don’t say, “Serves you right.”
Instead, live in harmony with one another. Do what you
can to get along. Don’t look for ways to spite them, and
don’t create unnecessary strife. That would be a proud
attitude. You are no better than them, so be humble toward
everyone. Associate with people beneath you. Dignify the
poor and the ill. Show lavish honor to your employees
and contractors and vendors, to your babysitter and to
children. Take time to talk with the people no one else
will. Don’t be too big for your own britches, and don’t
take other people’s bad behavior as your opportunity to
be bad yourself. Instead, live a completely honorable
life, because the world is watching. If at all possible, live
at peace with everyone. This won’t always work. Some
people will hate you no matter what. But that’s not your
concern. Never seek revenge; God has your back. One
day he will exalt you and judge them. But today, your job is
to show them the utmost respect. So if your opponent is
hungry, feed him. If he’s is thirsty, give him drink. In every
way you would wish to be loved, demonstrate tangible
love to your enemies. And if at the end they still want to
be your enemy and God’s, then he’ll deal with it. Don’t let
their evil overtake you. You overwhelm them with good.

27 We typically quote Rom. 12:15 as referring to how believers relate one with another.
However, some commentators, including Chrysostom, understand the command to rejoice
and mourn along with others to include our disposition toward nonbelievers—even our
persecutors. According to Dunn, while this verse addresses Christian behavior in the
believing community, Paul did not envision a distinction in “attitudes and obligations—one
to fellow believers, the other to nonbelievers.” Dunn, Romans 9–16, 756.

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Clearly this isn’t how we typically treat our opponents. Yet

this is the kind of gentle respect and dignity we should
display to all rulers and authorities, all races and religions,
all classes and persuasions, showing due honor to fellow
image-bearers. And this shouldn’t be that hard. For if we
struggle now to do this with a transgender neighbor or a
coworker from Saudi Arabia, how are we going to be gracious
and bless those who overtly persecute us one day?

To be sure, this is an incredibly high calling. Honoring others

doesn’t come naturally to us, much less blessing those
who seek our harm. However, Christians who are secure in
their honor, who have their identity affirmed by God, confer
that same dignity on others. They don’t have to defend their
honor by disrespecting others. They don’t have to put others
down to prop themselves up.

Instead, by God’s grace and his Spirit, we can exalt Christ

by respecting others. We can honor our Lord by dignifying
our enemies. Not only that, but as we become outcasts in
our land, we may gain a greater heart for reaching the least
and the lost among us, for showing mercy to the despised
and the lonely. The church may rediscover what it looks like
to take the gospel, like Jesus, to those on the fringes of
society—because we’ll be right there with them.

A total role reversal is happening in our nation. Christians

used to be respected in society. Churches were revered
institutions. Serving as clergy was a noble profession. As
such, we could leverage that status to our evangelistic
benefit. We could invite people to church and assume they
might want to come. We could host evangelistic events
with well-known speakers and expect a captive (and large)

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audience. We could run a summer children’s outreach or

Sunday school and think even pagan parents might want
their kids to get some religion.

But our secular world is increasingly suspicious of religion.

Christians are no longer part of the solution; we’re the
problem. Pastors aren’t trustworthy. Churches are suspect.
Bible-believers are bigots. Thus the days of attractional
evangelism are waning. The times of relying on the
gravitational pull of our social standing to bring people into
church, a Christian camp, or a revival meeting are all but
gone. The time is coming, and is here now, when the world
won’t listen to our gospel simply because they respect us.

However, they might listen if we respect them.

Because how can we expect homosexuals to believe our

concern for God’s created order when we don’t dignify them
as people made in his image? How can we call our coworkers
to submit to Christ as Lord when they don’t see us gladly and
respectfully submitting to our boss? How can we tell of God’s
love for the world when we exhibit disdain and revulsion
toward our neighbors? How can we demonstrate a Christ-like
compassion for our enemies when all they hear from us is
concern for our rights and privileges?

To honor others is to have a genuine care and concern for

them. So this is what we must do—even for those who have
no concern for us.

S HOW ING GENUINE CONCER N

One of the most practical ways we can demonstrate such

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concern is through prayer. Even during our exile we can bless

the world by praying for and with others.28 This is something
I’ve learned by watching our faithful brothers and sisters all
over the world. Everywhere I go I see national believers using
prayer as a means to reach out to those around them with
love and the gospel.

Praying with and caring for Muslim refugees fleeing war-

ravaged Syria. Praying over the demon possessed outside a
Bible school in Tanzania. Praying with and blessing English
students in Hungary. Praying with fearful earthquake victims
suffering in Turkey. Praying over non-Christian parents and
children during an Ethiopian coffee ceremony. And praying for
impoverished and lonely villagers along the Ukraine-Romania
border.

In that last case, Pastor Sorin was my example. As February

snowflakes fluttered in the soft wind, Sorin and I traveled
together along the roiling Tisza River. The black water flowed
past frozen banks and under a sky of white marble. It had
been an abnormally cold winter, so we were there delivering
care packages to widows on behalf of his church.

Whenever he pulled his small Volkswagen station wagon to

stop at a given house, we’d hop out and trudge through mud
and snow to bring donated foodstuffs to their door. Invariably
the widows would invite us in to warm ourselves by their
ceramic tiled stoves. There we’d huddle around as Sorin
explained our purpose. We’d come to bless them, sent by
the love of Christ and representing his church. Sorin would

28 Jeremiah called for Jewish exiles in corrupt Babylon to “seek the welfare of the city”
where God had sent them and “pray to the Lord on its behalf” (Jer. 29:7).

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take that opportunity to speak briefly, though boldly, of the

gospel. Then he’d ask if they had any requests for prayer.
After listening to them share about their family, health, and
various struggles, we’d each take turns saying grace over our
widowed hosts.

As I’ve observed, nothing demonstrates gentleness and

respect quite like praying for someone else in their presence.
It shows care for them. It honors them. In doing so we bless
rather than curse. Actually, whenever we pray with unbelievers,
we have the dual opportunity to honor them and present the
good news. In fact, I think sometimes the best ice-breaker for
an evangelistic conversation is to pray. When you don’t know
what else to say you can always ask the question, “Can I pray
for you?”, then do it right there with them.

In 2 Kings 5 we have the brief account of a young servant

girl living in exile who showed concern for and blessed her
captors. We know little about her; we’re not even given her
name. All we know is that Syrian invaders (with God’s help)
had raided Israel and taken her captive. She ended up far
from home, away from family, living as a servant in the home
of Naaman, the commander of the Syrian army—her enemy.
And this mighty man of valor was afflicted with leprosy.

If we were to put ourselves in her position, what might we

do? Most of us have never experienced physical exile. Most
of us have never experienced the loss of family, status, or
home. Most of us have never lived as a slave. But we might
imagine how she could’ve responded.

She could’ve loathed the day Naaman’s army took her captive,
blaming him for her pain. She could’ve been overwhelmed

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by grief, dwelling on all she lost. She could’ve easily been

motivated by revenge, interpreting Naaman’s suffering as
God’s just judgment, and been glad. She could’ve cursed him
to his grave.

Instead, she blessed him. She honored her godless master

by being concerned for him—concerned enough to open her
mouth to his wife. That act alone likely involved a significant
measure of risk. How dare a lowly Middle Eastern slave girl
give counsel to her mistress and speak on behalf of God!
What might have happened to her if Elisha didn’t come
through and heal Naaman’s disease?

But this is exactly what we’re called to do as Christian

evangelists. In humility and respect, we show genuine
concern for our opponents, even those responsible for our
exile. We do so because we seek their good more than we
seek our rights. We live with respect for all because we
desire all to be saved.

This is how Aisha lived for more than a decade, enduring

exile in a relationship that took far more than it gave. But
through it all she embodied the instruction Peter gave to
godly women living as strangers in their own homes. And
God blessed her for it.

Some years after our first meeting in her city, our family now
back in the states, I received another WhatsApp message
on my phone. It was Metin. He rejoiced to tell me he had
confessed Christ as Lord. His one request to me: “Can you
send someone to our city so I can be baptized?” Today, two
years later, I still receive messages from Metin, only now with
pictures from the small church gathering in their home.

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86
 C H A P T E R 4

D E C L A R I N G
H I S P R A I S E S
CHAPTER 4

“ B U T YO U A R E A C H O S E N R AC E , A
R O YA L P R I E S T H O O D , A H O LY N A T I O N ,
A PEOPLE FOR HIS OWN POSSESSION,
T H A T Y O U M AY P R O C L A I M T H E
E XC E L L E N C I E S O F H I M W H O C A L L E D
YO U O U T O F DA R K N E S S I N TO H I S
M A R V E L O U S L I G H T. O N C E Y O U W E R E
N OT A P E O P L E , B U T N OW YO U A R E
G O D ' S P E O P L E ; O N C E YO U H A D
N O T R E C E I V E D M E R C Y, B U T N O W
Y O U H AV E R E C E I V E D M E R C Y. ”

— P E T E R T HE A P OST LE ( 1 PET. 2:9–10)

M eryem is a spunky young woman with full, dark

chocolate eyes and even darker hair. At 17 years
old, she was everything you’d expect from a teenaged girl,
but with a steadfast passion for the gospel. Only a few
months into her newfound faith, Meryem was already an
ardent evangelist, regularly reporting to me about witnessing
opportunities with classmates and friends. I remember one
such occasion in particular.

It was late afternoon, and a text came to my phone. Meryem

was asking me to pray. The principal of her school had called
her into his office because of Meryem’s outspoken faith. He
was threatening her with expulsion, with public shaming,
even the possibility of reporting her to a local prosecutor on
charges of “missionary activity.”

Meryem’s run-in with the administrator began earlier that

day through an interaction with her teacher. He had been

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lecturing on Christianity, explaining that Christians believe in

three different gods, that they are guilty of shirk (the worst
possible sin in Islam) by worshiping Jesus, and that they
accept four different incil (or Gospels) that are corrupt and
contradictory. The lecture was one he had likely repeated
many times, and it’s doubtful he ever encountered pushback.

But on that day, at some point in his lesson, Meryem raised

her hand. She asked if she could amend his description,
explaining that Christians didn’t believe exactly as he
suggested. The teacher, taken aback, then asked with
impertinence, “How would you know?” In reply, Meryem
revealed she had actually read the Bible—she even had one
with her!

So before a classroom of 38 students and in a high school

without a single other Christian, Meryem boldly defended the
gospel. She asserted that Christians believe in only one God.
She clarified that the four Gospels demonstrate a unified
message of how Jesus is the Christ: the Messiah who fulfills
all the Old Testament promises (from prophets Muslims
claim to accept). She even began to describe how she came
to find certain Islamic understandings to be unconvincing
and untenable. But before she could reason further, the
teacher abruptly stopped her.

When I learned how courageous Meryem had been, I was

curious what led her to take such a stand. After all, she must
have anticipated the negative consequences from speaking
so openly about her faith in front of her peers, not to mention
the culturally unthinkable action of correcting her instructor.

What Meryem told me, though, was that in the moment

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she was simply overcome with the sense that her friends
were following falsehoods. They were misinformed about
Christianity. And what bothered her most was that they were
blindly accepting the opinions of others without all the facts.
So her growing desire—not just at that moment, but ever
since her conversion—was to find a way to explain the gospel
to them. As Meryem later told me, she had been “waiting for
an opportunity” like this for some time. She had to take it.

WAI TING FOR GOSPEL

OPPORTU N ITIES

I imagine that many of us are like Meryem. We’re grieved

by the lies others believe about Christ or even about us.
We’re concerned for them to know the truth. We want them
to experience the same life and forgiveness we’ve found in
him. Many of us are, also just like her, waiting for the perfect
opportunity to clarify our faith and tell others the good news.

But I think there’s a striking difference between many of us

and Meryem. Put in her position I doubt we’d have assessed
the situation as an opportunity from the Lord. And most likely
we wouldn’t have acted on it. That’s because we increasingly
define “evangelistic opportunities” as those rare instances
where we perceive others to be open to the gospel. When
we think we have a willing audience. When we surmise that
those around us are sympathetic to our perspective and will
listen without rebuttal.

As we come to Peter’s first epistle, we may even assume

that he advocated for such a passive witness. That when
we live as exiles, we ultimately rely on silent testimony. That
we merely depend on others observing a living hope in us,

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then asking us to tell them about it. That we should delay our
witness, sometimes for years, waiting for opportunities like
we’d wait for a nibble on a fishing line.29

But Peter never intended to portray our evangelism as exiles

solely in terms of quiet humility and respectable conduct.
He expected Christians facing shame and social exclusion
to embrace their exile by boldly preaching the gospel with
authority—even when others don’t want to hear it.30 Even
when such proclamation is sure to invite ridicule and
suffering.

In fact, Peter framed his readers’ responsibility to preach the

gospel in view of their own rejection. Writing to those who
were suffering like Christ, as stones rejected like the chief
cornerstone, he encouraged them with their unique status as
a spiritual house and holy priesthood, ones chosen by God
to offer spiritual sacrifices (2:5).31 As a kingdom of priests,
their calling was to “proclaim the excellencies” of him who
delivered them “out of darkness into his marvelous light”
(2:10).

29 For Jesus’s disciples the call to be “fishers of men” didn’t conjure images of a
leisurely weekend on the shore passively waiting for a bite. They understood fishing to be
labor. It involved risk and implied a proactive approach of launching out with nets to claim
a catch.

30 When Paul reflected on his own evangelistic ministry in Ephesus, he said that it was
marked by both humility and a bold declaration of the gospel (Acts 20:18–21).

31 Peter’s reference to the priestly responsibility of offering spiritual sacrifices is a reflec-

tion on Isa. 56:7. Paul also linked his own missionary efforts of preaching the gospel to
Isa. 66:18–20, with his priestly “offering” referring to Gentiles who believe (Rom. 15:16).
For more discussion on Peter’s framing of the church’s mission in terms of Israel’s role
as a light to the nations, as well as Paul’s understanding of his priestly responsibility
to preach the gospel, see Kostenberger and O’Brien, Salvation to the Ends of the Earth
(Downers Grove, IL: IVP, 2001).

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But proclamation of any kind can be especially difficult

as exiles. After all, we’re not in a position of authority, so
how can we speak with it? And isn’t authoritative speech
unnecessarily offensive?

So we often passively wait for gospel opportunities. We

submit the call of the Great Commission to the will of those
ill-disposed to our message. We defer preaching to suitable
situations—or just the pulpit. We placate others by hemming
and hawing about our convictions or their sin. Or we avoid
awkward religious conversations altogether.

Perhaps in the past we could get by with such a hands-off

approach, when we could count on a reasonable percentage
of the population having a favorable view of the church. But
depending entirely on others to express interest in our gospel
is less tenable as society becomes increasingly disillusioned
by our faith, and we become an excluded minority.

If we continue the pattern of waiting for perfect opportunities,

they may never come. And our fate will be that of the wary
farmer who observes the wind and doesn’t sow, who
considers the clouds and never reaps (Eccles. 11:4). Such
farmers have empty barns in winter. We too, if we’re too busy
trying to discern the times, raising a moistened finger to the
wind to see if someone is ready to respond to the gospel,
will likely never see a harvest of souls. We’ll never open our
mouths to speak, because we’ll be waiting for a better day.
But better days don’t seem to be on the horizon.

RESET TIN G EXPECTATIONS

Mustafa is a 22-year-old believer from Central Asia. Before he

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was even a teenager, his conservative parents enrolled him

in a Muslim theological training school much like a madrasa.
From a young age, the trajectory of his life was to become an
imam, to serve as a religious leader in Islam.

But at some point in his education, Mustafa came into

possession of a New Testament. He began investigating it
intently. As a student he had already read the Qur’an and
found it less than conclusive. Whenever he had approached
his Islamic instructors about questions or inconsistencies,
they deflected, discouraging him from further inquiry. But this
failed to satiate his curiosity. So when he began to encounter
the text of the Bible, he was eager to learn as much as he
could. And for the first time, as he explains it, while pouring
over its pages, he experienced profound peace.

About a year later, through his ongoing study, Mustafa came

to faith in Christ, basically independent of any outside
influence. In fact, his relative isolation continued throughout
his high school years and young adult life. As my friend who
now disciples him describes it, Mustafa’s growth in grace
and knowledge was something like that of Saul in the New
Testament. He was converted to Christ and didn’t immediately
consult with others. As such, the Bible became the primary
influence for his understanding of the Christian life.

Just two weeks ago my friend was leading a discipleship

study with Mustafa and a few other believers who come
from the same unreached people group. Toward the end of
the meeting they began to discuss evangelism. That’s when
other believers in the room started repeating platitudes to
endorse a hesitant, if not passive, approach: “You have to
pick your spots,” and “It’s not always appropriate to share.”

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As their conversation gathered steam, they continued to

suggest all manner of considerations that must be made
before a former Muslim should ever broach the subject of
Christ with family or friends.

Meanwhile, Mustafa sat silently, his hands folded across the

small New Testament on his lap. His eyes betrayed an active
mind. My friend, sensing Mustafa might have something to
contribute, invited him to enter the conversation.

Gently leaning forward in his chair, Mustafa quietly shared

wisdom beyond his years. He explained that prior to talking
with someone about the gospel, he starts by resetting his
expectations. He does this by rehearsing passages where
Jesus explains exactly what will happen to his followers
when they speak for him. “We’re going to be insulted,” he
said. “Jesus promised we’ll be ostracized and maybe even
beaten. So I set my expectations according to his Word,” he
continued, “that way I’m not surprised when something bad
happens.”

Mustafa explained that once he’s adjusted his perspective,

he prays for boldness. Only then does he feel ready to be
a witness. Looking around the small room he concluded,
“Believe me, brothers, I’ve been ostracized and insulted. But
I’ve received a blessing from the Lord every time I’ve opened
my mouth.”

As my friend relayed this short story to me about Mustafa’s

courage, he admitted that—perhaps in his own lack of
faith—he’s come to refer to Mustafa as a unicorn. So many
young Central Asians that we’ve discipled over the years
are overwhelmed by fears (often genuine) and silenced by

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shame. They don’t want to suffer or be killed. They don’t want

to lose their job. Perhaps most significant of all, they don’t
want to be abandoned or excluded by their families.

In fact, Mustafa himself has experienced this. When his

family eventually came to the realization that he wasn’t
just going through a phase, that he wasn’t just dabbling in
religion, and that he had actually chosen to follow Christ,
they reacted strongly. His father refused to speak with him.
His brothers tried to convince him to turn back. His mother
called to urge him to reconsider. Weeping on the other end of
the line she pleaded, “Be a thief. Be a drug dealer. Be a liar.
But please,” she begged, “don’t be a Christian!”

PROBLEM WITH M E R E LY
‘ SHARIN G THE GOS PEL’

For some time now, American Christians have conceived

of their witness in terms of “sharing the gospel.” Read
any book or listen to any talk on personal evangelism and
you’ll inevitably encounter the phrase. On one level, the
terminology is positive, conveying the gracious act of giving
others a treasure we possess. However, if by “sharing” we
imply a kind of charity where we only give the gospel to
willing recipients, then our Christian vernacular has become
a problem. Especially since the Bible rarely uses such
language to describe the act of evangelism.32

I first awakened to this reality while doing language study

32 One possible exception would be 1 Thess. 2:8, though the idea of “sharing” in that
context is filled out by descriptive verbs that connote authoritative proclamation (such as
declaring, exhorting, and charging) in the context of compassion and gentleness (like a
nursing mother).

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in Central Asia. As I took a course in spiritual terminology,

a missionary teacher bemoaned the fact that many
Westerners had imported the idea of sharing the gospel into
the vocabulary of the local church. He asserted that such
a concept was completely foreign—to their context and the
Bible. Scripture, instead, spoke primarily of preaching the
gospel, declaring and proclaiming a message.

But what, you might ask, could be wrong with sharing the
gospel? Isn’t the greater problem that people aren’t sharing
it at all? However, I’ve come to wonder if these dual realities
aren’t somehow related, with the way we speak about
evangelism imperceptibly affecting the way we do evangelism.

Throughout the book of Acts we find repeated examples of

authoritative witness—even in the face of suffering—from
the apostles and early church. We find them proclaiming the
gospel and speaking boldly. We read of them persuading
others. We see them reasoning from Scripture, both
expounding and also applying it. We observe them testifying
before rulers and governors, bearing witness before civil
crowds and angry mobs. What we don’t find them doing is
“sharing” the gospel.

So it’s more than a bit curious that the dominant way

American Christians describe the act of evangelism is in
terms of sharing. This isn’t just one way we talk about it; it’s
almost the only way we talk about it. And I believe this lack
of clarity is more than an issue of semantics.

It would be no different from a baseball coach who

consistently described the role of pitchers in terms of tossing
the ball. In practice or a game, whenever his pitchers were

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struggling to get batters out, what if his dominant instruction

was simply to toss the ball? Not throw strikes. Not work the
corners. Not change speeds. Not pound it inside. Just toss
the ball. Would the pitchers have an accurate understanding
of their responsibility?

But that’s basically the way we talk about evangelism. Our

description is overly simplistic. It lacks precision and nuance.
And when that becomes our default instruction—to simply
share the gospel—we fail to convey the attitude, approach,
and authority necessary for the act itself. Thus what started
as a subtle change in terminology results in a massive shift
in our whole ethos of evangelism.

That’s because “sharing” typically involves the act of giving

something to someone who desires it. Children share (or
don’t share) Legos with other kids who want them. Friends
share a great cookie recipe with another friend who asks for
it. Or we might share money with those holding a cardboard
sign at the street corner. In each case, we share with others
because they’re asking for what we possess. But the reality
is, few people are ever begging us to share the gospel with
them.

We must ask ourselves, then, whether casual Christianese

has influenced the way we view the gospel mandate. We
must consider why we’re only willing to speak the gospel
when we perceive openness on the part of another. We must
ponder whether we even have a category for proclaiming a
message that people oppose, one that’s innately offensive.
Or do we tiptoe through polite spiritual conversations and
timidly share our opinions, then call it evangelism?

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But to evangelize is to preach good news. According to D.

A. Carson, this is the basic definition of the Greek word
euangelizo from which we get our English word for evangelism.
As he observes in his comprehensive study of the “gospel”
word-group in the Bible, “the gospel is primarily displayed in
heraldic proclamation: the gospel is announced, proclaimed,
preached, precisely because it is God’s spectacular news.”33
In fact, Carson expresses concern that some of our confusion
(what he labels as “nonsense”) about what the gospel is
(and how it must be communicated) results from our lack of
understanding regarding how the Bible describes the gospel
and evangelism in the first place.34

Far more than just sharing, evangelism involves testifying

to Christ—warning, persuading, defending, pleading, and
calling. As we saw last chapter, such authoritative witness
need not be in opposition to gentleness and respect.
Moreover, the context of healthy, trusting relationships can
actually add force to our words. But sadly we often value
those relationships more than a clear statement of the truth.
Rarely do we engage people with a sense of authority or
urgency.

URG ENCY OF OU R MESSAG E

Last year I had the privilege of teaching the letter of 2 Timothy

33 Carson explains further, “The essentially heraldic element in preaching is bound up

with the fact that the core message is not a code of ethics to be debated, still less a list
of aphorisms to be admired and pondered, and certainly not a systematic theology to be
outlined and schematized. Though it properly grounds ethics, aphorisms, and systematics,
it is none of these three: it is news, good news, and therefore must be publicly an-
nounced.” D. A. Carson “What is the Gospel?—Revisited,” in For the Fame of God’s Name,
eds. by Sam Storms and Justin Taylor (Wheaton: Crossway, 2010), 158.

34 Carson, “What Is the Gospel?—Revisited,” 155.

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to church leaders in South Asia—their final course in a three-

year program. Our focus was Paul’s exhortation to faithfully
preach the good news, a particularly appropriate lesson for
graduating pastors. Throughout the week I reminded them of
Paul’s farewell to his young apprentice, encouraging Timothy
not to be ashamed of the testimony of the Lord, but rather to
embrace suffering and persecution—like Paul and Christ—
for the sake of the gospel (2 Tim. 1:9).35

Less than a week later, as I sat in my home, a story popped

up in my news feed from the same South Asian country. The
headline read that Christian conversion and evangelism were
now banned. Suddenly, the previous week’s teaching took on
greater significance.

In such situations, some might sympathize with those South

Asian leaders and encourage them to avoid confrontation.
Better to lay low and maintain your presence in the community.
Better to remain quiet so you can provide for your family.
Better to witness to others through your good reputation.
But that’s not what the apostles practiced (Acts 4:20), and
it’s not how Paul charged Timothy. So with a grieving concern
for my students I prayed they wouldn’t be ashamed of the
gospel but would boldly fulfill their ministry, doing the work
of an evangelist.

One of the clearest biblical examples of doing evangelism as

an exile actually comes from an Old Testament figure, Noah.36
Noah lived as a lonely outcast, warning others of the wrath

35 See more of Paul’s example and exhortation to this end in 2 Tim. 2:8–10; 4:1–5.

36 Granted, the references to Noah in Peter are less than clear, but Noah’s stark situa-
tion obviously mirrored that of Peter’s readers, and Peter saw him as a model preacher.

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to come. It makes sense then that Peter would repeatedly

refer to the days of Noah as he wrote to Christians living
as strangers in their own land. Specifically, Peter referenced
Noah as being a herald of righteousness (2 Pet. 2:5). Through
him Christ preached to those who were disobedient (3:19).

These mentions of Noah’s ministry of proclamation are

admittedly ambiguous (and Peter thought Paul was hard to
understand!). But it seems reasonable that Noah would be
the perfect reference point for Christian exiles in first-century
Asia. Peter had called them to faithfully declare with authority
the praises of Jesus. And Noah’s experience as a forsaken
preacher would’ve easily resonated with them—because
news of an executed Jew from the Galilean backwater now
establishing a kingdom of priests from every nation sounds
just about as believable as forecasts of an impending and
catastrophic flood on a cloudless day in Mesopotamia.

But Noah’s story had at least one more correlation to Peter’s

readers. Jesus said that the coming of the Son of Man would
be like the days of Noah (Matt. 24:36–40). Just as people
in Noah’s day were eating, drinking, and going about their
normal lives until they were suddenly swept away by the
flood, so it will be at the coming of Christ. Judgment will
come swiftly, when least expected. This coming judgment,
Peter emphasized, is why the gospel must be proclaimed
(4:6). It’s why we must announce it with urgency, even to
those who deride our message and mock our faith. Even
when it involves risk.

Meryem was a unique case of an unbeliever actually asking

us to explain the gospel to her. When we first met, I was
standing outside of a clothing store in a shopping mall

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waiting for my wife. We’d gone there expressly to connect

with Meryem because she had requested a copy of the Bible.
However, when she didn’t show up, my wife ducked into the
nearby store.

Minutes later, though, a short and spirited girl walked up and

introduced herself. It was Meryem. The only problem was
that I was expecting someone much older, not this baby-faced
teenager staring up at me. I was immediately concerned.

This wasn’t my first time setting up a blind rendezvous

to deliver a Bible. Those curious about Christianity in our
country could request a free copy advertised on various
media (newspaper ads, Facebook pages, Google ads, and
traditional websites). Whenever those requests came from
our city, I was responsible for setting up a meeting. But since
I never knew who would come (police, extremists, or genuine
seekers), I generally preferred a public gathering spot like a
park or shopping mall. Thankfully, until that day, I never had
any real issues.

But Meryem presented a dilemma. She was clearly a minor.

And in our Central Asian country, it was illegal to proselytize
anyone younger than 18. So as we stood at the mall’s
entrance exchanging greetings and initial niceties, I stalled,
waiting for my wife to exit the clothing store and help me
navigate the situation.

When she did, we made our way outside and across the
street to the park. We sat down to tea and juice, then asked
Meryem about her family, her interest in the Bible, and
ultimately her age. When she revealed that she was only 17,
I explained our difficult situation.

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We couldn’t give her a Bible. We weren’t allowed to influence

her in any way to Christianity. The result could be expulsion
from the country, or worse. We told her we first would need
the permission of her parents. But Meryem wouldn’t take
no for an answer. She pressed us to speak with her then
and there. “What if my mom doesn’t allow it?” she asked.
“And how am I going to learn this stuff? I don’t know any
Christians.”37

As she continued to make her case, my wife and I looked at

each other knowingly, sensing the urgency of the situation.
This is why we had come to this country. This is why we left
everything. If there were ever a time to risk everything, this
had to be it. After all, were we really going to wait a whole
year to explain the gospel to her? The time was now. So as
Meryem’s plea came to an end, I reached into my backpack
and pulled out a Bible. Then together we reasoned with her
about the good news of Jesus—news she had never before
heard from anyone’s lips.38

PRAI SE : THE CONTENT O F

OUR PROCLAMATION

When we think about speaking the gospel with urgency and

authority, we may envision a fiery preacher pounding a pulpit,
or perhaps a man in a sandwich board warning of judgment

37 This was truly a rare instance. In this chapter I’m not arguing that people never
inquire about the gospel—Peter says they will. But we can’t be entirely dependent on such
interest.

38 Within the week we set up a meeting with Meryem’s mother as a way to show honor
to her and to the law. Over the course of the next couple years, we met repeatedly with
both of them to discuss the Bible. Within months, Meryem believed and was baptized.
Three years later, her mother was as well.

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to passersby. But that day, sitting on plastic chairs in the

park, I just tried to explain to Meryem how Jesus is good
news for us—and for the world. I wanted her to understand
the joy and forgiveness he brings to our lives. The urgency of
the moment opened my mouth with praise, not with stormy
rhetoric.

Likewise, Peter described the content of our exilic

proclamation as praise. He called us as priests to declare
God’s glory to others. Yes, we preach Christ crucified. But we
do so glorying in the cross. We exult in God, and our adulation
overflows to others, telling them how he has delivered us
from darkness and into glorious light. In other words, worship
is essential to evangelism.

These days we tend to view preaching as something only

preachers do. But preaching is really a close cousin to
praise—and we praise things all the time. As C. S. Lewis
observed, we praise that which we most enjoy. In fact,
our enjoyment of something isn’t complete until we have
communicated that happiness to others. So joy—in a
good book or a breathtaking vista—finds its fullness in the
expression of praise, in declaring our experience to others so
they too can share in it.39

This kind of effervescent witness is actually God’s design for

his people all along. Israel had been called out from among
the nations to be a kingdom of priests and a holy nation
(Ex. 19:6). They were to sing to the Lord and declare his
glory among the peoples (1 Chron. 16:23–24). Now God has

39 From C. S. Lewis, Reflections on the Psalms (New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company,
1958), 95.

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conferred on us—Jew and Gentile believers in Jesus—this

priestly ministry. Simply put, God saved us to praise him.

Peter tells us we’ve been set apart for this special service.
We’re called to declare God’s praises to the world. So if we’re
not faithfully proclaiming the gospel to those around us, it’s
owing to the fact we’re not overflowing in praise to God. If
evangelism doesn’t exist, it’s because worship doesn’t.40

Praise is the most natural thing in the world for us, and we
do it all the time. We brag about our favorite sports team. We
rave about restaurants. We shamelessly tell others about the
deals we find online. We can’t stop talking about the latest
Netflix series or our last vacation. We adore musicians,
endorse politicians, and fawn over celebrities. We promote
our kids’ school and post about our morning coffee. We sing
the praises of just about everything, even gluten-free pizza.

But ask us to raise our voices in praise to God outside of

weekend worship, and we struggle to string together a whole
sentence. While we (I include myself here) demonstrate
an incredible ability to proclaim the glories of endless
earthly trivialities, we somehow stutter and stammer at the
opportunity to speak with others about our heavenly hope.
So it’s obvious our gospel silence isn’t because our mouths
are broken; it’s because our hearts are. Because if we
worshiped God as we should, our neighbors, coworkers, and
friends would be the first to hear about it.

40 John Piper famously wrote, “Missions exists because worship doesn’t.” Piper, Let the
Nations Be Glad (Grand Rapids: Baker, 1993), 11. But Piper does more than suggest that
worship is the goal of missions. He also asserts that worship is the fuel of the missionary
endeavor. This is the sense that I am emphasizing, suggesting that our lack of evangelism
is the byproduct of weak worship.

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This reality may bring us some needed humiliation. But we

should also recognize the incredible untapped resource of
praise for our mission as exiles. Because, as we’ve already
seen from the Philippian jailhouse, praise has amazing power
coming from an outcast. Just ask the Samaritan at the well.

She was an immoral woman, likely ashamed of her own

shadow, coming to the community well in the heat of the day
when no one else would be around. Except on that particular
day a stranger was waiting for her. Jesus then initiated a
culturally unthinkable conversation with this Samaritan as
a way to introduce her to living water. Through the course
of their encounter, he revealed himself as Messiah and
uncovered her secret sins. In response, she ran to the
townspeople (her shame suddenly vanished) to proclaim to
them, “Come, see a man who told me all that I ever did. Can
this be the Christ?” (John 4:29). And many believed.

In her story we see how coming face-to-face with Jesus

has a way of overpowering the shame that silences us.
Whereas shame and social exclusion tend to push us away
from engaging others, a personal encounter with the Lord
transforms our hearts in worship and sends us running to
others in praise of Jesus—even to the very people who made
us outcasts in the first place.

D ECLA RING THE

G OSPEL TO OTHERS

As this chapter draws to a close, I want to conclude with

three practical suggestions for how to grow in declaring
God’s praises. I tried to implement these three principles

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while living overseas in an effort to communicate authority,

urgency, and worship in my own evangelism.

1. BE W I L L I N G TO O F F E ND ( AU T H O R I T Y)

If you proclaim the gospel, it will be offensive—there’s no way

around it. There will be inevitable conflict. You must come
to a point of being willing to offend, or else you’ll never say
much of anything. Part of my attempt to do this in a Muslim
nation was to make unexpected and provocative statements
about my faith. The goal wasn’t to offend but to get them
thinking.

For instance, when someone would ask whether or not

I believed Jesus to be God’s Son—a concept extremely
offensive to Muslims—I’d answer in the affirmative. But then
I’d push it one step further: “Christians don’t just believe
he’s God’s Son, they believe Jesus is God!” I’d take them to
John 1:3 and show that he was creator of all—even all the
prophets.

Often they would ask if I accepted their prophet or holy book.

At first I dreaded that potential minefield. But I came to
appreciate the opportunity to tell them that, as a Christian,
there’s no way I could in good conscience. Because I believe
the Bible, and it says a Christian can’t accept another
gospel—even if it comes from an angel. I would show them
from Galatians 1:8 that anyone who propagates any different
message is under God’s curse.41

41 Gal. 1:8 presents a significant biblical case against Islam, especially since Qur’anic
revelation is said to have come through the angel Gabriel.

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One common rebuttal I would receive was, “We believe in

Jesus too. He’s one of our prophets.” In response, I’d suggest
that Jesus made for a miserable prophet. Prophets of Allah
should show the way and teach the truth. But Jesus said,
“I am the way; I am the truth.”42 Then I’d add, “Sounds like
blasphemy, don’t you think?”

This was perhaps the approach I would use the most:

demonstrating the foolishness of the gospel—and my own
foolishness for believing it—if it wasn’t true. Such a rhetorical
device comes straight from Paul, who argued that we’re most
to be pitied if the resurrection is a lie (1 Cor. 15:19) and
that Jesus’s death was a waste if we could attain our own
righteousness (Gal. 2:21). Such provocative statements
demonstrated I’d thought through the ramifications of my
beliefs. What if I’m wrong? But it also enabled me to press
upon them: “What if you’re wrong?”

2. C A L L F O R A R E S P O NS E ( U R GE N CY )

About halfway into my time overseas I became convicted that

I rarely challenged people to repent and believe the gospel. I
could argue for the deity of Christ. I might reason with them
about Scripture’s truthfulness. I could try to persuade them
about the need for God’s justice against sin. I might even
speak boldly about the cross and resurrection. But I wasn’t
closing the argument with a sense of urgency. I wasn’t calling
for a response.

Actually, it was about the time we met Meryem that I began

to change my approach. I realized that evangelism wasn’t

42 I’m indebted to a national believer for this simple argument from John 14:6.

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simply engaging in religious dialogue and exchanging ideas.

The gospel was a summons. God commands all people
everywhere to repent, and he uses human preachers to do
so. It wasn’t enough to simply tell others what I believed to
be true; I had to tell them what they needed to do.

Of course, such a posture conveys urgency. But it also

demonstrates love. Because, when you plead with others
to turn from sin, sometimes you do so with tears. When
you warn friends sitting at your dining table about coming
judgment, you get a lump in your throat. You don’t do so
flippantly, but compassionately. You call them to join you in
following Jesus. You invite them to believe the glorious good
news.

3. D EL I G HT I N T H E GOS P E L ( WO R S H I P)

We must recognize that the apologetic force of our preaching

isn’t always that our message is more believable than
another, but that it’s more desirable. In evangelism, we don’t
simply make a logical case, but a doxological one. We aren’t
just talking to brains. We’re speaking to hearts that have
desires and eyes that look for beauty. We’re not merely trying
to convince people that our gospel is true, but that our God
is good.

Over the years I’ve tried to move away from cold, structured
arguments into exultations of praise. From giving evidence
for the resurrection to reveling in its glory. From merely
explaining why Jesus is needed to showing why he should be
wanted. From defending the Bible’s truthfulness to rejoicing
in its sweetness.

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Preaching the gospel requires propositional truths. Believing

the gospel requires historical facts. But when we preach,
others should see how those facts have changed our lives.
They should hear us singing with the Negro slaves, “I’ve
found a Savior, and he’s sweet, I know.” They need to feel
the weight of glory. That’s because believing the gospel—like
preaching it—is worship. Which makes praise integral to our
preaching and turns our priestly ministry into delight!

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V I S I B L Y

D I F F E R E N T
CHAPTER 5

“ B E LOV E D, I U R G E YO U A S
S OJ O U R N E R S A N D E X I L E S TO
A B S TA I N F R O M T H E PA S S I O N S O F T H E
F L E S H , W H I C H WA G E WA R A G A I N S T
YO U R S O U L . K E E P YO U R CO N D U C T
AMONG THE GENTILES HONORABLE,
S O T H AT W H E N T H E Y S P E A K A G A I N S T
Y O U A S E V I L D O E R S , T H E Y M AY S E E
YO U R G O O D D E E D S A N D G LO R I F Y
G O D O N T H E D AY O F V I S I T A T I O N . ”

— P E T E R T HE A P OST LE ( 1 PET. 2:11–12)

M y wife’s close friendship with our next-door neighbor

developed on the floor of her two-bedroom apartment.
It was actually common for women to gather on the floor
in our building, where they sat on kitchen rugs or scattered
cushions sharing endless glasses of tea, passing the daily
gossip or trading marital advice. But that’s not how this
particular friendship deepened. Theirs intensified when my
wife was sprawled out on the neighbor’s laminate entryway,
her head in the arms of Asmin.

Asmin was a mother of three and a nurse at the nearby state-

run hospital. My wife, meanwhile, had been struggling with
significant health issues for a number of years. Occasionally
when I was traveling for work or away from home, she would
end up needing urgent care. So having Asmin across the hall
was like having a walk-in clinic in your backyard—without a
waiting room!

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Over time as she came to depend more and more on Asmin,

the friendship between both families grew. Our kids spent
summer days outside together. On long winter weekends,
Asmin’s children came over to our house to play games, do
puzzles, or color pages. I taught their daughter some English.
Her dad taught my son chess. They’d have our family over
in the evening for fruit and cakes, and we’d be sure to visit
them on their Muslim holidays. But throughout our families’
burgeoning kinship, my wife’s bond with Asmin remained the
strongest.

As they spent increased time together, my wife would often

look for ways to speak to Asmin about faith in Christ. She
reasoned with her from the Scriptures and gave her a copy
of the Bible in her language. For a while, Asmin even began
to read it—perhaps out of interest, perhaps only curiosity.
One December, she came to our apartment to observe our
Christmas traditions. She walked through our home like
an art gallery, taking pictures of our Advent calendar and
decorations. Her plan was to show the photographs around
the hospital to her coworkers. We had become a spectacle.

One day, when my wife had to go to the hospital for some

tests, Asmin invited her to the urology floor where she was
on duty. They met at the nurses’ station, then Asmin invited
her into the break room. There in a small room, huddled
around an old television as curls of cigarette smoke exited
an open window, a cadre of nurses sought respite from their
rounds—or perhaps they were there for the coming show.

Asmin introduced my wife as her American neighbor and

friend, and as a Christian. However, she quickly gave one
important caveat: “Not the kind of Christian you think.” As

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doctors and orderlies peeked in the door, she explained how

our family was honorable and kind. How my wife and daughters
dressed modestly. How I was faithful in our marriage. How we
were clean and considerate. We were Christians, yes; but we
were actually people of good character. We were neighbors
they could trust.

BE WHO GOD IS

The twin themes of goodness and godliness pervade the

epistle of 1 Peter. The apostle greets exiled readers as
those who have been set apart by the Spirit to obey Jesus
Christ (1:2). He then praises the Father for causing them to
be born again to a living hope through Jesus’s resurrection.
Throughout the rest of the letter he continues to encourage
these suffering believers with that eternal outlook while also
challenging them to live in present, visible holiness.

In fact, their hope in future grace at Christ’s return was to

lead them to a transformed life of obedience (1:13–14). As
John writes in his first epistle, the Christian hope of glory is
one significant reason why we purify ourselves just as God
is pure (1 John 3:3). Likewise, Peter calls his readers to
be holy as their heavenly Father is holy (1:15). Then, in the
next breath—in case they didn’t catch it the first time—he
repeats the command, citing the words of Yahweh to Israel
in the old covenant: “You shall be holy, for I am holy” (1:16).

As we saw in the last chapter, the believing community in

first-century Asia was to see their experience as mirroring
Israel’s. God had chosen and called them out from among
the nations to be his holy and peculiar people. He had set
them apart as a visible demonstration of his own holiness,

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to be shining lights in the world. As an assembly of priests

in God’s kingdom, they were to mediate God’s presence and
radiate his glory. But in order to do so, they needed to be like
their King. So too, believers within the new covenant have
this great commission: to be holy as God is holy. We’re to
be who he is.

Today, the mantra of American culture is to “be who you are.”

“You do you” is the message. Whether it’s a self-help talk
show or the latest Disney production, the basic instruction
is that we should cast off the chains of others’ expectations
and desires. Don’t let them dictate who you are or what you
do with your life. Fulfillment and lasting happiness wait for
those who follow their own path, being true to themselves.

In a way, this is exactly the logic of the Bible when it comes

to Christian living. We’re not to concern ourselves with the
world’s expectations. We’re told to be who we are—that is,
who God has made us to be as new creations in Christ. Paul
could write to Christians in the corrupt city (and church) of
Corinth, addressing them as the sanctified who are called
to be saints (1 Cor. 1:2). Or Peter could write to those God
had set apart as holy, telling them to actually be holy. Both
of them followed the example of Jesus, who instructed his
disciples: you are the light of the world, so let your light shine
by doing good deeds (Matt. 5:14–16).

However, our new nature isn’t the ultimate standard for who
we’re to be and how we’re to live. The fundamental reality
behind who we are as Christians is God himself. So Peter
calls us to be like God. To be holy as he is holy. Or as John
expresses it: to walk in the light as he is in the light.

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God himself is light. At conversion he transfers us from the

kingdom of darkness to the kingdom of his Son. This isn’t
a physical relocation (at least not yet), such as moving from
Texas to Illinois. This change is positional and ontological.
We’re made light through his creative act. And now as that
light, we’re summoned to shine in the world through our
good deeds. Then, like Paul’s commissioning on the road
to Damascus, we’re sent out to preach the gospel and open
the eyes of the blind so they too might turn from darkness to
light (Acts 26:17–18).43

Holiness, therefore, is the necessary effect and means of

the gospel. In other words, holiness is not only the result
of conversion, it’s also an embodied argument in support of
the gospel’s veracity. We’re saved to be holy, and we become
holy so others will be saved. To use an agricultural analogy,
godliness is the fruit of our salvation but also the cultivation
of others’ salvation. In the gospel we’re recreated to be like
God so we will then demonstrate who God is to the world.

We know the gospel has many powerful effects on our lives:

deliverance from sin, communion with the saints, an eternal
inheritance. But another critical and sometimes forgotten
outcome of our conversion—and part of the message we
proclaim—is that we’ve been transferred out of darkness
and into God’s glorious light. As such, an integral part of our
evangelism is the visible demonstration of our new nature as
those walking in the light. Gospel declaration is linked to life
transformation.

43 Part of evangelism and discipleship is calling others to follow us as we follow Christ—

for them to be who we are (1 Cor. 4:16; 11:1). This is another reason why personal
holiness is critical for the evangelist.

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D OI N G GOOD TO B E
SEEN BY OTHERS

In a way, then, personal holiness must precede evangelism.

As Peter wrote, we were set apart to be holy priests in order
to declare the praises of God. Our behavior and reputation as
exiles were of utmost concern to Peter—filling out so much
of his letter—because of their inescapable influence on our
witness and God’s glory. Consequently, Christians who live
in sin will inevitably betray the gospel and besmirch God’s
character.

That organic connection between holiness and evangelism

often leaves us hesitant to open our mouths with the gospel.
We know people are watching. We’re aware that the most
common criticism of Christians is that we’re hypocrites—that
our unholy selves don’t always align with our holy book. We
also realize that if we dare speak the gospel we’ll be inviting
greater scrutiny.

We know that when we preach good news to others, we’re

basically welcoming their critical eye on God’s Word based
on our own character. We’re asking them to consider Christ
in view of how we relate to others. We’re giving people
permission to examine our confession of faith in light of how
we handle trials and difficulties. And these concerns stifle
our witness, not so much because we know what others will
hear from our lips, but because of what they’ve already seen
in our lives. We may not be ashamed of Christ, but we might
be ashamed of our noticeable greed, self-pity, anger, gluttony,
jealousy, lust, and disrespect.

But I think this is exactly the kind of accountability and

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introspection Peter wants to cultivate.44 The desire to reach

others for Christ has a way of encouraging us to greater
godliness. Just as we purify ourselves because of a future
hope, we clean up our lives—and clean up our mouths—
because we want others to believe and be saved. (God has a
way of giving us multiple motivations for obedience, probably
because he knows we need them.) Peter, therefore, expected
his readers to live in such a way that their deeds would be
observable to those around them and commendable as
righteous and godly, selfless and compassionate. In other
words, he wanted us to do good to be seen by others (2:11–
12).

That might seem strange for a number of reasons. For one,

isn’t it terribly arrogant? Isn’t our gospel a message of telling
people how broken and sinful we are? Isn’t the church meant
to be a hospital for sinners, not a hotel for saints?45

Yes, and no. The hospital is only desirable if it’s more than
a quarantined building where the terminally ill go to die. I’ve
seen my share of dirty hospitals in the world, and you don’t
want to go there. A hospital is only a good place if there’s
medicine and a remedy. There must be visible evidence of
a cure: we who were once on our deathbeds have found the
antidote. Our gospel is for sick sinners, to be sure. But we
preach as healed saints, as those who are being delivered
from the malignancy of our former corruption.

44 I’m not implying here a purely individualistic approach to personal holiness. The New
Testament epistles assume a corporate audience and application. So the local church
is critical to the pursuit of holiness (through discipleship, accountability, preaching, and
prayer). Likewise, the New Testament envisions the power of a collective witness through
a transformed body demonstrating love and good deeds in community together.

45 I certainly resonate with the quote referenced here and attributed to Augustine;
however, I’m addressing a slightly different issue.

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Still we might flinch at the thought of displaying our good

deeds before others. After all, Jesus instructed his disciples
not to perform acts of worship to be seen by others, because
that’s what the hypocrites do. However, we sometimes miss
how, in the same sermon, Jesus told his followers to let their
light shine before others so that they would see their good
deeds and give glory to God (Matt. 6:1; 5:16).

One way to resolve these two seemingly opposing ideas in

Jesus’s teaching is to observe the opposite purpose implicit
in each. If we act in ways to draw attention to ourselves and
receive others’ praise, then we’re guilty of the hypocrisy
that Jesus condemned. Our reward is complete with them
noticing us. However, wanting others to see our good deeds
isn’t always bad. Such demonstrable works of goodness are
admirable if they flow from a pure heart and if our goal is
God’s glory.

Peter’s address to the wives of unbelieving husbands can be

instructive here. As we’ve already discussed, he called them
to seek to win their spouses through their respect and pure
conduct. Rather than focusing on external adornments such
as extravagant jewelry or lavish clothing, they were to ornament
their lives with gentleness and holiness. But by comparing
their inward disposition and behavior with adornments and
accessories, Peter was clearly communicating that their
godliness should be noticeable. He wanted their husbands
to see their good deeds. Such godliness would commend
their gospel.

Having lived in both America and Central Asia, our family has
had many discussions about modesty over the years—with
our daughters and our son. Since expectations of acceptable

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clothing change from culture to culture, we often chose to
emphasize the importance of not drawing undue attention to
ourselves by what we wear or how we act. However, such a
definition doesn’t capture the full meaning. For one, modesty
isn’t just a negative command, and being modest doesn’t
imply a lack of care about appearance. Quite the opposite!
Modesty is actually a positive and active approach whereby
we seek to respect others and draw attention to God through
our words and way of life.46

But in America, Christians have adopted a kind of false

modesty in our evangelism. We never presume to suggest
that we’re actually holier than someone else. Furthermore,
we think our gospel is more credible to others when they
see us as mostly like them. We’ve come to believe that God
is most glorified and people are most evangelized when
the church is either hip and trendy or when it’s struggling
and broken and weak.47 So the last thing we’d want to do
is portray ourselves as either holy or healthy—and most
certainly not better than anyone else.

Our great danger isn’t being like the pious Jews in Jesus’s
day, doing external acts of worship to receive the approval
and admiration of others. Instead, the threat to the American
church is the opposite, though equally sinister, form of
hypocrisy. We want to be inwardly transformed without
showing any outward change. We don’t want to stand out. It’s
as if we’ve lit a candle but are trying our best to hide it under

46 Modesty is a taboo topic in American Christianity, but I’m convinced it’s a critical
consideration related to our evangelism.

47 This idea might originate from Paul’s words about the treasured light of Christ being
in jars of clay. However, the brokenness and weakness Paul referred to was his physical
suffering, not an ongoing struggle with sin or moral inferiority.

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a basket. But the whole point of a lit lamp is that others will
see it (Matt. 5:15).

D I F F EREN T FOR A REASO N

Christians aren’t just different for the sake of being different.

The goal of our evident love and godliness is that others
will recognize our good deeds—even ones they currently
think are evil—and glorify the Father at the day of Christ’s
return (2:12).48 Our lives are different for a reason: to be
a window display to God’s nature, with the dual purpose of
their salvation and God’s greater glory.

Peter challenges his readers to not be conformed to the

passions of their former ignorance (1:14), to make a
clean break with the futile ways of their forefathers (1:18),
to put away slander and envy and deceit (2:1), to abstain
from fleshly cravings (2:11), and to leave behind their old
lifestyle of drunkenness, sensuality, and debauchery (4:3).
Instead, they are to demonstrate self-control, live with a good
conscience, bless others with love, walk in holiness, and
keep their conduct honorable.

But living this way comes at a cost, especially when we’re

outcasts. For one, Peter suggests that his readers could face
real suffering and harm even for doing good (3:13–14). Add
to that the pressure of constant mocking, which could easily

48 It’s not completely clear if Peter understood they would become believers through
observing the good conduct of Christians. However, those who ultimately glorify God seem
to be those who repent and believe (Rev. 11:13; 16:9). Calvin took Peter’s words to imply
salvation, assuming that “the unbelieving, led by our good works, would become obedient
to God, and thus by their own conversion give glory to him.” Calvin, Commentaries on
the Catholic Epistles (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1948), 79. A good number of modern
commentators also take this view.

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tempt them to conform to those around them.

Here we should recognize that the experience of exile isn’t

always one where we have traditional enemies who draw
lines and fight battles. They don’t merely shun and exclude.
Sometimes—or even more frequently—exile looks like good
friends who want to include us in their fun. But when you
don’t go along with their wickedness, they scoff and deride
you for not participating in their sin (4:4).

This derision can occur when you decline the invitation to

your friend’s bachelor party. When you refuse unethical
business practices. When you turn down the offer of drugs.
When you won’t cheat on the test. When you abstain from
mocking political leaders. When you don’t sleep around.
When you excuse yourself from an inappropriate movie.
When you won’t lie about your age. When you don’t laugh
at crass humor. When you refuse to break the law. When
you won’t join in endless gossip. When you miss the Sunday
soccer game.

When we do any of those things and more—when we’re

visibly other—the pain of ridicule and social exclusion can
be sharp. Unless we’re willing to be different and face the
consequences, we’ll never make those hard decisions. But
if we’re never different, how will people ever be convinced of
the gospel and respond by glorifying God?

Peter knew that one of the greatest dangers for exiles is

the constant feeling of being other. As a result, they can
bow to social pressure, causing them to lose their unique
identity as distinct from others. Often as Christians we think
that by adapting to our surroundings we’ll mitigate the forces

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against us. If we cave on this or that issue, maybe they won’t
ridicule us as much at work or in school. In fact, we may even
believe that the more we behave like them the better the
chances they’ll accept us and our gospel. We can somehow
buy into the lie that Christianity will be more appealing the
more it looks like the world.

But to be an exile—to be other—is central to the Christian

calling. We’re strangers in our land. And that’s good news.
Sometimes the experience of exile can actually remind us
of our true identity and home. I know I’ve experienced this
reminder as an expat living abroad. In fact, anthropologists
have observed that immigrants and refugees sometimes
have a greater love for their national identity and a greater
commitment to cultural preservation than those who remain
in the homeland. That’s because when you have everything
stripped away, you cling to what makes you who you are.
We too, as we experience increased isolation and shame
in our country of origin, have an opportunity to embrace the
foreignness that comes with being like God and a citizen of
his kingdom.

Daniel was a Jewish man taken captive from Jerusalem to

serve in the royal court of King Nebuchadnezzar in Babylon.
There, Daniel’s captors tried to force assimilation on him and
the other deportees, integrating them into the Babylonian
culture by changing their names, status, and diet. But
Daniel was committed to maintaining a distinction wherever
possible.

Rather than defile himself with the food and drink of the
Babylonians, he resolved to maintain his purity by denying
himself his allotted portion from the king’s table. Such a bold

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move was surely filled with risk and disgrace. It also meant
forsaking the finer things of Babylon. While Daniel could have
chosen a more silent protest, his resistance was designed
to demonstrate to his superiors the benefit of his diet under
the blessing of his God. At the end of 10 days, he wanted
them to carefully observe his appearance and deal with him
“according to what you see” (Dan. 1:13).

Throughout the book of Daniel we encounter that consistent

willingness to maintain a noticeable distinction, even at a
cost. His friends, when commanded to bow down to the
golden image, refused to kneel. Instead they took a stand,
figuratively and literally, visible to their opponents. And
Daniel, a man with whom his enemies could find no fault, on
learning that prayer had been outlawed, went home, threw
open the windows, and proceeded to pray as he always had
three times a day.49

As those in exile, Daniel and his friends repeatedly looked

for ways to preserve their religious convictions and cultural
distinction. They generally managed to do so with respect for
their authorities and also with a bold testimony. They even
sustained a good reputation as citizens and servants of the
Babylonian kingdom. But they were also willing to openly be
different, even committing civil disobedience, as a way to
demonstrate their true allegiance and personal holiness.

Today, as a Christian assembly of exiles, we don’t need

to become more like the world in an attempt to win their
approval or affection. Instead, we should celebrate our

49 Jesus condemned praying to be seen by others (Matt. 6:5), but Daniel’s action wasn’t
motivated by pious hypocrisy.

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uniqueness. We should embrace being different. We should
even desire, like Daniel, to have our “set-apartness” become
more and more visible, to have our love and good deeds
become unavoidable, to have our holiness be so evident that
people—who this very day hate Christianity—would have to
take account of what they see.

We’re likely still many decades from severe persecution in

this land, but there may come a day when Christian worship
becomes completely alien and immoral. It might even reach
the point of becoming illegal. But the trials of those days will
also be an occasion for the gospel, because they’ll present
an incredible opportunity to be holy and to be like God.
As Peter wrote, “If when you do good and suffer for it you
endure, this is a gracious thing in the sight of God. For to
this you have been called, because Christ also suffered for
you, leaving you an example, so that you might follow in his
steps” (2:20–21).

D OI NG GOOD TO B E S EEN
BY GOD—A ND HEARD

The mere thought of physical persecution might be difficult

for us to even consider. However, I don’t find that passage
as hard to swallow as Peter’s instructions to husbands. For
me, it’s one of the most challenging verses in all the Bible:

Husbands, live with your wives in an understanding way,

showing honor to the woman as the weaker vessel, since
they are heirs with you of the grace of life, so that your
prayers may not be hindered. (3:8)

On the surface, the sense of this verse is fairly plain.

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Husbands are to live with humility and grace toward their
wives, recognizing the fragility of their humanity and the glory
of their eternal inheritance. It’s a beautiful thought, really—
until you come to grips with the final phrase: so your prayers
aren’t hindered.

One of the most difficult lessons of my life came while living

in Central Asia and watching my wife suffer physically. Her
health deteriorated before my eyes. We saw doctors in and
out of the country. She took tests and waited for results.
Then she took more tests. Eventually the doctors’ answers
made it clear they didn’t have answers, so we quit anticipating
results, and she quit taking their tests.

But right in the middle of all of her suffering, the ugliness and
cruelty of my own selfishness became a cancer in my heart.
On many occasions I spoke with frustration to her. I could get
annoyed at her lack of contribution to our parenting. I would
be bothered by her occasional inability to help around the
home or in ministry. At times I became irritated whenever
she woke me at midnight in distress. Her illness was
inconveniencing me, and I couldn’t be troubled with her pain.

It honestly hurts to write those words, for they reveal much

that was wrong with my priorities. I wanted to reach others
for Christ, but I didn’t always want to care for my wife. I
wanted to excel in language study and focus on sermon
preparation; I didn’t want to go to the doctor. We needed
to have believers in our home for Bible study; I needed her
to get the house ready. On multiple occasions, sometimes
for extended seasons, I was most definitely not living with
her in an understanding way, showing honor in view of her
weakness and glory. As a result, I have no doubt that many

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of my sincerest prayers for ministry were left unheard and
unanswered.

Peter uses this reality, the negative motivation of unanswered

prayer, as a subtle warning to men. He challenges husbands
to live in compassionate understanding so their prayers
wouldn’t be hindered—because we don’t just live godly lives
to be seen by others. We live coram deo—before God. He is
watching. Though as we learn here, if we continue in sin, he
won’t always listen.

Do you have categories for that God? Or have you been

taught that because of his unconditional love, he never deals
with us according to our sin?

That’s not the way Peter understood the Christian life. In fact,
he repeatedly highlights this particular truth about prayer—
what God hears from us depends on what he sees in us. So
Peter could write that if you’re going to call on the Father, who
judges according to people’s deeds, then you need to take
care how you conduct your lives (1:17). He could quote from
Psalm 34 to establish that God is observing our actions, and
his ears are open to the prayers of the righteous (3:12). He
could also call believers tempted to fall back into sin to be
self-controlled and sober-minded for the sake of their prayers
(4:7). And, of course, he could tell inconsiderate husbands
like me that we can go ahead and forget having him answer
our cries for help until we get our hearts in order.50

50 The Old Testament teaches that God answers the prayers of the righteous and not
the wicked (Ps. 34:15; 145:18; Isa. 1:5; 58:3; 59:2; Mic. 3:4). The concept appears less
frequently in the New Testament, though it’s especially present in 1 Peter (James 5:16;
cf. John 9:31).

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I’m sure you can see how this truth matters for our everyday
lives. So many frustrated Christians describe their prayer
experience as dead and cold. They don’t know if their
prayers are even making it past the ceiling. Usually in such
situations, our go-to answer is to affirm that God hears and
answers all their prayers. Maybe his answer for now is to
wait, but he’s listening. However, I wonder if our confidence
is misplaced, and I wonder if their sense of God’s deafness
is sometimes more accurate than we realize. Could it be that
their unconfessed sin has hindered their prayers?

Of course, you can also see how this influences our attempts
at evangelism. We likely all have unbelieving friends and
family whom we love and care for, whom we pray for regularly.
We plead with God for their salvation, for their eyes to be
opened to see the light of God’s glory in the face of Christ
(2 Cor. 4:6). But how often are those prayers short-circuited
by our lack of purity, by harsh words, by lustful glances, or by
proud thoughts?

God isn’t just concerned with our evangelism, as if that's

the most important aspect of the Christian life. One of my
concerns in writing a book on evangelism is that you could
come away with the sense that our lives should totally revolve
around reaching others—that witnessing is our singular
purpose. But it’s not.

Of course, God is concerned with the salvation of sinners.

But he’s also deeply concerned with your holiness. And all of
that because his ultimate concern is for his own glory.

While I spent many days bothered by my wife’s physical

ailments and weakness, thinking she was hindering the work

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of the ministry, the reality was that my inconsiderate self-
interest and lack of understanding was more of a hindrance
to God’s mission in our city. I’m convinced it was the reason
for unanswered prayers. In truth, I had everything backward.
God was using her evident hope through suffering and her
visible holiness before others to be a light to our neighbors,
even as she lay helpless on the floor of Asmin’s apartment.

Our conduct is critical to our witness as exiles. We must

remember that our neighbors are watching. Like Asmin, they
all know if our walk matches our talk. Our extended family,
friends, coworkers, and children can all see if our faith is
real. And one way God has ordained for them to be drawn
to Christ is through the visible, observable testimony of our
holiness. They need to see we’re different, that we’re like our
Father, and that our deeds are good. Only then, as we shine
before others, will some of them actually see the light.

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T H E

G O O D

N E W S O F

H O M E
CHAPTER 6

“A B O V E A L L , K E E P L O V I N G O N E
A N O T H E R E A R N E S T LY, S I N C E L O V E
C O V E R S A M U LT I T U D E O F S I N S . S H O W
H O S P I TA L I T Y T O O N E A N O T H E R
WITHOUT GRUMBLING. AS EACH
H A S R E C E I V E D A G I F T, U S E I T T O
S E RV E O N E A N OT H E R , AS G O O D
S T E W A R D S O F G O D ' S VA R I E D G R A C E . ”

— P E T E R T HE A P OST LE ( 1 PET. 4 :8–10)

I leaned forward on the edge of the cushioned armchair,

prayerful and unnerved. My palms were clammy, my lungs
heavy. On the table next to me sat my Bible. In its front cover
I had tucked a letter for Hira.

Hira was the middle-aged and single mother of Meryem, the

teenaged girl we had met six months previous. Now both
of them were in the kitchen with my wife while I waited
impatiently in the living room. Our families had just finished
a meal together, but next came our usual after-dinner
conversation—a conversation I was dreading.

Since our first encounter with Meryem, we had made it our

purpose to befriend Hira. Over the course of those months
our relationship with both of them grew through regular
hospitality. Nearly every week they would come to our home

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for dinner or dessert. Or we would go to theirs. Inevitably,

either at the table or on the floor afterward, we would enter
into a lively debate about Christianity.

Hira had strong convictions about Islam. She was also

concerned, not surprisingly, by the influence we were having
on her daughter. However, our disagreements didn’t keep
us apart. Over the course of time—and over a lot of good
food—we became genuine friends. Hira was incredibly
gracious to us and felt a special kinship with my wife. They
shared the same birth year. They shared many of the same
health issues. And now, in a way, they both shared the same
daughter.

Meryem had recently come to faith in Christ and already

started to view us as an extension of her family. Now she was
ready to be baptized. Hira, however, was slower to believe.
She was still unconvinced by the gospel and remained
skeptical of the Jesus we proclaimed.

When Hira came in from the kitchen, she sat down across
the table from me. Her breathing was uneven. I slowly took
the paper from my Bible, unfolded it, and asked her to read
the prepared agreement. Since her daughter was a minor,
we were asking for parental consent, including her signature,
to baptize Meryem. This was our way of honoring Hira, so I
candidly reiterated our terms: “We will not do this without
your permission.” As the words exited my mouth, I prepared
for the worst.

But then, almost without hesitation, she signed it. She even
agreed to be at her daughter’s side that Easter weekend.
In fact, immediately following the baptism—before Meryem’s

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hair even had time to dry—I witnessed Hira do something

she never had before. She walked into the living room,
settled into a comfortable chair, and picked up a Bible. She
then began to read.

HOSPITALITY FOR THE

SAKE OF THE GOS PEL

Hospitality isn’t a primary theme in the book of 1 Peter,

certainly not on level with exile and suffering or hope and
holiness. But it does figure prominently in one important
passage.

As Peter begins to wrap up his instructions to first-century

believers, he writes that “above all” they should love one
another (4:8). Love was to be the crown jewel of their
transformed lives. However, love wasn’t simply the highest
of all commands, it was behind and before every other
instruction in the letter: to be humble and respect others, to
not slander or revile, to walk in holiness, and to declare God’s
praises. That’s because all Christian law is encapsulated in
this one command—love.

But it’s especially interesting how Peter fills out his climactic
call to love. After stating its preeminence, he gives one
specific example of how they should express this love: show
hospitality (4:9). Peter sandwiches the command to gracious
hospitality between the twin admonitions to love and service.
It’s as if being hospitable is one primary way he envisioned
they would, through love, serve one another.

Hospitality was crucial for mission in the early church.

Ambassadors of the gospel would travel from town to town

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with little provision. They depended on the generous welcome

of local believers for room and board, to sustain them and
later send them on their way. Homes were also the gathering
place of early assemblies. Churches relied on members
opening their homes for regular meetings and worship.51

Such regular hospitality no doubt took a toll on Christians.

While their culture and living conditions were clearly different
from ours, their temptations were the same. Continuously
having others in their homes was tiring and taxing. It cost
financially. It took time. So Peter added that making space
for such repeated interruption and inconvenience should
be done without grumbling. They were to love one another
cheerfully, giving of their most valuable resources—even
their homes—for the sake of Christ.

Of course, that kind of glad generosity was directed primarily

to believers. So what does hospitality have to do with
evangelism?

For one, we’d be mistaken to assume that Peter limited such

kindness to only brothers and sisters in Christ. Our homes
and our tables aren’t reserved for people like us. As Jesus
said, our love and greeting should also be for those different
from us (Matt. 5:47). The Christian call to hospitality includes
a love for outsiders—for strangers, foreigners, and the
other.52 It implies sharing our homes with sinners. As such,
the ministry of hospitality is essential for our evangelistic
endeavor.

51 Thomas R. Schreiner, 1, 2 Peter, Jude, New American Commentary (Nashville, B&H:

2003), 213.

52 The Greek word for hospitality (philozenia) comes from a compound of “love” and
“stranger.”

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That was definitely our family’s experience in Central Asia.

We didn’t have the opportunity for large outreach events.
Cold-call evangelism wasn’t a viable option. And we couldn’t
count solely on visitors coming to church. So in the case of
Hira and many others like her, we employed hospitality for the
sake of the gospel. We regularly invited Muslim friends and
neighbors into our home for a meal. If they weren’t comfortable
eating at our house (perhaps for religious reasons), we’d go
to theirs. We’d also meet them at a restaurant or café. And
speaking as someone who loves to eat, I can honestly say it
made for a great evangelistic strategy!

The story of Matthew represents a perfect example of

what this can look like. Shortly after his call to follow
Jesus, Matthew opened up his home to friends and former
colleagues. Luke records that he hosted a great feast, so
this wasn’t a spontaneous or random occurrence, but one
that took preparation. It came at expense. And it revealed an
intentionality to introduce his friends to the Savior. We learn
this by Jesus’s own admission. He wasn’t at the party just to
hang out and have a good time. Rather, his purpose for being
there was to call sinners to repentance (Luke 5:27–32).

I NVI TATION TO THE TA B LE

The all-American proverb from Field of Dreams, “If you build

it, they will come,” has characterized the Western approach
to evangelism and church growth for some generations.
We have a long history of promoting large crusades or tent
revivals that draw a crowd for a gospel presentation. In fact,
many Christians are explicitly taught or implicitly assume
that inviting their neighbor to such an event amounts to
evangelism. But what they’re really doing is counting on

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someone else to preach the gospel and counting on others

to actually want to attend.

Still today, many churches seek to do outreach primarily by

bringing people in. They practice an attractional model of
mission. As a result, our greatest aspirations in evangelism
have often been that our neighbors would come with us to
church, send their kids to VBS, or attend a Christian camp
or concert. But we need to recognize that the greatest hope
for our unbelieving neighbors isn’t them coming to us, but
God sending us to them. It’s us living on mission in their
neighborhoods, and our home becoming a place where they
can meet the Savior.

I’m not necessarily advocating for a moratorium on

invitations—I just think the venue needs to change. We need
to start inviting people to our own tables.

Last year I listened to an NPR interview with a researcher

from the University of Chicago. She was studying the effects
of sharing a meal when negotiating a business transaction.
Over the course of the study, she found that those who ate
together—specifically, who ate the same foods—were more
likely to come to a settlement faster. While the research
didn’t reveal a definitive cause, her findings suggested a
strong link between the experience of a shared meal and
arriving at a mutual agreement.

Of course, I’m not suggesting that the secret to effective

evangelism is eating the same food as someone else. But
there’s an undeniable human connection that happens when
we break bread with others. Sharing a meal communicates
humility and respect. It demonstrates tangible love and

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service. A common meal has a way of opening doors for

communication and fostering genuine understanding.
Often—at least when the food and drink is good—there’s
also an experience of shared joy.

As such, I believe inviting others to our own tables can be

an important first step to an effective evangelistic strategy.
People who would never cross the threshold of a church will
still walk through your front door. People who are indifferent
to religion or disinclined to Christianity will still appreciate
a friendly dinner invitation. They’ll gladly accept a free meal
and, in the process, may just listen to you rejoice in free
forgiveness.

In his Gospel account, Matthew records twice in short

succession that Jesus reclined at table with sinners—this
after promising that many would join at his table in the
kingdom of heaven (Matt. 9:10; 8:11). It’s as if Matthew
understood the two actions to be connected. One way sinners
enter the kingdom is by first entering our kitchen. Some will
only come to the table of the Lord after first coming to our
dinner table.

The reality is, as we face increasing exile in our land, we’ll

need to rediscover the necessity of hospitality for the
gospel. Church attendance will likely continue to wane,
and with it pulpit evangelism. Meanwhile, Christian witness
could be all but silenced in the workplace or the classroom.
Public spaces could suddenly become “safe,” off-limits to
proselytizing or any religious conversation. But our private
homes will long remain a haven for free speech, the perfect
place for reasoning with others about the gospel.

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We’ll want to leverage that opportunity by continuously

opening our doors to others, especially to people unlike
us. To Latino, Caucasian, or African American households.
To poor widows or the unemployed. To Hindus and atheists.
To international students. To migrant workers. To a wealthy
businessperson. To a gay couple. To sinners of every sex,
stripe, and status.

HOL I NESS IS NOT THE

ENEM Y OF HOSPITA LITY

Having read the last chapter, you might assume I’m

advocating for a set-apart lifestyle that physically separates
us from sinners. That to be holy requires us to completely
remove ourselves from the presence of evil—even the
appearance of it.53 But that would be a reconstruction of the
faulty law-fencing of the Pharisees.

In the story of Matthew’s dinner party, we learn that some

Pharisees were scandalized by Jesus’s presence at the party.
The disreputable nature of Matthew’s former job, along with
his unsavory guests, appalled the Pharisees. They were
dismayed that Jesus would choose to eat and drink with tax-
collectors and sinners. They couldn’t reconcile their concept
of holiness with Jesus’s commitment to love.

But purity and love aren’t mutually exclusive. Actually, Peter

53 Some would base this on their reading or translation of 1 Thess. 5:22, but I find it
contradictory to Jesus’s example. As Luke records, Jesus admitted that he came eating
and drinking, a friend to swindling tax collectors and irreligious sinners. This behavior
made him appear to some to be “a glutton and a drunkard” (Luke 7:34). But their misper-
ceptions didn’t stop Jesus from continuing his pattern of associating with sinners, even
letting a “woman of the city” touch his feet in the immediately following pericope (Luke
7:36–39; see also Luke 5:30; 15:2; Matt. 9:11).

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self-consciously puts the two together in his first epistle.

He writes that believers had obeyed the gospel and been
purified in order to love. Therefore, they were to show genuine
and earnest love to others from a pure heart (2:22). Peter’s
repeated emphasis on “set-apartness” was not in opposition
to a generous compassion. It was an expression of it. In
other words, their call to holiness was never meant to be the
enemy of hospitality (see also Matt. 5:47–48).

We find the same lesson in the story of the Good Samaritan.

In Luke 10, Jesus affirms that the summary of the law was
love for God and neighbor. Then, similar to Peter, he colors
in the picture of neighbor-love with a depiction of hospitality.
You likely know the account.

A traveler from Jerusalem was ambushed, robbed, and left

for dead. A priest came by and saw the man, but avoided
him. A Levite did the same (both likely hesitant to defile
themselves with a corpse or have a run-in with robbers). But
then a Samaritan approached and did the unexpected. He
stopped and helped the half-dead Jew. He showed love and
generosity, caring for all his needs. Whereas the religious
Jews were unable to demonstrate mercy, the “ungodly”
Samaritan represented true love of neighbor—and true law
keeping—through his sacrificial hospitality to a total stranger.

In this story we encounter both great danger and also

opportunity. The danger is for those who seek to protect their
holiness by keeping sinners at a distance, those who try to
remain clean without having compassion. As we face social
exclusion, the temptation will be to push others away. Victims
easily become victimizers. The hurt have a way of hurting
others. The danger is for holy exiles to make everyone who’s

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not like them also an outcast—of becoming an exclusive

people by creating our own restrictive circles.

But it need not be so. The Samaritan was a social castaway,

despised by the Jews. Yet in Jesus’s story he was the one
who knew how to show genuine love and hospitality. That’s
because when you suffer as an outsider you have the
capacity to empathize with the hurting, show compassion for
the suffering, and offer kindness to sinners. You understand
the value of honor and a home, because yours has been
taken away. This, as you might guess, was particularly true of
the oppressed African American slaves nearly two centuries
ago.

James Redpath, a reporter working for the New-York Tribune in

the mid-1800s, recounted his experience of Negro hospitality
while traveling through the antebellum South. One night on
his journey through the Carolinas, he was lost and alone. A
storm was nearing. Clouds of ink blotted out the moon and
stars. Hearing a rumble in the distance, he sought shelter in
a nearby plantation. But when he inquired about emergency
lodging he was refused, even after much pleading.

Redpath eventually relented and went his way, walking down

some railroad tracks hoping to find another option. When he
couldn’t, he returned to the original homestead. Again he
appealed to the master of the house, but to no avail. Finally,
as rain began to pour down, he spotted a small “negro hut”
in the distant woods. He ran for cover and was welcomed—
though with some suspicion—by a group of slaves. That
night they made room for him in their crowded shack.

Reflecting on that experience and his collective observations

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from extensive travels in the South, Redpath wrote:

I did not see any of that celebrated hospitality for which

Southerners are perpetually praising themselves. They
are very hospitable to strangers who come to them well
introduced—who don’t need hospitality, in fact; but they
are very much the reverse when a stranger presents
himself under other and unfavorable circumstances. The
richer class of planters are especially inhospitable. The
negroes are the hospitable class of the South.54

Sadly, many of those white “planters,” as Redpath called

them, were likely self-professed Christians. And while we may
not be guilty of their overt racism, our attempts at hospitality
can still mimic theirs. We might show generous hospitality,
but only to people like us—never to those of a different race
or background, a different belief or persuasion, or a different
social class. We welcome others into our home, but generally
those who don’t even need it. Our hospitality is only lateral
and transactional. We host peers in a system that expects
reciprocity, not one that displays free grace.

But real hospitality is like that of the Negro slaves. It doesn’t

require limitless resources or a luxury kitchen with an open
floor plan. The only requirement of hospitality is love. Love
that serves others rather than serving ourselves. Love that
seeks to use our home and our resources, like Matthew, to
introduce people to Jesus. But sadly what we often label
as hospitality is merely entertaining—it’s just more of that
old Southern hospitality, dignified and genteel, but knowing
nothing of sacrifice or incongruity.

54 From James Redpath’s The Roving Editor, 1859, 139 (emphasis mine).

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If we’re going to make a difference for the gospel with our

homes, we’ll need to see our homes and tables as an
extension of the kingdom—where there’s always “plenty
good room.” But that will mean our hospitality will need to be
visibly different from the world’s. Or to put it another way, our
love will need to be holy.55

HOSP ITA LITY IS PA RT

OF THE GOS PEL

If you ever visited Asma’s apartment, you would instantly

know something was wrong. Upon opening the front door,
even before entering, the smell of mildew would greet you.
Once inside, you’d notice her belongings and textbooks
covered in mold. Her home was dark, dank, and probably
unsafe to occupy. But she couldn’t afford any better. As it
was, she often needed help from us just to keep the heat on.

Asma was a young Central Asian believer in significant

financial trouble. Her parents, becoming suspicious of her
conversion, had withdrawn their financial support. She could
no longer pay for school, so she dropped out of college
halfway through. In the first year we knew her, she was able
to find employment at a home goods store. But even working
endless days and weekends, she couldn’t make a livable
wage.

The following summer, Asma was desperate for a break

from work. She also wanted out of her damp apartment. So
she decided to visit family. Having scraped together enough

55 Rosaria Butterfield’s The Gospel Comes with a House Key (Wheaton, IL: Crossway,
2018) provides a good introduction to neighbor-love through hospitality.

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money to buy a ticket, she took the 12-hour bus ride home—
only to never return.

What exactly happened when she reunited with family was

hard to ascertain. For one, her availability to talk on the
phone or social media was severely limited. Her parents had
confiscated her belongings. They told her they wouldn’t allow
her to return to the city where she had Christian friends. In
the end, they basically held her hostage in her own house.

In fact, a full two years passed before Asma was able to

come back, still without her parents’ blessing, to our former
city. She managed to re-enroll in the local university, but she
was still struggling financially. The challenge of taking a full
course load and providing for her needs continued to weigh
heavily.

Knowing of her constant struggles, I reached out to check

in on her situation and let Asma know of our prayers. She
messaged back to say that her parents continued to be angry.
Her father was still refusing to help with her living expenses.
But she reported with thanksgiving that a believing Canadian
family had provided their home as a place to stay, one that
was clean and safe.

As I prepared to sign off, I wrote, “Your brothers and sisters

in America love you.” To which Asma quickly replied, “I’m so
happy to be a part of this family. I’m just happy to be a stone
in this temple.” Then she added, “I love you, my family, very
much.”

What you quickly realize living in a Muslim nation, where

Christians are an extreme minority, is that hospitality isn’t

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just a method of evangelism. Hospitality often becomes part

of the gospel offer.

For people to turn from their birth family and inherited faith
to follow Christ is to embrace a life-long experience of exile.
They face social persecution. Their families disown them.
They can lose their place at school, their job, their spouse,
and even their children. They may, quite literally, be kicked to
the curb. So when you present the gospel to them, you have
to be ready to offer a place to stay.

In fact, I know of at least one church in the country where we

lived that reserved rooms in their sanctuary for this purpose.
If someone expressed interest in following Christ and being
baptized, the congregation was prepared to put them up for
a time. If their relatives became incensed or violent, or if they
disowned them, the new believers would have an immediate
place of refuge.

You might see how providing temporary housing could be

helpful or even necessary in certain contexts, but not in
America. However, I’m convinced it will be in days ahead.
As family and friends react in anger at their loved ones’
conversion. As becoming a Christian means stepping away
from a partner and a house, an occupation and income, or
leaving a whole community. As new followers of Christ walk
into immediate exile. In such situations, the church will need
to provide the family and home that the gospel promises.

REWA RD OF HOU SES

AN D FA M I LY

In Mark 3:21 there’s a strange, isolated account reporting that

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Jesus’s family “went out to seize him, for they were saying,
‘He is out of his mind.’” Suddenly, in the next paragraph,
the narrative spotlight shifts to the scribes from Jerusalem.
They came down to Capernaum and accused Jesus of being
possessed by Beelzebul. The Jewish leaders attributed
his power and miracles to Satan! Then, at the end of their
exchange, the story again returns to Jesus’s relatives. We
encounter them standing outside of the home in Capernaum,
calling out to Jesus.

Their summons was an attempt to stop him. Jesus’s family

truly thought he had gone mad. Their assessment of his
ministry was basically in line with that of the scribes, so they
were taking action. They wanted Jesus to drop his crowd-
creating shtick. It was time to come home. The show was
over.

But when Jesus learned of Mary and her sons calling out for
him, his curt response was striking: “Who are my mother and
my brothers?” (Mark 3:34).

Jesus was abandoned and forsaken by the most important

people in his life, not just by Roman rulers and godless
magistrates. He was condemned by Judaism’s elite, by the
religious authorities and scholars of his day. We can easily
miss these enormous consequences, but to cross the
cultural gatekeepers in a tightly guarded religious system
was to mark yourself as an outlier and a heretic. It meant
incredible personal shame. Perhaps more significantly,
especially in Middle Eastern society, it simultaneously meant
unbearable reproach on the family name. So even Mary and

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her other sons turned against him.56

As a result, Jesus faced exile on almost every level, both

emotional and also physical. He was completely rejected
and ostracized. But in the middle of such social exclusion
Jesus found his belonging in a family greater than his blood
relatives. Because, as Jesus said, “Whoever does the will of
God, he is my brother and sister and mother” (Mark 3:35).
His true clan was the larger gathering, the great host of
heaven, all who belonged to his Father. And so it is for us,
his followers.

Later on in Mark’s Gospel57 we come to a parallel experience

in the life of the disciples when they encountered a rich
young man. Jesus challenged the man to go and sell all
that he had. In response, Peter—the same Peter who later
wrote his epistle to Asian exiles—felt the need to bring to
his Lord’s attention that he, along with all the other disciples,
had already left everything to follow him.

And here Jesus’s words are of immeasurable weight and

inestimable value for believers suffering today in exile for
the gospel:

Jesus said, “Truly, I say to you, there is no one who has

left house or brothers or sisters or mother or father or

56 At this point in time, Jesus’s family seems to have turned against him. According to
John 7:5, Jesus’s brothers didn’t believe in him or understand his mission. However, later
biblical accounts would suggest that they came to trust and follow him (Acts 1:14). For
more detailed discussion on the translation and a defense of this interpretation of Mark
3:21, see France, The Gospel of Mark (Grand Rapids, Eerdmans: 2002), 165–67.

57 Church tradition has historically seen Peter behind Mark’s Gospel. The early Church
Father Papias, writing around A.D. 130, attests to Mark becoming “Peter’s interpreter”
and writing with accuracy what he remembered (Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History, 3.39.15).

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children or lands, for my sake and for the gospel, who will
not receive a hundredfold now in this time, houses and
brothers and sisters and mothers and children and lands,
with persecutions, and in the age to come eternal life.”
(Mark 10:29–30)

Do you see it? The reward of the gospel includes houses and
families! Jesus left his heavenly home only to be forsaken by
his earthly family and by Jewish authorities. The Son of Man
didn’t even have a place to lay his head (Luke 9:58). But in
his experience of exile and through his cross, Jesus inherited
a family and a home. And here, for his beleaguered disciples,
he promised the same. They had left houses and brothers
and lands and fathers for his name’s sake. In return, they
could expect the same and much more.

This is the good news of home for displaced followers of

Jesus. Christian hospitality isn’t just what we do to show
kindness to strangers or unbelievers. It’s certainly not what
we do to entertain guests or show off our home. Christian
hospitality can’t even be reduced to a sacrificial act of
generosity and love, because in reality it’s far more. Christian
hospitality is the reward of the gospel. It’s a foretaste in this
life of a shared inheritance in the next. It’s a seat at the table
now, the shadow of a future feast where we’ll recline at table
in the kingdom.

It’s for Asma, a forsaken and impoverished young woman in

Central Asia, who has left everything to follow Jesus, having
lost her home, her father, and maybe a big portion of her
future. But who, in so doing, has gained countless siblings in
Christ. She has a family in America who loves and prays for
her. She also has a home thanks to a Canadian brother and

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sister. And she has a cloud of witnesses cheering her on.

HONOR AN D HOME

One of my favorite Bible stories as a child comes from 2

Samuel. I can still remember my father teaching about
Mephibosheth, the young boy who had an unfortunate fall,
a tragic accident that left him crippled on the fateful day
his father and grandfather, King Saul, were killed (2 Sam.
4:4). But like any good story, it didn’t end there. Years later
Mephibosheth experienced an unexpected rise to honor in
the house of David (2 Sam. 9).

Normally in the ancient world when a king ascended to the

throne, he wiped out all the competition, specifically any
descendants from a rival dynasty. But when David became
king, he did the opposite. Years earlier he had made a
covenant with Jonathan, the father of Mephibosheth, that he
would do good to his offspring. It was a strategically hazardous
promise at the time, knowing that whoever survived in Saul’s
family would present a credible threat to his reign.

Shortly after rising to power, David inquired of the state of

Saul’s line. When he discovered that Saul still had a living
descendant, he immediately called Mephibosheth into his
presence. David was resolved to keep his covenant with
Jonathan and show kindness to his son. So he did, restoring
all of Saul’s land to the family, providing work for his servants,
and granting Mephibosheth a permanent seat at the king’s
table.58

58 David described God as “Father of the fatherless” who “settles the solitary in a
home” (Ps. 68:5–6). So by bringing Mephibosheth into his home, David was being like
God (Ps. 113:6–8). For a more extended meditation on the story of Mephibosheth, see
Jayson Georges and Mark D. Baker, Ministering in Honor-Shame Cultures: Biblical Founda-
tions and Practical Essentials (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2016), 83–86.

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David took the person who should have been his greatest
enemy and made him a close companion. He took an
individual disgraced by disability and exalted him to a place
of honor. He rescued a man destined to live out his days in
hiding or political exile and gave him a home, even a seat at
his own table. And, of course, in so doing King David was just
like—and pointed to—King Jesus.

Jesus loved us while we were still his enemies. He

transformed us from rebels into friends. Those who were not
a people he made his own people (2:10). He brought us into
his kingdom, and we have been adopted into the royal family,
given a place at the table and a share in his inheritance.59 In
his Father’s house there are many rooms, because Jesus is
preparing a place for us (John 14:2).

As we’ve seen from the letter of 1 Peter, to follow in the

footsteps of a crucified king is to walk into exile, into shame
and social exclusion, and even persecution. But the gospel
of Jesus, as genuine good news, simultaneously welcomes
us into honor and a home. That is the hope of future glory. It’s
the hope that began this book and now ends it. Hospitality
is one way of tangibly experiencing the good news of home
in the here and now. It’s having a table prepared for us in the
presence of our enemies.

59 The end-time vision in Isa. 25:6–8 is of a great feast prepared by the Lord for his
people where he will remove their shame and reproach from all the earth.

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C O N C L U S I O N
“ H U M B L E Y O U R S E LV E S , T H E R E F O R E ,
UNDER THE MIGHTY HAND OF GOD
S O T H AT AT T H E P R O P E R T I M E H E
M AY E X A LT Y O U , . . . A N D A F T E R
Y O U H AV E S U F F E R E D A L I T T L E
WHILE, THE GOD OF ALL GRACE,
W H O H A S C A L L E D YO U TO H I S
E T E R N A L G L O R Y I N C H R I S T, W I L L
H I M S E L F R E STO R E , CO N F I R M ,
S T R E N G T H E N , A N D E S TA B L I S H
YO U . TO H I M B E T H E D O M I N I O N
FOREVER AND EVER. AMEN.”

— P E T E R T HE A P OST LE ( 1 PET. 5:6, 10–11)

I f you’ve made it this far—and if you picked up this book

in the first place—it’s likely because you desire to grow
in personal evangelism. You probably sense, as I do for
myself, that you’re coming up short in your responsibility to
make Christ known. As a result, you may bear the burden of
failure. Perhaps you’re simultaneously disheartened with the
church’s attempts to reach the lost in our communities. But
that’s not too surprising. My guess is that all of us feel some
measure of discontentment when it comes to our pursuit of
evangelism, whether individually or corporately.

But I’ve also observed a growing anxiety in American

Christianity about our changing place in the world. There’s a
roiling undercurrent of fear and unease about what the future
will hold for us as believers in Jesus. Leaders in various
spheres of our culture seem to be conspiring against Christ

152
and his church, threatening our way of life. So we wonder
what our experience will be as a shrinking minority. And that’s
not all. We also wonder how we’ll accomplish our mission
without the status and privileges we’ve come to cherish—
and even expect.

So this book has addressed those twin concerns, specifically

by positioning the call to evangelism within the context of
exile. Taking Peter’s first epistle as our guide, we’ve sought
to reorient our thinking and provide a new perspective (which
is really an old one) on how to live on mission as strangers in
our own land. And now that we’ve come to the end, my prayer
is that you’ll put this book down with renewed focus and a
big-picture outlook on how to go about this task.

VI EWIN G ALL OF
L I FE AS MISSION

In my experience, many missionaries—even volunteers on

short-term ministry trips—tend to consciously approach
every moment in relation to mission. They saturate their
days with prayer. They consider the intended or unintended
consequences of their mannerisms and behavior, being
careful how they spend their money, how they dress, and
how they interact with others. They demonstrate the utmost
respect and honor for locals, even to people drastically
different from them. They also view random encounters as
God-ordained opportunities, so they purposefully speak with
just about anyone—shopkeepers, waiters, and taxi drivers—
about their faith.

But somehow when we’re in our home country and going

about our daily lives, we often lack that self-awareness and

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mission-focus. We slip into routines. We lose intentionality.
This is actually one of the dangers of ministry trips: They
can perpetuate our compartmentalized view of mission.
Outreach becomes what we do at certain times and places.
Evangelism is an event or a program. So we ignore the
interconnectedness of witness and daily work. We struggle to
live out the truth that effectiveness in evangelism demands
both our words and also our way of life.

But this book has tried to marry the extraordinary call to

evangelism with the ordinary and the everyday—with how we
relate to a spouse who doesn’t believe; to neighbors opposed
to the Bible; to friends who mock our morality; and even to
godless authorities. We’ve done this by considering how we
can embody the tension of simultaneously living in hope and
fear, humility and authority, holiness and hospitality. Folded
together, these complementary dispositions influence every
area of our lives and subsequently every facet of our witness.
We’ve explored how they work concurrently to open up others
to the gospel while opening our mouths with the gospel,
helping us remember that we’re constantly on mission.

UN DERSTA NDIN G
EX ILE AS NORMA L

As I began to think about examples for this book, I was

amazed by story after story from Scripture of those who lived
as strangers and aliens: people like Abraham and Joseph,
Moses and David, Jeremiah and Nehemiah, and of course,
Jesus. In fact, Jesus said of his own proverbial experience,
“A prophet is not without honor, except in his hometown and
among his relatives and in his own household” (Mark 6:4).

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Reflecting then on some of these biblical examples in
previous chapters has helped to illustrate that exile is the
norm for the children of God. It’s common in the pages of the
Bible, but also across history and throughout the world today.
So while my focus has been on a narrow issue (evangelism)
for a contemporary audience (American exiles), I’ve tried
to be biblical and global. I’ve wanted us to hear stories of
Central Asians living in a Muslim-majority context and ground
the whole book in Peter’s epistle to believers in first-century
Asia. I’ve also wanted us to consider how minorities in
America are likely to have experience and wisdom for the
rest of us on this topic.

In a sense, this isn’t just a book about what I believe

evangelism needs to become in our unfolding experience of
exile in this land; it’s about what I believe our evangelism
should’ve been all along—what evangelism could be in
any country. It’s a biblical argument for how all Christians
everywhere should seek to glorify God and reach others in
the face of social exclusion. In reality, if we haven’t or aren’t
currently dealing with some level of reproach and shame in
this nation, it’s likely owing to the fact that we haven’t been
practicing bold and biblical evangelism in the first place.

CONSIDERING
STRANGEN ESS AS GOOD

Throughout this book I’ve tried to develop a somewhat subtle

theme on the positive potential for our witness within earthly
exile. As hopes diminish and fears increase, as opponents
rise to power and our cultural influence fades, as we become
outcasts and even refugees—it’s then, at this very moment,
that the church will have an incredible opportunity for the
gospel.

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As I see it, one of the greatest hindrances to everyday
evangelism is our desire to fit in and be normal. But exile—
coming face to face with the reality that we don’t belong—has
a way of opening up our horizons to the possibility of being
different and strange. We who by nature long to be insiders,
to be accepted and approved, can be freed from that burden
and as outsiders take the scary step toward being culturally
inappropriate—in positive and proactive ways—and do the
otherwise unthinkable.

Like Esther, we can open our mouths when it’s least expected
and when it’s risky. Like Daniel, we can look for ways to live
with visible distinction and possibly even noncompliance.
Like Naaman’s servant, we can defy convention and pursue
the good of our oppressors. Like the Good Samaritan, we
can show unexpected neighbor-love through sacrifice and
hospitality. And like Jesus, we can upend social propriety and
speak with a disgraced foreigner or dine with a despised
sinner.

Being a Christian in America, now more than ever before,

puts us on the outside. Personal evangelism relegates
us to the fringe. But the fringe isn’t always a bad place to
be. The voice of outsiders has power because it confronts
monotony. A musical note struck off key is the one most
easily recognized. Now is not the time for us to try to cohere
the Christian message to a shared sensibility, to make the
church fit into the surrounding cultural mold. We should keep
Christianity weird. And in so doing, we just might reach our
neighbors.

156
 SEEI NG TRIALS (AN D
E VA N G E L I S M ) AS TEMPORARY

One of the primary features of Peter’s letter, and one I

haven’t fully developed, is his value comparison between
the temporal and the eternal. Between what is precious and
what is passing.

Peter writes that the Christian inheritance is imperishable,

undefiled, and unfading (1:4). Trials, on the other hand,
only last “for a little while” (1:6). As we endure through
momentary suffering, Peter says that our tested faith is
purified as through fire; and such faith is more precious than
gold that ultimately passes away (1:7). The incomparably
precious blood of Christ, however, is imperishable and pure
(1:18–19), and the proclaimed gospel is living and abiding.
Conversely, Peter reminds us that all flesh—including those
who’d oppose us—is like the fading flower of the field (1:23–
24).

In those examples we get a glimpse into Peter’s comparative

analysis on the temporality of suffering, trials, and human
opposition in view of eternity. He desires for his readers to
feel the full weight of the never-ending, never-diminishing joy
and honor they will share with Christ at his return. Peter,
as an eyewitness to Jesus’s sufferings and his radiant glory
(5:1), wants us, as we face numerous trials, to recognize the
inestimable and enduring value of the gospel and the hope
of heaven. That’s why he repeatedly calls us to live in view of
the last day (1:5, 7, 13; 2:12; 4:5, 13; 5:4, 6, 10).

As exiles we desperately need this method of appraisal—this

other-worldly outlook—to be keenly aware of the shortness

157
of pain and the unrivalled permanence of joy. When our eyes
naturally fix on the troubles at hand, we need to zoom out to
a wide-angle view, taking in the panorama of eternity to give
perspective to our present suffering.

Brothers and sisters, our exile is normal. But the good news
is that our shame and earthly sufferings come printed with
an expiration date. They’ll never outlast or outweigh glory.
As a matter of fact, even our evangelism is temporary. So
let’s be faithful to declare God’s praises while it’s still called
today.

158
T he Gospel Coalition is a fellowship of evangelical
churches deeply committed to renewing our faith in the
gospel of Christ and to reforming our ministry practices to
conform fully to the Scriptures. We have committed ourselves
to invigorating churches with new hope and compelling joy
based on the promises received by grace alone through faith
alone in Christ alone.

We desire to champion the gospel with clarity, compassion,

courage, and joy—gladly linking hearts with fellow believers
across denominational, ethnic, and class lines. We yearn to
work with all who, in addition to embracing our confession
and theological vision for ministry, seek the lordship of Christ
over the whole of life with unabashed hope in the power of
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Join the cause and visit TGC.org for fresh resources that will
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TGC.ORG
 T H E DAYS O F C U LT U R A L
C H R I ST I A N I T Y A R E FA D I N G .
I T ’ S T I M E TO R E T H I N K N O R M A L .

Suffering and exclusion are normal in a believer’s life. At least they should
be. This was certainly Jesus’s experience. And it’s the experience of count-
less Christians around the world today.

No matter your social location or set of experiences, the biblical letter of 1

Peter wants to redefine your expectations and reinvigorate your hope.

Drawing on years of ministry in a Muslim-majority nation, Elliot Clark guides

us through Peter’s letter with striking insights for today. Whether we’re in
positions of power or weakness, influence or marginalization, all of us are
called to live and witness as exiles in a world that’s not our home. This is
our job description. This is our mission. This is our opportunity.

A church in exile doesn’t have to be a church in retreat.

A B O U T T H E AU T H O R

Elliot Clark (MDiv, The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary) lived in Cen-
tral Asia, where he served as a crosscultural church planter along with his
wife and children. He currently works to train local church leaders overseas
with Training Leaders International.

$12.99
ISBN 978-0-578-46201-1
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