A Vanishing World: What We Can Learn from the Churches of the East
At St Mary’s Brecon, where I serve, our book club recently read and discussed William Dalrymple’s From the Holy Mountain. It’s a journey through lands where Christianity once flourished but now clings to existences. Reading his account—and knowing what further devastation lay ahead in the coming decades—was harrowing. Alongside it, Janine di Giovanni’s The Vanishing: The Twilight of Christianity in the Middle East offers a sobering, accessible introduction to the suffering of these ancient churches, accentuated by Western geopolitics of the last 25 year.
Though I’ve long been familiar with the history of the Eastern Churches, these books helped me see more clearly how the West’s cultural and political dominance has shaped its understanding of Christian mission. Unlike the old Protestant critiques of Constantine’s influence, this isn’t about lamenting a supposed fall from purity. Rather, it’s about recognising how thoroughly Western churches assume they have the political power to shape laws, institutions, and the moral compass of society. That era may be over, whether one mourns or welcomes its passing. Attendance dwindles, institutions grow more unstable, and the Church’s voice carries less and less weight in public life.
But the churches of the East have for centuries as minorities, navigating persecution and shifting regimes. They’ve known exile and suffering. And if we in the West are willing to listen, we may find they’ve got wisdom we desperately need.
Embracing the Age of Exile
In the West, we’ve long enjoyed the privileges of a Church that once held a firm seat at the table of society—shaping laws, moulding institutions, and dictating cultural norms. Yet, as we watch attendance dwindle and institutions weaken, it becomes clear that the days of unquestioned authority have passed. There’s a certain stubbornness in our desire to regain that lost power, an almost knee-jerk reflex to battle for influence rather than simply to bear witness. The time’s come to acknowledge that we’re probably entering an era of exile—a quiet departure from the centres of power.
Eastern Christian communities have long known this truth. They’ve weathered centuries of persecution, shifting empires, and the ever-present reality of being a minority. They can’t cling to the illusion of political power; instead, they must remain faithful regardless of whether the state supports them or society even recognises their values. This acceptance of exile isn’t a defeat but a dignified stance—a gentle surrender that leaves room for a deeper, spiritual resilience. As we in the West face a similar decline, perhaps it’s time to see our situation not as a temporary setback but as the end of an old era, inviting us to reimagine what it means to live as the Church in today’s world.
Patient Endurance
For much of our history, the West’s embraced a political theology that insists on the Church’s engagement with the state. This mindset’s driven efforts to legislate morality, influence public life, and secure a place in the corridors of power. Yet, when the state turns away and the cultural tide shifts, such strategies leave us exposed to the very forces we once thought we could control.
The Eastern Churches have always understood that the essence of faith isn’t found in political triumphs or cultural victories, but in a quiet, enduring witness. Their lives are a testament to the biblical theme of exile—a lived experience that reminds us our faith is rooted not in worldly approval but in the hope of resurrection. “If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first” (John 15:18). How often have they felt the reality of those words?
The 13th-century theologian Bar Hebraeus wrote of patience: “He who does not burn from a love of God resembles a limestone tile that is used as a foundation-stone on the bank of a river and endures not for one hour. If, however, it is baked, it endures like a rock.” This shift in focus—from striving for control to a patient endurance that’s itself a witness—requires us to abandon old assumptions. It calls on us to live as exiles in our own lands, trusting that God’s at work even when our influence seems diminished. There’s a quiet strength in this approach, a power that comes not from dominance but from unwavering faith.
Practicing Hospitality in a Pluralistic World
But the story of the Eastern Church is also a story of coexistence. For centuries, Eastern Christians have lived alongside Muslims, Jews, and others, in a mosaic of beliefs and traditions. Both Dalrymple and di Giovanni recount Muslims lighting candles and offering sacrifices at Christian shrines in the desperate hope that God would hear their prayers. The Eastern Christian experience teaches us the art of hospitality—not a mere tolerance of difference, but an active, gracious engagement with those who don’t share our faith.
In our increasingly pluralistic societies, the Western Church faces the challenge of remaining distinct without retreating into isolation. The answer may lie in the very practices that have sustained Eastern communities. By embracing a spirit of hospitality and openness, we can learn to live in the midst of diversity without compromising our beliefs. It’s not about diluting our convictions, but about expressing them in a way that welcomes dialogue and understanding.
In a world that often feels divided and hostile, this approach offers a gentle, yet radical, alternative. It’s a call to build bridges through shared humanity and to recognise that true faith is expressed in acts of compassion and solidarity. The art of coexistence, much like the art of farming or storytelling, demands patience, care, and a willingness to see the beauty in difference and to nurture the good, the true, and beautiful even when we find them in our enemies and persecutors.
From Grief to Hope
There is a profound grief that accompanies the decline of an era—a mourning for what once was and a sorrow for the loss of a certain kind of certainty. Yet, within this lament lies the seed of hope. “Those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy” (Psalm 126:5). The Eastern Churches have long taught that lament is not the end of the story, but a necessary part of the journey toward resurrection.
In our struggle to regain relevance, we have often looked for strategies to reverse decline—political manoeuvrings, marketing campaigns, and cultural battles. But perhaps what we need is not a fight to reclaim power, but an honest admission of loss. Mourning the disappearance of a once-dominant Christendom is not an act of defeat and standing firmly against nationalistic counterfeits of it; it is a recognition of the changing seasons of our history. And in that grief, there is a certain hope—a hope that emerges from the deep well of faith, a hope that assures us that God’s work continues regardless of our worldly fortunes.
This perspective invites us to see our current state not as a crisis, but as a transition—a necessary passage toward a new way of living out our faith. The Church is not defined by the accolades of power, but by its capacity to be a living presence, a sanctuary where sorrow is met with comfort, and despair is transformed into hope.
A Future Rooted in Witness
If, indeed, the era of the Church’s institutional power is drawing to a close, then perhaps we’re being granted a chance to redefine what it means to be the Church. The Eastern Churches remind us that the true essence of our calling isn’t to govern, but to be a loving and resilient witnessin the world.
If this is the case, then let’s heed the wisdom of those who’ve walked the path of exile long before us. Let’s learn to measure success not by the ability to dictate laws or influence politics, but by the quiet strength of our enduring faith. “The one who stands firm to the end will be saved” (Matt. 24:13). In embracing our own exile, we may yet discover a deeper, more authentic way of living the Gospel, one that honours the legacy of those who’ve suffered and survived for the sake of the truth that set them free.
The churches of the Middle East, though diminished in number, shine brightly as beacons of hope. This isn’t because they’ve been perfect or always saintly (far from it), but because their long story isn’t one of defeat, but of faithfulness in the face of adversity. And in their witness, we find a roadmap for our own journey—a call to live as exiles, not with despair, but with the quiet confidence that God is present, even when power is absent.
But nor is this a call for retreat or strategic withdrawal. Jesus Himself prepared His disciples for a world of opposition, not by instructing them to flee, but by calling them to stand firm in joy (Matthew 5:12) and to take heart in the face of trouble (John 16:33). The Church’s role is not to seek refuge in isolation but to bear faithful witness wherever we are placed. If anything, exile reminds us that our calling has never been about securing worldly power, but about embodying the truth in love—boldly, publicly, and with unwavering hope.
