When churches suffer persecution in distant corners of the world, the question is not whether we should care—it’s whether we understand what it means to be part of the body of Christ.

The ApostleDerived from a Greek word meaning "one who is sent," an apostle is a person who embraces and advocates another person's idea or beliefs. At the beginning of his ministry Jesus called twelve apostles to follow and serve him. Paul became an apostle of Jesus... More PaulThe Apostle Paul, originally known as Saul of Tarsus, was the author of several New Testament letters and the founder of many Christian communities. More writes in 1 Corinthians 12:26, “If one member suffers, all suffer together with it.” This is not a metaphor to be admired from a distance—it is a biological and spiritual reality. The church is a body, and bodies are designed to respond to pain.

Dr. Paul Brand, a pioneering physician who worked with leprosy patients, along with author Philip Yancey, explored this truth in their book Pain: The Gift Nobody Wants. Brand observed that pain is one of the body’s greatest gifts. It is the signal that something is wrong, the alarm that mobilizes the body to protect and heal itself. When a toe is stubbed, the whole body reacts—the eyes water, the voice cries out, the hands reach down. The body does not ignore pain; it responds.

But Brand also saw the tragedy of a body that cannot feel pain. In his work with leprosy patients, he found that the absence of pain led to unnoticed injuries, infections, and ultimately, the loss of limbs. A body that does not recognize pain is a body in danger.

This image is deeply instructive for the church. A healthy body recognizes pain and takes appropriate action. An unhealthy body fails to recognize pain and take any action. When believers in Pakistan are attacked, when pastors in Iran are imprisoned, when churches in China are destroyed—these are not distant events. They are injuries to the body of Christ. And if we do not feel them, we must ask: have we become numb?

Nigeria: A Church Marked by Loss and Courage

A few years ago, I was invited to speak at a large church in Nigeria—about twice the size of the one I was preaching in that day. Before the service, they wanted to show me the building. It was beautiful: clean white walls, bright rooms, everything in order. As I walked through, I entered a Sunday school classroom. At first glance, it looked like any other—neat and well-kept—but then I noticed a large stain on one wall.

I asked, “What’s that from?”

They told me the story. A couple of years earlier, Boko Haram had come to that town. The name Boko Haram means “Western education forbidden.” You may know the word halal, which means acceptable; haram is the opposite—not acceptable. Boko Haram has a very narrow interpretation of what it means to be a good Muslim, and they attack churches, schools, police stations, and even other mosques that don’t share their view.

That day, Boko Haram entered the town. A group of boys were playing in the courtyard outside the church. When they saw the attackers coming, they ran inside to hide in that classroom—the very room where I was standing. The stain on the wall was where their blood had splattered after their throats were slit.

I’m sorry—that’s not a pleasant picture. But that is the reality of pain and persecution. Fifteen minutes later, I was scheduled to preach. What do you say after hearing something like that?

When I walked into the sanctuaryA sanctuary is the consecrated area around the altar of a church or temple. It also means a place of safety where one can flee for protection. In the Old Testament, especially in the Psalms, God is referred to as a sanctuary, a refuge from... More, the people greeted me with smiles—warm, joyful smiles, just like you greeted me today. And I thought about the paradox so many of our brothers and sisters live with: real fear, real pain, and at the same time, real joy in the fellowship of believers and in their faith in JesusJesus is the Messiah whose life, death, and resurrection are God's saving act for humanity. More Christ. They live with that tension every single day.

Later that day, I got into a car to travel to another city. I was half-dozing when I noticed a roadblock ahead. I knew about these roadblocks—police set them up to stop Boko Haram, forcing cars to zigzag through tires while officers check vehicles. But Boko Haram had learned to exploit this. Two weeks before I arrived, they stole police uniforms and began setting up fake roadblocks, dragging people out of cars and shooting them.

So when I saw 10 or 15 armed men ahead, I asked the pastor sitting in the front seat, “Do we know—is that the police, or could that be Boko Haram?” His answer was simple: “You should pray.”

That wasn’t the reassurance I was hoping for. But it was the truth. Thankfully, it was the police, and we passed through safely. But as we drove on, I began to think: I’ll be leaving in two days. My brothers and sisters live with this reality every single day. Every trip down that road could be their last.

India: A Pastor Scarred but Faithful

A few years ago, I traveled to India to lead a series of lectures for a group of pastors. After one session, a pastor approached me and said, “Can I share my story?” I told him, “Please do.”

India is a vast, beautiful country—a mosaic of languages, cultures, and religions. Many communities live peacefully side by side, but others live with violence every single day. This pastor began to tell me what happened in his church.

He was preaching one Sunday and preparing to serve HolyHoly is a term that originally meant set apart for the worship or service of God. While the term may refer to people, objects, time, or places, holiness in Judaism and Christianity primarily denotes the realm of the divine More Communion. His church wasn’t a large building like ours—it was simple, with a roof and low walls so you could see inside. The congregation sat on the floor as he spoke. Suddenly, a man walked in. At first glance, he looked like any other visitor, but he was not. He began shouting, accusing the pastor of forcibly converting people. In his mind, offering bread and wine was a trick to make people Christians—a belief held by some Hindu nationalist groups.

The pastor told me, “I bent down and whispered to the congregation, ‘Get out of here. This man is crazy. We don’t know what he’s going to do.’” At that moment, the man pulled a machete from the sheath on his back. He swung it toward the pastor’s neck, intending to kill him. But as the pastor lifted his head, the blade struck his skull instead of his neck. He showed me the sutures that were still there.

“There was blood everywhere,” he said. Chaos erupted—people screaming, running. The police arrived, questioned everyone, and arrested the attacker. But then, incredibly, they arrested the pastor too—charging him with false conversion. After being stitched up at the hospital, he was taken to the police station.

That is the reality for many Christians in India. Violence, false accusations, and fear—yet faith that endures.

These are not isolated incidents. They are cries of pain from the body of Christ. And we must respond.

The early church offers us models of faithful response. In Acts 12, when PeterPeter (also known as Cephas, Simon Peter) was the disciple who denied Jesus during his trial but later became a leader in proclaiming Jesus. More was imprisoned, the church prayed earnestly. Their response was immediate, communal, and active. And in 2 Corinthians 8, Paul commends the Macedonian churches for their generosity in the midst of suffering. Though they were experiencing “a severe test of affliction” and “extreme poverty,” they gave sacrificially to support fellow believers in Jerusalem. Paul writes:

“For they gave according to their means, and beyond their means, of their own accord, begging us earnestly for the favor of taking part in the relief of the saints.” (2 Corinthians 8:3–4)

Even in their own hardship, they recognized the pain of others and took action. This is the kind of spiritual reflex that marks a healthy church—one that feels, responds, and heals. And Hebrews 13:3 calls us to “remember those who are in prison, as though you were in prison with them.” This is not a call to sympathy—it is a call to solidarity. It is a summons to enter into the suffering of others with love, courage, and faithful presence. The cross of Christ is not only a symbol of salvation—it is a summons to costly love.