I’m writing this installment of my Maranatha Letters at an altitude of 39,000 feet, somewhere over the Egyptian Sahara. Our flight path to Ethiopia traced the southern edge of the Mediterranean, a coastline that once formed the very heart of the Christian world. For nearly four centuries, North Africa was the Church’s Bible Belt—the land of Tertullian, Cyprian, Augustine, and countless martyrs whose faith lit up the Roman Empire. These deserts once echoed with psalms, prayers, and the sound of hymns rising from churches now long buried in sand.

Then came the invaders from the East. At the edge of a saber, through the crushing weight of taxation and the promise of survival, Islam’s spread was stunningly swift. The crosses came down. The Scriptures were burned. And within a few generations, the once most Christian region of the world was transformed beyond recognition. 

I can’t help but wonder what it felt like to live through that collapse—to watch neighbors, merchants, and even family members renounce Christ to embrace so hideous a lie.  Did the faithful who remained cling to hope, whispering the Lord’s Prayer in secret? Did they believe the gates of hell would prevail after all? Or did they—like Elijah beneath the broom tree—believe themselves the last ones left?

Of course, there are still pockets of Coptic Christians primarily in Egypt. In fact, I had a colleague in seminary from Cairo. I can’t publicly share his name, as he’s faced intense pressure and intimidation from Egypt’s Islamic government. 

But as I look out over the barren expanse below, I’m struck by how fragile the faith of a culture can seem, and yet how indestructible the Kingdom truly is. Empires fall, languages die, and church buildings crumble into dust—but the gospel never does. Somewhere, in another desert or city or cell, another believer whispers, “Come, Lord Jesus.”

Maranatha,

Jordy