Inheriting a Life of Faith and Courage
Some of the most meaningful lessons I’ve learned about compassion and justice have come from my cousin, who is a committed atheist. Over the years, we’ve had many conversations about what it means to care for others and act with kindness. In one discussion, I found myself saying, “You would make a very strong Christian.”
What has struck me is this: the very instincts that draw me toward justice, compassion for the oppressed, and human dignity often surface in my atheist family member as well. Tom Holland captures this dynamic in Dominion: The Making of the Western Mind, observing, “To live in a Western country is to live in a society still utterly saturated by Christian concepts and assumptions.”[1] He goes on, “So profound has been the impact of Christianity on the development of Western civilisation that it has come to be hidden from view. It is the incomplete revolutions which are remembered; the fate of those which triumph is to be taken for granted.”[2]
This raises an important question: could my cousin’s concern for justice, compassion, and human dignity reflect not a purely human invention, but a shared Christian heritage? Holland’s historical perspective suggests that it could. His insights reveal something striking: even the secular ideals of the West are deeply rooted in a Christian ethical framework. He notes the irony: “An age of enlightenment and revolution had served to establish as international law a principle that derived from the depths of the Catholic past.”[3] This helps explain why my cousin and I, though we hold different beliefs, often act from the same moral foundation. Our shared commitment to justice, compassion, and care for the vulnerable reflects a common moral inheritance—one that points back to a Creator who designed humanity for goodness, even when some search for fulfillment apart from Him.
Reading Dominion, I am struck by how the stories of Christianity’s influence reveal humanity’s persistent quest for deliverance—whether through kings, politicians, philosophers, revolutionaries, or the Church—“[aspiring] to a condition of untainted purity.”[4] Holland observes, “Certainly, to dream of a world transformed by a reformation, or an enlightenment, or a revolution is nothing exclusively modern. Rather, it is to dream as medieval visionaries dreamed: to dream in the manner of a Christian.”[5] Similarly, Frank Macchia notes in The Trinity, Practically Speaking, “The human quest for personal welfare and even immortality is as old as the human race. At least some of these efforts are necessary and noble. But what astounds me is the vigor and passion that is expended towards some form of deliverance from death, guilt, gracelessness, or meaninglessness.”[6] Yet even as Christians, we often pursue justice, compassion, and human dignity while avoiding the cost that true faith demands. We long for deliverance from pain, persecution, and even death, hoping to enjoy the benefits of righteousness without embracing its sacrifices.
Throughout history, many followers of Jesus did not seek to escape suffering, but courageously accepted their fate at the hands of governments or so-called “religious leaders.” In Acts 7:59-60, we read of Stephen’s martyrdom: “And as they were stoning Stephen, he called out, ‘Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.’ And falling to his knees he cried out with a loud voice, ‘Lord, do not hold this sin against them.’ And when he had said this, he fell asleep.” Holland also recounts the story of Blandina, a young slave girl in the early church, who endured torture without giving her persecutors the satisfaction of breaking her will. As Lynn H. Cohick and Amy Brown Hughes note in Christian Women in the Patristic World, Blandina was “a young slave girl in the early church who endured torture without giving her persecutors the satisfaction of breaking her will.”[7] They further note that she “stood out among the group for her very particular posture as she hung on a stake to be picked apart by birds.”[8]These examples illustrate that true faith often demands embracing suffering rather than avoiding it—a reality Christians must reckon with.
Living as a Christian today often involves facing the real costs of faith. Pursuing justice, compassion, and human dignity can carry tangible risks—loss of comfort, security, or even life itself. Holland reminds us that the ethical framework of Christianity has shaped even secular values in the West, influencing how we understand justice, human dignity, and responsibility. His perspective shows that the courage required of Christians is not merely personal—it is part of a long continuum of faith-driven action. Choosing to act faithfully may demand sacrifice, and these acts—though costly—connect us to a larger story of commitment and endurance that stretches across centuries.
Reflecting on all of this, I am reminded of my cousin. Over the years, our conversations have taught me much about compassion, justice, and caring for others. Yet the examples of Stephen, Blandina, and countless others reveal something my cousin’s life cannot: for Christians, faith shapes moral instincts, calling them to endure suffering—even death—for the sake of Christ. What my cousin values in principle, Christians are called to live in practice, often at great personal cost. In this way, my cousin’s lessons on justice and compassion echo the moral convictions of faith, but the faithful show the weight, depth, and enduring significance that a life grounded in Christ can give to those convictions.
[1] Holland, Tom. Dominion: The Making of the Western Mind. New York: Doubleday, 2019, Kindle Edition, 13.
[2] Holland, Dominion, Kindle Edition, 17.
[3] Holland, Dominion, Kindle Edition, 412.
[4] Holland, Dominion, Kindle Edition, 136.
[5] Holland, Dominion, Kindle Edition, 13.
[6] Frank Macchia, The Trinity, Practically Speaking (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2006), 46
[7] Lynn H. Cohick and Amy Brown Hughes, Christian Women in the Patristic World (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2017), Kindle Edition, 190.
[8] Cohick and Hughes, Christian Women in the Patristic World, Kindle Edition, 190.
About the Author
Elysse Burns
16 responses to “Inheriting a Life of Faith and Courage”
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Elysse, your post on this book is thought-provoking. I am particularly drawn to your comparison of how Christians and non-Christians may have the same values, but one is weighted by belief and the cost it may have. Living in a country that is decidedly not Christian, do you see similar values among the people living there as you may hold?
Hey Diane,
You ask a good question. And yes, I think we’d both agree on a lot of the basics—things like “don’t lie, don’t murder, be generous.” But for me, the real difference isn’t just about the list of values, it’s about how the relationship itself is understood.
A lot of what I see here feels more transactional—kind of like “if you do this, you deserve that.” The whole eye-for-an-eye mindset is still really present. It makes the relationship more about keeping things balanced or fair.
What I’m learning to hold onto, though, is more of a whole-person relationship. One that goes beyond just measuring actions, and instead sees the dignity and worth of the person as a whole. That’s where things like forgiveness and grace come in—where you’re not only looking at what someone did, but also at who they are and who they can become.
So even if the values look similar on the surface, the way we live them out feels really different—transactional versus whole-person.
Hi, Elysse, thank you for this wonderful post. This makes realize how grateful we (Micronesians) are to have our country in relationship with a country that is shaped and affected by Christianity. Two concepts from your posts that catch my attention were ‘Christian Heritage’ and ‘Moral Foundation.’ How do one reconcile this with what others called, separation of church and state? Thank you for your post, Elysse.
Hey Noel,
Thanks for the good question. Holland points out that even though the U.S. set up a clear separation between church and state, the ideas that shaped the country still came from the Bible. One quote I liked from him was: “The truest and ultimate seedbed of the American republic…was the book of Genesis.”
So even if the founders wanted to keep faith and government separate, the values they leaned on—like human dignity, justice, and equality—were already rooted in biblical faith. In that way, the church’s influence overflowed into how the nation was imagined and written into its documents, whether people fully recognized it or not.
Hi Elysse,
If secular moral instincts like justice and compassion are rooted in a Christian heritage, how should Christians engage with non-believers who embody these values without sharing the faith behind them?
Hey Shela,
You ask a really good question. For me, it often depends on the person I’m talking with. I’ll usually ask what motivates them to do acts of justice or compassion, and what makes a person “worth it” in their eyes. Those kinds of questions open up space to hear their heart and also to share my own.
As I was thinking about your question, James 2:18 (AMP) came to mind: “But someone may say, ‘You [claim to] have faith and I have [good] works; show me your [alleged] faith without the works [if you can], and I will show you my faith by my works [that is, by what I do].’” I think that captures the connection well—our faith isn’t just words or ideas, it’s something that becomes visible in how we live and love others.
“What my cousin values in principle, Christians are called to live in practice.” This is great conviction and application, Elysse. What do you think are some of the things keeping American Christians from practicing these principles to the extent of great cost?
Hey Kari,
You ask a great question. Sadly, I think many Americans have grown too comfortable—and often too “busy”—to seriously consider what real sacrifice might look like.
Jon Guerra captures this tension so honestly when he sings: “But, Lord, if I’m honest, I’m scared to death / That if I give my fish and loaves there won’t be anything left.” That line resonates deeply because it names the fear so many of us carry—that giving will leave us empty.
But he doesn’t leave it there. He goes on:
“Who you gonna serve?
Everybody gotta serve, gotta serve somebody.
Who you gonna serve?
Everybody gotta serve God or money.
No one can serve two masters—
If you hate the one, then you love the other
If you love the one, then you hate the other.”
It’s a powerful reminder that in the end, we all serve something. The question is whether we choose comfort and security, or God who calls us into sacrifice and trust.
Elysse,
Do you see this same value of embracing suffering lived out in the context in which you find yourself?
Hey Adam,
Thank you for such a great question. I think one of the key differences with suffering here is in how people view its source and meaning. For many, suffering is seen as something already written into their story—almost as if it has been assigned to them by fate or by God. Because of that, it’s not usually approached as a choice or a sacrifice they are actively making, but rather as a condition they’ve been given to endure.
This perspective shapes how suffering is carried. It’s less about voluntarily laying something down for the sake of others, and more about bearing what has been placed upon them with resignation or acceptance. Sacrificial suffering implies agency—choosing to give up or enter into hardship for the sake of love or justice. Here, suffering often feels less like a choice and more like an inheritance.
Hi Elysse, you have personally lived out embracing costly sacrifices that Holland shows have defined the faith throughout history. How do you help other Christians move from admiration of these values to living them out?
Hey Christy,
You ask a great question. Over the past couple of years, as I’ve presented in supporting churches, I’ve made it a point to highlight the importance of opening their eyes and hearts to the people right outside their own doors. I’ve noticed that while many Christians are very faithful in supporting overseas workers financially—writing a check each month comes easily—what’s often missing is genuine relationship.
As I look ahead to being back in the U.S. around the time of graduation, this is something I really want to lean into. There are so many people nearby who are longing to be seen, noticed, and cared for. They don’t live across the ocean; they live across the street.
I love this, Elysse. I, too, have an atheist family member, my sister. She is deeply committed to justice issues. Yet as I have wrestled with the question about what makes us different, I come to the conclusion that it is our inner motivation., our hearts that live because we were first loved by God. So lived, in fact, that God died Himself to bring us closer to Him. It makes me wonder – as you point out with Blandina – what possible motivation would an atheist have for bearing up under such torture? (And, for that matter, could I even do so myself?)
Hey Debbie,
You ask a question that I often reflect on in light of my own context: What am I truly willing to bear for the sake of Jesus? I can’t speak for someone who doesn’t share my faith, but I am genuinely curious to know what they would be willing to carry for the sake of what they believe.
I think of my cousin, whom I love very much. She speaks often and passionately about compassion, justice, and human dignity—values I deeply respect. But at times I’ve noticed a disconnect between the words and the actions. It sometimes feels as though the driving force is more frustration or anger than love itself. That contrast has challenged me to ask whether my own motivation is really rooted in love, and whether my actions line up with what I say I believe.
Hi Elysse! Thanks for your post. I think about the Practice componenet you touched on. Is there a Western practice that we over or under emphasize?
Hey Daren,
You ask a great question. From my overseas context, I’ve noticed that Christian workers can sometimes overemphasize their “suffering” in the name of mission. This can slip into a kind of martyr mentality—choosing poor living conditions, avoiding fun or restorative activities, and having little sense of boundaries—as if the harder life is, the more spiritual it must be. At times, it almost feels like a quiet competition over who can suffer the most. I once heard someone suggest that Christians can idolize suffering. I wouldn’t say this is always true, but I have seen tendencies in that direction.
On the other side, I’ve noticed an underemphasis among some Christians in the U.S. when it comes to sacrifice in their own neighborhoods. There’s often a mentality that “missions” is for people who move overseas, when in reality living missionally is about giving of yourself to love the person right next door. Both the overemphasis and underemphasis can distort the bigger picture, and these are simply patterns I’ve observed in my context.