by Caleb Hutcherson

In the moments after the explosion rips across the city, or in the grind of standing in lines for days trying to acquire basic food supplies, a specific kind of silence tends to fall. It is the silence of internal calculation. In hurried check-ins with family and friends, we are not merely considering the dangers or what may come next. Behind those thoughts, we are weighing our vocation…what is my purpose in this?

For those engaged in Christian ministry in conflict zones, the question “Should we stay or should we leave?” can easily mutate into a verdict on faithfulness. If we leave, are we abandoning our calling? Giving in to a spirit of fear? If we stay, are we negligent parents? How can we faithfully witness to Christ in this?

In a recent journal article, “Planning to Stay, Preparing to Leave,” my colleague Randy Hacker and I explored how mission workers deal with these high-stakes decisions. Our research found that contingency planning often remains superficial, in part because of problematic theology we have inherited. Specifically, we often suffer from a category error embedded in modern evangelical thinking about missions that collapses theology of risk into theology of suffering.

Conflating our theology of risk and suffering reveals a mistaken assumption: Because Christians are called to suffer, choosing risk is right. Notice how this creates an absolutist binary morality. On one side are the heroes of the faith—those who stayed in danger, risking it all. On the other side are the “safety-driven”—those who fled, who are viewed (or perhaps view themselves) as having chosen comfort over Christ. While suffering and risk are no doubt related, how might differentiating them help us respond better when facing danger in ministry?

A theology of suffering would recognize that suffering and persecution are an inevitable component of life in Christ this side of the resurrection. Throughout Scripture, numerous examples make clear that suffering is an expected result of following Christ in a fallen world (Matt 16:24-26; Phil 1:29; 1 Tim 3:12). Our theology of suffering deals with our posture amid crisis: how we make sense of pain and endure it, how we identify with the marginalized, how we cling to hope of the resurrection when the worst happens. It is about faithfulness in the fire.

A theology of risk, however, is about stewardship and decision-making. Risk concerns the probability of danger, and engaging with risk theologically belongs to the category of wisdom. Notably, wisdom and discernment are values also extolled in Scripture. The New Testament includes prayers for discernment in the same letters that discuss suffering for the gospel. A theology of risk would include questions not simply about courage, but of the situation and our purpose: What are my God-given responsibilities in this situation of danger? Does staying jeopardize our ability to return later? What does stewardship of family, mental health, my training, my team look like in this specific moment?

When we confuse the two, we assume that the main way to act faithfully is to choose suffering by taking the path of greater risk. We answer the wisdom question of “Is it wise to stay?” with a theology of suffering answer: “Jesus is worth it.” Of course, Jesus is worth it. But that does not automatically mean that staying in this specific apartment during this specific airstrike is the obedience Jesus is asking for.

Notably, both Jesus and Paul both demonstrated this distinction. Although they accepted suffering as inevitable, Scripture also records instances of them withdrawing from danger, slipping away from angry crowds, or relocating away from persecution (John 8:59; Acts 9:25). The dilemma between these two options was an important topic of reflection in early Christianity. Some of the earliest literature, such as The Shepherd of Hermas, address the excesses of some who apparently sought suffering by advising Christians to endure it if it came to them, but without desire for personal honor or glory seeking. Later apologists like Clement of Alexandria and Tertullian represent a later consensus definitively criticizing Christians who actively pursued suffering and the glory they might accrue from it, stressing instead that the main Christian focus should be on virtuous and wise living.

How does this distinction between theology of suffering and theology of risk matter in practice? Differentiating these two areas of theological thinking can open a wider perspective for our decision-making in crises, allowing us to consider two critical dynamics that our research highlighted.

1. Acknowledging the Multiplicity of Vocations

When the “heroic” narrative dominates, the identity of pastor, missionary, doctor, or humanitarian worker swallows everything else. But when vocation is recognized in its multiplicity (or better, as a harmonious ensemble), we acknowledge the equal importance of various contributions: within the church, the family, or individually. I am a professor of theology and a humanitarian worker; I am also a father, a husband, a neighbor, and a son. These are not distractions from my “real” vocation, but rather the multiple responsibilities and functions through which I express human agency and serve God.

If my theology of risk and suffering are synonymous, then protecting my children from the trauma by fleeing a war would feel like a betrayal of the Great Commission. But if risk is a matter of stewardship, then caring for the “most vulnerable of the unit” (a principle our research working group emphasized) is itself an act of faithfulness alongside the ones we more readily valorize. A robust theology of risk allows us to say “I am willing to suffer for Christ, and I am choosing to evacuate because my vocation as a father requires me to steward the safety of my children in this moment.”

2. Dealing with the Situationalness of Risk

Theologies of suffering are primarily descriptive. You look at what has happened and wrestle with what that means. But risk is predictive of potential futures of suffering. And it is fluid. Risk shifts with political winds, differs based on social location, and the passport you hold. Its assessment is frequently based on partial information.

When we stop equating risk-taking with faithfulness, we can start being disciples who exercise discernment as realists. We can assess risk situationally rather than ideologically. We can admit that risk tolerance changes over time–what we could handle in 2008 we perhaps cannot handle in 2025. This is not necessarily a spiritual regression; it can simply be an honest assessment of our current capacity.

This honesty extends beyond self-reflection to our treatment of each other. Many people struggle to articulate their genuine reasons for fleeing crisis-prone ministry contexts, either due to a lack of self-awareness or a fear of judgment, sometimes resorting to unarguable statements like, “God called us elsewhere.” How quickly these decisions are judged, not only from our own internal struggles with what to do, but fundamentally because we seek to fill in the blanks when an explanation doesn’t align with our personal aspirations for purpose in a crisis.

Our research sought to move contingency planning from organizational checklist to a process of collective theological and missiological discernment. This discernment might look like a ministry team taking time before a crisis to practice risk assessment and articulate their personal theology of risk. Doing so can reduce stress and help facilitate decisions during crises by providing a common framework for decision making. Within these communities of practice, we can support each other in these vocational decisions, encouraging those who remain and affirming those who flee (without casting either as the hero or the coward), and acknowledging the whole range of reasons that inform those decisions.

Faithfulness to Christ in places facing armed conflict will always involve suffering and risk. When we can distinguish the two, recognizing the theological framing that is needed for each, we are better prepared to discern the Holy Spirit’s leading for that moment, rather than because of abstracted pressure to be a hero.

Caleb Hutcherson is assistant professor of historical and theological studies at the Arab Baptist Theological Seminary and Board chair of Tahaddi Lebanon, a Lebanese NGO dedicated to reflecting God’s compassion as a multi-faith team working together in a neighborhood facing multiple forms of deprivation, to forge a more just society.

For those interested in the full research on how teams can navigate these decisions, you can read our article, “Planning to Stay, Preparing to Leave: Collective Theological Reflection for Mission in Middle Eastern Conflict Zones and Beyond,” [Link to  pre-publication accepted version (full text)].