Quiet Christian

I wonder about the modern obsession with living a life of high, visible impact—or at least what we consider high impact. Why do so many of us insist on finding our worth and value in the widely recognizable “splash” we make during our short existence? Why do we gravitate toward the bigger and the better, rather than the small and reserved?

Perhaps it makes sense. The celebrity culture we are immersed in constantly reminds us that we are insignificant unless known by many. We desperately crave “likes” and “views” on social media and feel lonely when we receive only a few. An employee who spends fifty years in the same profession without climbing the corporate ladder is often seen as mediocre at best and a failure at worst. Parents who leave the workforce to raise their children may feel like professional failures, wondering if their efforts count when the only applause they receive comes from a small child who loves them. The bigger, the better. Be all that you can be. Go big or go home. Why is the small and quiet life so often seen as a disappointment, pitied—or worse, dismissed?

This mindset seeps into the church as well. In an age when many churches operate like high-octane businesses, a congregation that doesn’t make a “big splash” can be viewed as a failure. The small church on the corner with the cracked parking lot and untidy lawn is easy to overlook, especially when compared to the mega-church offering dozens of services across multiple campuses. We may assume the small church isn’t modern enough, culturally engaged enough, or simply not “winning.” We might even wonder if there’s a moral failing or weak leadership at play. Meanwhile, the large churches with their polished production and expansive reach are assumed to have all the answers.

Henri Nouwen, in his classic In the Name of Jesus, offers a powerful counterpoint:

"The Christian leader of the future is called to be completely irrelevant and to stand in this world with nothing to offer but his or her own vulnerable self. That is the way Jesus came to reveal God's love. The great message that we have to carry, as ministers of God's Word and followers of Jesus, is that God loves us not because of what we do or accomplish, but because God has created and redeemed us in love and has chosen us to proclaim that love as the true source of all human life." [1]

These words are deeply comforting to introverts like myself and should resonate with anyone familiar with Scripture. Yet, in our Western culture—particularly within the American ethos—we often confuse God-pleasing spirituality with a “take the hill” attitude, an engaging personality, or business-minded leadership. The most visible leaders seem closer to God. We long for their advice and approval. We rarely seek out the volunteer in the parking lot to help with our spiritual struggles. Instead, we gravitate toward the people on stage, assuming they are the God-pleasers, the ones called to greatness in the Kingdom. And those of us living quieter lives? It’s easy to feel like we’re falling short.

This comparison leads to inevitable self-doubt: Am I as motivated about God as they are? Why am I not as bold in my faith? How many people have I shared the Gospel with this year—or ever? Why do I prefer lunch with my coworkers over placing church invitations on windshields? Such thoughts can leave us feeling like spiritual failures.

In Friendship at the Margins, Heuertz and Pohl observe:

"Because a business mindset is so prevalent in our society, the work of mission is sometimes recast in very economic terms. Missional language like 'target audience' and a focus on results-driven measurements echo a scale approach that sees people first as potential consumers—in this case, consumers of the product we’re offering: a particular version of Christianity." [2]

While large churches and dynamic leaders serve a vital purpose, we desperately need the quiet and soft-hearted as well. These individuals minister in the shadows, reaching places and people that high-octane, results-driven ministries often overlook. When we reduce people to stats—invites, conversions, hands raised—we risk missing the very ones Jesus sought: the sick, the despised, the quiet. It’s worth remembering that most of the people who followed Jesus during His lifetime remain nameless. They simply heard His words, fell in love, and changed their hearts. Their lives were so small that only the Savior remembers their names.

I’m not against large churches or vibrant leaders. I’ve worked for such churches and am in awe of their impact. But for those of us who prefer a quiet life? For those of us who struggle to talk to strangers, let alone share our faith? For those of us who never know whether to offer a handshake, high five, or side-hug—and probably mess it up anyway? For those of us who would rather sit quietly in a coffee shop than distribute church invitations—our faith may feel less-than. We may not feel as excited about God, even as we long for Him deeply.

In Spirituality for the Rest of Us, Larry Osborne writes:

"Somehow, somewhere, I picked up the idea that we’re all called to do great things for God; the godlier we become, the more we’ll be transformed into spiritual Bravehearts, serving God and marshalling others to do the same.

It sounds good. It’s motivational, as long as you’re the kind of person who dreams big dreams.

But what if you’re the retiring type? What if you’ve never dreamed of turning your world upside down for God—or your neighborhood for that matter? What if your idea of a great life is a quiet life? Does that mean something is seriously wrong with your spirituality?" [4]

These questions comforted me. They reminded me I’m not alone. I’ve lived a loud and visible faith, but I’ve also lived a quiet one. I’ve led large projects with social media fanfare, but I’ve also sat in tears with an inmate who missed another chance at parole. I’ve preached to crowds, but I’ve also cuddled my son and taught him how to pray. Both experiences matter, but I’ve felt God’s presence most deeply in the quiet moments, away from the spotlight.

As C.S. Lewis reminds us, Christ would have died for the quiet ones if they were the only ones on earth to die for. [5]

Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, with her quiet, unremarkable life, embodies this truth. She was hardly noticed in her own convent, yet her profound love for God has inspired millions. Her story reminds us that in God’s economy, the meek and the unnoticed often have the most to offer. But we’ll discuss Saint Thérèse more later.