Churches are governed by a paradoxical brand of Newtonian physics: One law of ecclesial motion commits them to stay at rest. Another commands perpetual movement.
Ministry leaders often speak of churches being planted. That metaphor suggests an ideal of rootedness and stability, of devotion to particular people in particular places. Unless persecution drives them underground, churches tend to be visible and fixed. They don’t pitch tents in Toledo one Sunday then drag them off to Wichita the next.
This duty to stand still is more than pragmatic. God’s Word calls the church to be anchored to the gospel, lest his people end up “blown here and there by every wind of teaching” (Eph. 4:14). In Christ, the church’s cornerstone, believers are meant to enjoy a safe, nourishing, familial life together.
Yet for all these signals of permanence—of home—the body of Christ is constantly on the go. Churches reach out to their neighbors and communities with evangelistic witness and compassionate aid. They add new members, build new structures, and launch new campuses. They send missionaries to make disciples across the globe.
This interplay of rootedness and motion dates to Christianity’s earliest days. Paul and his apostolic partners undertook long, wearying journeys to sow and sustain churches. Members of those churches eventually undertook their own journeys, forging the pattern that prevails to this day. In obedience to Christ, we leave home to reproduce it elsewhere.
Faithfully navigating this tension is challenging in any environment. But its difficulty is stark amid the geographic vastness, hardscrabble living, and cultural friction that frame Willa Cather’s 1927 novel, Death Comes for the Archbishop. With luminous prose and tenderhearted character sketches, the book captures the perennial push and pull between the “church somewhere” and the “church everywhere.”
Cather’s story follows the lives and labors of two 19th-century French Catholic priests, Jean Marie and Father Joseph Vaillant. The pair meet in seminary, forming an odd-couple friendship. Latour, strapping and handsome, hails from a distinguished family. Vaillant, sickly and unprepossessing, has a modest upbringing. Latour, eventually made the titular archbishop, excels intellectually; Vaillant, in personal piety. Over time, a shared calling to missionary service forms a tight bond.
An early posting deposits them on Lake Erie’s Ohio shores, where they first acclimate to frontier frugality. Then, Latour receives a daunting assignment: His superiors in Rome have appointed him bishop over a new diocese in the American Southwest, encompassing lands Mexico ceded upon its 1848 military defeat.
Here the novel’s action begins in earnest, with episodic chapters punctuated by illuminating flashbacks. Latour and Vaillant, his chosen companion, survive a perilous trek to New Mexico. But they run into trouble right away, because local leaders don’t know who they are or why they’ve come.
This confusion is understandable. Spanish missionaries evangelized this sprawling territory centuries prior, but syncretism and superstition have crept in since. Many far-flung communities have retained only a rudimentary faith. In certain remote outposts, no one can recall seeing a living priest.
Latour and Vaillant work tirelessly to restore order—but ironically, their pursuit of stability necessitates habits of itinerancy. Hardly a page passes without the bishop and his trusty deputy mounting their mules to traverse rugged mountains and craggy trails, fortified by meager rations. They visit communities longing to have Mass celebrated, confessions heard, marriages blessed, and children baptized. They encourage the good priests, censure (and eventually evict) the bad ones, and bring new recruits up to speed. They cultivate good relations with tradesmen, government officials, and Native American emissaries.
In all this, they help the church gain a firmer foothold. For many of the novel’s characters, this proves providential. One woman, rescued from an abusive, murderous husband, finds shelter and purpose among nuns serving in Santa Fe. Another, enslaved to a viciously anti-Catholic family, seizes a rare chance to steal away. Latour welcomes her as she kneels in the church’s sacristy and prays in tearful relief.
As such episodes attest, an institutionally robust church can offer a haven in a heartless world. Yet Latour and Vaillant also encounter a fair share of corrupt or tyrannical priests, men who exploit serflike parishioners barely scraping by. Content in their ecclesial fiefdoms, these priests think little of the church’s mission.
Latour and Vaillant are resolutely missional, gladly suffering constant privation and occasional brushes with death as they rack up mule miles. Their sincerity and sacrifice are easy to admire.
But neither is immune to the lure of homier pursuits. Without the intense demands of travel and visitation, Latour might content himself tending his orchard or drawing up blueprints for his beloved cathedral project. Vaillant might withdraw into contemplative seclusion or busy himself cooking sumptuous meals. Give or take some Protestant harrumphs, these are good things! But they tend to dampen missionary ardor.
The church’s home-and-away dynamic stretches Latour and Vaillant nearly to the breaking point. How do they avoid getting snapped in half? In large part, their success comes because each priest is strong in areas where the other is weak. They check each other’s worst impulses.
Of the two, Vaillant has the higher drive for soul winning. Where Latour is reserved, Vaillant has a knack for friendship. Midway through the book, he gallops off to Arizona with ambitious plans to reach the unreached. Latour often restrains his flights of fancy, reminding his zealous lieutenant of the mundane burdens of overseeing a diocese.
For his part, Vaillant repays these gentle admonitions with the gift of himself. Plopped into a strange and forbidding landscape, Latour suffers bouts of loneliness and melancholy. The evening the beleaguered woman appears at the church door, his own soul is enduring an especially dark night. Eventually, the bishop summons Vaillant back from Arizona, craving his warm Christian fellowship, which the latter is grateful to supply.
The church’s missional character doesn’t lend itself to fine-tuned formulas for staying and going. Some should saddle up and ride. Others should stay home in case someone knocks. But everyone needs a friend—in Jesus, and in the unlikely companions he calls to our aid.
Matt Reynolds is senior books editor at Christianity Today.
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