The Bishop That Broke Our Boxes

Bishop Thomas walks into the room, and all forty-three of us stand.

We’ve been waiting for this moment. He’s a revered leader in the Coptic Church, known for his long walk with the Lord and deep wisdom. To our surprise, he greets us in Afrikaans, and in the 40-degree heat of Anafora, Egypt, I sit back in my chair and realise something: some of my boxes are about to be broken. 

Thirty-six students and seven of us volunteers travelled to Egypt, where the Coptic Church welcomed us with remarkable generosity and care. A visit from a bishop is considered a great honour, something we’re not particularly accustomed to in our Western expressions of Christianity. This world feels very different from my own.

It’s easy to judge what we don’t understand, and the moment we start judging, we stop learning. But when we approach unfamiliar things with humility and curiosity, something beautiful can happen, and sometimes, we encounter another facet of Jesus that we would have otherwise missed.

For the next hour, Bishop Thomas captivates us with stories. He speaks about his childhood, the mentors who shaped him, and his journey toward becoming a bishop. He tells us how, from a young age, he pursued holiness, learning from priests and witnessing God move in miraculous ways.

“How does faith and perseverance look in hard times?” someone asks, and the room goes quiet. 

Bishop Thomas scratches his beard, and says, “Let me tell you a story.”

As a boy, his church was flooded. The community was displaced, and part of their heritage seemed lost beneath the water. One day, he watched his priest wade into the flooded church grounds to pray for restoration. He asked if he could join him.

For the next three years, they prayed. Before school each morning, they would wake up early and make their way into the cold, stagnant water to pray over the church and ask God to restore what had been lost. Day after day. Month after month. Year after year. 

No one knew they were doing it. Then, after three years, the waters were finally drained. Today, people travel from far and wide to visit that church and hear the story of God’s faithfulness.

What struck me most wasn’t just the miracle itself. It was the quiet persistence behind it. Three years of unseen faithfulness. Three years of prayer without recognition. Three years of trusting God before there was any visible answer. That kind of humility and perseverance is something I want more of in my own life.

The bishop has light eyes that speak of knowing the Father and walking with the Spirit. When he asks, “Any other questions?” I stick my hand up. 

“Bishop Thomas,” I say, “what advice would you give a nineteen or twenty-year-old trying to discover their calling?”

His smiles. I pick up my pen. 

“Get two pages,” he begins. “On the first, write down everything the Bible says about how we should live. Scripture makes God’s will very clear. Search it out and write it down.” We all nod. “Then take a second page and write down everything that makes you happy.”

Around the room, I watch eyebrows rise.

“Everything,” he continues. “Big things. Small things. What makes you come alive? What brings you joy? Write it all down. These are often clues to your identity. When you put those two pages together, you may find something very close to your calling.”

It’s not the answer I expected. It makes me smile. 

As I reflect on our encounter with Bishop Thomas, and the life in his eyes, I realise how many assumptions I carry about what it means to follow Jesus. What does a mature, Spirit-filled Christian look like? What does freedom in Christ look like?

In many Western contexts, we might associate freedom with passionate worship, raised hands, spontaneous prayer, and expressive celebration. Yet here stood a man clothed head-to-toe in traditional bishop’s robes, serving within a church tradition that most Western Christians might quickly dismiss as outdated, formal, or overly religious.

And yet there was no question that he walked closely with God. His life and his presence was evidence of it. Was his quieter, more contemplative expression of faith less free than ours? Or was it simply different?

The more I consider it, the more I realise how prideful it is to assume that my expression of Christianity is in any way superior to someone else’s. It challenges the flesh to discover that a church we might label “religious” can be deeply alive in Christ. After all, true worship is not primarily about style. It’s about the heart.

I’ll be honest, when Bishop Thomas first walked into the room, I didn’t understand him. The temptation was to judge, not only him, but his church, its liturgy, its traditions, and even the icons and pictures of the desert fathers displayed on the walls.

But travel has a way of humbling us. The more we see of the global Church, the more we discover that God has revealed aspects of Himself through different cultures, languages, traditions, and expressions of worship. This is the beauty of the Body of Christ: believers around the world reflecting different facets of the same God.

When Bishop Thomas left the room, all forty-three of us stood once more. As I looked around, I couldn’t help but smile. I had a feeling we were all leaving with a few more boxes broken and our hearts a little more open.