Why Did Early Christians Build So Many Churches?

MICHAEL EISENBERG, CC BY-SA 4.0, VIA WIKIMEDIA COMMONS

When the American archaeologist Howard Crosby Butler led his Princeton University expeditions through Syria in the early 20th century, he was amazed by what he found. Scattered across the landscape were numerous well-preserved churches, often several within a single community (see The Dead Cities of Christian Syria). This realization raised an intriguing question that still fascinates archaeologists and historians today: Why did these ancient communities build so many churches?¹

The traditional explanation has focused on theological differences, suggesting that various Christian denominations each needed their own space for worship. However, recent research offers a more complex explanation that tells us much about how these communities functioned and how they expressed their religious devotion through architecture.

In Hippos-Sussita, a Greco-Roman city overlooking the Sea of Galilee, archaeologists have uncovered seven churches within its modest 21-acre area. With an estimated population of only 2,000 to 2,600 people, this means there was roughly one church for every 280 to 370 residents. Similarly, the city of Gerasa (modern Jerash in Jordan) boasted 17 churches for a population of about 10,000. These numbers reflect a society where religious buildings served more than just spiritual and liturgical purposes.

The positioning of these churches tells its own story. At Hippos, five churches were integrated into residential areas and only two occupied public spaces. The largest one, often called the “cathedral,” featured an ornate three-aisled design and two baptisteries. This architectural grandeur wasn’t just about religious necessity—it was a statement of civic pride and social prominence.

PHOTO BY JACOB ASHKENAZI

Even more striking are the rural examples. The village of Umm al-Jimal in northern Jordan, with perhaps 3,000 residents, had at least 15 churches. Some were built in open spaces, but most were integrated into residential quarters, suggesting they were private initiatives by local families. The largest church, dated to 557 CE, stood at the village center, whereas others were connected to family compounds through inner courtyards, creating a unique blend of public worship and private patronage.

But what drove this remarkable proliferation of churches? In late antiquity, wealthy individuals and families saw church building as a way to contribute to their community while enhancing their social standing. This practice, known as euergetism, evolved from earlier Greco-Roman traditions of elite citizens demonstrating their civic pride through public buildings. The difference was that now, instead of funding theaters or bathhouses, wealthy patrons invested in religious structures.

Let’s consider these examples. Mosaic inscriptions in the “cathedral” at Hippos tell us that a priest named Procopius funded its renovation and the construction of an attached baptistery. The priest made sure to include mentions of his family members: a male relative named Peter and his mother—a clear sign that this was both a religious and a social statement. At the rural site of Khirbet Khesheq in western Galilee, a deacon named Demetrius built a family church dedicated to St. George (one of the earliest known so far), with inscriptions proudly recording four generations of his family. But this trend wasn’t limited to individual patrons. Sometimes entire communities came together to fund similar projects. At Horvat Erav in Upper Galilee, an inscription (see photo above) records contributions from six deacons and five lay donors, showing how church buildings could be a collective enterprise that strengthened community bonds.

Insights from historians and sociologists about the interplay between religious devotion and social standing allow us to conclude that in late antiquity, wealthy families instinctively knew that building churches was both a religious duty and a path to social prestige.² Each new church changed not only the physical landscape but also the social fabric of the community. A church built within a family compound gave that family a new kind of influence—they were not only wealthy landowners but also custodians of a sacred space. We can think of it as a kind of social currency: When a wealthy family built a church, they were effectively converting their financial wealth into religious and social influence, creating lasting connections between their household and the community’s religious life.

The construction boom wasn’t limited to churches either. Monasteries were also built within villages, often funded by local families. In the Hauran region of southern Syria, a remarkable document known as the Letter of the Archimandrites of Arabia mentions 137 abbots, most operating within villages rather than in remote locations. Some villages, such as Dareiyya near Damascus, housed as many as 11 monasteries. This building activity peaked in the sixth century but began to decline toward its end. As economic pressures mounted, urban areas saw fewer new churches, and rural areas continued building at a slower pace, suggesting village communities remained more resilient.

This pattern tells us that church building in the late antique Levant was about much more than creating places of worship: It was a way for communities to express their identity, for families to establish their legacy, and for individuals to demonstrate their commitment to both their faith and their community. These ancient remains are not only religious buildings but also statements about the people who built them—their aspirations, relationships, and place in society. To understand this is to better appreciate the rich tapestry of life in the late antique Levant, where sacred spaces were built not only for prayer but also as lasting monuments to the communities that created them.