Today, it’s a broad expanse of prairie in the North Dallas growth path. But on this land, Imran Chaudhary wants to build a community he could move his parents to.
That’s half the reason he gives for devising a plan to build a 400-acre city in Collin County (north of Dallas) around a mosque. By including single-family homes, apartments, schools and senior living facilities, the community would make multigenerational living possible in a region whose rapacious growth is putting one of its primary selling points — housing affordability — more and more out of reach.
Back in Pakistan, where Chaudhary lived until age 19, his grandparents lived in his family home. EPIC City, named for the East Plano Islamic Center, could offer Muslim families in North Texas the opportunity to grow up like he did.
“If something happens, you can go and take care of them,” he said. “That’s where we found that gap in the community that we live in … That was a charm that a lot of people bought into.”
The other half of Chaudhary’s reasoning for wanting to build EPIC City is practical. The project could generate income to sustain the mosque anchoring the community.
The idea reflects the rising prominence of North Texas’ Muslim population to the extent that Dallas earned the moniker “Medina of America” after the Saudi Arabian city that’s central to the Muslim faith.
However, since news of the project spread, EPIC City has faced the scrutiny of local, state and federal officials, with Gov. Greg Abbott (who recently signed a law requiring public schools to display the Ten Commandments) taking notice and initiating a full court press against the development.
Abbott has also taken to X to peddle claims that EPIC City will enact Sharia law; that particular post was a retweet from Amy Mekelburg, an influencer and self-described “critic of Islam” who has claimed the leaders of EPIC City are “Using Texas as the Blueprint for Sharia Domination.”
“None of that is true,” Chaudhary said.
Putting the outcry aside, Chaudhary’s pursuit of the project comes as unaffordable housing and the isolation of suburban life have pushed religious leaders to propose a return to traditional European city design, where a church anchors the town.
From Detroit to Northern Virginia to Naples, Florida, church leaders have entertained (to varying levels of success) the prospect of building towns around religious institutions, including churches and universities.
In light of this growing trend, the controversy surrounding EPIC City poses the question: Who’s allowed to build a community?
The promise
The opening of a YouTube video titled “Welcome to EPIC City” pans through the cloudy heavens until a mosque comes into view under the blazing Texas sun.
“A meticulously designed community that brings Islam to the forefront,” the narrator says.
Backlash against the community came in the form of accusations of discrimination. Since the video was posted in April 2024, leaders have backpedaled on the language they use to describe the project.
An earlier version of EPIC City’s website describes it as “a vibrant and inclusive community that serves the evolving needs of the Muslim community.” The language has since been updated to describe the project as “a vibrant, multigenerational and inclusive master planned community.”
As Chaudhary and his partners navigate the public relations storm that EPIC has stirred, they’re also operating as the city’s developer.
Community Capital Partners is the project’s development entity, and it’s led by Chaudhary and fellow directors Sarfraz Ahmad and Naveed Siddiqui. Ahmad, a custom homebuilder, is the one with real estate experience.
Community Capital Partners purchased the land for EPIC City in 2024.
The property is a swath of unincorporated area within Collin and Hunt counties, meaning that the developer will be required to get county approval for the development. The counties regulate such matters as platting and infrastructure, but they don’t regulate land use or density.
Community Capital Partners is now in the fundraising stage, raising capital by selling about 1,000 shares of the company for $80,000 each. Purchasing a share allows the investor to reserve a lot at EPIC City and provides a 15 percent discount on the land. The only requirement is that shareholders must be accredited investors. So far, the entity has sold about 500 shares, which works out to $40 million.
“We want to make sure that whatever we do, we do it right with the proper legal paperwork,” Chaudhary said.
Despite his best efforts, the financing structure they’re using was the target of a new law passed this legislative session.
Republican state Rep. Candy Noble of Allen, Texas, sponsored House Bill 4211. It requires that a housing development owned by a business entity must disclose to investors that they are purchasing shares of the company, not property.
Abbott characterized HB 4211 as a law that would “crack down” on communities like EPIC City.
Despite pointing to investigations into the project by multiple state agencies (the Texas Workforce Commission, the Texas State Securities Board, the Texas Funeral Services Commission and the Department of Public Safety), Abbott has never directly said how EPIC City could be breaking the law.
Back to basics
Architect Erik Bootsma became interested in the idea of traditional living when he was an undergraduate student at Thomas Aquinas College in Santa Paula, California.
It’s where he became a Catholic, got interested in traditional architecture and met people he counts among his dearest friends decades later.
Under the mentorship of Philip Bess at Notre Dame’s School of Architecture and Milton Grenfell at Grenfell’s D.C. architecture firm, Bootsma studied the urban planning of yore, holding up the church-anchored European village as a model for living well.
The impulse to self-associate is natural, Bootsma said, pointing to the ethnic enclaves created by immigrants in cities across the country throughout American history.
He recalls visiting Crown Heights, Brooklyn, on the Sabbath. He remembers seeing Jewish folks walking to the synagogue and socializing on neighbors’ porches. He holds it up as one of his favorite places.
“Is it insular? Maybe. But it’s also an actual, real community,” he said.
Bootsma acknowledges that villages built around places of worship could err on the side of being overly homogeneous, and he noted the need for both balance and openness to life outside.
In 2008, Bootsma drew up a master plan for St. John the Beloved, a Catholic church in Northern Virginia, to transform the swath of empty land it owned into a village. Housing costs were on the rise, and building homes around the church would allow parishioners to live onsite.
“We’ve got retirees who come to daily mass,” he said. “Wouldn’t it be nice if they would come to daily mass by walking instead of driving?” On the flip side, “a young family would be able to afford an apartment or a small house there.”
More recently, Bootsma has been working on a similar plan with St. Joseph Shrine in Detroit, where most parishioners commute to church. Building housing would allow them to be together more than an hour a week.
Neither project has come to fruition. There’s not really a template to work from, and, as a result, it’s been challenging to square the financing details. But Bootsma is confident that someday some project will, and he’s noticed a growing interest in these kinds of intentional communities.
“I think people are starting to see that the promise of the suburban experience is not what it was chalked up to be,” he said. “I think people are finding that they are scattered and atomized. People have fewer and fewer friends.”
Bootsma isn’t the only one interested in working out the kinks. A movement called YIGBY, Yes in God’s Backyard, has fomented in the last few years with the goal of creating a path for land-rich religious institutions to turn their valuable real estate into housing.
Ave Maria
No one’s been more successful at building something like what Bootsma describes than Tom Monaghan, the billionaire founder of Domino’s Pizza.
In search of a home for a Catholic university, he partnered with developer Barron Collier, which was sitting on a piece of undeveloped land 40 miles south of Naples, Florida.
Ave Maria was founded in 2005. Monaghan handled the university and the church. Collier handled the commercial development.
“I’ve been basically in charge of this project from day one, and I’m Episcopalian,” said Blake Gable, CEO of Barron Collier.
“It’s not some sort of dogmatic Catholicism thing.”
Gable said he dealt with the typical NIMBY ilk in pursuing the project, but the prospect of putting a university in someone’s backyard was “kind of hard to complain about.”
Barron Collier secured about 80 permits at the county, state and federal levels before putting a shovel in the ground, he said. To raise funds for the project, Collier issued bonds and took out traditional loans.
It took five years, from the birth of the partnership to the day the first person moved into town.
Twenty years into the development, it’s halfway done and home to 11,000 people. There are walking trails, a water park, retail, health care, a manufacturing plant, schools, restaurants and even a Baptist Church.
“I truly believe that we have created a foundation that has all the things necessary,” Gable said. “Whatever happens from here on out, up to people who live there.”
Carole Carpenter, a broker with John R. Wood Properties who works in Ave Maria, described the makeup of the community as “50 percent Catholic. The rest came because they want to play golf.”
The Catholic part isn’t something she discusses with prospective buyers unless they ask, Carpenter said.
But when they do ask, she has some incredible stories to tell them about how she moved to Florida to help start the university. For instance, she shares that the first house she sold in Ave Maria was the church’s tabernacle — a $500,000 gift from a stranger who approached Carpenter wanting to make a donation in honor of her husband.
“The town speaks for itself,” she said. It certainly attracts all kinds of people, but, “you can’t go into town without seeing this huge church.”
90 miles yonder
EPIC City’s controversial arc draws a stark contrast to plans for a Catholic community just 90 miles away in Tyler, Texas.
Veritatis Splendor, named for an encyclical from Pope John Paul II and that translates to “the splendor of truth,” refers to a project born around 2021 that aims to “build a flourishing community of Catholics” in East Texas.
The project stalled with about 20 houses built after what current resident Stephen Handley, Veritatis Splendor CEO, aptly summed up as “drama.” Pope Francis removed Tyler Bishop Joseph Strickland, a major proponent of the project, from his post. In addition, news broke of an affair between Kari Beckman, who was on Veritatis Splendor’s board of directors, and Texas Right to Life’s Jim Graham.
After moving to the community in 2023, Handley teamed up with his neighbors to get the vision back on track with a grassroots push.
Handley, who runs a software company, is approaching the project like a start-up. He’s got the seed money for the first phase, which involves looking deeply into what’s possible for the community in terms of infrastructure and utilities.
But he dreams big.
Veritatis Splendor has 377 acres of developable land on which Handley and his neighbors would like to see a church, more single-family homes and a commercial district.
Handley estimates that the community could cost $100 million. He’s exploring different options for raising the money, he said, including selling shares of a company, selling bonds or taking out debt securities.
In comparison to Ave Maria, Veritatis Splendor is and will be a lot smaller, Handley said. The rural setting makes it possible for lots to span multiple acres. The community is unique in that there’s a strong agricultural element, including a vast blueberry farm. One of Veritatis Splendor’s pillars is education, and most residents choose to homeschool their kids.
“Day to day, it probably feels more like your traditional suburb,” Handley said about Ave Maria. “In Veritatis Splendor, I don’t think it’ll ever take on a suburbia feel.”
The group spearheading the revival of the community has consulted attorneys about the process, including ensuring they don’t run afoul of Fair Housing laws. No one is excluded, Handley said. But, the community’s traditions, such as a nightly rosary walk, communicate the values of the people who live there.
“We’re being more explicit,” he said. “We’re saying, ‘These are our values,’ and we’re not shying away from it … There’s other reasons people are attracted to a community like ours, but we’re putting our faith as that first reason.”
The explicit mentions of Catholicism on the part of the community’s leadership haven’t drawn the same accusations of discrimination as EPIC City.
The Real Deal requested information related to investigations into either community from the entities Abbott mentioned. In the case of EPIC City, the entities claimed the documents were confidential. There were no documents related to investigations into Veritatis Splendor.
Salvation?
Community Capital Partners has yet to submit any plans for approval to Hunt or Collin county, but that could change soon.
David Kalhoefer, an engineer hired by the developer, told Collin County commissioners in March that the group is in the process of conducting water, flood and traffic studies. The company plans to submit plans by the end of the year, Kalhoefer said.
The same meeting stretched to four and a half hours long; the room was packed with public commenters who showed up to register their opposition to the community, calling Islam a religion that “allows abuse to women” and claiming that EPIC City would be the site of “honor killings, stonings.”
Meanwhile, Community Capital Partners continues to fight accusations of discrimination from Texas leaders. So far, it’s winning.
In early April, the group hired Dan Cogdell, a well-known attorney who led the successful defense of Ken Paxton’s impeachment trial, to respond to the investigations. Cogdell came out swinging, accusing Abbott of “gubernatorial hate speech.”
After opening an inquiry on May 9, the U.S. Department of Justice dropped its investigation into EPIC City in a letter on June 13.