When I used to be in seminary 12 years ago, most of my classmates and I were discerning which denomination to affix. Since lots of us in our nondenominational seminary felt called to church leadership, this was an enormous decision. It’s one thing to worship somewhere, nevertheless it’s one other to take ordination vows.
Being a pastor is a bit like being married: We pledge faithfulness to God inside a selected family of individuals. The stakes felt high as we weighed which denominational family we should always commit to—theological stances, interpersonal quirks, and structural problems included. Our seminary professors modeled that even essentially the most ecumenically minded church leaders remain deeply impacted by their denominational context.
This is just not a nasty thing. Belonging to a selected body encourages us to take a position within the health and integrity not only of our individual congregations but of our congregational networks. Ordained or not, we should always be willing to have interaction in difficult conversations concerning the leadership structures and theological convictions and core values that characterize our respective traditions.
This summer, Christians from a wide range of denominations (including the Southern Baptist Convention, Presbyterian Church in America, Anglican Church in North America, and Christian Reformed Church) held national meetings to debate these convictions and values.
Denominational meetings aren’t at all times comfortable. This 12 months, Baptists debated whether female staff members might be called pastors; Presbyterians disagreed about learn how to address the political polarization happening of their churches; and Anglicans discussed learn how to reply to and communicate about clergy misconduct. These conversations are price our investment and energy.
But they can even create anxiety, especially once they precipitate change. In my very own denomination, the Anglican Church in North America, anxiety ran high at times leading as much as our national gathering as we anticipated the election of a recent denominational leader.
Anxiety is a natural response to concern. It’s an indication that we’re invested in the long run. But if we operate from anxiety, we usually tend to exacerbate the issues we hope to resolve. We change into more polarized and more embedded in our ideological factions; we caricature those we disagree with or express our opinions in uncharitable ways. As one denominational meeting after one other has come and gone this summer, my social media feed has jogged my memory that this temptation knows no theological boundaries.
But our shared anxiety can even lead us right into a shared humility. It can remind us that each denomination has its challenges and uncertainties. All of us are wrestling with hard questions on necessary issues like child safety, transparency, and qualifications for leadership, to call just a few.
It is humbling to appreciate that no church polity, size, or structure can filter out conflict or corruption entirely. Even nondenominational churches and networks face these realities. No tradition—Protestant or otherwise—is proof against problems. If any of my seminary classmates or I assumed we would find an ideal denomination to affix, we were mistaken.
But this recognition shouldn’t cause us to switch anxiety with apathy. Acknowledging our universal need for renewal isn’t similar to making peace with our problems. Nor is it an excuse to avoid the labor of self-reflection about our individual contexts. Rather, it’s an invite to deepen our trust within the one who alone can bring the renewal we seek.
In Matthew 16, Jesus asks his disciples a confrontational query. His ministry was growing, and the crowds had begun to theorize about Jesus’ identity; but in a personal moment, he asks his followers, “Who do you say I’m?” (v. 15).
Peter’s daring answer and career of religion—“You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God”—distinguishes the disciples from the crowds, and it precipitates the primary mention of the church in Matthew’s gospel. Jesus responds to him, “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah. … I inform you that you simply are Peter, and on this rock I’ll construct my church, and the gates of Hades is not going to overcome it” (vv. 16–18).
Whatever else we make of Peter’s career and his primacy within the early church, we will be encouraged that Jesus’ promise still rings true: The church is God’s project. He is the one who will construct us up, who can’t be stopped by any power of hell. Our primary work is to practice allegiance to him in all things—whether we’re Baptist or Presbyterian, pastors or congregants, happy with our theological tribe or disillusioned by it. The proven fact that we don’t know exactly where this may lead us is an element of the purpose. We aren’t sovereign over Jesus’ plans.
As we seek to be faithful in our respective corners of the church, Peter’s historic confession sets one other example for us: It reminds us that whatever influence or leadership we’ve rests on the understanding that we aren’t the Christ. No church leader, together with his or her opinions, is the Christ. No congregation or denomination or system of governance is the Christ. The church is just not made up of people that get the whole lot right. It’s product of individuals who get one thing right: Jesus is the Christ. Our strength lies within the proven fact that we aren’t its source.
The church belongs to Jesus, to not us. And yet, just as he called Peter and the unique disciples, he calls us to partner with him in his project. This project is way greater than anybody denomination. But we will offer our small spheres of authority and responsibility to him with confidence that through us, he’ll proceed to construct his church.
Rehearsing this truth protects us from each cynicism and burnout as we pursue health and holiness in our denominations. We can and will proceed to act on our convictions for the sake of God’s people, even when that results in disagreement. But we must achieve this with integrity, knowing to whom we’ll give an account for our ministry.
Paul models this in his letter to the Corinthians:
Therefore, since through God’s mercy we’ve this ministry, we don’t lose heart. Rather, we’ve renounced secret and shameful ways; we don’t use deception, nor will we distort the word of God. … But we’ve this treasure in jars of clay to indicate that this all-surpassing power is from God and never from us. (2 Cor. 4:1–2, 7)
In whatever corner of the worldwide church we’ve been called to serve, our labor is restricted nevertheless it is just not in vain. Jesus has promised to complete what he began. Our short-term gains and losses belong to a bigger work that features all of his children.
Hannah King is a author and priest at The Vine Anglican Church in Waynesville, North Carolina and is the writer of a forthcoming book about living with hope within the presence of pain.
