Is “Change” a Good Thing, or a Bad Thing?

In my experience as a church pastor, people seem to divide fairly evenly into those who love change and those who loathe it.

For the first group, unless there’s change, we’re simply not going anywhere; we’re stuck in a rut, just doing the same old, same old. Didn’t Einstein—allegedly, at least—say that the definition of madness is doing the same thing but expecting different results? Change equals progress. Change is inevitable. Change is energising. Whenever change is mooted, excitement builds. Our favourite Scripture (or perhaps it’s our folk theology…) says that “God is (always) doing a new thing!” Change is associated with God’s presence and the Holy Spirit’s moving. God likes change, is the assumption—a creative God keeps recreating and renewing, so if you’re change-averse, get used to it or be left behind. The promise of God-led change offers church leaders a motivational opportunity: “Revival is coming!”

For the second group, the diametric opposite is true. Theologically, they start from the notion that God himself is unchanging: “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever” (Hebrews 13:8). Are we not urged to “defend the faith that God has entrusted once for all time to his holy people” (Jude 1:3) and to continue to Tell the Old, Old Story (as the 19th-century hymn has it)? Change is flirting dangerously with contemporary culture, for the sake of popularity with the world. If truth is unchanging and unwavering, so, too, should we be. Change is risky. Change is scary. Change is inherently questionable. We should start with a presumption that things should not change—the onus is on those advocating for change to persuasively demonstrate otherwise. No change offers comfort. Claims that revival is upon us may prove to be true, but we obviously need to give it time. Church leaders sometimes seem rather too quick to make claims for revival—perhaps because it stimulates serving on rotas and financial giving?   

I wonder which of those paragraphs instinctively resonates with you more?        

I am reminded of the Baptist minister (it might have been an Anglican vicar, but it’s more fun to think it was a Baptist) who wanted to move the piano from one side of the church to the other. Fearing resistance to change—needing prior approval from the fearsome members’ meeting—he decided to move it one inch per week. 

These contrasting perspectives were exemplified for me when we decided it was necessary for the church we led to move from one Sunday morning service (10:30) to two (9:30, repeated at 11:30) to facilitate the growth we were experiencing. I well remember one of the longstanding pillars of the church saying to me, with great sadness, “But I won’t know everyone anymore,” as if that was an essential element of “church.” Even though, according to British anthropologist Robin Dunbar, the maximum number of people that anyone can know meaningfully is 150 (known as “Dunbar’s number”), and our church was already twice that size even before we moved to two services! Already, he didn’t know everybody! I personally suspect the number is closer to the figure Rick Warren suggested some years ago, more like 65, which may well explain why the average church size is typically of that order.    

You may have come across the fallacy of “Golden Age thinking”—used pejoratively of an assumption driven by selective amnesia that things were better in the old days. It originates in the worldview of the ancient world, specifically Greek mythology, in which human history was understood as a steady downward decline from an earlier Golden Age that had since been lost. The traditional Christian framing of ‘the Fall’ in Genesis—from a perfect golden past in Eden—fits with that line of thinking.

Broadly, this reflects the ancient worldview. If the past was perfect, the way things were in the past is to be revered, affirmed, and, if possible, reclaimed.     

In stark contrast, the notion of the future as a Golden Age towards which humanity is inexorably progressing is very recent, deriving from the Enlightenment and its Scientific Revolution (an Age of Science). The prevailing assumption flipped, from the idea that humanity was declining from a lost utopian past, to an ever-increasing upward trajectory, led by future discoveries. The inevitability of progress and its benefits for human society meant that the Golden Age was ahead of us. We should note that the Reformation—often regarded as the theological roots of evangelicalism—coincided with the beginnings of this era, that we call “Modernity.”

Broadly, that reflects the Modern worldview. The past was no utopia; rather, it reflected darkened, unenlightened, unscientific, superstitious thinking (exemplified in religion). A golden future lies ahead of us, thanks to scientific advancement and enlightened thinking (rejecting that earlier nonsense).  

Initially, for those who were the beneficiaries of the Enlightenment (the colonial powers), this upward trajectory would have appeared just so, albeit at the cost of other people groups. However, the experiences of the 20th century onwards (initially with the horrors of the First World War, reinforced by the surpassing horrors of the Second) are what ultimately led to today’s Postmodern worldview that rejects the foundational assumptions, values, and institutions of Modernity, because they have been seen to so conspicuously fail—to be morally corrupt and oppressively deployed.

Rather than simply reflecting the now-familiar characterisation of church debate as a binary argument between “conservative traditionalists” and “liberal progressives,” what we are really seeing on several current issues is a clash of values—those which Postmodernity prizes and prioritises versus those of Modernity. Evangelicalism is classically “Modern” in its core ways of thinking (the technical term is “epistemology”), which we see in its apologetic approach (arguing the case for God), exemplified in the material in the Alpha Course.      

The upshot is that whether change is a good or bad thing—to be prized or to be resisted—is in the eye of the beholder.

It’s possible to suggest a middle way (a via media) which says that certain things from the past ought to be preserved, while other things can and should be rethought. I believe that’s true. But the problem comes when people have different ideas about what should be on each list!

One reason for the ancient world’s suspicion of change was that, frankly, they knew so little about science, agriculture, meteorology, cosmology, and so on, that any change from what had worked well in the past was highly risky.

Q: What happens if we plant our crops on this side of the hill instead of the other side (as we always have done) and then the crop fails?

A: The community will die of hunger.

In contrast, the modern world’s bullishness towards change comes from a confidence (over-confidence?) that we know so much. And if not, that we can fix it as we go along (global pandemics, anyone?). Solutions are inevitable and will soon be discovered.

Let’s focus more specifically on the theological and ecclesial aspects of the question, because this is where the issue comes into particular focus.

I’ve pointed many times to what I see as a commonplace confusion between many Christians’ cultural or social worldview and their spiritual or theological one. What they take to be purely the latter (spiritual/theological) often comes from the former (cultural/social). Cultural conservatives are theologically conservative because they would be cultural conservatives even in the absence of any Christianity to apply it to. Theologically conservative instincts are more often than not led by culturally conservative instincts, rather than (as Christians would typically want to believe), the other way around—in other words, what we’re seeing is cultural thinking wearing theological clothing. (The same would be true of cultural liberals, yet they’re probably more likely to recognise the point).

It’s worth pondering whether, despite conservatives genuinely believing that they are resisting the "spirit of the age”, they are in fact choosing one strand of it: conservative culture.      

The difficulty in seeing this is that, as the old saying goes, “A fish doesn’t know what water is, because nothing else has ever occurred to it.” It’s just “the way things are.”

It’s extremely hard for any of us to step outside of ourselves and see ourselves objectively.   

I think there’s an added problem here for Christians (of whichever cultural disposition), insofar as—not to put too fine a point on it—we routinely claim that “God agrees” with us; that he shares our opinion on things. Why else would we use phrases like “the Bible says” and “the Bible clearly teaches” in presenting our views (while also reminding people that it is, after all, “The Word of God”)? Such language intentionally shifts what they’re saying from a subjective opinion of something being true to them to the inference (if not something stronger) that they’re passing on God’s opinion: absolute truth.  

I am reminded of the (apocryphal?) story of General Montgomery addressing his troops before the Battle of El Alamein, quoting from one of the Gospels: “Jesus said … and what’s more, I agree with him …”

Phrases like “the Bible says” and “the Bible clearly teaches” are, of course, saying essentially the same thing as Monty (just phrased the other way around).

Lest it appear I’m being inconsistent—after all, I frequently quote what the Bible says in my talks—it’s certainly true that the Bible says many things that apply to us, and it clearly teaches many things. The question isn’t what the Bible “says”, it’s the supposed teaching, interpretation, or application that the person quoting it claims it is “saying.” There is no such thing as an uninterpreted Bible verse, not least when it comes to making concurrent claims, express or implied, for a verse’s present-day meaning and application.

So, whether in principle change is a good thing or a bad thing is very much in the eye of the beholder. And in fairness, it should depend on what subjects we’re talking about. Not all potential change is of the same importance, with the same degree of consequences.

I recall a Baptist church members’ meeting where there was extensive debate on whether the church door should be repainted, and if so by whom (everyone seemed to know a neighbour’s aunt whose cousin’s friend did painting and decorating and might be cheaper than the six quotes the deacons had already received—so didn’t prudent stewardship mean we should explore that?). And even more importantly, should we not seek a consensus on whether the colour should be changed? Forming a sub-committee was the obvious way forward.      

I always think it’s somewhat ironic that a core mantra of the Reformation (and hence, of evangelicalism) was “keep on reforming” (semper reformanda)—the longer version of which reads, “The church should keep on reforming itself in accordance with the Word of God.” Which in practice means, in accordance with new and better understandings of the Word of God (since the Word of God itself never changes). And yet, Reformed evangelicalism is for the most part as conservative and resistant to change as it could possibly be! And especially when it comes to any reforming of Reformed theology itself!

Perhaps the takeaway is to ask ourselves whether we are by nature for or against change. Do we know ourselves well enough to know which it is? How well do we “read” our own internal emotional signals (our instinctive reactions) when faced with something that presents some kind of change? Does that instinctively concern us, or excite us? And either way, how well do we understand why our reactions are as they are?