In the Concrete, Not the Ethereal

It’s lovely to imagine how things ought to be.

One single Church, no labels, no divisions, no tales of rupture, no doctrinal disputes, no differences in governance, baptism, communion, liturgy, or mission. The idea has its charm. Jesus Himself prays for His disciples to be one (John 17:20-23).

But we exist on this side of eternity.

And on this side of eternity, the Church needs to exist in the concrete.

The New Testament doesn’t just know an abstract Church. It knows churches in Corinth, Ephesus, Philippi, Thessalonica. It knows elders being established (Acts 14:23; Titus 1:5), responsibilities being assigned (Acts 6:1-6), and conflicts being addressed and decisions being made (Acts 15:1-29).

Concrete church needs to decide.

Who teaches? How does it govern? How does it receive new members? How does it baptize? How does it celebrate Communion? How does it discipline? How does it understand the gifts? How does it relate to the State? How does it handle money? How does it send missionaries?

At some point, the beautiful phrase “we’re just Christians” has to sit at a table and vote on something.

And that’s where the differences begin.

Perhaps this is one of the reasons why the idea of abolishing denominations tends to sound so alluring when we’re young. Time seems infinite, decisions seem reversible, and we have an impressive conviction that our point of view—and that of those who agree with us—is the correct, pure, balanced, and sensible one.

Descartes already mocked this by observing that nothing seems as well distributed as common sense: everyone thinks they have enough.

The history of the Church is a great antidote to this certainty.

Let’s just think about Lutherans, Presbyterians, and Baptists. None of these movements arose because someone woke up on a Tuesday wanting to invent a new brand. The Lutheran Reformation went through political conflict, excommunication, and the risk of death. Scottish Presbyterianism formed amidst deep religious and civil disputes. The first English Baptists faced persecution for convictions that many of us today consider trivial, like freedom of conscience and believer’s baptism.

Of course, there’s pride in this history. There’s sin. There’s stubbornness. There are ruptures that perhaps could have been avoided.

But reducing all this to “they couldn’t live in unity” is too comfortable for those observing centuries later, sitting in a chair that these very struggles helped make possible.

Denominations are also memory.

They preserve answers that Christian communities gave, in concrete times and places, to questions they couldn’t simply ignore. Some answers were better. Others, worse. Some need correction. Others deserve preservation precisely because they came at a high cost.

That’s why I have little interest in a church without identity.

I’m interested in a church whose identity knows its place.

Paul planted. Apollos watered. God gave the growth (1 Corinthians 3:6).

Perhaps a denomination is something similar: a historical, limited, and concrete way of planting or watering within a work that never belonged to it.

The problem begins when it forgets this.