The Quiet Erosure of Denominational Identity
—and Why It Matters
There's a curious amnesia that has settled over American Christianity in recent decades, a forgetting that would perplex our brothers and sisters in Nairobi, Manila, or São Paulo. Walk through an American suburb today and you'll pass church after church bearing names like "Summit," "Elevation," "Journey," or "The Crossing"—names that could just as easily belong to wellness centers or corporate campuses. What you won't often find are the old markers: Baptist, Presbyterian, Methodist, Lutheran. These words, once worn as badges of theological conviction, have been quietly retired, treated like embarrassing remnants of a more narrow-minded age.
The irony is rich and instructive. Many of these ostensibly "non-denominational" churches remain functionally denominational in everything but name. Saddleback Church, for decades, operated within the Southern Baptist Convention's orbit while carefully avoiding the Baptist label in its public-facing identity. The theology remained, the polity remained, the denominational ties remained—only the honesty about it disappeared. This wasn't malice; it was marketing. The calculation was simple: denominational labels alienate the spiritually curious, the "unchurched," those shopping for a faith community the way one might shop for a gym membership. But something important was lost in this transaction, something we're only now beginning to reckon with.
When Distinctiveness Became a Dirty Word
The great unbranding of American Christianity began in earnest in the 1970s and accelerated through the church growth movement of the 1980s and 90s. The logic seemed sound enough: in an increasingly pluralistic, consumer-oriented society, churches needed to lower barriers to entry. Denominational identity, with its whiff of tribalism and doctrinal pickiness, was seen as precisely such a barrier. Why trumpet your Calvinist soteriology or your views on church governance when you could simply invite people to "come as you are" and "experience authentic community"?
The cultural tailwinds were strong. This was the era of declining institutional trust, of "spiritual but not religious," of the self becoming the ultimate arbiter of truth. As Robert Bellah observed in "Habits of the Heart," Americans were increasingly cobbling together personalized spiritualities—"Sheilaism," he called it, after an interview subject who had essentially invented her own religion. Churches responded by emphasizing the universal over the particular, the experiential over the doctrinal, the accessible over the demanding.
But Paul's warning to Timothy rings uncomfortable here: "For the time is coming when people will not endure sound doctrine, but having itching ears they will accumulate for themselves teachers to suit their own passions" (2 Timothy 4:3). What began as an evangelistic strategy may have inadvertently facilitated the very consumer spirituality it hoped to redeem.
The View from the Global South
Here's what's striking: this denominational diffidence is almost exclusively a Western, and particularly American, phenomenon. In Nigeria, to be Anglican or Pentecostal isn't merely a demographic fact—it's a statement of theological conviction and ecclesial belonging. In South Korea, Presbyterian identity matters deeply, shaping everything from worship style to missionary approach. Across Latin America, the Caribbean, and the South Pacific, Christians know what they believe and can articulate why their particular tradition matters.
This isn't mere stubbornness or cultural lag. Churches in the Global South understand something we've forgotten: that denominational identity, at its best, represents a living tradition of biblical interpretation and theological discernment. It's not tribalism for tribalism's sake; it's the accumulated wisdom of communities that have wrestled with Scripture across generations and emerged with distinct convictions about what faithfulness looks like.
When Paul wrote to the Corinthians about their divisions—"I follow Paul," "I follow Apollos," "I follow Cephas"—his concern wasn't that they had theological distinctions, but that these had become occasions for boasting and faction (1 Corinthians 1:12-13). The solution wasn't theological mush, but proper ordering of loyalties: all ultimately follow Christ, and our various traditions should serve that ultimate allegiance.
The Doctrinal Vacuum and Its Consequences
Denominational identity, whatever its historical excesses, served a crucial function: it signaled doctrinal boundaries. When a church called itself Baptist, you knew something about its view of baptism, church governance, and biblical authority. Presbyterian meant something specific about polity and Reformed theology. These labels were shorthand for complex theological commitments hammered out over centuries of careful biblical study.
Strip away those markers, and what fills the void? Too often, the charisma of individual leaders, the appeal of production values, or the comfort of therapeutic messages. Without clear doctrinal moorings, churches drift with cultural currents. And this is where the real danger emerges.
The non-denominational movement, for all its genuine successes in reaching the unchurched, has inadvertently created cover for theological charlatans and biblical illiteracy. When every church is simply "Bible-believing" without specifying what that means in practice, when doctrinal distinctives are viewed as divisive rather than clarifying, a generation of believers is left without the tools to discern wheat from chaff.
We now face an explosion of churches peddling prosperity gospel, baptizing therapeutic deism, or wedding Christian language to political ideology—and many congregants lack the theological formation to recognize the distortions. Jesus warned of false prophets who "come to you in sheep's clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves" (Matthew 7:15). In an era of doctrinal vagueness, the wolves blend in quite nicely.
This is exacerbated by biblical illiteracy that would have shocked previous generations. When believers don't know the difference between justification and sanctification, between complementarianism and egalitarianism, between Arminian and Reformed soteriology—not because these debates are unimportant, but because they've been taught that such distinctions don't matter—they're vulnerable to every wind of doctrine (Ephesians 4:14).
The Case for Doctrinal Clarity
I'm not arguing for a return to the fortress mentality of mid-century denominationalism, with its territorial turf wars and inherited animosities. Nor am I suggesting that denominational labels are inherently superior to local church autonomy. What I am arguing for is honest, clear, public doctrinal commitment.
When Paul instructed Titus to appoint elders in every town, he specified they must "hold firm to the trustworthy word as taught, so that he may be able to give instruction in sound doctrine and also to rebuke those who contradict it" (Titus 1:9). Sound doctrine isn't a luxury for academic theologians; it's essential equipment for faithful Christian communities.
Churches should be able to articulate clearly: What do we believe about Scripture? About the nature of salvation? About the church's mission? About human sexuality and marriage? About social justice and gospel proclamation? These aren't secondary matters—they shape how we live, worship, and bear witness.
Denominational traditions, whatever their imperfections, provide tested frameworks for answering these questions. They represent communities of interpretation that have thought deeply about biblical authority, theological method, and practical application. To simply discard them in favor of a supposedly neutral "just us and the Bible" approach is naïve—everyone interprets Scripture through some tradition, whether they acknowledge it or not.
Where Do We Go from Here?
The path forward isn't simply rebranding with denominational labels—though honesty about theological commitments would be refreshing. Rather, we need a renewed emphasis on catechesis, on doctrinal formation, on teaching believers to "rightly handle the word of truth" (2 Timothy 2:15).
Churches, whatever they call themselves, should prioritize theological education for their members. Not to create armies of amateur theologians, but to form disciples who can discern truth from error, who understand the faith they profess, who can give "a reason for the hope that is in you" (1 Peter 3:15).
This means recovering the value of confessions and catechisms—those compressed statements of faith that Christians throughout history have used to pass on the deposit of truth. It means being clear about where we stand on contested issues, even when that clarity might be unpopular. It means valuing the particular wisdom of our tradition while remaining humble about its limitations.
It also means recognizing that theological diversity within biblical bounds can be a gift rather than a problem. The body has many members, Paul reminds us (1 Corinthians 12:12-27). A robust ecclesial ecosystem includes different traditions emphasizing different biblical truths, challenging one another's blind spots, bearing witness in complementary ways. But this only works when the differences are clear, acknowledged, and rooted in genuine biblical conviction rather than marketing strategy or therapeutic preference.
Perhaps most importantly, we need to recover a sense that doctrine matters not because we're pedants who enjoy arguing about fine points, but because true doctrine points to the true God. Our theological convictions aren't arbitrary preferences; they're attempts to faithfully describe the reality God has revealed. Getting them right—or at least striving to—is an act of love for both God and neighbor.
The writer of Hebrews exhorts: "Do not be led away by diverse and strange teachings" (Hebrews 13:9). In an age of theological confusion and spiritual consumerism, that warning feels urgently relevant. The antidote isn't less theological clarity, but more—offered winsomely, held humbly, but proclaimed courageously. Our brothers and sisters in Lagos and Lima, in Seoul and Singapore, already know this. Perhaps it's time we in the American church remembered.
Timely, engaging, and insighful. Thanks for sharing your thoughts here. I appreciated the clarity of your thesis and points of application.