04/30/2026
There has been a quiet shift forming beneath the surface of our culture since the end of World War II, a slow movement away from hardship and toward the avoidance of pain. What began as a mercy through medical advancement, stability, and safety has, over time, reshaped how we interpret discomfort, resistance, and even truth itself.
When a culture becomes accustomed to comfort, pain no longer feels like a teacher but instead begins to feel like a threat. As pain becomes something to avoid, risk begins to feel unnecessary, and what once formed strength is now often perceived as something harmful. Over time, this does not simply shape behavior; it begins to shape belief and what we are willing to hold onto when it costs us something.
The Church has not remained untouched by this shift. In many places there has been a gradual softening, not always from rebellion, but often from a desire to reach, to keep, and to not lose those who are listening. Yet in that process, truth that confronts has been quieted, truth that costs has been reframed, and what was once spoken with clarity is now often filtered through whether it will be received without resistance.
This shift has also reshaped how we speak within the Church itself. In an effort to reach the unbeliever, we have often begun to build entire environments around accessibility, removing language, depth, and theological weight so that nothing feels unfamiliar or uncomfortable. The desire to remove what some have called “Christianese” was, at its core, an attempt to be understood, yet in many cases it has led to something unintended. In trying to make everything understandable to the outsider, we have slowly limited what is being formed in the believer.
The result is that many gatherings are shaped more around introduction than maturation, more around entry than depth, and the growth of those who are already in Christ can become secondary to the comfort of those who are not yet rooted.
Yet when we look at the ministry of Christ, we see something strikingly different. Beginning in Matthew 13, there is a clear shift in how He teaches. The text tells us that He began to speak to the crowds in parables, and then explains why. “This is why I speak to them in parables,” He says, “because seeing they do not see, and hearing they do not hear, nor do they understand” (Matthew 13:13). And later, when the disciples ask Him why He speaks this way, He answers, “To you it has been given to know the secrets of the kingdom of heaven, but to them it has not been given” (Matthew 13:11).
What we see is not a move toward simplification for the sake of comfort, but a movement toward depth that requires pursuit. The crowds heard the stories, but the disciples came closer for understanding. The teaching itself created a distinction between those who were content to listen and those who were willing to seek.
Christ did not dilute truth to make it more easily received. He revealed truth in a way that invited hunger, required nearness, and formed those who were willing to follow Him beyond the surface.
When we compare this to much of what we see today, we have to ask an honest question. Have we, in our desire to reach, unintentionally reversed the pattern? Have we created spaces where everything is made immediately accessible, but little is required to go deeper? Have we taught in a way that keeps people comfortable in the crowd, rather than calling them forward into understanding?
This is not a call to become confusing or inaccessible, but it is a call to recover depth. The Church was never meant to remain at the level of introduction. There must be a place where believers are formed, stretched, and anchored in truth that is rich enough to sustain them.
Because if we only ever speak to where someone begins, and never call them into where they are meant to grow, we do not build disciples, we build listeners.
And a Church filled with listeners, but not disciples, will always remain vulnerable to whatever truth feels easiest to receive.
