Are we leading people toward Comfort—or the Future?
“The typical twentieth-century organization has not operated well in a rapidly changing environment… the standard organization of the twentieth century will likely become a dinosaur.”
— John P. Kotter, Leading Change
Change is no longer an occasional visitor—it’s the air we breathe. But for many churches, especially those shaped by twentieth-century structures and expectations, that reality feels more like a threat than a gift. We keep doing what we’ve always done, even when it no longer works. We manage ministries instead of reimagining them. We organize our governance around what made sense decades ago, not what fosters connection and growth today.
So we slowly fossilize—layer by layer, tradition by tradition—becoming institutions of preservation rather than communities of transformation. It’s not because we lack faith. Often, it’s because we’ve confused familiarity with faithfulness.
But the Gospel isn’t about preservation. It’s about resurrection. About movement. About the courage to leave old nets behind and follow Christ into an unknown future. If we want to be faithful in the twenty-first century, we need to face an uncomfortable question:
Are we becoming dinosaurs—or disciples?
The future isn’t built on strategy alone. At the heart of every healthy church is not a budget or a building—it’s disciples. Discipleship isn’t a program or a class. It’s a lifelong journey of following Jesus, growing in grace, and becoming more available to God’s mission.
But somewhere along the way, many churches swapped discipleship for maintenance. We stopped forming people for mission and started managing people for membership. We created systems to preserve what we had, rather than cultivate what might be. We taught people to serve on committees—but not how to listen for the Spirit. We asked them to attend meetings, but didn’t always equip them to lead ministries.
And here’s the truth: you can’t empower people who haven’t been formed. You can’t build a bold future on a foundation of shallow formation. We wonder why volunteers burn out or why leaders resist change—but often, it’s because they were never discipled in adaptability, humility, or courage in the first place.
Discipleship is not just personal growth. It’s preparation for shared leadership. It’s the soil out of which every ministry, every risk, every mission, every “yes” to God must grow.
What if the church were known as the best place to grow as a leader? Not just for clergy. Not just for church committees. But for teachers and techs, parents and policy-makers, neighbors and nurses—for everyone.
The early church certainly saw things this way. Jesus didn’t just gather listeners—he formed leaders. He mentored a ragtag group of disciples who became apostles, builders of a new movement. He didn’t teach them to play it safe. He taught them to lead with compassion, conviction, and courage in a world that would resist them.
The church was never meant to be a spiritual service provider. It was meant to be a leadership incubator—a training ground for people to become more than they thought they could be, so they could serve more boldly than the world expects.
That kind of growth doesn’t happen overnight. It takes practice. Mentoring. Trust. A culture where questions are welcomed, feedback is honest, and failure is part of the learning. It’s not glamorous work, but it’s holy work. It’s discipleship that dares to say, “You don’t just belong here—you’re being formed for something that matters.”
Of course, not everyone is called to be a leader in the spotlight. Some are gifted to manage, to organize, to facilitate the daily work of ministry, just as vital, and just as Spirit-led. The Body of Christ needs all kinds of gifts. But everyone—leaders, managers, doers—needs formation. And formation is what the church was made for.
What if we stopped asking, “Who will fill this role?” and started asking, “How are we forming people to lead?”
The church is not a business, but we can learn from organizations that thrive by empowering people instead of bottlenecking authority. In many of today’s most agile communities, leadership is shared, teams are trusted, and decisions are made close to the ground, not endlessly cycled through layers of bureaucracy.
Too often, the church resists this. We keep building committees instead of releasing leaders. We expect pastors to manage every detail and every ministry. We cling to control because it feels safer than trust.
But in the Body of Christ, shared responsibility isn’t just a management strategy—it’s a spiritual truth. Paul reminds us that we are one body with many parts, each gifted by the Spirit. That means ministry is not the work of a few, but the calling of all. When we shift from tightly controlled hierarchies to leadership that trusts and empowers others—when we move from gatekeeping to equipping—we free people to live into their gifts.
However, the fundamental shift isn’t structural—it’s cultural. It’s about believing that God speaks through more than just the pastor. It’s about forming disciples who don’t just show up—they show leadership.
If the people of God are truly ministers, then we must also be managers of grace and stewards of responsibility. That starts with trust. And trust grows when we train, support, and expect people to lead well.
A phrase echoes through nearly every church hallway at some point: “That’s how we’ve always done it.”
Sometimes, it’s said with pride, sometimes with fear, and sometimes not at all—but it shows up in how we guard certain rooms, protect specific roles, or repeat programs long after their purpose has passed.
These patterns aren’t just about structure—they’re about culture, and culture is hard to change. We cling to the familiar because it’s comforting, especially in a world that feels unpredictable. But comfort can become a cage. When old systems and habits stay linked long after they’ve served their purpose—when we confuse sentimentality with sacredness—we lose our capacity to move forward.
Every healthy organism needs to be pruned in order to grow. Jesus even taught us this (John 15:2). In a church, that might mean rethinking which ministries still serve the mission, redistributing hoarded power, or letting go—or reframing—a beloved tradition so a new generation can shape something for their time.
None of this is easy. But irrelevance doesn’t happen all at once. It creeps in when we stop evaluating, stop listening, and stop adapting.
The Gospel doesn’t change, but the world we’re sent into does. To be faithful in this generation, we must ask: What needs to be remembered? What needs to be released? And what might God be trying to resurrect in its place?
If the church is called to adapt, then pastors must be more than chaplains of the status quo. We are called to be change leaders—spiritual guides who don’t just preserve what is, but help imagine what could be.
Too often, churches want pastors who will “keep things running,” maintain the traditions, and avoid stirring the waters. But the seas are already stirred. The world has changed. Our communities have changed, but our calling hasn’t. It needs to be re-embodied for this moment.
The pastor’s job is not to keep people comfortable—it’s to keep the church faithful. And faithfulness sometimes looks like disruption, like pruning, like teaching people how to navigate change with grace rather than fear.
We don’t do this alone. The goal isn’t a charismatic leader at the top—it’s a collaborative culture across the body. The church needs leadership that raises other leaders, cultivates a shared vision, and equips people to take holy risks.
This isn’t easy work. It takes discernment, trust, courage, and deep spiritual grounding. But it’s what we signed up for—not just to preach on Sundays but to help shape a church that is alive, agile, and anchored in Christ.
So here’s the question for all of us, lay and clergy alike: Are we leading people toward comfort or the church toward a future? Are we choosing familiarity—or faithfulness?
The church doesn’t need to become a business. But we need to become more intentional, adaptive, and faithful to the movement Jesus began—a movement that formed disciples, raised leaders, and changed the world.
We’re not called to fossilize. We’re called to flourish.
This is a moment of decision. Will we keep managing what was, or start leading toward a future where the church is still alive and faithful? A future where the Gospel is not only preserved, but proclaimed?
The good news is that we already have what we need: the Gospel, one another, and a mission worth giving our lives to.
So let’s stop preserving what’s familiar—and start building what’s faithful.