The End of the Evangelical Experiment?
There is a certain irony in asking whether the evangelical experiment has come to an end at precisely the moment when evangelicalism appears, at least superficially, to be everywhere. Its language permeates Christian discourse; its institutions dominate the Protestant landscape; its instincts shape everything from preaching styles to publishing strategies. Yet ubiquity is not the same as vitality. Indeed, it may well be the mask behind which decline hides most effectively.
The question, then, is not whether evangelicalism exists, but whether the particular form it has taken in the 20th and early 21st centuries has proven itself fit for purpose. And here, one suspects, the answer is far less comforting. For if the experiment was intended to produce a church capable of withstanding the pressures of an increasingly secular age while maintaining fidelity to the gospel once delivered to the saints, then the results thus far are decidedly underwhelming.
At the heart of the problem lies a paradox: evangelicalism, in its modern guise, has arguably sought unity at the expense of identity. And in so doing, it has rendered itself increasingly incapable of speaking with clarity, conviction, or authority to the world it inhabits.
The Older Evangelicalism: Unity with Substance
It is worth recalling that evangelicalism has not always looked as it does today. David Bebbington’s famous quadrilateral—conversionism, biblicism, crucicentrism, and activism—remains a useful heuristic for describing the movement’s theological core. Yet what is often overlooked is the ecclesial context within which these commitments were historically embedded.
Earlier evangelicalism did not float free from confessional or denominational moorings. On the contrary, it assumed them. One could be an evangelical Anglican, an evangelical Presbyterian, an evangelical Baptist—and indeed, one typically was. The shared commitment to the gospel did not negate these identities; it presupposed them.
This older evangelicalism understood that unity required boundaries. The gospel itself is a doctrinal claim, not a vague sentiment. To confess Christ crucified is to affirm a set of theological propositions about sin, grace, atonement, and the nature of God. These propositions, in turn, require articulation, defence, and—crucially—institutional embodiment.
Thus, the evangelicalism of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries was not allergic to confessions or creeds. It did not regard denominational distinctions as regrettable obstacles to unity, but as necessary expressions of theological conviction. Unity was real, but it was not amorphous. It was unity in the truth, not unity despite it.
The Modern Turn: Unity Without Definition
By contrast, the evangelicalism that emerged in the mid-twentieth century took a markedly different approach. In the wake of fundamentalist-modernist controversies, there was an understandable desire to avoid the sectarianism that had characterised earlier disputes. The solution, however, was not merely to reject liberal theology—something that was indeed necessary—but to redefine the terms of unity itself.
Increasingly, unity was conceived in minimalistic terms. The boundaries of evangelical identity were drawn as broadly as possible, often reduced to a lowest common denominator: belief in the authority of Scripture, the necessity of conversion, and the centrality of Christ. Beyond this, differences were downplayed, if not actively discouraged.
On one level, this approach had its attractions. It facilitated cooperation across denominational lines, enabled large-scale evangelistic efforts, and fostered a sense of shared purpose. Yet it also carried within it the seeds of its own undoing.
For what happens when unity is defined by the absence of boundaries rather than their presence? The answer, it seems, is that unity becomes increasingly difficult to sustain. Without clear doctrinal markers, there is no agreed-upon standard by which to adjudicate disputes or assess innovations. The result is not a robust, inclusive orthodoxy, but a fragile consensus that can be easily disrupted.
The Loss of Confessional Identity
The most significant casualty of this shift has been the erosion of confessional identity. Where earlier evangelicals saw confessions as safeguards of doctrinal fidelity, many modern evangelicals have come to regard them as impediments to mission.
The logic is simple enough: if the goal is to maximise unity and minimise division, then anything that introduces specificity—anything that draws lines—is suspect. Confessions, by their very nature, do precisely that. They define what is to be believed and, by implication, what is not. In an ecclesial culture that prizes inclusivity, such definitions are increasingly unwelcome.
Yet the abandonment of confessional standards has not led to a more united church. It has led to a more confused one. In the absence of agreed doctrinal frameworks, theological novelty finds fertile ground. Ideas that would once have been recognised as heterodox are now tolerated, even celebrated, so long as they can be framed in sufficiently evangelical language.
The criterion for inclusion has become, in effect, allegiance to “Team Jesus”—a phrase that, while rhetorically appealing, is theologically vacuous. It tells us nothing about who Jesus is, what he has done, or how his work is to be understood. It is unity reduced to sentiment.
The Cultural Captivity of the Church
This theological thinning has occurred at precisely the moment when Western society has undergone profound secularisation. Here, Charles Taylor’s insights are instructive. In A Secular Age, Taylor describes the transition from a world in which belief in God was the default to one in which it is merely one option among many. As he puts it, we now inhabit “a society in which it is virtually impossible not to believe in God” no longer holds; instead, belief is contested, fragile, and often marginal.[1]
In such a context, the church faces a formidable challenge. It must articulate the gospel in a way that is both intelligible and compelling to those for whom its basic assumptions are no longer shared. This requires not less theological clarity, but more. It demands a deep understanding of both the Christian tradition and the cultural moment.
Yet this is precisely what modern evangelicalism, in its quest for unity without boundaries, has struggled to provide. Having divested itself of the very confessional resources that might have equipped it for this task, it finds itself ill-prepared to engage a secular world.
Carl Trueman has observed that “the modern self assumes the authority of inner feelings and sees authenticity as defined by the ability to give social expression to the same.”[2] This insight is crucial. For it highlights the extent to which contemporary Western culture is shaped by expressive individualism—a worldview in which identity is self-constructed and self-validated.
The problem is not merely that the church must address such a culture; it is that, in many cases, it has internalised its assumptions. The language of authenticity, the emphasis on personal experience, the suspicion of external authority—all have found their way into evangelical discourse.
Thus, when evangelicalism seeks to speak to culture, it often does so using the very categories that culture has supplied. It does not challenge the underlying assumptions; it baptises them. The result is a church that is not so much counter-cultural as culturally compliant.
The Failure of the Experiment
It is at this point that the notion of an “evangelical experiment” becomes pertinent. The experiment, broadly conceived, was this: could a movement defined by minimal doctrinal commitments and maximal organisational flexibility sustain a vibrant, orthodox, and missionally effective church in the modern world?
The evidence suggests that it cannot.
To be sure, there are exceptions—faithful congregations, robust institutions, and thoughtful leaders who have resisted the drift. But these tend to be precisely those who have retained, or rediscovered, a commitment to confessional theology. They are not the products of the experiment; they are its correctives.
More broadly, however, the trajectory is clear. The erosion of doctrinal boundaries has led to a corresponding erosion of doctrinal confidence. The pursuit of unity has resulted in a loss of identity. And the desire to engage culture has culminated in cultural captivity.
This is not to say that earlier forms of evangelicalism were without their flaws. They were not. Nor is it to suggest that denominationalism, in and of itself, is a panacea. It is not. But it is to argue that the abandonment of confessional and ecclesial structures in the name of unity has proven to be a strategic and theological misstep.
Recovering Substance
What, then, is to be done? If the evangelical experiment, as it has been conducted over the past century, has indeed reached its limits, what might a way forward look like?
The answer, I suggest, lies not in innovation but in retrieval. It requires recovering the very elements that modern evangelicalism has sidelined: confessions, creeds, and a robust ecclesiology.
This is not a call for a return to sectarianism or a rejection of all forms of cooperation. It is, rather, a call to recognise that genuine unity is grounded in shared truth, not in its minimisation. It is to acknowledge that the church’s ability to speak to the world depends upon its clarity about what it believes.
Such clarity is not achieved by avoiding doctrinal specificity, but by embracing it. It is forged in the discipline of confessional theology, where beliefs are articulated, tested, and transmitted across generations. It is sustained in ecclesial contexts where these beliefs are not merely affirmed, but embodied in worship, preaching, and practice.
In this regard, the older evangelicalism has much to teach us. Its commitment to the gospel was not weakened by its confessional commitments; they strengthened it. Its unity was not compromised by denominational diversity; it was enriched by it.
An Ending and a Beginning
To speak of the end of the evangelical experiment is not to pronounce the death of evangelical faith. The gospel does not depend upon any particular historical configuration of the church for its validity or its power. But it is to suggest that a certain way of being evangelical—a way that prioritises breadth over depth, flexibility over fidelity, and sentiment over substance—has reached the end of its usefulness.
If that is so, then the end of the experiment may, in fact, be an opportunity. An opportunity to recover what has been lost. An opportunity to rebuild on firmer foundations. An opportunity, perhaps, to rediscover that the church’s strength lies not in its ability to mirror the culture, but in its willingness to stand apart from it.
For in the end, the church does not bear witness to itself, but to Christ. And to bear faithful witness to him requires more than a loosely defined unity. It requires a clear confession, a coherent theology, and a community shaped by both.
Anything less may look like evangelicalism. But it will lack the substance that makes evangelicalism worth having at all.
[1] Charles Taylor, A Secular Age (Cambridge: MS: Harvard University Press, 2007), 3
[2] Carl Trueman, Strange New World: How Thinkers and Activists Redefined Identity and Sparked the Sexual Revolution (Wheaton, IL: Crossway, 2022), 22.
Brett Lee-Price is the Managing Director of Tulip Publishing, a confessionally Reformed ministry and publisher based in Australia. He occasionally lectures in Theology and History and serves as a gifted brother at Belvoir Street Baptist Church.
