Over the greater part of a decade, I served as a missionary in Central Europe, where the currents of history run deep. If you have ever traveled through that part of the world, you will have noticed something remarkable: though secularism has asserted its dominance, Christianity’s imprint remains unmistakable. It lingers not only in the remnant of a faithful few but in the very stones of the great cathedrals, the chapels tucked into city squares, the centuries-old village churches that still shape the countryside. The faith that once governed entire civilizations remains—perhaps in ruin, perhaps as a relic—but it is there, etched in stone, ringing from bell towers, whispering from stained glass.
A favorite place of mine to visit is a late-Gothic church in the town of Banská Štiavnica, Slovakia. Originally erected as a Catholic church, it was later claimed by the Reformers as an Evangelical house of worship. Its cornerstone bears a date that might surprise you—1492, the very year Columbus set sail across the Atlantic. The symbolism is striking. While explorers ventured westward into an unknown world, the Christian faith remained a fixed point in the Old World, anchoring communities to something beyond and above themselves. The churches may stand unattended, their pews empty, their ceilings crumbling—but in a very real sense, the stones still cry out.
The architecture itself is a testament to an age when faith was not simply an ornament to life but its organizing principle. Town centers were crowned with steeples, taller than any other structure. Bell towers did not simply chime; they ordered time itself, calling the faithful to prayer, tolling for the dead, marking the rhythm of the liturgical year. Though the culture may have shifted, these places still whisper of something greater—of a religious vision that shaped entire civilizations and oriented life toward eternity.
“Though the culture may have shifted, these places still whisper of something greater—of a religious vision that shaped entire civilizations and oriented life toward eternity.”
The American Frontier and the Call to Restoration
Contrast that with the American frontier. In the wake of the Revolutionary War, the western territories told a very different story. Here was a land largely devoid of visible spiritual landmarks. Unlike Europe, with its ancient monasteries and towering cathedrals, the frontier had no centuries-old religious institutions to frame the experience of settlers. The pioneers carried little with them, and that included the inherited structures of Christendom.
Deprived—or perhaps liberated—from the imposing presence of state churches and hierarchical denominational structures, something remarkable happened: believers reached not for the grandeur of the Old World but for the simplicity of the early church. They sought to return to the wellspring of the faith, to restore Christianity in its apostolic purity.
It is in this context that the American Restoration Movement was born—a movement within the Church, calling the Church to be the New Testament Church. On a makeshift pulpit of hand-hewn logs, Barton W. Stone led the Cane Ridge Revival, igniting a movement that would spread like wildfire. There were no stained-glass saints, no vaulted ceilings, no incense curling toward heaven—just open fields, wooden benches, and Bibles in the hands of men and women hungering for the truth of Christ, fresh and unfiltered.
“Believers reached not for the grandeur of the Old World but for the simplicity of the early church.”
Between Relevance and Roots: The Restoration Movement’s Struggle with History
Many church leaders within the Restoration Movement possess at least a passing awareness of the historical forces that shaped our tradition, but history itself has rarely been our chief focus. Unlike some Christian traditions that have meticulously documented their origins, carefully preserved their institutions, and leaned heavily upon the past to define the present, we have tended to view history as something incidental rather than formative.
In fact, it wasn’t until the Christian Churches (Disciples of Christ) fully embraced their identity as a mainline Protestant denomination that the first Historical Society dedicated to our movement emerged. Elsewhere within the Restoration tradition, history has often been treated as secondary—if not entirely ignored. The tendency has been to either lean into relentless cultural adaptation, always striving to keep up with the shifting tides of contemporary relevance, or to assume that we have somehow bypassed history altogether, stepping unfiltered into the apostolic age.
This second tendency is especially curious. Ask the average congregant about their place in the history of the Restoration Movement, and you are likely to receive a blank stare. In some ways, this is understandable—after all, the impulse behind our movement has always been to look past denominational history in order to return to the purity of the early church. But this has often led us to imagine that we exist outside of history altogether, as if we have discovered some theological wormhole that delivers us straight to the first century, untouched by the shaping influence of two thousand years of Christian reflection, struggle, and development.
“This has often led us to imagine that we exist outside of history altogether, as if we have discovered some theological wormhole that delivers us straight to the first century.”
Avoiding Historical Amnesia
In the life of a church, however, few things are more dangerous than historical amnesia. A congregation that forgets where it came from will soon lose sight of where it is going—or worse, it will begin to imagine that Christianity is something each generation must reinvent. The result is either a baptism of passing fads, a restless chase after the most stylish modalities of the world, or a slow calcification—where the church ceases to move and instead becomes a monument to itself.
But Christianity, like all true gifts, must be received. It is not self-manufactured. While the message of the cross transcends time and space—uniting believers across millennia—the church itself lives within the common lot of history. It is always conditioned by the particular, always formed within a cultural and historical context. Theologians sometimes call this the scandal of particularity—the striking reality that God works through specific people, places, and times rather than through some abstract, disembodied ideal.
This tendency toward historical amnesia is especially true for churches with roots in the Restoration Movement. And yet, there is a fine line to walk: we are not called to worship our history but to learn from it. A movement obsessed with its own past risks ossifying into a museum exhibit, more concerned with self-preservation than with mission.
“We are not called to worship our history but to learn from it.”
A Movement for Unity, Not Division
Yet the Restoration Movement was never merely about “arriving” at a fixed point or about only recreating some semblance of ancient practice; the call to “Primitive Christianity” was a plea for Christian unity—a unity founded not on extrabiblical creeds or denominational traditions but on the simple doctrine of Christ and the apostles. The founders of the movement did not set out to fracture the Church further but to restore its unity in Christ—to strip away unnecessary accretions so as to rediscover the core of Christian truth.
Early Restoration leaders championed slogans that reflected this conviction:
- Where the scriptures speak, we speak; where the scriptures are silent, we are silent.
- Bible things by Bible names.
- No book but the Bible, no creed but Christ.
- We’re Christians only, and not the only Christians.
These were not merely slogans; they embodied a theological instinct—that divinely revealed truth, when stripped of human additions, is best seen in its original, unvarnished form. If the stream of Christian tradition had been muddied by centuries of division, why not go back to the headwaters?
“The founders of the movement did not set out to fracture the Church further but to restore its unity in Christ—to strip away unnecessary accretions so as to rediscover the core of Christian truth.”
They weren’t trying to erase history. Not at all. Alexander Campbell himself saw value in the Apostles’ Creed and the Nicene Creed, even calling them “useful.” But he rejected their authority as tests of Christian fellowship. No confession could replace the simple, powerful truth Peter proclaimed: You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.
The Restoration Plea Still Calls
The Restoration Movement arose as a defiant response to the fracturing of Christ’s body, a call to abandon the tangled thickets of denominationalism and rediscover a faith unencumbered by man-made traditions. At its best, this movement has never been a nostalgic retreat but a bold advance—a recovery of the essentials: biblical authority, Christian unity, and the priesthood of all believers. These are not relics of a bygone era but guiding stars still burning bright in the ecclesial sky.
In an age of waning biblical literacy, when Scripture is too often treated as a relic rather than a revelation, our commitment to speaking where the Bible speaks and being silent where the Bible is silent is more necessary than ever. When the culture fractures along political, racial, and ideological fault lines, the plea for unity still calls us—to be one in Christ, not splintered by the anxieties of the age. And perhaps most countercultural of all is our insistence that every disciple is called, that the work of the kingdom is not the province of a professionalized clergy but the shared vocation of every believer. At a time when many churches have drifted into a consumer-driven model, where worship is spectacle and the pastor is performer, our insistence that leadership be shared among elders and that every Christian is a minister stands as a much-needed corrective.
“At its best, this movement has never been a nostalgic retreat but a bold advance—a recovery of the essentials: biblical authority, Christian unity, and the priesthood of all believers.”
Now past its second-century mark, the Restoration Plea still resounds—a clarion call to those who seek a church where Christ alone is the head, where Scripture alone is the standard, and where the gospel alone is enough. This is no academic exercise; it’s a summons to mission. In an era of theological drift, faith deconstruction, and cultural disarray, we do well to recover the conviction of those early pioneers: that sometimes, the best way forward is the way back—back to the gospel, back to the unity of believers, back to the simple, world-shaping power of Christ.
Ahistoricism and the Danger of Insularity: Lessons from Darwin’s Finches
In the 2,000-year sweep of Christian history, isolation is a dangerous thing. A church that lacks broader historical and theological awareness risks becoming like Darwin’s finches—so perfectly adapted to its immediate environment that it loses the ability to survive elsewhere, much less adapt when the climate of culture changes. What begins as a kind of specialization—such as striving for the gospel stripped bare in the context of settlers on the prairie, as in the case of the Restoration Movement—a narrowing of focus to the needs and expressions of a particular community, can subtly turn into an incapacity to recognize the broader movement of God beyond its own borders. Nowhere is this more perilous than in the raising of the next generation.
Without a sense of the larger body of Christ, without an awareness that Christianity is far older, richer, and more expansive than any single congregation or movement, young believers can easily mistake their particular Christian culture for the whole of Christianity itself. They grow up immersed in a specific expression of faith—a particular style of preaching, a familiar rhythm of worship, a well-worn set of theological emphases—and assume that these patterns are not just normative but universal. But then comes the inevitable moment when they step outside that familiar setting.
“Then comes the inevitable moment when they step outside that familiar setting.”
I have seen it time and again: young people who were deeply committed to their faith at home, only to flounder when they leave for college or move to a new city. They visit a church that organizes itself differently, that sings in a different style, that emphasizes different aspects of Christian teaching. And rather than recognizing a shared foundation in Christ, they feel unmoored. Difference feels like dissonance. Unfamiliarity feels like unfaithfulness. And in that space of disconnection, many quietly drift away—not because they have rejected Christ outright, but because they have never been formed with the historical awareness to recognize His presence beyond their own immediate tradition.
This is why historical consciousness matters. It is why tradition—rightly understood—is not a burden but a gift. When we see ourselves not just as generic Christians but as believers shaped by a deep and distinctive heritage—one that prioritizes believer baptism, communion, congregational autonomy and biblical authority—we develop a stronger sense of spiritual kinship. But here’s the paradox: that very awareness of our unique history, rather than closing us off from others, actually opens us up. It gives us the stability to step into unfamiliar spaces and still recognize what is familiar, maintaining “unity in the bond of peace” (Ephesians 4:3). It allows us to see beyond the surface-level variations of church culture and perceive the deeper continuity of the faith once delivered to the saints.
A Christian who knows their roots does not fear differences. They do not see theological nuance as a threat, nor do they feel the need to assimilate uncritically. Instead, they can discern, knowing that their faith did not begin with them and will not end with them. And because of this, they stand firmly—not clinging to the past, nor anxiously grasping for the new, but grounded in the great and living tradition of the Church.
“They can discern, knowing that their faith did not begin with them and will not end with them.”
Remembering by Moving Ahead: Mission, and not Monument
A congregation that consciously remembers its history is like a seasoned traveler with a well-worn map—it does not wander aimlessly but moves with purpose, guided by the wisdom of those who have gone before. To be historically aware is not to be shackled to the past but to be oriented by it, to recognize that we walk a path others have cleared, even as we press forward toward a horizon yet unseen. But here lies the danger: when a church begins to romanticize its past, it risks mistaking nostalgia for faithfulness, as though God was somehow more present in history than He is now, as though the work of the Spirit was something to be admired rather than something to be participated in.
Christianity, after all, is not a monument but a mission, God’s mission. Like God calling Abram on a journey to a city he knew not, faithfulness is found not in standing still but in moving forward, trusting that the One who called us is still leading. The Restoration Movement was never meant to be a museum piece, encased in a curio cabinet for future generations to reminisce from a safe distance. It was and remains a summons—a call to biblical faithfulness, to unity in Christ, to a church propelled by the Great Commission rather than paralyzed by self-preservation.
“When a church begins to romanticize its past, it risks mistaking nostalgia for faithfulness.”
And let’s be honest—our movement has been known for many things, sometimes, unfortunately, for our divisions. But no one has ever accused us of having the most ageless and inspiring architecture. We don’t, as a rule, worship in grand cathedrals, nor do we carve our creeds into stone. Our sanctuaries have been simple, practical, relevant—wood-framed, steel-beamed, often makeshift. We have built churches in storefronts, in school gymnasiums, in borrowed spaces and rented halls. And if our strip-mall sanctuaries rust away and our megachurch campuses crumble back into the prairie from whence they rose, the kingdom of God will stand. The gates of hell, Christ assures us, will not prevail in defense against the Church’s advance.
The real question is whether we will stand with it. The stones we’ve erected will not cry out in the city square if the witness of our voices fall silent. At the end of the day, the Restoration plea has never been about what we build with our hands or accomplish with our plans, but about what God is building in and with His people. Let it be said not that we were merely the guardians of a history, but the participants in a mission—a people who did not just admire the work of God but joined in it, pressing on, ever forward, toward the city that has foundations, whose architect and builder is God.
