Over the past year or two, there have been increasing reports of a “quiet revival,” particularly among younger people. I have heard it said that churches are seeing new faces again; that curiosity about Christianity is growing; that some who had written faith off entirely are beginning to re-engage. If this is true—and I genuinely hope that it is—then it is something to welcome, not to resist.
But it is precisely at such moments that the Church must slow down and ask not only how many are coming, but the really important question: what we are inviting them into?
The concern that prompts me to write this is not scepticism about faith, nor hostility to evangelism. Quite the opposite. It arises from a deep, settled conviction that our broken, anxious, and violent world can only be healed by taking the life and teachings of Jesus Christ with the utmost seriousness. I believe that to respect Jesus, to listen to him, and to order one’s life around his way of love is not merely admirable—it is, quite simply, the best choice a human being can make.
I have written a book to make that conviction clear.
But I have also come to that conviction slowly, painfully, and at considerable personal cost. It has taken me more than fifty years of faith, doubt, struggle, disappointment, and perseverance to arrive at a mature confidence in Christ—not a borrowed certainty, but one forged through experience, loss, testing, and grace. And it is precisely because of that journey that I find myself deeply uneasy when I see Christian faith presented as something that begins with a declaration that sounds awfully like a slogan.
When I hear the familiar phrase, “I confess Jesus Christ as my Lord and Saviour.” I do not doubt the sincerity of those who say it. But increasingly I find myself asking what that sentence is being asked to carry—and whether it is being made to do far more work than it can sustain?
When confession becomes a shibboleth
In the New Testament, to confess that “Jesus is Lord” was not a religious formula. It was potentially a very dangerous act of allegiance. It meant aligning oneself publicly with a different vision of power, truth, and authority. To say Jesus is Lord was also, unavoidably, to say that Caesar is not. And that meant, from that moment on, life was not likely to be the same again; one’s acceptance in society was likely to be threatened which could mean danger to one’s family, potential imprisonment, torture and even death could follow.
Whereas in much contemporary Christian culture, the phrase has subtly changed its function. It has become less a declaration of a lived allegiance to Christ and more a marker of belonging—a way of signalling that one is now “inside.” It often functions as an entry requirement, an assurance-mechanism, or a moment that supposedly completes the business of salvation.
Confession, in this reduced form, becomes the beginning and the end of the story.
My worry is not that people are being invited to take Jesus seriously. My worry is that they are being invited to arrive too quickly at the destination, without being adequately prepared for the road that leads there.
The danger of beginning with certainty
The Christian life does not, in practice, begin with clarity, confidence, or doctrinal precision. If one considers Jesus’ first disciples, it usually began with curiosity, attraction, disquiet, longing, or even desperation. People were (and are) drawn to Jesus because something in his way of being human rings true. They sense, often wordlessly, that here is a life worth paying attention to.
But when the first demand placed upon an enquirer is to declare certainty—to say the approved words, to cross the line, to identify themselves publicly as “saved”—something fragile is set in place. Faith is framed as a decision rather than a formation; as a moment rather than a journey; as a verbal act rather than a slow reshaping of imagination, desire, and character.
The problem with this is not merely that it is psychologically naïve.
It is spiritually dangerous.
Certainty that has not yet been tested is brittle. Belief that has not yet learned how to doubt is easily shattered. A faith that has not been allowed to ask difficult questions will eventually collapse under the weight of real life—grief, injustice, unanswered prayer, moral complexity, or betrayal by the Church itself.
When that collapse happens, people do not usually conclude, “Oh dear, I was given a shallow framework.” Tragically they are more likely to draw the conclusion that, “Christianity was not true.”
Formation, not recruitment
One of the deepest misunderstandings in modern Western Christianity is the idea that the Church’s primary task is recruitment. It is not. The Church exists to host formation: to accompany people as they learn, slowly and often painfully, what it means to trust God, love others, tell the truth, and resist the seductive pull of power and fear.
Jesus did not gather disciples by offering shortcuts. If anything, he did the opposite. He warned them repeatedly that the road would be costly, confusing, and misunderstood. He spoke in ways that thinned the crowds rather than flattered them. He trusted that God’s work in a human life cannot be hurried without being distorted.
God’s revelation is not delivered all at once. It is received over time, in relationship, through trust, resistance, failure, endurance, and grace. Faith matures not by avoiding testing but by being accompanied through it.
The Christian fellowship that grows along this road can indeed be immensely sustaining. Community, worship, Scripture, and shared practices matter deeply. But they are companions to the journey, not substitutes for it.
At its best, in my experience, Christian fellowship can be something profoundly beautiful. To be welcomed without conditions, to be known and accepted as one is, to be encouraged to live truthfully and authentically before God and others, and to share life with people who are also trying—imperfectly and honestly—to follow the way of Jesus, can be deeply healing and sustaining. It is entirely understandable, and often genuinely loving, that Christians want to say to others, “Come with us—walk with us—we have found something good.” The early Church spoke of faith simply as the Way, and good fellowship has always been about accompanying one another on that shared journey. Not standing at the gate deciding who belongs.
The trouble begins when belonging quietly becomes conditional—when honesty is subtly discouraged, when authenticity is mistaken for disloyalty, or when ongoing fellowship depends on accepting a fixed body of “received wisdom” uncritically. At that point, fellowship ceases to be a context for formation and becomes a mechanism of control. What began as unconditional welcome slowly morphs into conditional acceptance—and people often discover the conditions only once they start to grow.
A better beginning
None of this is an argument against commitment. Nor is it a plea for vagueness or indecision. It is a plea for honesty.
What if we invited people first to walk, to listen, to watch, to ask questions, to fail, to try again?
What if we reassure those who are curious about Jesus: You don’t need to have the right words yet.
What if confession were allowed to emerge at the other end of the journey, not as a password, but as the natural language of allegiance that has been tested and found trustworthy?
When formation is allowed to do its quiet work—without pressure to “decide,” to declare, or conform—something far more trustworthy can then take place. At a certain point, the person themselves begins to feel an inner stirring, a longing that was not imposed from outside. Faith is no longer something being offered to them; it is something they actively desire. They find themselves asking, not because they are afraid but because they are drawn, “What must I do?” Not as a way of earning salvation, but as an expression of readiness—to step more fully into the life they have already begun to glimpse.
To confess Jesus as Lord is not a small thing. It is a profoundly demanding claim. It deserves a depth of formation capable of sustaining it.
If there truly is a new generation exploring Christian faith, then our responsibility is not to secure quick results but to offer them a truthful beginning—one that will still hold when life becomes difficult, when certainty evaporates, and when faith must mature beyond slogans.
Jesus does not save us by sparing us the journey. He saves us by walking with us through it.
Any church that offers certainty without formation is not preparing people for faith; it is preparing them for disillusionment.
And if we love those who are beginning to ask real questions about God, then love demands that we give them something better than a sentence to say. It demands that we invite them onto a road—long, costly, honest, and ultimately life-giving.
Jeremy Marks, 22/01/26