This post is based on a reflection paper I wrote during my first year in seminary, revisited now with the benefit of hindsight and ongoing faith formation.
When I entered seminary, I thought church history would be something I studied from a distance: names, dates, and dusty controversies I’d memorize for an exam and then set aside. I didn’t expect it to speak to my present faith, let alone my past.
But the more I read, the more I found myself in the questions it raised. I had already been grappling with objections to Christianity some from outside the Church, but many from within. What I didn’t expect was that so many of those same questions had already been asked before. The early church wasn’t afraid to wrestle with mystery. In fact, much of what we believe today was formed because they did.
Take the question of who Jesus really is. Reading about Athanasius and his defense against Arianism felt surprisingly relevant. His insistence on the full divinity of Christ wasn’t just a theological stance. It was a fight for the heart of the gospel. What moved me was how he argued from Scripture without distorting it, refusing to compromise truth for the sake of peace. And at the Council of Chalcedon, when the Church affirmed that Jesus is both fully God and fully human, it helped give language to what I already sensed: that mystery and clarity can coexist, and that some truths are worth guarding.
I had never realized how much of our theology was born out of tension. Even the doctrine of the Trinity emerged from opposing views with some emphasizing Jesus’s deity, others his distinction from the Father. And somehow, through this struggle, the Church articulated a belief in one God in three persons. I still don’t fully understand it. But I’ve come to believe it not only because of creeds and councils, but because I’ve known the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit personally. Slowly, even the Holy Spirit, who felt most abstract to me, became someone I could relate to as a person.
Seeing how the creeds were formed not only helped clarify my own beliefs. It also reminded me of their original purpose. They weren’t just for the learned; they were tools to teach new converts, to summarize the essentials of the faith. They weren’t just for reciting; they were meant to be lived, defended, and passed on.
Even the parts of church history I once dismissed began to make sense. I had a negative view of monasticism. Why escape the world when God called us into it? But learning about how monastic communities preserved the Scriptures during the Dark Ages softened that view. I may not agree with a monastic lifestyle today, but I’ve come to understand the hunger for holiness, and the need for solitude now and then.
Then came the Reformation. Martin Luther’s story felt both jarring and necessary. He didn’t intend to start a new movement. He wanted reformation, not division. And yet, what emerged reshaped Christianity. His emphasis on the Five Solas, especially Scripture alone as our highest authority, offered a needed corrective to misplaced trust in human institutions. Not because it dismisses the Church, but because it places God above all human authority. When churches or pastors or even I fail, God doesn’t.
But of course, the Reformation didn’t solve everything. It splintered the Church even further, as disagreements on baptism, communion, and salvation led to new denominations. At times, this fragmentation can feel disheartening. I’ve often wondered where I stand, especially when I see value in more than one view. But I’ve come to realize: following Jesus isn’t about having perfect doctrine. It’s not about choosing the right label. It’s about staying anchored in the essentials, and loving one another even in our differences.
I grew up in a church my grandfather helped start, shaped by a strong sense of mission and a deep openness to the work of the Holy Spirit. I didn’t question that foundation for many years, not until I found myself asking new theological questions and encountering other traditions. I didn’t yet understand how the various streams of Christianity fit together. It’s only now, through studying church history, that I’ve come to see the larger story. While I no longer fully identify with the tradition I grew up in, I can see its sincere desire to make sense of the Spirit’s ongoing work in a believer’s life. I still believe He moves. I still long for revival. But I’ve also learned, as Jonathan Edwards warned, that revival without discernment can drift into extremism.
I no longer attend the interdenominational church that shaped much of my theological curiosity in those early years, simply because I now live in a different city. But I still carry with me something it taught me deeply, that we can “major on the majors and minor on the minors.” That phrase offered a framework for holding core doctrines with conviction while allowing space for diversity and dialogue on secondary issues. It helped me make peace with not fitting neatly into one tradition and gave me the freedom to seek truth without fear of disloyalty. Even now, as I navigate faith from a new place geographically and spiritually, that posture of humility and unity continues to guide me.
Church history hasn’t just shaped my theology. It’s helped me become more patient with mystery, more grounded in truth, and more generous toward those who differ. I’m not done learning. But I know this much: I belong to Christ. And whatever branch of the Church I find myself in, I walk alongside others who call Him Lord.
This reflection was originally published on Medium under the “Even Here” publication.
Read it there → Even Here