At some point in the last few years, many Christians realized something that should have been obvious all along: The Church has problems. Real ones. Some big, some systemic, some heartbreakingly personal. From scandals to culture wars to the simple feeling that Sunday services have started to resemble TED Talks with fog machines, it’s easy — almost too easy — to find something worth calling out.
And to be clear: Calling things out has its place. Jesus flipped tables, after all. But lately, in our rush to be critics, many of us have forgotten something just as important as honesty: humility.
Tim Keller once observed, “The essence of gospel-humility is not thinking more of myself or thinking less of myself, it is thinking of myself less.”
It’s easier — and feels better — to stand at a distance and dissect what’s wrong with the Church than it is to wade into the mess with a spirit of patience and grace. It’s safer to post a hot take than to serve on a prayer team. It’s way cooler to say, “This isn’t what Jesus intended,” than it is to show up week after week, risking the slow, frustrating work of building something better.
The critique era isn’t just alive and well — it’s thriving. Deconstruction podcasts, endless TikTok storytimes, thoughtful threads and less-than-thoughtful comment sections. Everyone’s got receipts and reasons. And while much of it is valid and necessary, some of it has morphed into an echo chamber of cynicism that forgets what the church actually is: not an organization for the righteous, but a hospital for the sick. Not a flawless institution, but a body made of flawed people — including you and me.
As theologian N.T. Wright put it, “You can’t have the Kingdom without the Church.” Translation: If you love Jesus, you’re stuck with his messy, inconsistent family. Criticizing it without participating in it is like booing from the bleachers while refusing to get in the game.
Humility doesn’t mean silence. It doesn’t mean pretending abuse didn’t happen or looking the other way when leadership fails. It means being the kind of person who doesn’t just point out the cracks but picks up a brick and helps repair the foundation. It means saying, “I see what’s broken — and I’m willing to be part of the healing.”
John Mark Comer emphasized, “Humility is not thinking of yourself at all. The humble person is lost in the needs of others.”
The New Testament is full of letters calling out churches for their failings — Corinth, Galatia, Laodicea were all publicly dragged long before social media existed. But Paul didn’t call for mass unfollows or strategic exits. He called for repentance. He called for restoration. He called for people to stick around and help.
And that’s where humility comes in. True humility says, “I might not have all the answers.” It acknowledges that personal preferences aren’t the blueprint for perfect Church. It leaves space for nuance. It trades performative outrage for actual service. It asks, “What part of this is broken — and what part of this is just uncomfortable for me?”
It’s worth asking: What kind of Christian am I becoming? One who builds, or one who tears down? One who critiques because I love the Church, or because I love the sound of my own voice? Am I more invested in calling out problems than I am in praying for people? Am I willing to commit to a community, even if it doesn’t check all my boxes?
Yes, there are churches that are toxic. Yes, there are leaders who need to be held accountable. Yes, there are problems that require real, public reckoning. But healing doesn’t happen through critique alone. It happens through the unglamorous, uncool, deeply spiritual work of staying when it’s easier to leave. Serving when it’s easier to complain. Praying when it’s easier to post.
Criticism has its place. But without humility, it’s just noise.
The Church doesn’t just need your voice. It needs your hands. It needs your heart. It needs your humility.
