In a cultural moment saturated with hashtags, hot takes and half-baked theologies, Glenn Packiam is trying to do something that feels almost radical: get back to the basics.
The basics, in this case, being the Nicene Creed. That 1,700-year-old confession of faith you may have mumbled through once during a liturgical church service and never really thought about again. Packiam, a pastor, theologian and author of What’s a Christian Anyway?, is staking a bold claim: The way forward for the church might not be something new, but something ancient.
“In this moment of corruption in the church and confusion in our culture,” Packiam says, “it’s easy to lose your bearings. The Nicene Creed is like a guide rope in a blizzard — it doesn’t solve everything, but it can keep you from getting lost.”
The book is a response to the kind of conversations Packiam’s been having with disillusioned believers for years. People who say they’re walking away from Christianity but, in his view, are often walking away from a distorted version of it.
“Tell me about the faith you’re leaving,” he’ll ask. “Because chances are, it might not be Christianity anyway.”
That distinction — between the message of Jesus and the cultural, political or institutional baggage attached to it — is at the heart of the project. Packiam believes the church has handed people a bloated version of the faith, one where every opinion and tradition carries the same theological weight. The result? People feel like if they can’t accept all of it, they can’t accept any of it.
“It’s like that preschool game ‘What’s in the Bag,’” he explains. “You think you’re getting Oreos, but it’s oranges. And you’re like, wait, this isn’t what I signed up for.”
He’s not interested in rebranding Christianity. He’s interested in repacking it — keeping the core intact and letting the rest fall into its proper place.
For Packiam, that starts with the creed. The Nicene Creed was written in A.D. 325 during a time of persecution, theological conflict and widespread uncertainty. It wasn’t a moment of pristine unity. It was messy, full of noise and disagreement — not so different from today.
“There were fringe voices, false teachings and a lot of people unsure what to believe,” Packiam says. “And the creed became a unifying declaration — something the global church could say together, across time and space.”
He started incorporating it into worship at his former church in Colorado Springs and found that even in a modern, nondenominational setting, it had power. In a congregation reeling from past scandals and trust issues, the creed became a stabilizing force. It reminded people that their faith wasn’t ultimately about a brand or a pastor or a vibe — it was about something older and bigger.
When he moved to California to lead Rock Harbor Church, he revisited the creed again — this time not just as a liturgical moment, but as a sermon series. If the first time was about rebuilding trust, this time it was about rediscovering truth. And in both cases, it worked.
“I think sometimes what we call deconstruction is actually disorientation,” Packiam says. “We’ve lost our reference points. The creed gives us a theological center.”
He’s clear that the creed doesn’t answer every question. It doesn’t tell you what to think about every cultural flashpoint or interpretive nuance. But it does remind you of what Christianity can’t be reduced beyond. It’s the “irreducible minimum,” as he puts it — the center of the wheel that keeps the spokes aligned.
That doesn’t just purify the faith. It also unifies it.
“When we start to emphasize our particular angles — our hot takes, our pet doctrines — we drift farther apart,” he says. “But when we move closer to the center, we find each other again.”
This isn’t theoretical. The church is in a credibility crisis. Institutional trust is at historic lows, especially among younger generations. And yet, according to Barna, spiritual openness is surprisingly high. The disconnect, Packiam says, is between people’s hunger for God and their skepticism toward the church.
So how do Christians engage without becoming co-opted? How do we speak into a fractured culture without just adding more noise?
Packiam points back to Jesus — not just as a figure to worship, but as a model to follow. What we see in Jesus, he says, is a radical hospitality and a radical healing. He created space for outsiders, and he also told them the truth about themselves. He welcomed, and he transformed. It wasn’t either-or.
Too many Christians today want to pick one or the other. Some are all about belonging but avoid the harder conversations about sin or justice. Others are eager to call out what’s broken but forget to actually welcome anyone in. But in the gospels, Packiam sees a pattern: Jesus’ welcome always led to wellness. And that, he says, is the shape of Christian mission.
“It’s about becoming a person who lives out love that both includes and heals,” he says. “Not one at the expense of the other.”
He knows this isn’t an easy sell. It’s quieter work. Less flashy. It doesn’t trend. But he believes the future of the church depends not on big-name pastors or viral sermons, but on everyday Christians who know how to listen, ask good questions and tell a better story.
“There was a time when the evangelism question was, ‘If you died tonight, do you know where you’d go?’” he says. “We don’t live in that world anymore. Now it’s, ‘What story are you living by?’”
Everyone has a creed, whether they realize it or not. The real work, he says, is getting curious about the narratives people are telling themselves — and offering the story of Jesus as a more beautiful alternative.
That starts with humility. And it starts, again, with returning to the center.
Packiam doesn’t think churches need to slap “Nicene Creed” on their websites to prove they’re on track. But he does think it’s fair for young Christians to ask what their church actually believes — and whether it lines up with historic Christian orthodoxy. And more than that, he wants people to know they’re not alone in this.
“We react to the certainty of past generations by swinging to the other extreme. We say, ‘I feel like,’ instead of, ‘I believe.’ But faith isn’t supposed to rise and fall on how we’re doing that day. It’s a community project. You don’t have to carry it alone.”
Faith, he says, isn’t a solo kayak. It’s a massive rowboat. On the days when you’re tired or confused or full of doubt, you don’t have to jump ship. You can set your oars down. Others will keep paddling for a while.
“And when you’re ready,” he says, “pick up your oar again. Because we’re all in this together.”
