America Christianity as Cul-De-Sacs

Imagine a massive housing development. I don’t know if you’ve ever driven into one and found yourself unable to get out—but I have. It was nighttime, back before everyone had a GPS in their pocket. We’d been invited to a party at the house of some Christians we’d met while doing street evangelism.

Finding the housing development was easy. Finding the actual house? That was another story. The place might as well have been a labyrinth. One wrong turn trying to retrace my steps, and I’d end up in a dead-end cul-de-sac. There were dozens of them—each a little different, but basically the same. You’d see bikes scattered in front yards and portable basketball hoops tipping over in driveways. Eventually, I found the right house on the right cul-de-sac. I was in my early twenties.

Years later, my family lived in a smaller subdivision, but it too had a handful of cul-de-sacs. We lived on one with a lot of kids, and my oldest son had made friends with just a few of them. One day, he decided to venture out and explore the other cul-de-sacs to see what kind of kids lived there.

Each cul-de-sac had its own ecosystem. There were the cool kids, the uncool kids, and a whole vibe unique to each circle. Ours was mostly full of pasty white gamers and drama-loving twelve-year-old girls. My son was drawn to the cul-de-sacs where the kids were into basketball. They were bigger, louder, and rougher—but they played hard, and that appealed to him. Over time, he made his rounds, getting a feel for the different tribes.

I’ve found the American evangelical church to be a lot like that. Last year, I got to know some pastors of extremely large churches. What stood out to me was how unfamiliar their entire world was. They’d mention names I had to Google—folks with best-selling books and connections to high-status influencers. But they meant nothing to me. I didn’t live on that cul-de-sac.

I’d been living in the ultra-reformed cul-de-sac. And not only did these guys not know the big names in my world—they couldn’t even imagine spending much time debating things like head coverings, exclusive psalmody, or what exceptions someone might take to the Westminster Standards. Yet in my tribe, that was the air we breathed. Every cul-de-sac has its own culture, its own controversies, its own celebrities. And unless you’ve been living there, it all seems foreign—and maybe a little absurd.

My son and I have a lot in common—we both get curious about what’s going on in the other cul-de-sacs. What are the kids like over there? What do they do differently? Maybe even better? So, we go exploring.

That same instinct has shaped my approach to Christianity. I’ve always been interested in spending time with different branches and streams within Protestantism. Over the years, I’ve wandered through a lot of theological neighborhoods. I’ve learned a little bit from a lot of different Christian cul-de-sacs. Some were warm and welcoming, others more closed off. Some were strange, some surprisingly familiar. But each offered something worth noticing.

Speaking of those closed-off cul-de-sacs—some neighborhoods just don’t like visitors. If you’re not from there, you’re not welcome. Simple as that. Oh, well.

Others take more of an “if you’re not with us, you’re against us” approach. They expect total loyalty to their cul-de-sac—which, in practice, means you only hang out with them. No exploring. No curiosity. No new friends.

That’s a miserable place to live, and those sorts of kids usually end up friendless. But here’s the thing—you don’t have to stay there. You can explore. And as you get older, you can move. You can carry the best parts of your cul-de-sac with you and leave the worst.

I’m a Reformed Christian in the Westminster tradition. That’s not changing. That’s the cul-de-sac my house sits on. But I’ve been enjoying time in some other neighborhoods lately—less drama, better fellowship.