Evangelicalism: Part 2

When Simple Faith Becomes an Unhealthy Bubble

Introduction

Whenever I discuss Evangelicalism, the response is always varied. Some are frustrated because the way I articulated it doesn’t align with their experience, while others defiantly protest because I hit the nail squarely on the head. The reality is, of course, that this is what happens when anyone attempts to genuinely critique an entire religious group—there is simply too much diversity in belief and practice to capture every variation.

Yet despite all of this, whenever someone uses the term “American Evangelicalism,” almost everyone knows exactly what they’re referring to.

For some, it’s a megachurch with stage lighting and stadium seating. For others, it’s a small-town chapel with a fire-and-brimstone preacher. It can be hyper-Calvinist or completely Arminian in theology. But despite these differences, “American Evangelicalism” evokes something immediately recognizable—a shared spirit more than a shared creed.

At its core, it rejects what historic Christianity has long affirmed: liturgy, tradition, hierarchy, and sacrament. It denies the visible Church, apostolic continuity, and much of Christian history. In their place, it offers a deeply personal, emotionally-driven faith built on private interpretation and individual experience. Structure is viewed with suspicion. Teaching is secondary to a relationship with Christ. The result is what I’ve come to call the Evangelical bubble: a spiritual habitat not formed by confession, but by reaction.

In Part One, I revealed what American Evangelicalism really is—a rejection of both Catholicism and the Reformation. What it presents as a return to biblical simplicity is, in fact, a rupture from the historic Church.

This second part will not rehash those theological arguments. Instead, it will examine the culture that filled the vacuum: how Evangelicalism, born from the collapse of mainline Protestantism (Lutherans, Presbyterians, Episcopalians, etc.) and hardened by the cultural revolutions of the 20th Century, developed a moral and spiritual worldview shaped more by reaction than tradition.

Over the next six sections, I’ll trace how this reactionary posture gave rise to a religious habitat marked by control, fear, and fragmentation. It has shaped not only family structure and cultural engagement, but even the way Evangelicals relate to other Christians.

1. The Rise of Evangelicalism

By the mid-twentieth century, American Christianity was beginning to unravel. The institutional churches that once anchored neighborhoods and shaped public life were losing both their influence and their people. Mainline Protestantism—the backbone of American Christianity—seemed unable to respond to the spiritual hunger around them. The worship, liturgy, and practice increasingly felt empty and spiritually void. People sat in pews, reciting words they didn’t understand, and baptized babies who inevitably left the faith when they hit puberty. For most, church felt like going through the motions—with no faith.

It was into this vacuum that Evangelicalism emerged. And at first, it felt like renewal. It rejected the cold formalism of institutional religion and called people back to the center: Scripture, repentance, and personal faith in Christ. The Gospel wasn’t just explained—it was proclaimed. Ministries like Billy Graham’s crusades, the Jesus Movement, and thousands of independent churches across the country offered something that felt alive. You didn’t need stained glass or centuries of tradition. You needed Jesus. And for many, that message changed everything.

But this return came during a time of cultural upheaval. The 1960s and ’70s reshaped American life at every level—morally, relationally, politically. New ideas about sex, family, gender, and authority swept through the culture, and Christianity was caught in the crossfire. Mainline denominations largely accommodated the change, reshaping doctrine to match the mood of the moment. But many conservative Christians sensed that something was being lost. They didn’t want a rebranded church. They wanted something that still believed in the Bible.

The result was a quiet exodus. Millions left the Mainline for what they hoped would be something more faithful. Evangelicalism became that place of refuge—a new kind of Christianity that promised moral clarity, biblical teaching, and spiritual authenticity. But in rejecting the errors of progressive theology, many also rejected the deeper traditions and philosophies that could have rooted their doctrines in sound logic. They fled the fire—but brought little with them.

2. A Personal, Yet Isolated Faith

By rejecting tradition and institutionalized Christianity, Evangelicalism prioritized the idea of “simple” faith. Often citing Jesus’ command to have a “childlike faith” (Matthew 18), this became the rallying cry of so-called “true Christianity.” It wasn’t about ritual or hierarchy—it was about trusting Jesus and reading Scripture. And to many, this felt like a return to something real.

This emphasis on personal faith wasn’t wrong. In many ways, it was needed. But in throwing out the less “practical” aspects of the Church and simplifying the Gospel, Evangelicalism adopted a new idol: utility and simplicity.

You likely know what I’m talking about. When I was an Evangelical, I’d drive past beautiful old Gothic churches and think, “Look at all that money that could’ve gone to the poor.” When I visited Lutheran services, I’d scoff at the structured liturgy, thinking, “This is a distraction. I can’t feel God sitting through this.” These sentiments are extremely common. And they come from a belief that says: “I just need my Bible, my community, and Jesus.”

The problem, of course, is that when you reduce the faith to an hour-long sermon and a few worship songs, your theology—YOUR TRUTH—becomes an isolated bubble.

What I mean is: Without tradition or history to guide belief, Evangelical churches often become echo chambers. Whatever the elder board—or more often, the lead pastor—believes is what is taught. And because Evangelicalism is an umbrella for millions of independent, Baptist-adjacent churches, you can visit a dozen and hear a dozen different takes on the Gospel—and ultimately, on truth itself.

I’d argue the key issue is Sola Scriptura. But even mainline Protestant churches, which coined the term, have official teachings that keep their pastors and congregations accountable. Evangelicalism has NO such structure. Each church tends to operate independently or is a member of autonomous fellowships like the EFCA, SBC, and Calvary Chapel…. The result is millions of micro-bubbles—not just of beliefs, but of culture.

3. Toxic Beliefs Thrive in Bubbles

At this point, Evangelical readers may hesitate to read on… After all, what’s problematic with simple faith? What’s wrong with sticking to Scripture and having independent churches that can meet the needs of specific communities?

To respond, I offer an extreme example.

Let’s say a pastor becomes convinced that the Rapture—and subsequently, the end of the world—is near. He believes Christ will return in approximately three to four years. Not only is he persuaded by the state of world affairs, but also by his reading of Scripture. He shares this conviction with the elders of his church, who support his decision to preach on it. After all, they hired him and agree on most theological issues.

The next Sunday, he delivers an hour-long sermon urging everyone to get their affairs in order. Some families may quietly leave, but many stay—deeply trusting their pastor’s spiritual leadership. Over time, the congregation reorganizes their lives around the imminent return of Christ. In some cases, they may even relocate or enter communal living to prepare.

This may sound absurd. But it’s not hypothetical. It has actually happened—multiple times—in the 20th and 21st centuries.

If a Catholic priest were to preach something similar, the Church would intervene. His bishop would act. But in an Evangelical setting, no such safeguard exists. Each congregation is its own authority. And if their reading of Scripture supports it, there’s no mechanism to prevent spiritual overreach.

This is precisely why I believe these micro-bubbles of belief are so dangerous. When you separate the local church from tradition and history, any belief can flourish. And while many Evangelicals insist their own church is balanced or biblically sound, I’d argue that’s entirely subjective. Who decides what’s “extreme”? After all, if millions of churches can’t agree on doctrines as basic as “Can someone lose their salvation?” or “How often should we take communion?”—how can we be sure what counts as faithful teaching on the end times or anything else?

But this is the deeper danger: when simplicity becomes the goal, maturity starts to look suspicious. Deep theology feels like overcomplication. Church authority feels like control. And anything beyond “just trust Jesus” begins to sound prideful, intellectual, or even Pharisaical.

That’s the real cost of the bubble.

Evangelicalism views simple faith as equivalent to what Christ meant when He called us to childlike trust. But that’s a mistake—because childlike trust is beautiful. Childlike understanding isn’t.

Scripture is clear: Christians are supposed to grow—not just emotionally, but in discernment and doctrine.

“Though by this time you ought to be teachers, you need someone to teach you again the basic principles of the oracles of God. You need milk, not solid food… But solid food is for the mature, for those who have their powers of discernment trained by constant practice to distinguish good from evil.” (Hebrews 5:12–14)

4. Common Practices That Aren’t Biblical

The result of everything I’ve detailed—how and why American Evangelicalism emerged and splintered into isolated belief communities—ultimately led to practices that aren’t rooted in Christian tradition and aren’t Biblical, despite claiming to be.

And yes, as I stated in my introduction, not every practice I mention is true for every Evangelical. But that’s precisely what makes these patterns hard to pin down: Evangelicalism has no binding creed—only a posture of rejection. So while the details vary, the patterns are familiar to anyone who’s experienced the bubble.

One of the most common traits in Evangelical circles is a deep suspicion of culture. This isn’t entirely wrong—All Christians should recognize that the world is disordered in many ways. But Evangelical suspicion tends to run so deep that anything not explicitly “Christian” is viewed as dangerous. I knew families who saw alcohol, dating, secular music, and even superhero movies as “spiritual threats.” And what looks like wisdom—guarding against temptation and the sin of the world—can easily become fear dressed up as virtue. Rather than cultivating discipline, that fear produces fragility and ultimately a susceptibility to sin in the future.

That same fragility shows up in other areas, too: Evangelical spaces are often the loudest opponents of modern science. Evolution is treated not as a theory to be understood, but as a moral threat to be silenced. Psychology is dismissed as secular humanism. Even basic medicine—vaccines, sex education, therapy—can become battlegrounds, not because of data, but because of instinct. It’s not about evidence. It’s about what’s consistent with an already established worldview, which is too fragile to accommodate modern advancements.

Nowhere is this more painful than in how Evangelicalism treats sex. In its effort to resist the sexual revolution, many churches replaced liberation with legalism. They created a culture of silence and shame around sexuality—especially for young people. Boys were told to “flee temptation,” while girls were told to “not cause it.” And while that goal may sound noble, in practice it created a culture of “purity” where families avoided the topic of sex entirely—often leading to confusion, guilt, and eventual rebellion.

Furthermore, family structure itself overcorrected in response to the sexual revolution—resulting in unhealthy, sometimes toxic dynamics under the banner of “biblical masculinity and femininity.” Instead of husbands imitating Christ—who laid down His life in love and humility for His bride—many were taught to wield authority absolutely. Wives and daughters could be treated more like property than persons. I’ve known households where women were taught that their highest virtue was submission—until they were “given” to a worthy husband. And while some embraced this sincerely, the reality is that many never had another option. They were told that submission was their God-given nature—and that to question it was to question God Himself.

None of these practices is organized. No single body declared them into being. They simply emerged—habits passed down from the pulpit and reinforced over time. And because they come cloaked in scriptural language, they often feel biblical even when they aren’t.

That’s what often makes the Evangelical bubble so difficult to challenge: To question the status quo is to insult the community, to question God. And for many, it inevitably pushed them away, not just from a specific church community, but Christianity altogether.

5. A Culture That Misunderstands Others

By now, the pattern should be clear. Evangelicalism isn’t grounded in a unified theology—it’s shaped by what it resists. And while that resistance may have begun as a response to the failures of mainline Protestantism, it now shapes how many Evangelicals see the world: not as something to accompany or understand, but as something to love—by correcting.

A key aspect of this shows up in the name itself: Evangelicalism. Unlike older traditions—Catholic, Orthodox, Anglican, even Lutheran—which see evangelization as incarnational and relational, rooted in long-term witness and presence, Evangelicalism often views the world as a field to be harvested—or worse, as a battlefield to be won. Evangelism becomes less about embodying Christ to others and more about securing declarations of faith. The impulse may be sincere, but it often treats others less like persons to love and more like problems to fix.

This is why many outside the Church associate Christianity with judgment and condescension. What they’ve encountered—often loudly and persistently—is the voice of a particular subculture. A subculture so convinced of its purity, and so fearful of contamination, that it engages the world with a kind of spiritual quarantine suit: protective, urgent, and deeply impersonal. It wants to save—but it rarely stops to see. And in doing so, it treats unbelievers like runaway puppies in need of rescue, not as human beings bearing the image of God.

That same dynamic applies not only to non-Christians but to fellow Christians as well. As I argued in Part One, Evangelicalism is suspicious not just of Catholicism, but of Protestantism itself. It often ignores or misunderstands the historic traditions of Christianity. And because of that, it tends to treat other Christians the same way it treats unbelievers: as people who need to be corrected.

This posture can feel brave—even principled. But it comes at a cost. When you define yourself by what you reject, you lose the ability to recognize truth in unfamiliar places. You lose the capacity for wonder, for humility, for dialogue. And eventually, you stop seeing people as fellow image-bearers and start seeing them as obstacles. It breeds deep-rooted ignorance, fear, and even hatred toward those outside the bubble. I’ve experienced this hatred firsthand, and I know I’m not alone.

Conclusion

In this second part of my Evangelicalism series, I’ve tried to show how a movement born from zeal and sincerity gradually became shaped more by reaction than by rootedness. What began as a return to biblical faithfulness became, over time, a culture of fragmentation, fear, and fatigue. And when you discard the very structures that once held the faith together, you don’t just lose the errors—you lose the wisdom.

Evangelicalism often prides itself on returning to the “simple faith” of the apostles. And that desire is noble. But simplicity without history becomes fragility. What fills the void isn’t unity or truth—it’s a patchwork of personal doctrines, isolated churches, and cultural overreactions dressed in biblical language.

I say this not with disdain, but as someone who was a part of it. Some of the most faithful Christians I know are Evangelicals. They love Christ and strive to follow Him sincerely. But I also know how easily “simple faith” can become an excuse to resist deeper truths and a more meaningful understanding.

So I invite you—not to abandon your love of Scripture, but to deepen it. Not to walk away from Christ, but to meet Him in the fullness of the Church. Step outside the bubble. Talk to those you once dismissed. Listen before you react. You may find the truth isn’t as unfamiliar—or as frightening—as you were told.