The Trellis and the Vine
Strong Churches Part 4: Recovering Discipleship Through Tradition
There’s an intriguing pattern emerging in conversations about who still goes to church—and what kinds of churches they’re choosing. It’s a pattern that dovetails with the broader phenomenon of faith “deconstruction.” Recent large-scale surveys suggest that the overall decline in those who identify as Christian may have leveled off. But a closer look reveals a more complex picture: not all churches are weathering the storm equally.
On one end of the spectrum, Eastern Orthodox parishes, traditional (often Latin Mass) Catholic congregations, and sprawling non-denominational megachurches are holding strong—or even growing. On the other, mainline Protestant churches and many “low church” evangelical denominations are struggling to hold their ground.
This divergence raises an important question: How much do tradition and practice matter when it comes to spiritual formation and lasting faith? Are liturgies, catechisms, and household worship habits anchors of deep discipleship—or just formalities that repel as many seekers as they attract?
I come from the Christian Reformed Church tradition. As a child, that meant a rhythm of life that included two Sunday services, Bible readings and devotionals after dinner, catechism classes, Sunday school, and a degree of sabbatarian observance. Some CRC congregations have held onto these practices. In some towns, whole communities still largely acknowledge them—set apart enough from broader cultural norms that writers like Tim Carney have noted them in books like Alienated America.
But many congregations have gradually drifted away from these patterns—probably most of them. Which prompted conservative analyst Aaron Renn, when appearing on a CRC podcast, to observe that while the CRC may still be theologically Calvinist, it is no longer culturally Calvinist.
Now, as the denomination edges toward a likely and substantial split, it’s time to ask: How important are these “culturally Calvinist” practices to the spiritual health of individuals, families, and congregations? Which of them actually contribute to the multi-generational transmission of faith? And which ones, when hollowed out or performed without conviction, might do more harm than good—driving younger generations to “deconstruct” their beliefs or walk away from the church altogether?
Form as a Vessel
The practices of a tradition—its rhythms, rituals, and habits—are not themselves the substance of faith. But neither are they meaningless. In the best cases, form acts as a vessel: something that holds and carries the substance of belief across time and generations. When rightly understood and faithfully practiced, these forms train the heart and mind, shaping affections and directing attention toward God. They give structure to daily and weekly life in a way that reinforces, rather than competes with, discipleship.
Yet it’s also true that the same forms can grow brittle or hollow. When practices become detached from meaning, or are performed without understanding, they can easily slide into rote repetition—or worse, into burdensome legalism. The danger of traditionalism (as distinct from tradition) is precisely this: mistaking the vessel for the contents.
So the challenge is not merely to keep or discard certain practices, but to reexamine how they function. Do they cultivate faith and orient life around Christ? Or have they become either a source of pride or a shell of obligation? The answer may vary from place to place, but the question must be asked—because faithful formation depends on more than good intentions. It depends on the careful, generational stewardship of the forms that hold our faith.
Traditional practices can shape our desires, reinforce sound doctrine, and form habits of holiness. Sunday evening services, for example, don’t merely duplicate the morning’s sermon—they reinforce the rhythm of Sabbath-keeping and communicate that worship is not an add-on, but the centerpiece of the Christian life. Catechism classes provide more than theological information; they equip young people with a shared vocabulary and framework for asking deep questions, helping them stand firm when confronted with the emotive spirituality or empty nihilism so common in young adulthood. Family practices—like devotional readings at dinner, bedtime prayers, and regular Scripture reading—anchor the home in Christ and make the faith tangible in everyday life.
Of course, it’s rare for any of us to start out loving prayer, church services, or devotions—especially as children. But formation, like affection, grows with repetition. Practices carried out in faith, even when imperfect, gradually form our affections and habits. That said, such repetition must be sincere, not mere ritual. When the “why” behind the practice is lost, it risks becoming hollow. But when rightly understood, these practices can do far more than preserve a culture—they can cultivate hearts rooted in Christ.
Yet as formative as traditional practices can be, they are not magic. Form without faith, habit without heart, can just as easily harden into lifeless ritual as it can blossom into spiritual depth. This brings us to a necessary caution.
The Danger of Empty Form: When Practice Becomes Performative
Form without heart is not just unhelpful—it can be spiritually corrosive. Traditional practices, however rich in potential, can ossify into mere routine or even descend into legalism if they are not continually renewed by a living faith. It must be admitted that the “cultural Calvinism” I grew up in carried the very real danger of measuring others' faith by their outward adherence to particular customs—how strictly one kept the Sabbath, whether one attended both services, how well one could recite the catechism. This subtle shift from formation to judgment turns habits of holiness into yardsticks of self-righteousness.
The danger is especially acute in our cultural moment, where authenticity is prized and victimhood often confers moral authority. Many young people raised in such environments, sensing the disconnect between practice and joy, come to view traditional forms not as invitations to life but as burdens. When these forms are not animated by love or properly explained, they may come to feel like arbitrary rules—or worse, as tools of control. As a result, “deconstruction” narratives are often shaped not only by intellectual doubt, but by a sense of having been spiritually stifled.
When traditional practices lose their rootedness in relationship with Christ and community, they can inadvertently drive people away from the very faith they were intended to sustain.
Discernment: How Do We Know When Tradition Is Working?
Not every traditional practice should be jettisoned the moment it becomes unpopular. But neither should it be clung to merely out of habit or nostalgia. So how do we discern when a practice is genuinely forming people in Christ—and when it has slipped into empty ritual?
The answer lies in fruit. Are these practices producing deeper love for God and neighbor? Are they shaping lives marked by humility, gratitude, repentance, and trust? Is there a growing hunger for the Word, a desire to serve, a reverence for worship—not just outward conformity?
It’s also worth asking what happens when these practices are removed. Does family worship vanish if the structure isn’t there to sustain it? Do children drift from the faith more readily when catechism is absent? Is Sabbath rest replaced by frenetic activity? In other words: What was scaffolding, and what was life-giving root?
Healthy tradition is not static. It must be evaluated, explained, and sometimes adapted to serve the living work of the Spirit. But such discernment must come from within the community of faith—not imposed from without by cultural pressures. And it must always aim at growth in Christ, not mere preservation of custom.
Many good practices were abandoned in the desire to be "seeker sensitive." Things that, it was claimed, created "barriers" to becoming part of a church were actively stripped away. But not all of these things, in every church, were merely form over function. Some were forms that supported the function of formation. And it’s also true that a practice that nourishes one soul might feel empty to another. That’s part of why the Church, across history and culture, has cultivated different liturgical shapes and spiritual rhythms.
So we need to have these conversations—not just individually, but corporately. As congregations, as classes, and as a denomination. What is forming us in Christlikeness? What have we lost that was once sustaining? What practices are worth reviving, not for the sake of tradition itself, but because they lead us into deeper holiness and deeper joy?
The answer, then, is neither to discard traditional practices as dead formalism, nor to cling to them out of nostalgia or cultural defensiveness. Rather, the Church must recover them as living tools of discipleship—vessels through which Christ forms His people in grace.
This begins by teaching the “why” behind the “what.” When practices like catechism, Sabbath observance, or family worship are explained with clarity and conviction, they become more than routines—they become formative habits of the heart. Understanding the purpose behind a practice makes it easier to receive it as a gift rather than a burden.
Churches must also take seriously the task of equipping families to carry these practices into their homes—not with a sense of pressure or performance, but with hope and encouragement. Devotional life, after all, is not a checklist but a rhythm of grace. It is not about impressing God or others, but about being shaped slowly, faithfully, into Christlikeness.
And as congregations take up this work, they must foster an atmosphere of joyful adoption rather than anxious conformity. These practices should never be a test of orthodoxy or belonging. Instead, they are invitations—open doors into a deeper communion with God and one another.
Rightly ordered, cultural practices are not the end goal, but the scaffolding of formation—the trellis on which faith can grow. In an age marked by spiritual drift and rootlessness, they offer the stability, repetition, and meaning that help produce enduring fruit. If we hope to pass down a vibrant, resilient faith to the next generation, we must not only preach sound doctrine—we must live it, habitually, in ways both ordinary and sacred.
PS - If you found this essay thought-provoking or helpful, consider sharing it with a friend, your pastor, or a fellow parent trying to raise faithful children in a distracted world. Conversations like these are best when they’re shared around a table—or after church over coffee.
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