A Systems Lens on Doctrinal Drift

How Church Systems Change Without Deciding To

Lately I’ve been trying to understand how church systems come to change what they believe, and how to make those systems more aware, honest, and reflective about when this is happening and why.

Doctrinal change, when it comes, is rarely sudden. Most of the time it is a drift that happens quietly. A belief may stay official—it’s still in the books or on the books, for now—but you start to sound like a jerk if you talk about it out loud. When someone must bring it up, they often do it with distance: “Well, according to our official position…” Everyone knows what that tone means. The words haven’t changed, but the mood has.

No one votes to overturn anything. There’s no revolution or crisis. The words remain, but they begin to feel unwelcome in the system. Eventually people stop quoting them altogether. The doctrinal change happens not by decision, but through drift.

I’ve been trying to think about this through a systems lens. I’m not an expert, but it’s helped me see things that theology alone doesn’t always describe. Doctrinal drift isn’t just about new ideas replacing old ones. No. It’s also about how people manage fear, belonging, and pressure together.

Systems theory helps show how that works. It helps explain why anxiety spreads, why togetherness becomes more important than clarity, and why churches sometimes change what they believe without ever deciding to. I’ve started to notice several simple dynamics that seem to appear over and over.

Anxiety and the Pull Toward Calm

The drift begins with discomfort. A topic becomes touchy, for whatever reason. It brings tension to conversations or meetings. People just want the tension to go away. So, they stop talking about it. Or they talk about it carefully, in vague terms, trying to sound balanced. It works for a while. Everyone feels better.

But slowly the system starts to learn that togetherness matters more than principle. Anxiety itself starts to set the rules. People begin to avoid what makes them uneasy. The goal becomes to keep things smooth, even if it means staying unclear.

This happens very subtly. No one plans it. It feels mature to avoid conflict, immature and troublesome to take a stand. And over time, that instinct starts to reshape what the church believes it can say. The desire to keep everyone calm ends up steering belief more than argument or conviction ever does.

Energy, Approval, and the Direction of Drift

Another thing I’ve noticed is that this drift often follows the flow of energy. In most churches, the people pressing for change have more of this energy and momentum. They’re passionate and convinced. They want to see movement. They often link their case to compassion or justice, which makes it sound urgent and good.

Those who hold the traditional position are usually quieter, always on the defensive. They may not want to seem reactionary or unkind. They trust that the truth will hold without constant argument. But in any system, the side with more emotional energy eventually tends to set the tone. And the pressure to keep everyone calm exerts its force.

Over time, the community starts to move toward what feels alive and wins approval. What people applaud or affirm begins to shape what feels believable. The shift isn’t based on new reasoning; it’s based on what gets rewarded.

This isn’t necessarily about bad intentions. It’s just how human systems work. We take cues from what feels safe and celebrated. When being clear makes people anxious, clarity becomes costly. So the group adjusts, little by little, until the older conviction feels almost impolite.

Failure of Nerve in Leadership

Leaders sit right in the middle of all this. They can feel the tension more than anyone. When the group is anxious, the pressure to keep peace is strong. It’s easy, in that moment, for them to soften their tone or delay their words. They want to protect relationships. They want to show care. That’s good. But if keeping people comfortable becomes the main goal of leadership, conviction starts to fade.

Many leaders don’t reject the church’s teaching. They just stop naming it. They start to use safe language: words like “conversation,” “discernment,” or “process.” They focus on reframing things rather than naming them. These can be helpful for a time, but if they go on too long, people start to hear them as replacements for truth.

When the tone becomes more important than content, the drift has already begun. The church and its leaders increasingly begin to equate uncertainty with wisdom and clarity with arrogance and divisiveness. If the teaching remains on paper, it has lost all plausibility in practice.

True Discernment rather than Drift

By the time the drift becomes visible, it looks like maturity. The church likely describes itself as “evolving,” “opening up,” or “becoming more compassionate.” Everyone (except those still operating according to principle) feels relieved. The tension is gone. But usually, what has really happened is simpler. The church has reduced the system’s anxiety by banishing clarity. The result feels good for a while, but it is avoidance rather than growth or development.

Once anxiety triumphs through drift, people may speak of discernment. But that is not what has happened. Again, the system has simply managed its fear. By contrast, true discernment would look different. It would take time. It would name the costs openly and honestly. It would involve real conviction and principle, not just anxiety relief.

True doctrinal discernment, if it were to take place in a system, would start with clarity at its outset. It would mean speaking the truth in a way that isn’t frantic, staying connected even when others disagree, and not mistaking calm for peace. This kind of steadiness doesn’t come naturally. It requires courage and patience. It requires true, principled leadership rather than anxiety management.

Seeing Drift for What It Is

Thinking about doctrinal drift through a systems lens has made me less puzzled by it, but more concerned. Because, again, it’s not mainly about ideas winning or losing. It’s about what happens when fear shapes what feels possible to believe.

The first step to resisting this sort of doctrinal drift is to notice it: to see how anxiety, fatigue, and the pull of belonging start to bend the plausibility structures of belief. Once you can see that, you can begin to choose something else. But it won’t be easy. Being principled and clear in an anxious system is slow, tiring work.

“Be watchful, stand firm in the faith, act like men, be strong. Let all that you do be done in love.” (1 Corinthians 16:13-14)