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I should have known I was asking for trouble when I titled my fourth book A New Kind of Christian (Jossey-Bass, 2001). It was a straight line for critic-comedians: "What we need isn't a new kind of Christian; we need an old kind of Christian."

One critic reinforced his point by praising C. S. Lewis and Soren Kierkegaard for their virtuous unoriginality, contrasting them with "postmodern reformers" like me who, he suggested, seek newness and innovation for their own sake. On one thing we were agreed: nobody seems happy with the status quo Christian. But will a better alternative be found back or ahead? Or both?

I sympathize with my critical friend's distaste for the latest new thing. The latest, greatest innovation always promises more than it delivers, and the cost of repeatedly raised-then-disappointed expectations isn't cheap, leading to cynicism, disillusionment, discouragement.

The "burned over district" phenomenon, where yesterday's sites of revival become today's regions of persistent spiritual hardness, shows that hype's short-term shallow gains leave deep losses long-term. Our whole nation may someday be such a district.

Another critical friend recently quoted the "old kind of Christian" line to me, and feeling spunky, I replied, "Which old kind of Christian are you recommending? A.D. 33 Judean? Fourth century Greek? Sixteenth century German? Seventeenth century Dutch?"

His fascinating response was that he felt the Celts, St. Francis, and William Wilberforce exemplified the old kind of Christians he hoped for.

"I've never heard anyone put those three examples together in the same sentence before," I replied, "but I quite like the image of a Celtic, Franciscan Wilberforce. It strikes me that an old kind of Christian of this combination would actually be quite innovative, quite new." This did not go over too well.

Len Sweet uses the image of a swing to describe the kind of movement we need. As every kindergartener feels in her bones—even if she can't explain it in words—the delights of swinging come from paradoxical movement of both leaning forward / kicking back, and kicking forward / leaning back. Moving into the future will require a similar combination of us.

My critics have been right to complain about "a new/new kind of Christian," though perhaps not so right to argue for an old/old one. It's not enough to be new/new, or old/old. It's old/new that helps us fly. Jesus exemplified this, as did the Celts, and Francis, and Wilberforce. And so did Kierkegaard and Lewis.

In a changing world, it's impossible not to change. Resisting or fearing change can change you to become resistant or fearful. It's also possible to change badly.

Our choice isn't between change and no change, but rather between wise changes and foolish changes. We shouldn't be too hard on one another here. Those of us who feel called to originality and innovation shouldn't use harsh language on our more cautious brothers. Nor should they judge us.

Consider this: a tree has a trunk and roots that change very slowly. They are generally inflexible, and that's as it should be. The branches need some give, and the leaves are positively flimsy, flexible, and whimsical when the wind blows. Yet their stems bind them, like kite string, to that which doesn't move. The leaves will die without the trunk and root. The reverse is just as true, though perhaps not as immediately obvious.

Another image: the Atlantic colonies at the time of westward expansion. Pioneers felt the call of mountains and prairies, and they set out on foot, on horseback, and in wagons to make paths where no paths had been. They were a minority. Most folks stayed in the civilized territories with closer ties to the Old Country. If everyone had vacated the colonies for the new territories all at once, the result would have been disaster. If none had ventured out, how sad.

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