The church has a credibility problem. That isn’t a hot take. It’s measurable. Trust surveys show a steady decline. Attendance keeps sliding. The reputation of Christians is more and more tied to power, money and fear rather than mercy, humility and repair. Many of us feel this deeply. We love the story of Jesus. We are not proud of what has been done in that name.

At some point, we have to admit that insiders aren’t fixing this. Committees won’t save us. Rebrands won’t save us. Louder preaching won’t save us. 

We may need to listen to people who walked away. We may need to listen to children who have not yet learned how to protect the institution. 

Maybe the atheists and children can lead us.

Jesus trusted outsiders more than religious professionals. Children were brought to him as interruptions, and Jesus refused to send them away. A Roman centurion understood trust better than the synagogue leaders. A Samaritan showed mercy when religious men crossed the road. None of that was accidental. Throughout the Gospels, truth often comes from those the system doesn’t reward.

One of my best friends is an atheist now. He once was a youth pastor.  He loved the kids. He believed deeply. He studied scripture seriously. He did the youth lock-ins, the studies, the late- night phone calls. He did not leave for comfort. He left when the church stopped sounding like Jesus.

He talks about the slow erosion. Sermons about love paired with policies of exclusion. Prayers for peace offered by people cheering violence. Calls for generosity while protecting wealth. He watched abuse minimized to protect reputations. He watched women silenced. He watched queer kids taught to hate themselves in the name of holiness. He kept asking for honesty. He kept being told to be patient.

Eventually patience ran out. Faith, for him, collapsed under the weight of contradiction. When I ask what finally broke it, he does not mention doubt about God. He mentions disappointment in Christians.

When he speaks now, without a pulpit and without a paycheck attached to belief, he names things many churches refuse to say out loud. He says Jesus never asked to be defended by force. He says truth does not need fear to survive. He says if your theology requires someone else to be smaller, quieter or invisible, it is already wrong. 

These are not attacks. They are observations.

Children say similar things, though with fewer footnotes. They ask why the church talks about love, but their friend is not welcome. They ask why prayers do not match behavior. They ask why adults say God cares while ignoring suffering they can see. 

Children have not learned how to make excuses for us. That is a gift.

Some Christians bristle at the idea of being led by atheists or children. It feels like surrender. It feels dangerous. But leadership in the way of Jesus has never been about control. It is about truth-telling and repentance. If we cannot hear critique from outside our walls, we are not strong. We are brittle.

The Anabaptist Witness has always distrusted power and trusted lived obedience. It reminds us that faith is shown, not argued, and mercy matters most.

Listening does not mean abandoning faith. It means testing it. It means holding our practices up to the life of Jesus and asking hard questions. Are we known for mercy? Are we known for humility? Are we known for repair? Or are we known for winning?

The church does not need better arguments. It needs better fruit. Atheists and children are not the enemy. They are mirrors. They reflect back what we have become. We can smash the mirror, or we can wash our face.

Maybe leadership now looks like shutting up and taking notes. Maybe it looks like repentance without spin. Maybe it looks like rebuilding trust slowly, honestly, without guarantees. 

The gospel is not fragile. But our egos are.

If we believe Jesus is truth, then we should not fear where truth comes from. Sometimes it comes from a for­-
mer pastor who could not keep pre­tending. Sometimes it comes from a child asking an inconvenient question. If we are wise, we will follow their voices back to the heart of what we lost.

That kind of following will cost us. It may shrink budgets. It may empty buildings. It may end careers built on certainty. But it might also free us to love our neighbors without agenda. It might return us to service without spectacle. It might help us stop talking about Jesus and finally start resembling Jesus. That is a risk worth taking if the church hopes to be worthy of even cautious trust again.