As a child, I remember loving the creeds. We would stand as a congregation and recite them together, either from memory (in the case of the Apostles’ Creed) or by reading from the back of the hymnal (in the cases of the Nicene or Athanasian Creed). The Athanasian was my favorite. It’s been many years now and I’ve attended many churches since then. Most rarely recite creeds. This distance has given me both a renewed appreciation for creeds as well as a realization of their limitations.

The creeds of the church tend to be propositional—lists of doctrinal truths expressed as complete sentences, related logically, but somewhat unconnected in space and time:

“I believe in God, the Father Almighty, the Maker of heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord.” –from the Apostles’ Creed

“And in one Lord Jesus Christ, the only-begotten Son of God, begotten of the Father before all worlds; God of God, Light of Light, very God of very God; begotten, not made, being of one substance with the Father, by whom all things were made.” –from the Nicene Creed

“For there is one Person of the Father; another of the Son; and another of the Holy Ghost. But the Godhead of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, is all one; the Glory equal, the Majesty coeternal.” –from the Athanasian Creed

These creeds represent a crucial development in church history, expressing the settled conviction of Bible-believing Christians. They distinguish between orthodox truth and heresy. But they do not tell the whole story. We should keep them, but on their own, they are not enough. The creeds mark a key moment of debate and decision in the life of the church, but they do not represent the whole counsel of God.

A Different Kind of Creed

The Bible models a different kind of creed. The earliest Old Testament creeds tell a story.

In Deuteronomy 26:5-10, Moses gives parting instructions for the Israelites’ future worship. When they enter the land God promised them and reap a harvest, they are to appear at the central sanctuary with an offering of the firstfruits of the land. After handing it to the priest, they are to declare:

My father [i.e., Jacob] was a wandering Aramean, and he went down into Egypt with a few people and lived there and became a great nation, powerful and numerous. But the Egyptians mistreated us and made us suffer, subjecting us to harsh labor. Then we cried out to the LORD, the God of our ancestors, and the LORD heard our voice and saw our misery, toil and oppression. So the LORD brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, with great terror and with signs and wonders. He brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey; and now I bring the firstfruits of the soil that you, LORD, have given me.

They are to tell a story.

A few things are noteworthy about this creed:

(1) The worshippers identify deeply with the story of their ancestors. “The Egyptians mistreated us and made us suffer . . . then we cried out . . . and the LORD heard our voice.” Of course those who actually recite this creed in its prescribed liturgical context were not themselves slaves in Egypt. But it is critical that they embrace the story of redemption as their own story.

(2) God’s deliverance of the Hebrews from Egypt is central to this confession. The people of God in every age have expressed gratitude for salvation. For the Israelites, salvation made a difference on the ground. We do well to be reminded of its physical and historical dimensions. God’s deliverance not only changes our destiny, it transforms our day-to-day reality. For Israel, it resulted in soil to be worked and homes to be occupied.

(3) Moses’ creed acknowledges the gift of the land. Possession of the land is not a right. It is not deserved (see Deut 9:4-6). It is not to be taken for granted or hoarded. The land is a gift to be received with gladness and gratitude. Ultimately, the land belongs to God.

(4) Finally, it is worth noting that the creed is recited as an act of worship. To re-articulate our history as the community of faith is worship. Saying the creed not only shapes our thinking, ensuring correct doctrine. It also honors God by acknowledging the great deeds he has done on our behalf.

The Way We Tell Stories Matters

Creeds have consequences. The way we tell our story influences the way we live.

One practical consequence of this creed in Deuteronomy is concern for foreigners.

Did you notice that the speaker never calls himself an Israelite? Foundational to this creed is the recognition that God’s people are outsiders to the land. Their father, Jacob, was a “wandering Aramean,” which hardly qualifies them for the gift that follows. Their origins as outsiders to the land of Canaan prompt them to make space for other foreigners: “Then you and the Levites and the foreigners residing among you shall rejoice…” (Deut 26:11). In fact, they’re told that their tithe belongs to these foreigners as a “sacred portion” (Deut 26:12).

The way we tell our stories matters. To tell the story of the early church without the Old Testament produces a different kind of church—often one that emphasizes doctrinal correctness or certainty over embodied community. It results in a truncated gospel message that focuses on believing the right things rather than inviting participation in something bigger than ourselves. The story of the church does not start at Pentecost, as many assume. It stretches back to God’s promise to Abraham, the beginning of the solution to the world’s brokenness and alienation from God, the story of a blessing for all nations through Abraham’s descendants (Gen 12:1-3). That blessing takes shape at Sinai, in the wake of rescue from Egypt, as Israel discovers how to bear Yahweh’s name among the nations, living as his representatives (Exod 19:4-6; 20:7). Recovering these ancient beginnings of the family of faith—our family of faith—transforms our ideas about who we are and how we are called to live in the present.

The Western church is guilty of telling a truncated story of faith, focusing narrowly on the events of the gospels and the decisions of early church councils. These are important, but incomplete on their own. The story of the church is much older and much broader than this. I’ve already pointed out the practical implications of the creed in Deuteronomy; recognition of Israel’s origins outside the land results in care for foreigners. The same is true for the story we tell. When we think of the church as the triumph of Western Civilization, ignoring its global dimensions, we have a much harder time distinguishing between the gospel and our cultural expression of it. We struggle to see African, Asian, and Latin American believers as our brothers and sisters in Christ. Worst of all, we fail to learn from them. To recover the Old Testament roots of our creedal faith, as well as the multi-ethnic and international branches of the gospel story, is to lean in to our true identity as the people of God. In discovering who we are, we discover what we are called to do.

This is our story. We are outsiders.

We cried out to God and he rescued us.

He appoints us as stewards of blessing.

All of it belongs to him.

Our task is to share these blessings with fellow outsiders.

To do so is our truest act of worship.

The way we tell our stories matters.

The Western church is guilty of telling a truncated story of faith, focusing narrowly on the events of the gospels and the decisions of early church councils. The story of the church is much older and much broader than this. Click To Tweet