"Too Much to Lose”: Why the Evangelical Church Clings to Complementarianism

Institutional Fear, Power, and the Real Cost of Holding the Line on Gender Hierarchy

In many evangelical circles, complementarianism—the belief that men and women have distinct, hierarchical roles in church and home—is held with remarkable tenacity. Though the tide of culture has shifted toward gender equality, and biblical scholarship has offered substantial critiques of hierarchical gender roles, complementarianism persists. Why?

The answer is not only theological. It is institutional, cultural, and deeply personal. For many evangelical leaders and institutions, there’s simply too much at stake to risk change.

Complementarianism is not just a position—it’s a framework that structures leadership, authority, and influence. It dictates who can preach, who can teach, who can lead, and who must submit. To challenge it is to challenge the legitimacy of entire denominational structures, the training models of seminaries, the authority of male pastors, and the beliefs of millions who’ve been taught that gender roles are divinely mandated.

But history suggests that theological ideas often shift in the face of new insight. The church once defended slavery using Scripture. For centuries, Christians insisted that only clergy should read the Bible. Monarchy was viewed as God’s ordained government. All these were later overturned by people who looked more closely at the arc of Scripture and saw a call to freedom, dignity, and equality. The idea that “new equals wrong” has proven unreliable.

The complementarian reading of Scripture rests on a narrow interpretation of a few texts—especially 1 Corinthians 11, Ephesians 5, and 1 Timothy 2. These passages are often taken to support male authority and female submission. Yet when the original Greek terms and literary contexts are examined, alternative readings emerge. The Greek word kephalē, translated “head,” is often assumed to mean “authority.” But in Greek literature and the Septuagint, kephalē more often means “source” or “origin.” Paul’s emphasis on mutual submission and love undercuts the idea of rigid hierarchy. Ephesians 5:21 frames the passage with a command to "submit to one another out of reverence for Christ," setting the tone for mutuality, not dominance.

Genesis also fails to support male headship. Man and woman are created simultaneously in God’s image, blessed equally, and commissioned together to steward creation. The oft-cited term ezer kenegdo, usually translated “helper,” is used elsewhere to describe God’s help—hardly a term of inferiority. The woman is created not as an assistant, but as a powerful ally, an equal counterpart. In Eden, we see mutuality, not hierarchy. It is only after the fall that domination is introduced as a consequence of sin (Genesis 3:16), not as a divine prescription.

Why, then, does complementarianism hold?

First, there’s institutional momentum. Churches, denominations, seminaries, and publishing houses are deeply invested in this framework. Changing it would require revising doctrinal statements, reexamining leadership roles, and in many cases, relinquishing power. Structures have been built around male leadership, and to dismantle them would require both theological courage and organizational overhaul.

Second, there’s fear—fear of theological liberalism, of losing control, of upsetting donors or congregants. For many pastors, even a hint of egalitarian theology invites suspicion. Complementarianism has become a litmus test for orthodoxy in many circles. Those who question it are often labeled as capitulating to culture rather than engaging Scripture faithfully. This fear creates silence, even among those privately sympathetic to change.

Third, there’s the question of power. Complementarianism ensures that men—especially ordained men—retain authority. Acknowledging the full equality of women in leadership would mean sharing pulpits, influence, and decision-making power. For some, that’s too much to surrender. Theological convictions and power structures often reinforce each other, making reform deeply difficult.

There is also the personal cost. Pastors who change their minds risk professional alienation. Professors may lose tenure. Writers and speakers may lose platforms. The cost of honesty is high, especially in networks where theological conformity is prized above theological curiosity.

Yet if church history teaches anything, it is that the gospel repeatedly calls us beyond entrenched systems of control. Spirit-led movements often arise from the margins and challenge the status quo. From abolitionists to early Bible translators to reformers, the church has always been renewed by those willing to confront tradition when it conflicts with Scripture’s deeper ethic of justice, freedom, and mutuality. These reformers were not abandoning the Bible; they were returning to it with fresh eyes and faithful hearts.

The time may be coming—indeed, it may already be here—when silence on gender equality will be seen as complicity in a system that restricts God’s gifts and hinders the church’s witness. There is a cost to change, but there is also a cost to maintaining an unjust status quo. The credibility of the gospel is at stake when the church continues to deny leadership gifts simply based on gender.

The church must ask: are we clinging to complementarianism out of conviction—or out of fear of what we might lose? In the end, the question is not just what Scripture says, but whether we have the courage to follow its liberating truth wherever it leads.