The Cost of Having No Elders

We've replaced elders with AI, wisdom with expertise, and proven character with polished brands, and we're all worse for it. Here's what I intend to do about it.

My son learning how to train his dog from someone with decades of wisdom in dog training.

Now that I’m thinking about city eldership more intentionally, I’m starting to notice what we’ve lost by not having it as a normal part of our life. Kind of like how I don’t notice the humming of the ceiling fan until I turn it off, I didn’t notice the impact of missing city elders until I noticed we had none.

I don’t mean we lack elderly people. We have those. I mean we have no one sitting at the metaphorical gates where their presence shapes the character of the people living there. (Literal gates would make this easier to wrestle with, but alas, we no longer have those.) No one whose judgment we trust enough to bring our hardest questions. No one modeling what a life well-lived actually looks like.

The gates stand empty, and we’re all worse for it.

I, for one, want to aspire to the noble task of being an elder (1 Timothy 3:1) and link arms with several other men in my city who have a similar vision.

What We Lost When the Elders Left

When I think about the last time I had a major decision to make—a challenge at work, a marriage conflict, uncertainty about how to guide my teenager. Who did I ask? I sometimes go to an AI bot. Sometimes a therapist. Sometimes to a friend who is as confused as I am.

We’ve created a society where everyone figures everything out alone, where wisdom has been replaced by expertise, and where the only models of manhood we see are either boys who never grew up or professionals who only show us their polished brands.

The biblical pattern was different. When Boaz needed to settle the question of Ruth’s future, he didn’t post in a Reddit forum or schedule a consultation. He went to the city gate and gathered ten elders—men whose character and judgment had been proven over decades, men who knew how to weigh competing claims and render decisions that served both justice and mercy.

These weren’t elected officials or credentialed experts. They were simply men who had learned to lead their households well, who had built businesses and raised children and navigated conflict, who had acquired the kind of practical wisdom that only comes from years of faithful stewardship. The community knew them, trusted them, and looked to them.

When Boaz needed help, he knew exactly where to go and who to ask.

Can I say the same?

The Vacuum We’re Living In

Without elders at the gates, I wonder if our cities operate in a state of adolescence. We lurch from crisis to crisis with no long memory, no steady hand, no voice of seasoned wisdom to say, “We’ve been here before, and here’s what we learned.”

Then a job change moves a young father across the country to a new city where he has no one to show him what fatherhood looks like beyond the terrible twos. He’s left to piece together manhood from Instagram influencers and lessons from his father who is hundreds of miles away.

Even when he seeks a vision for manhood, he really finds only two options: perpetual boyhood or corporate careerism. The path from father in the home to elder in the city to ruler in the Kingdom—the progression that I think scripture presents as the normal developmental arc of masculine maturity—isn’t really on our minds let alone consistently modeled for us even in Christian circles.

We’ve lost the infrastructure of wisdom.

Despite what this looks like, I hope my kids grow up pursuing wisdom, not just expertise.

What Changes When Elders Return

Imagine living in a neighborhood with elders present and active. Not busybodies or enforcers, but men whose proven character gives them natural authority, whose homes you can point to and say, “That’s what I’m aiming for.”

The new father down the street wouldn’t be drowning in sleep deprivation and parenting books. He’d have an older man who stops by, not to lecture, but to sit on the porch and share stories, to normalize the struggle, to help him see that what feels like failure is actually formation. And maybe even receive childcare support from the man and his wife so he can sleep.

The high school graduate trying to figure out his next move wouldn’t be choosing between college debt and minimum wage work based solely on his guidance counselor’s direction. He’d have access to a community of men who’ve built different kinds of lives—the contractor, the business owner, the teacher—who could help him discern his actual calling rather than just optimizing for salary.

The city itself would have a different character. Not because elders would be running everything, but because their presence would create a gravitational pull toward maturity, stability, long-term thinking. They’d be the living embodiment of what’s possible when you take seriously the work of becoming a Godly man with a Kingdom vision.

The Gate Is Open

Paul’s instruction to Titus was explicit: “appoint elders in every city” (Titus 1:5). Not just in churches. In cities. Paul’s expectation was that every city should have elders:

• Men who are above reproach

• The husband of one wife

• Have children who are believers and are respectful

• Not arrogant or quick-tempered

• Not a drunkard or violent or greedy

• Hospitable

• A lover of good

• Self-controlled

• Upright

• Holy

• Disciplined

• Hold firm to God’s Word as taught so that he may be able to give instruction

• Able to rebuke those who contradict God’s Word (Titus 1:5-9)

Even inside the church we’ve accepted a vision of masculine development that peaks in the forties with career success and a paid-off mortgage, then coasts into retirement hobbies and golf. We’ve reduced biblical eldership to a church board position that passes offering plates.

We’ve forgotten that “elder in the city” was always meant to be the goal this side of the Kingdom—not for power or recognition, but because cities need men who’ve learned through decades of faithful stewardship how to lead, teach, judge, and serve.

The path from father to elder to ruler isn’t closed. The gates aren’t locked. They’re just empty because no one’s walking that direction anymore.

My Next Step

While I grieve what we’ve lost, I’m also hopeful for what it could look like one day for me, my family, and my children. So I’m doing something about it: I’m searching out men who could play this role in my life.

I’ve already approached one older man who’s willing, but he lives forty-five minutes away. That distance matters more than I initially thought. We can do Zoom calls for advice and coaching, but I’m realizing that format makes me the filter for everything he sees. I control the narrative, frame the questions, curate the image. That’s probably fine for a start, but it means there are patterns in my life and my home that will remain invisible to both of us—patterns that only become visible through his presence, through showing up for occasional dinners and seeing how I actually handle my kids when they’re acting up, or through being around long enough to notice what I do when I’m tired or frustrated or off-script.

I’m praying the Lord leads me to qualified elders nearby who have the time and vision to model this, not just for me, but for what it could mean for my family and, one day, our town.

Because if I’m grieving the emptiness at the gates, the answer isn’t just to wish for better. It’s doing what I can to start filling them. The gates won’t fill themselves.

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P.S. You can listen to me wrestle through this post on the, “Elder My City,” podcast: