Community of Faith or Gathering of the Faithful?

A transition took place in Christianity sometime during its first century, a transition solidified over the centuries with the creation of Christendom. What had initially been a gathering of those faithful to Christ as their Lord became a community of shared faith expressed in common creeds and liturgies. The Church evolved from gatherings of individuals who had made the same choice to follow Christ to become a global community with a common culture that insured its members, initiated in infancy, would always share a common orientation within their social world toward the Transcendent. 

Another way to put this is to say that Christianity became a religion as defined by Clifford Geertz: "a system of symbols which acts to establish powerful, pervasive, and long - lasting moods and motivations in people formulating conceptions of a general order of existence and clothing these conceptions with such an aura of factuality that the moods and motivations seem uniquely realistic.” 

To be part of this community of faith was to live in the embraced of a robustly coherent set of assumptions and beliefs within which the entirety of human experience both made sense and had meaning. Being a member of this community did not preclude making personal choices and commitments. Every ship, to use an ancient metaphore for the church, has both passangers and crew; those comfortable in being borne toward their final destination and those committed to keeping watch, raising sails, checking the course, and caring for all. The one choice that was unimaginable among the sane was diving overboard to not only certain death, but being embraced by an ocean of chaos and meaninglessness. 

With the advent of modernity Christianity, at least in the West, began to have two different modes. The community of faith remained; its strength and coherence largely dependent on the social circumstances in which it found itself. As long as its processes of initiation and rituals of belonging remained effective, and the fear of the chaotic seas palpable, both passangers and crew carried on in its embrace. The siren call of modernity to brave the waters with one’s own strength, or in the companionship of a few hardy boat builders cannabilizing the original ship, could be resisted. 

But it wasn’t easy. The fissiparousness of the Reformation had turned the community of faith into a fleet of communities of faith. These quickly began modifying their ships and began deviating into different courses. Moreover, vast social changes such as urbanization and the opening of new frontiers led to larger and larger numbers of people who weren’t really fully onboard. They had been initiated at birth but never raised in the faith. In the cities and out on the frontier vast numbers were overboard, treading water or drowning. The old hymns tell us so. 

Great revivals sought to bring them back on board, and succeeded for a time. But these revived communities of faith, however strongly built and well managed, and however perilous the seas they sailed, were now peopled with those who had experienced not only the fear of drowning, but the pleasure and power of swimming. As a result “Man overboard” was heard more and more often, and if sometimes the unfortunate sailor was happy to be hauled, gasping for breath, back over the gunwales, as often they disappeared from sight. 

On board the ship it was always put round that those who had plunged into the chaos of meaninglessness had drowned, and were a cautionary tale for those foolish enough to brave the seas. Yet often those gone overboard could be seen on the decks of other ships, or actually cavorting among the waves. 

And those other ships? They were no longer communities of faith. They were gatherings of the faithful; assemblies of those who knew they could swim, but chose not to for a time. Their passangers and crew no longer feared the sea, and no matter how close their fellowship, comfortable their accomodations, and busy and active their contributions to the life of the community, they could always hear its call. They were/are in many respects like those first Christians, who having made a choice were aware that there was a choice that could always be made. 

Now we live in a time in which there are two different modes of being church. One way is the way of a community of faith; a self-sustaining community whose members are united in a common mind continually renewed among them by an unbroken tradition of common beliefs and rituals such that conceptions of a general order of existence are clothed with such an aura of factuality that the moods and motivations seem uniquely realistic. 

The other way is the gathering of the faithful; a coming together of those who wish to follow Christ, and who at least for a time desire respite from the waters of chaos, possess a common goal or at least sense of direction, and a willingness to venture forward under a common rubric that has a greater or lesser continuity with that of other such gatherings or communities either past or present.

While communities of faith and gatherings of the faithful may share common beliefs, rituals, and polities they are fundamentally different. They may have the same Lord and God, but they have different faiths. 

The current confusion of the UMC arises, I believe, from the fact that we possess both communities of faith and gatherings of the faithful in everything from congregations, to the orders of clergy, to the general church. We are a hybrid church, like virtually all modern churches. This creates uncertainty and in some respects undermines the identity of each mode. 

A community of faith cannot retain its character when there are passengers and crew who either refuse to live by its norms or want it to chart a different course more amenable to their personal goals. And a gathering of the faithful cannot bear a discipline that undermines the autonomy of its members and its character as a gathering of those whose character is not an aura of factuality, but of choices constantly renewed in action.

It is difficult, indeed clearly impossible, for these two modes to live together in the same organization if only because the polity requirements necessary to their organization are so different. A community of faith, as Traditionalists ceaselessly remind us, needs boundaries, guard rails: a clear distinction between being on deck and in the water. A gathering of the faithful, as Centrists remind us, needs porous borders so that all may be welcomed in, and will probably offer a swim platform for the undecided. 

Neither mode, in the history of Christianity, is normative. So since the history of the church has included both gatherings of the faithful and communities of faith we should be able at the least to understand each other and inquire about those matters in which we can work together.