The Fundamentals of Polity

Polity.

It's the kind of word that gets bandied about a bunch in oldline denominational circles, to describe the way we approach our lives together.  These are the systems and structures of our organizational life, the sinews and tendons of our decision-making.

As a Presbyterian, I've been doing the Presbyterian thing my whole life, and the professional Presbyterian thing for almost 17 years, if you count time preparing for ministry.  I'll often see Presbyterians discussing Presbyterian identity as woven up on our processes, procedures, and protocols, in the patterns of exchange that are part of our strange dances and secret codes.

It is, on the one level.  The language of our tribe is Robert's Rules of Order, and our conversations and conflict revolve around a peculiar alphanumeric shorthand.  G.14.  Fourteen F.  27B/6.  These are part of what makes us so...special.

But is it really what we're about?  It is the heart of why we do what we do?  I found myself wondering this recently, as I watched from social-media-afar as a gathering of hep young denominational types gathered to reflect on the future of "church."  There was much talk amongst the whippersnappers about cutting edge stuff, but also a bunch of chatter around the importance of our...um..."unique"...way of doing church.

I found myself wondering that again, as my Presbytery worked our way through some difficult stuff this last week.  We did pretty well, as these conversations go, but every once in a while we sorta trucked through some procedural things I'd come to expect.  Motions were not made.  Seconds were not asked for.  The steps of the dance were blurred, and we rolled and tumbled along together.

And yet it made little difference.  Decisions were made, and no-one went storming off into the night or howled gloating victory at their vanquished foes.  It worked.  By "worked," I mean: it seemed not to impede our sharing grace with one another, even in significant disagreement.

How much does "polity" matter?

It does, of course, because it helps us get stuff done.  And it doesn't, not at all, because it's not fundamental to our being "church."

The question, of course, has to do with essentials.  Where is that relation that matters, that is most vital to spiritually healthy interaction?  What is the fundamental unit of analysis, if we're trying to live into the Kingdom of God that Jesus was so on about?

It is not our organizational chart.  It is not, agony though this may be, our meticulously overthought process.

As familiar as our pattern of being is, and as comfortingly as that structure might be, I just can't bring myself to see it as central.  It is not the thing I hold to most fiercely.  The organizational frameworks and structures that overarch our lives together are meaningful only in so far as they help us do that heart of our faith.  That's true no matter what our structure might be.

Congregational? Presbyterian? Episcopal?  Oldline? Nondenom?  Giant corporate church with twenty pastors and an IT department?  Tiny family church with twenty in the pews of their little country church?

It matters not, as St. Yoda would have put it.

What matters most is how the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth shape our integrity as persons, and then...from that foundation...how we relate to every other person we encounter, whoever they may be.  Do we understand ourselves as radically, essentially committed to doing what Jesus taught all of his disciples to do and live?   Does our "polity" help us be disciples together?

Does it shape how I relate to you?  Does it help me love you, as Jesus requires?

That, it seems, is the fundamental thing, the most basic reality.

Structures

Years ago, as I would drop in to visit with the pastor who mentored me during my seminary internship, there were several warning signs that told me things were not well with him and his ministry work. Bruce could be a warm, cheerful, and ebullient guy, but an ongoing struggle with obesity-related health issues and a resultant propensity to intermittent depression meant that sometimes he'd just completely check out. When he was down, he was barely there at all, distant and muted. That was hard to miss. When his health issues finally took him, I wish I could say I was surprised.

But then there were those times when I'd pop in, and he'd be fine, and we'd chat about life. I'd ask him what was new or interesting or exciting in the church community he served. And he would talk about the facility. About building renovations and new bathrooms. About carpet. About trees that needed to be removed. At the time, this struck me as another sign that things were off. It wasn't as in-your-face as the depression and the health issues, but it seemed symptomatic of where the energy and focus of his work lay. And that work...not ministry, but work...was largely about building maintenance, about the structure in which his community met and worshiped. What I didn't hear was about classes that were inspiring or energizing, or about new or ongoing mission projects in the community, or anything that spoke to vision or to purpose or to the Gospel. Not hearing those things from someone whose primary purpose is spiritual leadership raised flags. It concerned me.

As I've worked in my own ministry context over the last seven years, I've felt that same strong gravitic pull into the administrative and the structural. The nature of my community...small in numbers, with a large and demanding facility...has meant that even with the diligent work of some amazingly committed and stalwart volunteers, I've had to step in to do things that aren't exactly Ministry of Word and Sacrament. I've done budgeting. I've done HR. I've slopped out downspouts and wetvac'd floors and dug ditches and chopped wood and painted and even done some rudimentary carpentry. That's the reality of pastoring a teensy tinesy congregation. I anticipated this, and I'm cool with it.

Up to a point. So long as that work facilitates the stuff that matters, it's fine. But then there are times when I realize that the structural demands on me seem to be...spreading. Extending tendrils. Sometimes I notice that dealing with the latest building emergency seems to consume a greater and greater proportion of my time. I'll listen to the conversations I'm having with church folk outside of that blessed hour of Sunday Bible Study, and they're all about structure. Or when someone asks me what's new at my church, and the first thing that pops into my head is asbestos abatement. And whenever that happens, it raises flags. It's a sign I need to make course corrections.

The relationships we forge as communities of Christ-followers are by nature multifaceted. They include many of the same elements that one might find in a fraternal organization or a secular nonprofit. But when the dynamics of facilities and process grow to the point at which they...and not our faith...are the thing we always talk about, then we've wandered off track.

I feel this strongly whenever I look at the vast overabundance of governance structures in my denomination. They may not be a bricks and mortar building, but they can be even more consuming. The ease with which we fall into a tight-chatter orbit around issues of polity and organizational dynamics reflects, I think, that it is the place we're most comfortable. It's the idol of choice for we highly educated folks who feel somewhat awkward speaking about the things that really touch us.

Shaking ourselves loose from those professional and busy-seeming distractions is...well...it's something we need to attend to.