Whence Pluralism, Whither Denominationalism?

Differences themselves are a gift from God.

I stumbled over the future of pluralism just last week. Literally. I tripped on a Muslim prayer rug tucked not quite far enough beneath a choir pew in the divinity school chapel at our university, where my own community meets for a noon Eucharist each week. Later, as I put away the prayer books and vessels, I maneuvered a maze of Orthodox icons and the Catholic community's Salvadorian processional cross in the tiny cubby hole beneath the gallery stair that serves as sacristy to us all.

And like that dark closet we campus religionists share in the chapel, we are just a tiny cubbyhole in a sprawling cultural landscape of diversity. In the aisles of the local supermarket, Betty Crocker shares the shelf with risotto, couscous, and salsa. A walk around my neighborhood takes me past tidy bungalows, one with the Blessed Virgin Mary standing knee-deep in bark mulch among the shrubs, another with a minivan parked at the curb bearing the rainbow flag of gay liberation on the bumper. I stroll past a Mexican restaurant boasting of mariachi bands and margaritas, its parking lot filled to capacity with sport utility vehicles, past a corner diner where you can get spanakopita and baklava with dark, strong coffee all night long, past a Czech eatery whose biggest clientele qualifies for Social Security and whose dining habits allow the place to close at eight in the evening, to a grocery where the produce and patter are pure Italian.

Pluralism is the reality in which we live. And it's here to stay. What might the possible alternative be? Is it conceivable that all humankind might ever be of one mind and one heart? Since there is no apparent unity foreseeable even among the separate but distinct communities of Christians, Jews, or Muslims in our own time, can we even conceive of a day when unanimity might pertain not only within each but among them? Would we want to? As monolithic models of centralized organization devolve in favor of scattered, horizontal models of governance, organic unity seems vain folly.

Pluralism has a robust future, built upon a solid past. In all its many dimensions, pluralism has been a consistent reality, evidenced in history. Those political forces designed to corral human diversity into an organic unity under a single governor are themselves the anomaly. Measured against the trajectory of history, empires unified under a single authority -- and religions unified within a single empire -- are fleeting things. Indeed, they have been largely illusory, for even under the most virulent hegemonists dissident cells have survived, their devotion carried out under cover, their presence a subversive challenge to claims of religious purity or unanimity. One could well rewrite the aphorism to argue that pluralism, not the church, is the true anvil that has worn out many a hammer.

That pluralism seems so prominent just now is not the result of some sudden ground swell in diversity. Rather, it is more likely the result of enhanced communications and a correspondingly heightened consciousness of the many differences that make us who we are. This expanding knowledge, like any challenge to our ordered lives, provokes fear and resistance. Attempts to secure authority and preserve hegemony only lightly veil the anxiety and insecurity that animate them. And, in its overwhelming scope, this enhanced awareness of difference can stun, rendering us stupefied--which condition is most prominently evidenced in contemporary American culture as atomized claims to spirituality without religion, as though such a dualism were possible.

Certainly, we are in the midst of a great shift in the human landscape, made all the greater for the scope of its embrace. The global village is a dauntingly accurate metaphor; the consequences and reverberations of change anywhere inevitably touch us all somewhere. We feel the shifts acutely, and often to immediate effect.

However, these shifts have been progressive even if they only lately seem immediate; moreover, their outcomes lie beyond our lifespan, and beyond our knowing. These are difficult times for us. We are understandably insecure. But insecurity is not a sin; it is the human condition. That may be the one reality around which the diverse components of religious pluralism can find common ground, if (and it's a very big if), each can find the humility to embrace that reality. That will mean, at the very least, moving beyond the fear that pits us as competitors for imagined authority in a world that is struggling to discern the emerging shape of genuine authority, as the local tribal and household gods give way to an authority sufficient to embrace us all.

Authority, whatever else it has meant, has always embodied integrity. And in those times and circumstances when institutional integrity (like emperors, popes, monarchs, presidents, congresses, corporations, etc.) falter or fail, authority passes to those individuals and institutions who genuinely embody integrity. While it is, and sometimes has been, the case that temporal power has claimed and held authority, such authority is always, as its source implies, temporary. Eventually and inevitably truth prevails and human sensibilities seek the genuine over the false. But the journey from the one to the other is seldom quick or easy. We who have become accustomed to speed and ease need constant reminder and reassurance, especially in those times and circumstances of pilgrimage that demand we make our way from the relative comfort of our own Egypt into the desert places where the destination is as yet unrealized and unsubstantial promise.

Denominationalism, though its name is thoroughly modern, is an ancient and universal reality. To lesser or greater extent, fragmentation exists in all the historic religions of the world. Judaism is denominated by orthodox, reform, and conservative categories, to name three; similarly, there are multiple varieties of Buddhism and of Islam.

In the scriptural church, segmentation is evidenced in the epistolary references to followers of Paul, Apollos, Cephas, and others, and in the crisis between Jewish and Gentile converts to The Way advocated by Jesus that precipitated the first council of the church leadership in Jerusalem. Rome and Constantinople agreed to disagree, and dual papacies occupied Rome and Avignon. Europe fragmented into varied bodies whose primary definition of self was determined by what particulars they differed from Rome.

Eventually each of the parties to these separations within Christianity took unto themselves names by which to identify themselves. And, with rare exception, each promoted its own superiority over the other, secure in its own orthodoxy. Some eschew proselytism, seeking the way of leavening exemplar. The relatively passive isolationism of the Amish, the reclusive and cloistered religious monastics of Christianity, and similar communities represent the more benign forms of witness.

More virulent are the aggressive fundamentalisms that are all too present among us in all religious traditions. At one level, fundamentalism seeks to establish its own authority as immutable truth that can be possessed, intact, by a single person or institution. Nationalism, often a militant political expression of fundamentalism, is a struggle for hegemony based upon such claims to divine, or ultimate, right. Jews and Christians have textual reminders of the poverty of such initiatives; the book of Genesis is a rich repository of them. Trees of knowledge and life, a brother slain over birthright, towers built to reach the throne of God, are but a few of the morality tales aimed at stemming such impulses as seek to dominate.

Modern ecumenism that seeks the organic unity of Christianity is yet another response to the pluralism of Christian denominational communities. The notion of an organically united Christianity seeks the reunion of the many denominated bodies into one body representing true catholicity--that is, a unity embracing the diversity. But organic unity is itself an unlikely (and unworthy) goal, based as it is in an imperial notion of institutional centrality. It's unlikely, for it comes at a time when all centrally unified models of authority the world over are in a state of flux and will, presumably, be replaced by new methods and models of organization, the exact shapes of which are as yet unclear. But it's also unworthy of the attention and energy it demands if measured against the gospel imperatives that urge Christians to devote themselves not to the establishment of structures of power, but rather to service.

It would seem that the richest possibilities for ecumenical efforts in a pluralistic culture (local or global) are those espousing spiritual unity, initiatives that emphasize relationship over institutional structure. The dominant characteristic of Jesus's ministry, identified by John Dominic Crossan as "open commensality," is a notable example of this principle of spiritual unity -- and a direct challenge to institutional structure (Crossan, Jesus: The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant [San Francisco: Harper, 19901]). As Crossan points out, Jesus's life and ministry are remarkable for their flagrant disregard for the social and political boundaries of his own time-his free and open association with women, men, and children of differing (and often conflicting) classes and conditions; his deliberate touching of the unclean and outcast; and his uncowed silence in front of those who supposed themselves in authority.

In our own circumstance, treating the sacramental boundaries of Christian denominational life as permeable, recognizing the efficacy of ordained (and lay) ministry, and allowing full communion at least to all those sharing common baptism (and perhaps beyond?) would be a significant beginning. Such an ecumenism that recognizes common communion (as most Christian bodies now recognize a common baptism) while preserving characteristics of belief and behavior unique to particular communities of faith is both liberalizing and conservative. It opens the way to a more expansive life, even as it preserves the individuation necessary to healthy relationship. It moves beyond an unachievable (and undesirable) unanimity or uniformity to an attainable communion, a union shared in common.

In such a communion -- which could conceivably be expanded beyond Christianity -- denominationalism has a rich and useful role. Denominations as economic and institutional entities -- as corporate structures holding property, administering financial and human resources, and the like -- may have less utility. Indeed, over time in such communion, these structures may well be deemed redundant or extraneous and thus be transformed. This would seem a much more natural evolution than the opposite tactic of organic ecumenism, which seems to maintain that the reconfiguration and manipulation of the institutions will bring about a spiritual communion.

But denominations as identifiers of clusters of believers will be needed more, not less, as our awareness and knowledge of our differences grows through communion. My analogy for this proposition is simple. It is the analogy of personhood, of human development.

I began this life as a dependent, egocentric infant. From the perspective of the crib, I was the center of a universe that orbited around me, tending to my every need (and whim). But as I grew and learned more of the pluralism of my own household, I learned the distinct differences between mother and father and me. Gradually, I had also to learn and factor the distinct differences posed by brothers, sisters, and cousins. Even within the relatively limited boundaries of family, I was exposed to differences of gender, age, nationality (some of my relatives still speak the native Sicilian language they learned as children though they've not stepped on Sicilian soil in more than fifty years), and religion (my paternal family is largely Roman Catholic, while my maternal family is mostly Methodist by way of Moravianism). Life in community introduced me to differences of skin color, sexuality and on and on.

The importance of this exercise of self-exploration and knowledge was tangibly illustrated in a conference workshop that brought seven colleagues and contemporaries into conversation about our family histories. Of the seven, three of us were the grandchildren of Italian or Sicilian immigrants. We had lively memories of our grandparents, the language they spoke, the food they ate, the stories they told. Some of us had actually visited our grandparents' homelands, met their families. I knew, for example, that my family name was likely of Arab origin, that it extended even beyond Sicily, and the country itself having been ruled by many cultures, that my ancestors had likely been of darker skin. Visiting the village of my grandparents' birth, I was only mildly surprised to find that the local Catholics revered a black madonna.

Sharing our stories, we three had a sense of being part of a larger world. We also had a surer sense of our places within that world, for we had been oriented through our history. The other four expressed with some wistfulness their ignorance of such personal history. Their surnames were ambiguous; did "White" derive from "Blanc"; had "Miller" earlier been "Mueller"? In what country or generation was the name converted? None could claim indigenous American ancestry, yet none knew when or from where their families had come to this country. Their place was less secure, their sense of self obviously shaken by this simple experiment.

Each awareness of the other requires a renewed sense of myself, knowledge of who I am. Without that, my fear might drive me either to depression or violence -- which may explain at least in part the widespread epidemics of depression and sociopathology not only in America, but elsewhere. Mind you, it's a delicate ballet; I'm immune to neither depression or violence, but I am mindful, in my reflective moments, that fear is at the source of dis-ease. And the greatest of those fears is the loss of self, that momentary demand that now comes at us continually, to define (at least for myself) who I am in relationship to every other with whom I come into contact, into relationship.

Moreover, the greater the universe I inhabit, the more essential my knowledge of self. Paradoxically (and Christians should certainly be familiar with paradox), the greater the community of others I live within, the more self-centered I need to be. To be sure, this self-centeredness is quite different from egotistical selfishness, but not unrelated. There is a destructive (toxic to the community and the individual) self-centeredness that is rooted in insecurity. This is the profile of the bully and similar sociopaths.

But there is a constructive self-centeredness that is rooted in a genuine sense of oneself, of one's rightful place in the world. Achieving this equilibrium is the goal of much spirituality and an essential component of vocation. In other words, pluralism and individuality go hand in hand. And in a world that by dint of technology seems to be expanding rapidly, our grip must be firm.

Inattention to distinction breeds confusion and confusion spawns insecurity. Bounded distinction becomes more, not less, important to open access in a pluralistic community. For example, the free movement of Christians across denominational boundaries demands that denominations devote more energy to defining their unique distinctions.

My own denomination, the Episcopal Church, has long been a communion of adult converts. Roman Catholics seeking a more liberal and democratic polity, and Protestants and Evangelicals seeking a more disciplined sacramental liturgy have often found their way into this communion. In recent years, however, we have been less attentive to instructing these converts to the extent that we find ourselves besieged from within by competing expectations.

The internal strife generated by the resulting confusion is not limited to our own situation; most Christian denominations in America are struggling alongside us with similar issues and with equally disappointing outcomes. At times it seems as though we are caught in a centrifuge whose relentless spin disperses in ever smaller droplets as we grow further atomized. Meanwhile, those young adults who gather at Episcopal events invariably pose the question, "What does it mean to be Episcopalian?" Their impulses strain toward definition even as the definition itself is under assault.

These young adults serve also as a reminder that this process in inherent in human development. Those of us whose ministry is primarily concerned with young adults know that we are both privileged and challenged to be with them in this process of denomination by which they examine themselves anew. It is a process in which they literally de-name themselves, testing the names that have defined and thus bounded their youth, and they re-name themselves, trying on a variety of new names and even a few of the old as they equip themselves to participate in a world of more expansive, ever-expanding horizons.

Much as we may tire of the exercise in their lives and in our own, it seems our fate continually to examine this discipline of definition. Because of who we are and where we stand in history, we cannot arrive at or expect static identifiers. Our history in Genesis begins with denomination, as the various parts of creation and humanity itself are called into being and named. From that day to this, it has been our task to name.

At the heart of our faith stories is the conviction that a plurality of difference, division itself, are gifts of the God whose creative enterprise was itself an act of division -- light from dark, soil from water, animal from human, woman from man -- and all separate and free from Godself. This pluralism is essential to the divine design, prerequisite to relationship. Among the gifts bestowed upon humanity are discernment and reason -- gifts that allow us to see the differences and invite us to make meaning of them.

Religions and their subsequent, subordinate denominations have been integral to negotiating our place within the variety. The process will undoubtedly continue. For those of us who call ourselves Christian, our task remains unchanged even if more challenging: to apply our capacities of intellect and faith to the process of discernment and the project of meaning, to remain faithful.

SAM PORTARO is the Episcopal Chaplain to the University of Chicago and Director of Brent House, the Episcopal Center on the campus.