“We went outside the city gate by the riverside,

where we thought there would be a place of prayer.”

(Acts 16:13)

 

Church historians have used a peculiar expression to describe the congregations of people who gathered in the churches of America during the early part of the 19th century. They called them “promiscuous assemblies,” because of the variety of motivations among the people present in church.

Some who were there were believers, some un-believers. Some came to worship, some to be entertained. Some sought communion with God, others were more interested in human companionships. These “promiscuous assemblies” in frontier communities offered about the only opportunities for cultural and intellectual, social and religious expression, therefore nearly everybody came. The promiscuous character of these church assemblies began to alter radically the traditional form of Presbyterian worship and service.

“History had challenged American Presbyterian churches by suddenly creating ‘audiences’ at their Sunday services which included large numbers of non-church people. To meet this challenge (Presbyterian) services began to be changed from periods of adoring God and edifying Christians into opportunities for convincing and convicting the ‘unsaved’.” (Julius Melton — Presbyterian Worship in America — p. 57)

Congregational singing became more emotional, directed toward moving the impenitent sinner rather than toward praise to God. Preaching became less and less exposition of scripture and explanation of theological doctrine and more designed like a lawyer’s address to a jury pleading for a decision to serve God rather than Satan.

Now today in America in the latter part of the 20th century those promiscuous assemblies aren’t gathering in the churches anymore. Our gatherings at stated hours of worship no longer include great numbers of non-church members. The complexity and diversity of life in contemporary America presents people with an overabundance rather than a scarcity of opportunities for social gatherings and intellectual, artistic, and recreational pursuits; consequently the un-churched are not battering down church doors to get inside just for kicks. The big push now for people is in the opposite direction, toward non-involvement and away from church assemblies.

Contemporary worship has therefore again undergone changes in emphasis because of the character of the assemblies in church. Since large numbers of the un-churched are not present, the format of music and preaching and liturgy has moved away from the evangelistic to moral and ethical exhortations. The church member at worship now is likely to be reminded that his “Christian commitment requires his political action, his participation in social reform, his diligent support of community enterprises, his intense and sympathetic concern for the world outside our ecclesiastical institutions.” (Mary McDermott Shideler — The Man for Others and the Man from God — The Christian Century — April 10, 1968)

But there is evidence that all is not at ease in Zion with this adjustment of church services to the present realities of history. Some church people are disturbed over the lack of evangelistic emphasis in contemporary church gatherings, even though the un-churched are not present in large numbers. Some church members say they have no stomach for involvement in social action. Others complain that their own personal needs are so great that when they come to church and are confronted only with the needs of others and their obligation to serve their brothers’ and sisters’ needs, they are completely frustrated. Still others, while frankly acknowledging their responsibilities of Christian commitment in social action, community enterprise and worldwide humanitarian service, plead their inner insufficiency for these tasks, their own impoverishment of spirit. They know they should live for others; what they don’t know is, what they can live from.

Here’s a teacher harassed almost to distraction by trying to meet the varying needs of the 30 pupils committed to her care. Where is she to find the resources to replenish her exhausted store of patience, her psychological insight, and her love, to deal creatively and supportively in each troublesome relationship?

Here’s a community leader whose good will has been undercut by misunderstanding and misinterpreted motives and cruel criticism. His loyalty to ideals, his devotion to justice, his zeal to serve have been completely consumed in the heat of controversy. Where is he to renew his inner strength?

Here’s a business man harried by picket lines and boycotts, slumping sales and skyrocketing overhead costs, petty thievery that adds up to grand larceny and even fire and looting. Where can he go to find out how to restore the personal balance that will enable him to persevere without emotional and fiscal breakdown?

Here’s a brilliant and conscientious student barely rescued from suicide. He has everything to live for — but where can he get the resources to live from?

As I see the plight of the Church of God and of Christian people in this moment of history, so much of our salvation, humanly speaking, depends upon our understanding that the church assembled is still in a very real sense “a promiscuous assembly.” Yes, even in the last decade of the 20th century, sometimes called “the post-Christian era,” the church is composed of people assembled from every conceivable category of human need — driven to the church not by curiosity or boredom, but by deep spiritual hunger and inner impoverishment; drawn to the church not because there is nowhere else to go for recreation and amusement, but because there is nowhere else to go for re-creation and renewal of spiritual resources.

But how will those who are gathered into the church be fed? How can their souls be restored? When Harry Emerson Fosdick was minister of the great Riverside Church in New York, he used to say that preaching on a given theme or scripture text to a multitude of people with their myriad needs — always unseen, often unknown, and sometimes ill-defined, was very much like attempting to treat a man with a serious eye disorder by leaning out of a second-story window and trying to drop some medication through an eye dropper into his eye as the poor sufferer passed beneath the window in a thronging multitude of hurrying, pushing people.

But, thank God, there is more to be offered in the “promiscuous assembly” that a Christian congregation always is than just the sum total of sermon, scripture, song and fellowship. The traditional name for that something is “the grace of God.” And people come hungrily to this institution called the church, into this promiscuous assembly, because they have confidence that the church affords two methods by which the human spirit, with its variegated wants and needs, has historically been nourished: one is contemplation, the other, communal worship.

First, Christian worship offers opportunity for contemplation. In contemplation the human mind and soul composes itself before the prospect of communion with the Eternal God. Most people acknowledge that they know of a living plant within them called “reverence” which requires watering at least once a week. In the office of the Superintendent of Schools in Shakopee, Minnesota, this notice hangs on the wall: “In case of air raid, prayers are allowed in this school.” (Saturday Review — April 6, 1968)

When St. Paul and his fellow missionaries crossed over from Asia to Europe, as the Book of Acts records, they were filled with enthusiasm for rigorous missionary activities in response to the challenging Macedonian call. But before the business of gospel proclamation could begin, there was the prior claim of contemplation and communion. So, finding no synagogue in the Greek city of Philippi, they hunted up a place outside the city gate, by the seaside where they thought there would be a place of prayer.

Jesus Christ, the foremost of all men for other people, who gave himself so lavishly in every conceivable service for suffering, sinning, discriminated against, and despairing people, had steady, recurring need to withdraw to lonely places for contemplation and communion with the Eternal that He might have His spiritual resources replenished.

The Psalmist, in speaking of his own and his people’s needs as exiles in Babylon, said: “If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget its cunning.” A Christian of our own times, C. S. Lewis, has added parenthetically to the ancient Jew’s cry: “The right hand will forget its cunning, if Jerusalem is forgotten.” The Christian, like the Jew, is called primarily not to morality, but to sanctity. Our ultimate criterion is not the good, but the holy. Obviously, we need to revive the tradition that sanctity is the fountainhead and foundation of moral passion and ethical perception. Likewise, we need to restore the vision of individual Christians and Christian churches as standing against the world, not in opposition to, but in contrast with the world.

“If we forget Jerusalem (the vision of the Holy City and Her God gained and held secure only by holy contemplation), our right hands will forget their cunning. Where there is no vision of the Holy City, the dream of a righteous and happy city and nation will perish. When we do not live from God, we become parasites upon each other. He who does not receive cannot give.” (Mary McDermott Shideler — The Man for Others and the Man from God — The Christian Century — April 10, 1968)

But there is a second historic method by which the grace of God is mediated through that promiscuous assembly which is the church, namely communal worship.

“The life of the human spirit is intrinsically communal. Though some of its phases can and others must be carried on in solitude, unless it is nourished by a community it will not flourish … Every contemplative soul … needs direct support from its fellows … Their encouragement is vital to its maturing.” (Ibid.)

No one can ever predict who will be God’s most useful servant and eloquent advocate when the promiscuous assembly convenes. In one of the churches I served early in my ministry there was a retired schoolteacher. Though she was quite deaf she was one of the congregation’s most faithful attendants at worship and she always sat in the second pew right in front of the pulpit. One Sunday after worship one of her numerous nephews, who was ushering that day, came up to her and shouted in her ear: “Aunt Lizzie, you amaze me. You’re deaf as a post. You can’t hear it thunder. You can’t get a thing out of the service and yet you never miss a Sunday. Why do you keep on coming to church?” “Well,” she said, “I can sit in my pew among my friends and family whom I love. I can say my prayers and I can let everybody know what I believe in and who I’m trying to live for.”

George Buttrick wrote of a man who told his friend of a recurring dream. “I keep dreaming,” he said, “that I see you standing on a hillside and a great crowd of us are gathered round you. We all are waiting eagerly for the word you will speak to us. We see your lips form the word, but no sound comes out. And we try to shout to you the word we see your lips forming, but we too are dumb. And the missing word is — God.”

There is a missing word in our common life for want of which our commercial and political and personal world makes no sense. It is a word which remains missing until it is spoken in the context of common worship for each one of us by our fellow worshippers, and only God knows who that one may be for each of us in any one of our promiscuous assemblies.