In Chapter 4 of Letters to the Church, Francis Chan talks about one of the most vital and visible marks of the New Testament Church: the Church is a loving community. In a consumer-led model of church, people simply do not invest enough time in one another’s lives: “We live in a time when people go to a building on Sunday mornings, attend an hour-long service, and call themselves members of the Church.” Chan asserts that criminal gangs “have a much stronger sense of what it means to be a family than we do in the Church.” He makes that assertion on the basis of the experience of ‘Rob’ (not his real name), who came to faith while in prison and made the difficult and dangerous decision to break with the neighbourhood gang he had grown up in.
The gang was his family. These were loyal and dear friends who looked out for him twenty-four hours a day. There was a love and camaraderie from being in a gang that he had enjoyed since childhood. Now he would lose those relationships and be hated by them all. When Rob describes gang life, much of it sounds like what the Church was meant to be. Obviously, there are major differences (drugs, murder—you know, little details like that), but the idea of “being a family” is central to both gang life and God’s design for the Church. (Chang, Letters to the Church, p. 71)
Of course we all know about Mafia crime families: the glamour and the grubbiness, the law of omerta or silence enforced at gunpoint, the sense of being fundamentally different and at odds with surrounding society, the ever-present tension among members between the need for absolute trust and the fear of betrayal. We also know of religious cults that have operated like criminal gangs, where members have been brainwashed into committing crimes of fraud, extortion, prostitution, drug-dealing and even terrorism; but how can it be true in a positive sense, that churches should be like gangs? The answer is, in the sense of shared enterprise and shared dangers, the absolute and unconditional commitment to one another, the full-time involvement in every aspect of one another’s lives, and above all the sense of love emerging from absolute dependence on one another.
We’ll find Chan’s comparison easier to understand if we remember that the church began as an underground movement, barely tolerated and frequently persecuted by the authorities, the object of deep suspicion among ordinary citizens. People who came to Jesus drew apart from the surrounding culture, and were forced together. The stakes were too high for anything less than full commitment; church could not settle for being a mere club. Some writers believe that the true Church still emerges in conditions of secrecy and danger.
People talk all the time about the ‘church community’, but Chan believes the true Church is something much deeper. He quotes Alan Hirsch, a leading missiologist, who believes church should be based on the idea of communitas: a deep form of community that emerges when people pass together through powerful, often traumatic experiences, that bind them together in ways nothing else can. Gangs force new recruits to submit to tattooing, branding, tooth-pulling, the cutting off of fingers: symbolic acts that say, “there’s no going back.” Hirsch puts it like this: Communitas happens in situations where individuals are driven to find one another through a common experience of ordeal, humbling, transition, and marginalization (Alan Hirsch. The Forgotten Ways, Baker Publishing Group, p. 163).
People undergoing these extreme, disorienting experiences are said to experience a state of liminality. Liminality is a kind of solvent for secure personalities and settled world-views. It is the transitional state we enter particularly during rites of passage, when we cross the threshold between stages of being. Puberty, the transition from childhood to adulthood, is the classic example, observed and described by anthropologists in tribal societies around the world; another is mourning a loved one; a third the feeling of exile suffered by immigrants. To quote Hirsch again, Liminality is where we find ourselves out of our comfort zones, the unfamiliar, where we feel at risk, face a challenge, or are deliberately on an adventure. And it is absolutely critical in the formation of communitas (Hirsch, p. 163).
The armed forces (particularly elite units like the SAS) and even secular businesses use liminal experiences as a bonding technique. The now (supposedly) illegal practice of hazing in college fraternities is another example. Risky or degrading acts, often combined with excessive drinking or drug taking, are deliberately used to drive participants to the point where their personalities begin to disintegrate, so that they can be re-made in the organisation’s own image.
Countless film plots are built on the experience of liminality and communitas: characters are thrown together and forced to confront hardship and danger to defeat evil forces that threaten them and others. Usually, the plot is formed around a symbolic journey – a quest. The film might be comic, romantic or tragic: the pattern remains intact and easily detectable. These stories have real power over us, because they awaken something very deep inside us: the abiding human need for adventure, journey, and comradeship (Hirsch, p. 169).
Communitas is often lost when the time of danger passes, and more people are added or attach themselves to the group without passing through the traumatic initiatory experience: Too much concern with safety and security, combined with comfort and convenience, has lulled us out of our true calling and purpose. (Hirsch, p. 12)
Starting from this idea of communitas, you can see why Francis Chan compares church membership to being part of a gang. Gangs are particularly appealing to people who have grown up without the stability of a loving home; but what is it attracts to this lifestyle people who seem to have grown up with everything a child needs?. Gangs, with their strange and threatening initiation rituals and oaths, not to mention participation in violent criminal acts, bind members together in ways not experienced in the non-criminal world. Members give up everything to join a gang, which from that point on will not let them go. They are bound together in utter dependence, united by the excitement of danger and the fear of betrayal. The same was true of the early church.
How does this work out in the churches we belong to; or at least, how should it work out? First of all, in the experience of deep, committed love. People should experience in church a love they do not find elsewhere: in other words, communitas. This should be just as true for people who lead their lives surrounded by family and friends, as it is for those who come to church because it is the only family they have: the love felt in church ought to be a love the world cannot give.
Second, in liminal experience. Joining a church means entering a liminal state. We were leading settled, ordinary lives, but now we become strangers, not at home in this world any more. Hopefully, we are passionate, loving strangers, ready to help and befriend others – to be in the world, but not of it, is one of the central paradoxes of faith. But how many of us really live as strangers in the world?
Experiences of the liminal were fundamental to the ministry of Jesus and the formation of the Church: a deep form of togetherness and love is found when we embark on a common mission of discovery, when we encounter danger together and have to find one another in the process in order to survive. We find all these elements in the way Jesus formed his disciples (Hirsch, p. 185). Think of the wanderings on dusty roads, the bewildering words and inexplicable acts, think of the upper room, the last shared meal, and the dark conspiracy gathering outside.
Communitas only emerges through the sharing of liminal experience, but unfortunately churches seem less and less equipped to offer such experience, because culturally they have drawn back from the edge. For most ordinary people, liminality is the characteristic of a phase, perhaps their risky adolescence – but it should not be like this for the Church. Liminality and communitas are much more the normative situation and condition of the pilgrim people of God (Hirsch, p. 165). Most churches view risky forms of mission as something other people or other churches do, or ought to do. Perhaps it is something their own church used to do – when it was really alive. Refusal to engage in essential risk leads to a fearful neurosis and the decline of any living system—be it an organism, individual, or community (Hirsch, pp. 163-164).
Religious conversion is the ultimate gamble: we cannot know in this world if we have made the right decision, although of course we look for signs. Belonging to church is meant to be a costly and risky experience. It’s not just a matter of handing over money; it’s a matter of giving up everything we used in the past to define ourselves in the world’s eyes (money, job, clothes, cars, holidays, hobbies, luxuries). By stripping ourselves of worldly distinctions, comfort and security, we willingly enter a liminal state. We submit ourselves in faith to the will of an unseen God.
All our personal boundaries have to go, so that we can be remade in the image of Christ. That is why Christ asks us to deliberately give up everything we have, and tells us to hate even family for his sake; he warns us to expect rejection, persecution, and even death. We release our hold on everything superficial that pins us down us here, to emerge into the light of a greater love. This radical rejection of everything inspires fear, but is also liberating: Jesus’ yoke is light.
Baptism is a declaration, a manifesto, an external act that signals to the world that this transformation has taken place in a believer. We pass through the waters of chaos and death, and emerge as new people, part of a new community, free of our pasts, fearlessly living a new life together as the household of God. But at the moment, our lived reality seems to fall far short of what we were promised, and the problem lies not in God’s willingness to offer it, but our own preparedness to embrace it. The Church seems to conspire with its members to make everyone more fearful, less able to set out on the journey we are supposed to be making together. To close with more words from Francis Chan, “Pushing the Church to live as a family is not some gimmick, some flavour of ‘church’ that would be fun to try; it’s commanded. And it’s offered.” “It’s sad that our churches look nothing like this. It’s devastating that we don’t believe it is possible” (Chan, pp. 80, 81).
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