The Numbers Game

At our November 2019 AGM, it was officially noted that our membership numbers are about 10% down on ten years ago, and that we are bringing in less revenue. It was suggested in the ensuing discussion that one of the reasons for the decline in revenue (i.e. tithing and donations by the members and adherents) is not only that there are 10% fewer members, but also that our members are less wealthy than the ones we used to attract. And that the reason we are attracting fewer wealthy people is because our messaging is too liberal (translation in Inglese: the Minister is a 'lefty', so it's my fault).

Leaving aside, for a moment, the multiple variables that could account for and contribute to apparently declining numbers and revenue (lower wage growth, SA’s nationally high un- and under-employment, the rise in the number of working families in the congregation, the gig economy, Sunday trading hours, mortality, families moving interstate where the jobs are…I could go on ALL DAY), I thought a dose of historical perspective on our numbers and demographics might be instructive.

Brown (2002) et. al., have well established the general 45 degree downward trend in church attendance and formal affiliation since WW1, a century ago. This average includes all denominations and anglosphere nations. So the struggle to keep numbers from sinking has been like King Canute before the flood, ordering the tide to stop. The main game in the 20^th century, and now the 21^st, is to maintain, rather than to grow, or at least to manage decline. But how has this particular church fared after 160+ years, beginning as it did during the worldwide high tide level of church membership and affiliation in the mid 19^th century? Rather better than most, it seems.

The tide of history is going only ONE way

I’m grateful to a scholarly article by David Hilliard in the Journal of the Historical Society of South Australia from (1983), whose scholarly research uncovered some interesting facts:

• ·       In the 1881 census, 747 SA residents described themselves as Unitarians, about the size of the SA Jewish community, but smaller than almost all other orthodox denominations;

• ·       However, the church itself had only 122 ‘subscribers’ (i.e. members) in 1881;

• ·       With so many ‘Unitarians’ in the state, why weren’t we better subscribed then? At the time, we were unique in that we had only one accredited Minister in the colony, and were the regarded with contempt by many more pious Christians sects. So even then, we were understaffed, and a bit suspect;

Rev. JC Woods, our first and only Minister from 1855-1889

• ·       As the 19^th century wore on, however, other orthodox Christian denominations liberalized their theology and encouraged freedom of thought. So as they became more like us, there was less reason to leave the church of their upbringing and join us;

• ·       Two key demographic features of the UCCSA at the beginning of the twentieth century: the congregation, though closely knit, was both elderly and (ahem...) 'heavily inter-related by marriage';

• ·       Old members died and younger member did not come to replace them. By 1916, during WW1 when most men of military age had enlisted, services were sometimes attended by less than 20;

• ·       These conditions of low membership and age were reversed dramatically in the 20s and 30s by Rev George Hale, whose tenure saw an influx of young attenders. He was a charismatic, eloquent, and provocative preacher, and embraced the new communication technology of the time—radio—and regularly broadcast addresses, capturing people who had no previous connection with the core families of the church. By 1929, one service had an attendance of 300, the largest in 25 years;

• 

  When radio was new...

  
  

• ·       But by 1934 this media-driven peak had passed, and the actual subscribers (members) remained remarkably stable at about 100 (i.e. about where we are now);

• ·       Why then have we never achieved steady and sustained growth? Hilliard points to isolation as a key factor. We have been isolated from other churches—we have never had formal contact with other denominations in the city. Our ministers are isolated from the geographical centres of the denomination, with little or no opportunity to exchange ideas with colleagues. We have, as a result, inherited a reflex to be inward-looking and sluggish. As late as 1959 the Minister, the Rev Colin Gibson said: “It is indeed difficult to maintain freshness and enthusiasm, with no one other than ourselves to engender it…the same voice in the pulpit, the same faces in the congregation. It may make for closeness, but the spark that strikes from other minds and sets alight our own, is absent.”

Isolated church

• ·       Hilliard also points to historical documents that indicate the conventionally cerebral approach to religion has done us no favours. In 1895, a review described a congregation of 50 or so (about the same attendance we have today), as being listless, and the services “ dull and inexpressibly dreary”. Other reviewers found the sermons heavy-going, with few concessions to those less interested in intellectual matters;

• ·       Hilliard observes that the SA colony has always been a place where fluidity of religious belief was the norm, and that there has always been overlapping in both denominational affiliation and attendance. Significant numbers were Unitarians not for a lifetime, but for a period of their lives, a sort of temporary resting-place, before moving back to orthodoxy or into profounder scepticism. Multiple affiliations (with Quakers, Congregationalists, etc.) have been the historical norm, so there was never a tradition of having one single church allegiance as the norm;

Conclusion: we are now exactly where we have always been in numerical terms, with maybe one significant expansion during the tenure of George Hale. So before we go trying to somehow lure the fabulously wealthy back into membership, or belabour liberal ministry for liberal messaging, or blame leadership or lack of it, or blame (again) the poorer members for their poverty, maybe get out into the wider community. Beat the isolation that has been our historical legacy, engage new SA people through whatever communication technology we can afford and master, be less afraid of engaging people with emotion, and be a little less in love with getting an intellect foot-massage in services. 

Can the culture of institutions be changed? You bet it can. It happens all the time, and it must change here. For there is only so long before we can keep the rising water from carrying this church away. Given Brown’s trend, we should be below 50 members and 20 attenders. We’re double that, and that’s a HUGE achievement in this day and age. But it doesn’t happen by magic, and the forces of cultural inertia, both within and without the church, are strong.

The good news is that we have the best religious product in town, especially for those who don’t ‘do’ other churches. Go out and get’em in.

A Ghost Story

Now that I'm on a part-time footing at my church ministry, I haven't even been through the doors since Jan 26th, when I did my last service under my FT agreement. I'm doing roughly one per month until further notice. But because my attention has been mainly elsewhere, it feels so over now, like I'm a million miles away, instead of three blocks.

I had forgotten something in the office, or I needed some material--I'm not sure which. On an evening around dusk, I rode my bike there to get whatever it was I was missing. 

And I discovered that the strangest thing had happened to the place.

The place has transformed into a thriving, diverse sort of ….village, with the church itself at the heart of it. There were so many kids, some were playing baseball (on a team complete with uniforms), some were in a kind of cadet program (ambling about in smart dress uniforms). Familiar elders, some dead, some living, were walking together under trees talking earnestly and discretely in pairs and small groups. There were food trucks around. A band was playing somewhere. Many ages, many activities--rich, vibrant, diverse, colourful, yet everything somehow belonged here, a single organism  in the twilight, just doing its collective thing. 

I went into the church, which was having some sort of evening service which had not started yet. The place was packed. I sat at the back as I tend to do when I'm not leading a service. Lights were dim, and there was the sport of hushed expectancy that one feels when a curtain is about to rise in a theatre. But I felt I should not stay, that what was to come had nothing to do with me, and rather than feel utterly alienated, I left before it started.

I made my way back to my bike, through thronging clusters of folks, and now--as in the church, as on my way to the church--I realized not a single person recognized me. They were not unfriendly or avoidant. There was eye contact, some nods of welcome, but not a single flicker of recognition. I had a sudden flash that it felt the same as when I had first arrived at this church 23 years ago, a stranger. Not unwelcome, just not known. In my end is my beginning.

I was a part of this once, I wanted to shout at them. I didn't make all this happen all by myself, but I sure was part of what led to this flourishing. You're here because it's here, and it's here because I was here. Goddam it, why does no one recognize me? The feeling was not wounded pride, but terror--seeing the world like Clarence the angel makes George Bailey see it in It's a Wonderful Life--a world into which you've never been born, and your single absence has made it utterly different. 

"One person's life touches so many others..."

Was I really here all those years or was that all a dream? I mean, the years I remember spending there felt real, just as this utter strangeness and stranger-ness felt real. Oh, wait...

And from this dream, I woke to soundless dark. It was only the sound of Susan's breathing next to me that made waking reality take shape again--our bed, our ceiling, our curtains wafting, my own heart beating. Life.

The psychodynamics of life transitions are not to be taken lightly, no matter how busy you get, how driven-forward you're required to be. They remind you that everything comes to an end, even you. And that no matter how intimately tied to things you feel, it all has to be let go of eventually. No--you won't be remembered specifically. But you will have been of use, and part of the unfolding web of life that connects past and future worlds. 

The church and the school where I'm chaplain had obviously merged together in my unconscious. I was a ghost in both, seeing it as the departed--if consciousness persists after death--must see the world. Full of familiar places, people, and full of what you can see has grown out of what you knew and who you were. You look at a house and you think--"Hey, that was where I used to live. What are these others doing there?"

When you visit such places, they are called 'old haunts' and they are called that because what haunts them is you. Life has moved on, evolved, and it is only you that are stuck in, fixated on, an idea of the past. Which no longer exists, though it still seems real to you.

The Bardo can only be depicted as a kind of virtual reality, as in this VR experience of Lincoln in the Bardo

Maybe the Zen Buddhists are onto something with their notion of the Bardo-- a period between one life and the next, in which the unskillful can become stuck as ghostly spirits, and never merge with Eternal Love. The skillful have a certain amount of time to come to terms with the fact that they are indeed gone from this world. And when they do, they are released from despair and self-blame, ready to be born anew. 

A prayer:

Oh Thou, maker (and shaker) of worlds within and without,

May I release what has been, that I may be reborn in what's to come. 

May those my life has touched and enabled, flourish as they will.

May I know true entrusting.