Should We Go Back to Church?

Émile Durkheim

Émile Durkheim, the founder of modern sociology, wrote something telling in his last great monograph, The Elementary Forms of Religious Life. Religion, Durkheim observes, based on pre-literate folk religions, isn’t originally about worshipping God. Indeed, God (or God’s approximate equivalent) is frequently a latecomer to religion. Most religions begin as shared public expressions of community values. The original “God” is the people.

Please don’t misunderstand: Durkheim, who abandoned rabbinical school because he couldn’t pretend to faith he didn’t have, perhaps overgeneralized. Like Freud and Marx before him, he incorrectly assumed all religions essentially resembled his father’s forsaken beliefs. He also wrote amid the fading glow of European empire, and described folk religions as “primitive” and “rudimentary,” with the patronizing air of Motherland imperialism. It’s necessary to adopt Durkheim’s philosophy with discretion.

However, as American society, shuttered for sixteen months, begins opening back up, one decision I and millions of other Americans must make is: should I go back to church? I don’t ask whether we should continue believing in God. Many, like me, watching the arrogant and self-righteous defying mask orders and spreading the disease, must’ve felt comfort in the expectation of eventual justice for those who showed such prideful disdain.

Rather, in questioning whether to return to church, I question what exactly we worship. If Durkheim is right, if “God” is a manifestation of community values, which we ratify with our spoken liturgy, then it bears questioning exactly what values we deepen by speaking them aloud. Durkheim places especial importance on liturgy, which, he notes, isn’t mere words. Religions with clear liturgy enjoy greater loyalty and lesser apostasy over time.

Importantly, the White “Evangelical” churches most likely to have endorsed Former Guy’s administration, have also been the Christian branches most likely to reject formal liturgy. The suburban megachurches, TV televangelist extravaganzas, and satellite church programs most likely to equate Christianity with Republicanism, seldom have any consistent liturgy. Ethics are vague, shapeless, and defined primarily by the worship band, not any formal clergy.

I don’t have enough background in sociological research to draw scientific conclusions. However, speaking strictly anecdotally, I’ve observed that certain congregational characteristics appear to correlate with roughly how conservative the worshippers become. Very large congregations, for instance, with little interaction with the pastor, tend to separate into in-groups. Congregations without liturgy tend to find their theology where they can, or invent it on an ad hoc basis.

I attribute this to our human need for guidance. When faced with situations where clearly right answers don’t avail themselves, people look to respected figures for counsel. But when pastors don’t know their congregants, they can only offer bromides. When the only theology believers internalize has to fit a singalong rhythm, it doesn’t encourage deeper thinking. Theological reasoning, without seasoned guidance, becomes superficial, judgemental, and hasty.

People then embrace whatever direction some authority provides. The Former Administration used the language of pop theology effectively: it cited God, prayer, and orthodoxy often, without actually looking into them. Essentially it provided the guidance Christians needed, but which they didn’t receive from churches grown to large to know them. That, I believe anecdotally, is why megachurches apparently nurture conservatism: they mimic the form of church, but not the substance.

This matters because, since the 1990s, many mainline congregations, especially those with primarily White membership, have adopted the ethos of Evangelicalism. I’ve watched congregations embrace “contemporary” worship, which mostly means eliminating everything except pop-inspired singalongs and, maybe, a sermon. Inspired by the numbers attracted by lite-beer megachurches like Willow Creek and Saddleback, traditional churches mimic their approach.

Meanwhile, as predominantly White congregations embrace a large, impersonal model that encourages reactionary sectarianism, I started attending a mostly Black congregation in 2017. (When I can: it’s far from my house.) The congregation is small enough that the pastor can speak with everyone after the service. And its liturgy includes reading the full Ten Commandments, in unison, every service. We literally speak our values aloud together.

I fear romanticizing the experience, especially as a White man in a Black congregation. Yet the experience is wholly removed from attending a White congregation that elevates bigness and simplicity. This Black congregation exists in a mainly White town, in a country that still assumes “White” equals “normal.” Coming together and speaking their values gives the congregants strength to face a frequently hostile world, and equally important, a shared identity.

Durkheim’s theories still overgeneralize, and are often patronizing. But watching this congregation, I see what he means, and what’s frequently missing.