University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER 9
Successful in Life:
The Cincinnati Experiment

"Can a congregation based on a community of special concern develop a ministry of racial reconciliation which both contributes to needed social change and relates helpfully to the ministries of other congregations?" Such was the thesis to be tested by the experimental congregations within the Ohio Synod of the United Presbyterian Church. The Dayton experiment clearly failed to provide an affirmative answer. In response to this conclusion in an earlier report, church administrators in Dayton urged us to examine the experimental congregation created from the same planning documents in the Cincinnati Presbytery.

On paper, the two congregations appear nearly identical: city-wide, nonresidential, and testing the same thesis. The same name, the Congregation for Reconciliation, was given to reinforce their raison d'etre. Yet, as they emerged, the two experimental missions presented striking differences. While the Dayton group succeeded in contributing to social change on the civic level, it failed to relate helpfully to the ministries of other congregations. The Cincinnati mission, contrariwise, functioned as interpreter and endorser of social change to other congregations while dealing in little direct secular social action. It tested the thesis successfully, lived out its experimental time span, and died peacefully.

How can two experimental congregations, developed from the same design, mature in such different ways? In chapter 3 we argued that the planners, the organizing pastor, and the charter members all made important contributions to the evolution of the Dayton organization. The character, personality, and mission of

the congregation were molded by the priorities, skills, and style of its three parents interacting within the limitations of environment and happenstance. The two experiments had only one parent in common and adapted to different community environments. In this sense, similarity would have been more surprising than disparity. Yet it is important for church leaders to understand how such totally different realities can and did emerge from the same paper-and-pen plan.

A Pastor Is Called

The Rev. Duane Holm had interviewed for the position of organizing pastor for the mission in Dayton early in June 1968. Although supported by some members of the Miami Presbytery's committee responsible for recruiting a pastor for its experimental mission, he was turned down in favor of Righter. A few weeks later, when the Committee on National Missions in the Cincinnati Presbytery began seeking an organizing pastor for its experimental mission, Holm was again interviewed. This time he was called.

A graduate of Penn State and Yale Divinity School, Holm had grown up in the Southwest, living in Texas and Kansas. While in seminary, he had taken a year's absence and had ministered to the Iona community, a new working-class housing estate near Glasgow, Scotland. He had returned for two more years shortly after seminary graduation to serve a large church in a shipbuilding district. After this he had pastored an inner-city church on the west side of Chicago for seven years.

Holm's experience in Scotland had given him a deep appreciation for liturgical worship as a basis for community. In Chicago, in a church criss-crossed with racial, ethnic, and social class divisions, Holm viewed the -congregation as held together despite its diverse membership largely because of the centrality of worship in its life. Likewise, his background informed his view of social action. Holm felt that unity proceeded from worship. On the basis of a supportive community so engendered, social action would follow. Social action, thus seen, is more a result than a focal concern.

Both Righter and Holm retrospectively viewed the recruitment interview as a bargaining session for seeking assurances, reaching

special understandings, and laying fears to rest. Both men had come to the committee with their own agendas.

Holm related the experience of his Dayton interview as follows: "I felt that the interest [of the committee] was primarily social action. And I saw myself essentially as a pastor who wanted the church involved in social action, but my primary base was a worshiping, teaching community. And I didn't see that that interest was strong in the group. In fact, it seemed to me that they were expecting to later evaluate the effectiveness of the new congregation in terms of the results it produced in social change. I was more concerned about the kind of group you created, especially in terms of their orientation through worship of God. Maybe my fears colored what I thought they were saying. But I wanted to know, `Are you guys really serious about wanting an intensive worshiping congregation?' Because I knew full well that to put some of your energy on that meant, in terms of efficiency, in the short run, that we were going to be less effective in dealing with social issues in the community. . . . And I wasn't sure that they understood that." [1]

Holm received the needed assurance in Cincinnati, however, and accepted the position. It is interesting that he did not pursue the potential of permanence for the new congregation but assented to it as an experimental mission with a life of three to four years.

In Scotland, and even more in Chicago, Holm had worked with house churches. The inner-city congregation being scattered by urban renewal, much congregational activity had taken place in members' homes. This had been a positive experience for Holm and had stimulated his interest in the further possibilities for such a ministry. By 1968 he perceived direct civil rights action was waning. Anticipating social action as becoming increasingly tedious and undramatic, he felt a congregation meeting in the homes of members might better structurally integrate work in worship. Further, in cultivating the feeling of "family" among members, it would provide needed support' for the drudge work of social action.

Holm's vision of the mission was well grounded in both experience and theory. His mental picture, as noted in the following statement, was reasonably concrete:

Thus, divergent directions in the two experiments initially stemmed from differences in the expectations of the organizing pastors, although both did perceive the calling committee as primarily interested in social-action potential. Their basic difference seemed to be a question of where the action was, or ought to be. Righter allowed his congregation to develop and coalesce around social-action projects, insulated from other churches. Holm, on the other hand, molded his congregation as a worshiping community accountable to other churches in the realm of social action.

We argued earlier that the planners had failed to recognize an essential contradiction in their goals. On the one hand, they viewed experimental missions as havens where action-oriented laymen could work, free of the constraints of traditional congregations. Following this blueprint, however, leads almost inevitably to conflicts with established churches as controversial and unpopular social issues emerge. On the other hand, the goal of providing a helping ministry to other churches requires the kind of mutual

accountability envisioned by Holm. By its very nature, this approach disallows the emergence of a "doing one's own thing" ethic and thus hampers independent, direct social action. Righter followed the former route, and Holm the latter. Both were fulfilling goals established by the planners.

Further, Holm's emphasis upon developing a worshiping community appealed to traditional Christians rather than to secular humanists. The desire for accountability to established churches and the vision of reconciling evangelicals and radicals inspired commitment among a nucleus of people vastly different from the core of the Dayton activists. Thus, the filtration process for forming a charter group produced important differences between the Cincinnati and Dayton congregations.

The organizing pastor's vision of the incipient congregation becomes, to some extent, a self-fulfilling prophecy. Holm himself, in reporting to the Presbytery three years after the congregation first met, recognized this. "How [the organizing pastor] sees it determines how he explains it to others; how he explains it to others determines who comes; who comes determines what the congregation does; and what it does determines what the congregation becomes." [3] His statement is correct, but not complete. The development of a specialized congregation is yet more complex.

Footnotes

We Gather Together: Forming a Congregation

Holm arrived in Cincinnati in September, but it took six months before the nucleus of a congregation had gathered and regular meetings had begun. By then, in March of 1969, the Dayton group had already established itself as viable in social action and had begun the struggle of defining its mission goals.

There were several reasons for Holm's difficulty in recruiting a following. Some of them sound familiar (Righter had the same problems); others were unique to the Cincinnati situation.

In Dayton, the two city newspapers had anticipated the establishment of the congregation and had given it almost continuous publicity during the first year. As indicated earlier, this publicity, combined with a lack of cooperation by pastors,

contributed heavily to the special characteristics of the charter group.

In Cincinnati, however, the newspapers ignored the proposed congregation. Perhaps a matter as simple as the interests and inclinations of the religion editors of the papers can account for the oversight. A concerted effort on the part of Holm and the Presbytery spokesmen may have altered the situation. As it happened, however, the unchurched and the church dropouts, so heavily represented in the Dayton mission, knew nothing of the Cincinnati experiment.

As in Dayton, the efforts of the Presbytery and early referrals by pastors proved fruitless. Without press support, and finding little serious interest among those on the initial recruitment list, Holm turned to the local pastors for help. The amount of resistance surprised him. As in Dayton, many of the liberal pastors felt threatened by the existence of the congregation. Several had opposed the proposal to establish the mission and, in effect, told Holm, "You're going to take away my most active members and leave me the rest."

As months passed, Holm's clear conception of a worshiping community had failed to take shape. Finally, he unapologetically asked area pastors for permission to proselytize their social-activist members and found several of them cooperative and responsive. Whether motivated by a genuine desire for the well-being of frustrated and unfulfilled activists in their churches or by an inclination toward the maintenance of congregational tranquility, the more conservative clergy more willingly handed over a number of names. From here, the beginnings of a congregation grew. Later, a Presbytery-wide worship program insert promoting the experimental congregation also solicited some fruitful inquiries.

Naturally, this method of recruitment strongly influenced the profile of the congregation. For the most part, members had been active churchmen. Although they held a range of theological positions, very few could be characterized as secular humanists and none opposed God-talk. Over two thirds came from Presbyterian backgrounds. A number were reared in manses or were themselves ex-ministers. A handful were local denominational administrators. Holm characterized them as overcommitted lay

persons who felt their commitment underutilized in their former churches.

As the group stabilized at about forty members, most were professional families. They tended to be middle-income ($12,000 to $30,000) and middle-aged (thirty to fifty). In this regard, collectively they paralleled the membership of the Dayton congregation. The Cincinnati members, however, tended to be more highly involved in the social and civic life of the city. Expectedly, then, many were too busy to devote a sizable portion of their time to the work of the Congregation. In Dayton, congregational activities consumed a far greater amount of members' time and attention.

Holm suggests that his congregation members were unusual in two respects. First, most had lived outside the local area for at least part of their lives. This exposure to a variety of community experiences, he felt, had broadened their vision of possibilities for social action. Second, the majority had undergone some deeply memorable experience of death, separation, alienation, or the like. Such personal histories may have given some members of the Cincinnati congregation empathetic capacities beyond what one would predict from their social backgrounds alone. Emotional support among members developed quickly and was readily sustained; growth of community presented no problems. Holm, at last, had gathered around him a ready and receptive following, a group eagerly capable of developing strong emotional ties in a supportive worshiping community.

As Holm had anticipated, the framework of corporate liturgical worship provided a structure both generating of and reinforcing to the growth of community. Families, including children, attended the worship services. Singing was acappella or accompanied by whatever instruments members played. Each service culminated in the sharing of bread and wine around a table. Interaction and positive sentiments among participants developed, and a pattern of progressively intimate self-revelation and mutual identification ensued.

The Cincinnati congregation thus contrasts sharply with Dayton, where consensus formation was such a long and tedious process. Had Holm's congregation attracted the unchurched and

church dropouts in its early stages, his vision of a worshiping community, accountable and helpfully ministering to established churches in the Presbytery, would have received strong challenge. At a minimum, consensus and solidarity would have been far more elusive.

Pastoral leadership style was another important difference in the two congregations. Righter assumed the permanence of his congregation. He thus afforded himself the luxury of time to allow the group to thrash through its problems and define its own goals. Holm, however, saw the Cincinnati experiment as a three- to four-year project. The delay in gathering a congregation made the generation and execution of social-action projects a race against time. Viewed as such, strong pastoral leadership was required. Holm made decisions for his group which Righter would have insisted the members themselves work out. Holm's position as primary decision-maker and spiritual leader of his flock seldom faced serious challenge. This aspect of reality evolved from the onset. Such a position would no doubt have driven away iron-willed activists determined to do their own thing, had they sampled the Cincinnati congregation's organizational climate. Strong leadership thus reinforced consensus formation in the congregation.

By contrast, Righter's low-key leadership style encouraged, by default, internal conflict and dissent. The solidarity developed in the Dayton group no doubt served them well over the long run, for it implies far greater personal commitment of members. The route taken by Holm obviously served best as a short-run strategy for attaining more immediate goals. We in no way mean to suggest a preference. They are different operational modes, suited to different situations.

The Bible Says . . . : Interpreting Social Action

The Congregation in Cincinnati moved from house to house each month, and this mobility soon necessitated a newsletter, including a map locating congregational gatherings. This also kept members abreast of the activities of various committees and contained chatty notes about important events in the lives of members and their families. Although its ostensible public was the

congregation membership, the newsletter addressed another audience as well.

Holm reasoned that if his congregation was to provide a helping ministry to the established churches, such a ministry must be built upon a relationship of mutual respect and trust. The essential prerequisite of trust is communication. Once the newsletter was established, it became a facility for communicating with other pastors in the Presbytery. The stated purpose of such distribution was to keep pastors informed of congregation activities. More importantly, however, it served to interpret social action in term acceptable to even theologically conservative pastors and laity Each month, on its cover page, the newsletter carried devotional message addressing issues relevant to the social-action concerns of the mission. The message was almost always embedded in a biblical narrative followed by a terse and pointer interpretive statement. Speaking from within the tradition of biblical faith, the newsletter carried an air of authority attractive to orthodox Christians. This approach to Presbytery clergy sough legitimation for congregational concerns in those churches when dormant opposition could have been expected. The strategy goal moreover, reached beyond simply neutralizing the opposition. I sought mutual respect, reduction of threat, and increase in the common ground of identity on which to build a helping ministry

To illustrate, one such devotional is cited below. It was distributed on the eve of the November 1971 election day.

The Dayton congregation contrasts sharply in its approach to established churches for several reasons. First, the social-action goals of the Congregation for Reconciliation in Dayton did not depend for their success upon the cooperation of other churches, nor did they, beyond one initial attempt, ever involve other churches. Second, had some members made this a serious goal, the effort would have almost inevitably generated a new round of conflict within the mission. Considering the style of the Congregation's members and pastor, limitations on project selection and action to assuage other churches could have totally unraveled the group. Third, even if the social-action strategy of working through other churches had been adopted and supported, image management would have presented a structural problem. The news media in Dayton seemed prepared to cover the activities of the experimental congregation even before Righter appeared on the scene. He has, however, skillfully cultivated the media as indispensable tools in the public confrontations characteristic of the Congregation's action strategy. Had Righter and his following desired to court the churches convincingly, media attention would probably have proven dysfunctional and would have been avoided. This is what occurred in Cincinnati. Rather than striving for skill and sophistication in the arena of city-wide media, that _ congregation developed a commensurate skill in relating to the Presbytery to better fulfill its design and goals vis-a-vis social action.

Action in Search of an Issue

The initial members of the Cincinnati Congregation for Reconciliation, like their counterparts in Dayton, were eager to become involved in social action. During the first month, they decided to

support a rent strike among slum tenants. This project seems basically to have been chosen simply because "they had to start somewhere." The strike soon collapsed. Although a few got interested in statewide housing legislation from this, within a short time interest had waned. The Congregation's first attempt at social action was thus a critical disappointment.

Ohio law compels voters to periodically reassess their contribution to public education through tax levies. During the 1960s, more than one Ohio school system closed its doors while defiant voters trudged repeatedly to the polls to defeat the latest tax revision. This issue arose in Cincinnati during the early months of the Congregation's life. The mission soon devised a two-pronged strategy of confrontation. First, they launched a voter registration drive in a low-income neighborhood. Simultaneously, they began working through the Presbytery and its twenty-eight churches within the Cincinnati school district to generate support for the levy. They pushed an advocacy resolution through a meeting of the Cincinnati Presbytery and then distributed literature through the churches urging levy passage.

The two tactics met with unequal success. Holm recounted the experience to us as follows: "We had really seen ourselves in `Secular City' terms, going out there and outpoliticking the politicians, and we found that we could not deliver many new voters [in the neighborhood where we were working]. The registration drive flopped. For a lot of the folks this was their first encounter with record keeping in the inner city. just trying to find out where people live, what their names are, and if they are voters was a nightmare. It drove people up the wall. But I think the thing we learned from the experience is that since the Congregation does not have a neighborhood identification we would never be very effective in the secular political realm and our-power would come primarily by working through the churches. At least we had access and mutual accountability to these people."

We have argued that the initial social-action project in Dayton established their identity as an activist group. It set the tone and style for later confrontations in the city. It reinforced commitment to direct social action as a means of fulfilling their central goal. The Cincinnati Congregation for Reconciliation, by contrast, had from the onset seen itself as an agency to get established churches

involved in social action. The failures it encountered in attempting independent social-action projects reinforced its desire to work through other churches.

Having tried its hand at direct social action and having failed, the Congregation continued to search for an issue around which they could build a ministry of racial reconciliation which would contribute to needed social change and through which they could relate helpfully to the ministries of other congregations. Just such an issue was about to erupt.

The close of the tumultuous decade of the sixties found the nation in a mood of weariness and resignation to racial problems. The War on Poverty had waned, the government had ignored the protest of Resurrection City, Martin Luther King had become a memory, and the Kerner Report had only stirred more words. Conditions for the underprivileged in our society had improved somewhat, but major hurdles yet loomed on every horizon and there seemed little national psychic energy left. Only a genuine shock tactic managed to hurtle the poverty and race issues into the headlines once again.

On May 4, 1969, James Forman, speaking for the Black Economic Development Council, interrupted Sunday services in New York's Riverside Church and presented demands for financial reparations to the nation's black citizens. Accusing the present capitalism of the United States of being oppressive to blacks, the Black Manifesto Forman presented singled out the community of white religious institutions to begin making restitution for generations of slavery and subsequent oppression. Anything more than marginal participation in the society required a massive infusion of funds for black economic development in fields such as banking, education, and communications.

Support for the Black Manifesto was scattered. Some black leaders, within and without the churches, heralded it; others expressed reservations or disapproval. Nonetheless, the issue defied being ignored and white church leaders had to face it. The powerful language of the document repulsed some, and they found in its verbiage sufficient reason for rejection. To others, the radical wording and ideas appeared as a signal of the urgency and immensity of the problem.

Robert Lecky and Elliott Wright, in their volume analyzing the nature and impact of the Black Manifesto, addressed the vulnerability of white religion:

Hearing then, in 1969, that their collection plates must echo the sentiments of their pulpits, churches mainly responded in one of two ways. They either rejected the Manifesto and claimed already existing support or they rejected the direct strategy of payments to BEDC but did initiate some new program for black economic development.

Hoping to lead its Presbytery brethren in the latter course, the Cincinnati Congregation for Reconciliation began developing strategies for interpreting the Manifesto and devising practical means to address the subject of black economic development. Several weeks were spent developing action recommendations. Their resultant proposal was a package of collateral loans for black business enterprises, coupled with the recommendation that churches deposit money and buy stock in new black-controlled financial institutions in Cincinnati.

Interpreting the Black Manifesto to other churches, the Congregation kept the biblical themes focal. An example of this approach is cited below. It was distributed as part of the

Congregation's newsletter while the black economic development issue still commanded widespread concern.

The devotional then interprets this Old Testament story of the confrontation between Jacob and Laban as a biblical precedent for reparations to ex-slaves. "We, too, freed our slaves after years, and sent them out empty-handed. Without land or equipment or capital. Which is why black Americans are where they are today." God therefore commends the payment of reparations, it is argued, and through black economic development the churches can respond to the will of God.

Before church sessions dominated by Cincinnati businessmen, the Congregation occasionally legitimated its cause with economic ideology. In these instances, presentation teams argued that belief in free enterprise necessarily means wanting others to share in the system. Once church lay leadership agreed to the scriptural and ideological principles, the presenters could offer concrete proposals for action.

The summary report on the Congregation presented to the Cincinnati Presbytery in October of 1972, following the Congregation's termination, reflects upon this project.

This underscores the position that, for the Cincinnati Congregation, social action was not an end in itself. Equally important was the aim of helping churches to share in the process. This understanding of social action contrasts sharply with that of the Dayton Congregation.

The second major project of the Cincinnati Congregation involved the development of a church school curriculum. This project emerged as an attempt to address an internal structural problem within the Congregation but later suggested a way of providing another service to established churches.

In Cincinnati, as in Dayton, children attended worship services with their parents. Because its membership was so geographically decentralized, however, the Cincinnati Congregation followed its worship service with a second hour to handle most of the committee work of the mission. The presence of children during this period presented a problem. In this context, church school offered a logical solution, and so a curriculum was developed. The lesson material centered on black-white encounters in the Bible, and each adult member of the Congregation took his turn, for one month, teaching church school.

After the material had been completed, the Congregation began to consider how it might serve to enhance racial understanding in established churches. They concluded that evangelical

churches were probably least likely to emphasize the contributions of blacks to the Christian heritage. Since their lessons were based on Bible stories, they might well be most appreciated in these same churches. And so the material was rewritten with evangelicals in mind and turned into a vacation Bible school curriculum. Although, at the time of the Congregation's termination, the lesson package had yet to win approval for publication by either a church press or educational board, this may still be achieved. If so, the defunct Congregation will add one more success to its scorecard of strides toward racial reconciliation within established churches. If the issue is not pursued further, however, the Congregation will have missed a significant opportunity to extend its work and ideals while also enhancing its success as an experiment.

Footnotes

You Scratch My Back and . . . . :
Reciprocity and Accountability

"We must be accountable to the other churches of the Presbytery in order to hold them accountable to us." So wrote Duane Holm in outlining the philosophy on which his congregation was established. The mission, indeed, lived its accountability to the other churches, deliberately behaving inoffensively and consistently attempting acceptable interpretations of social issues. In return, the Congregation hoped for reasonable responses to their overtures for social-action involvement. They received them.

The Cincinnati Congregation for Reconciliation had carefully and skillfully built a network of good relationships with Presbytery churches based on the concept of mutual accountability. The Cincinnati Presbytery leadership, likewise, worked easily with the experimental congregation. Unlike the Dayton mission, it maintained a low profile, avoided conflict with other churches, and provided an important service to the Presbytery through its social-action ministry. Goodwill abounded.

The mission, having started late because of recruitment difficulties, requested formalization as a Presbyterian congregation at the same time formalization occurred for the Dayton group. The covenant, statement of mission, constitution and bylaws had been developed routinely under the leadership of the pastor. The

documents were routine and orthodox in all important ways, and by the spring of 1970 Holm prepared to ask the Presbytery for formalization. The church executives had already reviewed and approved the documents. Only ratification at the Presbytery meeting remained.

No one suspected that formalization of the Cincinnati Congregation might receive challenge. When the issue came before the body, however, several persons began questioning the wisdom of placing so specialized a ministry within the structure of a regular Presbyterian congregation. Should not such a ministry of education for social action be better served in the form of a task force? The task force proposal mustered favor on the floor of Presbytery. A Congregation representative protested vigorously that theirs was a total congregation, thoroughly grounded in Christian worship. Several sympathetic pastors then came to the rescue, arguing fervently that to deny formalization at this point would be to renege on Presbytery commitments. Further, without a congregational form of organization, the thesis of the experiment could never be tested. Finally, the vote carried and the Congregation for Reconciliation became a Presbyterian church. In the process, its debt to Presbytery leadership was reinforced.

An opportunity for the Congregation to reciprocate came one year later. The Commission on Church and Race of the United Presbyterian Church in the U.S.A., in March of 1971, had contributed $10,000 of its Emergency Fund for Legal Aid to the Angela Davis Defense Fund. Davis, a black militant and Marxist, had taught philosophy at the University of California in Los Angeles until expelled from the faculty for her political views. She was later arrested and charged with kidnaping, murder, and conspiracy in connection with a prison escape and subsequent killings. Specifically, she was alleged to have provided the guns for the escape. To many liberal observers, Davis was being persecuted for her political views. Her case, therefore, took on the aura of an essentially political trial, and in this context the Presbyterian denomination had contributed to her defense.

Many conservative Presbyterian church people across the nation were outraged when they learned of the denomination's action. Money contributed to the church for Christ's cause was being spent defending not only a black militant and an avowed

Communist but one who had apparently provided weapons to jailbreakers! By the early summer of 1971, the Davis defense contribution had mushroomed into a major controversy in Presbyterian circles, in Cincinnati as much as anywhere.

The Congregation for Reconciliation, in its newsletter devotional for July, defended the identification of the church with the Davis defense. Characteristically, the devotional provided a theological and scriptural rationale for social action.

There were lay persons in Cincinnati who had not only opposed the denomination's action but had threatened to demonstrate their opposition by withholding funds from the church. Economically and politically conservative laymen took special offense to church support for an articulate and devoted Communist. This placed Presbytery executives in a difficult position. They dared

not openly and actively support the denomination's position on this issue, yet in good conscience they could not actively oppose denominational action in order to mollify conservative laity. The Congregation, however, was well positioned to say what Presbytery leaders dared not say.

The newsletter devotional in August zeroed in on both the Communist issue and the suggestions of economic protest.

As recorded in Acts 5, Ananias and Sapphira were stricken dead in church for their deceit. Theologically conservative pastors and laity who read this devotional, and who no doubt take the Bible seriously, if not literally, must have been impressed by the forcefulness of the Congregation's rebuke.

The relationship between Congregation and Presbytery provides an interesting contrast with Dayton. Although Righter and a few members of his congregation are active on Presbytery committees and attend meetings regularly, in the final analysis the Dayton Congregation feels accountable only to itself. This is not meant to imply that animosity exists between that congregation and the Miami Presbytery leadership. This is not at all the case. There is a genuinely warm relationship present. The relationship, however, does not include the degree of accountability which the Cincinnati Congregation made a premise of its existence. Accountability and reciprocity are not causally linked. The Cincinnati Congregation practiced accountability, hoped for reciprocity, and achieved both.

On Death and Dying:
Terminating an Experimental Congregation

There seems to be something unjust in the death of a youth. Why must such potential be wasted, unlived? Why, too, should the Cincinnati Congregation for Reconciliation have terminated after less than four years? Holm's answer was simple. It could not have supported itself as a small nonresidential congregation. With Presbytery money no longer coming in, the Congregation would have had to grow in order to pay its debts. If it grew, it could no longer remain a house church. It would have to settle down and become a residential congregation with a building of its own. In Holm's view, if that happened, it would be fast on its way to giving up its specialized ministry. Rather than witness this senility, he preferred to see the Congregation die in its youth.

It should be pointed out that the Dayton Congregation has managed to struggle along supporting itself with even fewer members, maintaining a strong commitment to its initial goals. Nor are the Dayton members better equipped financially than their Cincinnati counterparts. The key difference between the two missions, we believe, lies in the matter of commitment. Holm's following was seldom capable of giving the time, resources, and single-minded dedication demonstrated in Dayton.

As a terminal patient, the Cincinnati Congregation lived in the awareness of its coming death. The theme of death recurred over

and over through the devotional writings in congregational newsletters. It first appeared in the fall of 1970, only half a year after formal acceptance as a Presbyterian congregation. The references mounted and finally peaked in July 1971, one year before termination. The Congregation quite literally lived with its own impending death and so structured much of its aspirations and actions. The earliest of these devotional references alluded to the "absurdity of being for these few brief years God's Congregation for Reconciliation." Another cited a stage play, The Last Sweet Days of Isaac, and drew a parallel between Isaac, who knew when he would die, and the Congregation. Isaac had set out to heighten and record each precious moment of life that remained. The Congregation must do the same. In the final devotional reference to death, a comparison to Christ's death was drawn.

The period of time in which these devotional references occurred was less than one year, midway in the Congregation's life. There is little doubt the brooding presence of the reaper hovered near for the duration of the mission.

The newsletter continued for several issues after the Congregation had disbanded. It offered a way for the members to hang onto one another, but, perhaps more importantly, it was a means for Holm to minister to their bereavement. The theme of resurrection, so familiar to Christian bereavement ministry, recurred continuously in these issues.

There is a final irony in all this. The Cincinnati Congregation for Reconciliation was specifically designed to place heavy

emphasis upon those structural mechanisms which would create strong solidarity and tight cohesion. Worship, for believers, tends to be a unifying force. We would argue that worship was indeed unifying for the lonely, socially conscious church people who came together experiencing, perhaps many for the first time in a long while, a high level of consensus and emotional support in a congregational setting. The problems of internal division and latent conflict characteristic of the early Dayton Congregation were almost wholly absent in Cincinnati. The organizational problem which commanded their greatest attention was external rather than internal: courting the established churches so that a helping ministry could be provided.

In Dayton a helping ministry was hardly attempted; external goals, such as social-action projects, ran fairly smoothly. Contrary to Cincinnati, its problems were internal rather than external. If it had died early, the Dayton mission would have been just a good idea that never got off the ground, a group that couldn't overcome its problems. But Cincinnati was different. From the beginning, it had worked and worked well, particularly in providing meaning, support, and accomplishments for its members. Reinforced by the weekly cycle of worship, the Cincinnati Congregation for Reconciliation faced dispersal with a special agony. The loss of a social-action outlet and its achievements brought sadness; the loss of the support group brought grief.

The ways in which the Congregation coped with the crisis of termination are best described by its pastor in his final report to the Presbytery.

Summary

The experiment had ended. The thesis had been successfully tested. As a mission based on a community of special concern, the Cincinnati Congregation for Reconciliation had indeed contributed to needed social change and in the process related helpfully to the ministries of other congregations. They had succeeded in involving many churches in contributing to black economic development. They had attempted to interpret social issues to Presbytery churches in terms they could accept, thus providing an educational ministry. And they had demonstrated that worship can be an important ingredient in developing a solid support group to sustain social action.

It must be recognized that, in its journey toward death, the Congregation faced an interesting array of fortunate circumstances, each of which helped assure its eventual success. If the goal of social action was paramount to the planners, and the helping ministry was window-dressing, as we have argued earlier, Holm's steadfast insistence upon emphasizing the latter is a remarkable happenstance, not predictable from structural conditions. Committee approval to develop a worshiping, teaching community, as Holm saw it, was conceded as a special condition of his employment, not a prerequisite.

A second propitious happening came in the selection of social-action projects. Although their initial failures were painful, had the Congregation first selected independent, direct-action projects which proved successful and attracted media coverage, the trust of conservative churches might have been irrevocably lost and mutual accountability sacrificed as a result. Once the media would have begun building an image for the Congregation, self-presentation might have escaped Holm's control. As it was, the Congregation was instead reinforced in its desire to work through other churches in contributing to needed social change. The emergence of the Black Manifesto controversy at a time when the Congregation was seeking an appropriate and exploitable issue gave the mission an important time advantage. Having lost half a year in recruiting a following, Holm could conceivably have flailed away at one illusive, unmanageable, or insignificant issue after another until no time remained for mounting a single

successful campaign in behalf of social change.

Finally, had the officials cowered under pressure and had the Presbytery voted to deny formalization to the Congregation, favoring instead the task force designation, the thesis, as stated, could not have been tested.

The Dayton Congregation for Reconciliation in its quest for continuation followed a very different course of development. One factor after another denied to that mission the likelihood of successfully testing the planners' thesis. Yet in its own terms, Dayton has not suffered by comparison. Further, outliving the experimental period, it will probably continue to bear the fruit of social action into the indefinite future.

The real value of the Cincinnati experiment will be determined in its death, in its legacy for Presbytery churches. Proving a thesis is insufficient inheritance. The value of an experiment is its usefulness to policy and planning. [6]

Some things generated by the Congregation survived it. Others did not. First, the mission drew together some lonely, frustrated church people and, through worship, welded them into a solid group. One year after dispersal, some members had established new congregational ties, but approximately half had not. Having experienced Camelot, most of them will probably be slow in readjusting to usual congregational life; many may never return.

Second, the church school curriculum developed initially for the Congregation's own use carries legacy potential. If published, it could continue to advance racial understanding in other churches across the nation. ' As yet it has not found a means for dissemination. Thus it cannot be counted as inheritance.

Third, the Congregation proved to established churches that they could become involved meaningfully in social action without reaping internal dissension in the process. Having learned the lesson, some may continue to do so. If they do, they must now take the initiative, but this seems unlikely without planning and coordinating services from some agency.

Fourth, the Congregation, just prior to disbanding, pushed through the adoption of minority investment and minority representation proposals at a Presbytery meeting. If the Presby-

tery has the will, these may continue as memorials to the experiment.

The stewardship of the Congregation's legacy depends upon three groups: ex-members, clergy, and Presbytery leaders. We can only raise questions concerning possible actions of these three groups since the eventual outcomes are unknown.

First, will ex-members continue to provide a leavening function for Presbytery churches, encouraging them toward social action? Will they join established churches, forming cells within those bodies to generate new social action plans, interpret them in reconciling ways, implement them, and involve other members along the way? If this happens, the skills nurtured in the experiment for relating to conservative church people and pastors will continue to serve the cause of social change. The helping ministry would thus continue and action would be forthcoming. Whether many of those who were mission members can assume such a leadership role, however, having depended upon Holm's strong leadership in the mission, seems questionable. It is conceivable that in forming groups within existing churches these ex-members may tend to seek security and warmth of supportiveness above social-action goals. In that case, deprived of Holm's leadership, their continued impact upon the social ministries of Presbytery churches is likely to be slight. Holm may have committed a serious disservice to his members in monopolizing Congregational leadership. The tactic no doubt facilitated efficiency in accomplishing certain goals and reinforced consensus among members. At the same time, it left members without the skills needed to continue the Congregation's ministry after dispersal. Such trained incapacities may considerably reduce potential impact by ex-members.

Second, will Presbytery pastors court ex-members, encouraging them to develop a helping ministry within their churches? The prospect of living cells of these mild-mannered activists within the body of traditional churches may yet be too threatening to some pastors. The risk of polarizing their congregations on social issues may be too great to take. For clergy willing to take the risks, however, it seems that the availability of these potential members should not be ignored.

Finally, has the Presbytery leadership learned anything of

lasting value to their planning? These leaders were supportive to the Congregation while it lived. Congregation members provided concrete benefits for the Presbytery and were encouraged in this endeavor. The ministry of educating, interpreting, planning, and executing designs for social action was appreciated. But it could end there. Proving such accomplishments may be sufficient for these leaders. They may not feel compelled to utilize tested insights, to build them into other programs.

Church leaders have been backpedaling on social action since the turn of the decade. In Cincinnati, the experimental congregation demonstrated approaches to involving even conservative churches in meaningful social action with minimal polarization and backlash. Rather than learning from the experiment and making use of the skills, techniques, and approaches proven successful in test form, the Presbytery has shown a reluctance to move ahead with structural designs aimed at building upon so bold a beginning. One administrator, acquainted with the experiment from the beginning, told us, "The Congregation's post-mortem impact in the Presbytery has been subliminal, demonstrated in posture, insight, and approach rather than in any explicit or formalized manner. It left many church leaders with altered attitudes, impossible to measure, but has generated no specific programs since its death." While we have great respect for this particular individual's track record as a strategist and leader in pushing the Presbyterians toward social concerns, we are inclined in this case to translate his assessment as "the experiment made lots of people feel good." Hard-nosed evaluation demands demonstrated results. If all that remains for the Presbytery is a good feeling and nice memories, the transitory Congregation for Reconciliation has left no living legacy at all. It will have been just another "groovy trip."

Footnotes