| I was there! In Atlanta in 1983, at the confluence of the Nostalgia and the Lethe, where recollection and forgetfulness merge to form memory, I was one of the thousands (whose numbers have swollen in the retelling) to see it happen. I had long said it would be one of the happiest days of my life, and it was. Its most memorable image was grand and terrible: the final sessions of both Assemblies had been choreographed and scripted to end at precisely the same time, and two great denominations were gaveled into oblivion; their churchless people walked out of the adjoining halls in single file, to meet the column from the other group.
I was there! In Atlanta in 1983, at the confluence of the Nostalgia and the Lethe, where recollection and forgetfulness merge to form memory, I was one of the thousands (whose numbers have swollen in the retelling) to see it happen. I had long said it would be one of the happiest days of my life, and it was. Its most memorable image was grand and terrible: the final sessions of both Assemblies had been choreographed and scripted to end at precisely the same time, and two great denominations were gaveled into oblivion; their churchless people walked out of the adjoining halls in single file, to meet the column from the other group. Arm in arm, two came together where one had walked before, and the column of pairs marched down the streets of Atlanta (was it really Peachtree Street, or was that mapped by nostalgia?) to meet iconic Mayor Andrew Young and receive his greeting and congratulation. I had come from California, where I worked for San Francisco Presbytery. In that corner of Nirvanaland reunion was not news; most folk heard with bemused surprise that there was somewhere, somehow another group called Presbyterian, in existence for a long, long time, and that now we were to join them. It was "so that things would be better." On the High Plains of West Texas where I was raised, there was no doubt about twin churches: every other town on the T&P Railroad had a congregation from the other bunch; the only thing we youngsters knew about it was that kids from the Presbyterian Church nearest to ours went to summer camp at a different place. But behind the scenes -- in far-off legendary places called "475 Riverside Drive" and "Ponce de Leon" (don't Spanish-ize it; say "Ponts Daleeyun") men and women (mostly men) of faith and vision had been meeting since 1969 to mend the rift of the Civil War. Those were the days of "Giants and Firsts" -- that legendary group of Good Old White Boys, and the heroic pioneers, initial representatives of people of color and women. Ah, those names! Randy Taylor, Bob Lamar, Gene Blake and Jim Millard, Kenny Neigh, Paul Calvin Payne, E. T. Thompson, McCord and Mackay (and a few others, like Lawrence Bottoms, Thelma Adair, Jim and Melva Costen.) Plus the "Texas Mafia" and the bronco-bustin' cowboys (and girls) of the union presbytery conflagration [so winsomely documented by Bill McAtee's, Dreams, Where Have You Gone? (Witherspoon Press, 2006)]. For the most part reunion was sold in pretty general terms: it would "make things better," "atone for a sin of the past," and save resources stretched thin by duplication. The impression was given that "not a lot of things would change." That may have been the mistake. We may have chosen "business as usual" instead of "Christianity as unusual," and thereby lost the chance for renewal as well as reunion. There were at the time -- and in succeeding years -- significant opportunities to make changes, almost inescapable: theology, goals, location, staff, program, communications strategies. Against these opportunities, the almost irresistible human resistance to change took aim. To look at one of those factors, the new denomination's belief system, there was a fearsome time bomb waiting for reunion: dual versions of the Westminster Confession of Faith, artifacts of which are still visible in the two-column format of the Book of Confessions. The two denominations had been almost miraculously exempted from structural and ideological change during the century of separation so that there were few insoluble differences to mend; one exception had been the fundamental confession of Presbyterians, Westminster, which had been tinkered with until it contained significant variants. If the reunion architects had chosen the typical Presbyterian solution to such a quandary -- forming a committee to resolve the differences -- I think that committee would still be meeting! However, it was the genius of Ed Dowey (who chaired the group that wrote the Confession of 1967) who suggested, "Let's not have a confession for the new church: let's have TEN confessions!" The resulting set of frozen sections of belief through the ages saved the new church from a destructive and divisive controversy over doctrine and paved the way for today's continuing battles over "essential tenets": On the one hand, theological armistice; on the other, what seems to be an "anything goes" standard of belief. For a second factor, the missional marching orders of the new church, Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.), was given another miraculous artifact preserved from the past, the astonishingly diverse "Great Ends of the Church," a legacy from the UPCNA church of the previous century. The answer to the question, "What's the most important job of the church?" was clearly, "All of the above," an astonishingly freeing and empowering set of orders that should have made it possible for all sorts of differing fanatics to work busily at their own vine in the vineyard without rancor toward those in other quadrants. In the time since reunion, however, we pay lip service to the "Great Ends" while insisting on dichotomy. We narrow focus to "evangelism or social action," or polarize new sectors, "Traditional versus contemporary worship" or "national versus local mission" (plus a vexing question about those worth ordaining) to guarantee that party spirit continues. Other examples abound: selecting staff, a headquarters location, organizational structure and program in which not rocking the boat was the wrong choice. If Presbyterian reunion did not achieve the hopes of its dreamers, perhaps it was because those of us who yearned and prayed for it did not dream enough, and chose the practical over the visionary. Here we stand, a quarter century later, pretty much the same only smaller. One plus one equals two-thirds. The denominations, two churches, have been eroded into ten thousand churches, with uncertain loyalties to the uncertain design on the central flag. Is there hope? Of course, because this is still God's church, despite our best efforts to take it over and despite the efforts of those who have worked just as hard to destabilize it. There are here and there -- lots, many, a million -- nodes of faith and vision, mission and ministry, God at work in people and the world. There are still changes to be attempted. If reunion was not the answer, perhaps re-imagining was. Houston Hodges, HR, is parish associate at Big Cove Church outside of Huntsville, Ala.; at retirement he was the executive of North Alabama Presbytery, and after that was the editor of Monday Morning magazine.
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