ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS I READ last year was Daniel Kahneman’s “Thinking, Fast and Slow.” A central argument is what he calls “What You See is All There Is” — that is, that we cannot be aware of anything outside of the range of our sight, but that it’s terrifically easy to forget our limitations. Thus, we make decisions about priorities based on inadequate information — all the while presuming that we know everything that we need to know. This applies to church as much as any other area of life; would that we were exempt!
In two weeks, our congregation will hold our annual meeting. We’ll elect officers, review the budget, approve clergy compensation and give a “state of the union.” But there’s so much information that never gets covered, so many questions that never get asked.
When, for example, do we look around to wonder whose feelings got hurt when they weren’t asked to serve? When do we review how well we ministered to the family whose son was killed or whose baby never came home from the hospital? When do we explore whether we have been faithful, creative and transformative in worship? When do we ascertain what our neighbor most needs from us, what our world most needs from us?
When do we even decide which questions we ought to be asking, what measurements we ought to be taking, what views we ought to be exploring?
While I run a meeting as well as anyone — I’ve got Robert’s Rules down — I wish I paid as much attention to what I’m not seeing — like the purpose of governance, its possibilities beyond the views I know.
“Form ever follows function,” architect Louis Sullivan famously said: “Whether it be the sweeping eagle in his flight, or the open apple-blossom, the toiling work-horse, the blithe swan, the branching oak, the winding stream at its base, the drifting clouds, over all the coursing sun, form ever follows function, and this is the law. Where function does not change, form does not change” (“The Tall Office Building Artistically Considered,” Lippincott’s Magazine, March 1896).
But what if we’re not seeing where function needs to change? If the function of a meeting is to report on dollars raised and spent, members added or subtracted, Sunday school attendance increased or decreased, that’s one thing. But if the function of a meeting is to call us to account, so to speak, for our faithfulness and failings, that’s a different matter altogether. I think of Pope Francis’ address to the Curia in December 2014 when, instead of a typical “Merry Christmas” message, he offered a scathing critique of the Vatican’s bureaucracy, narcissism, cynicism and excesses.
So what might an annual meeting of our congregation look for that we’re not already seeing?
How about measuring compassion — the way we as individuals and a congregation welcome the stranger, serve the hungry, address inequities?
How about looking at our generosity — the proportion and intentionality of funds given away, in our personal lives and as a community, to insure every child of God is treated with dignity and opportunity?
How about scanning our resilience — the sturdiness of our faith in the face of suffering, courage to speak up in the face of fear, humility in the face of failure?
I wish I knew how to measure such things. But I am convinced that asking broader questions is a good start. Because there’s plenty that I know that I don’t see.
