“Besides private life, we are given a sort of second life–the public life.”
So wrote Hannah Arendt in The Human Condition (1958), informing us of an entire world that we could inhabit, other than the private one we spend most (some people, all) of our time in. It is omni-present, hidden in plain sight, although seldom accessed by us a we circulate perpetually in our social archipelago.
What is this world of public life? Arendt says, it amounts to anything [or anyone] that “can be seen and heard by everybody, or at least has the widest possible publicity.” We are likely to think first of the world of public officials, or media figures (like news commentators), or celebrities. They do get the widest available publicity, but there are many, many other examples at levels of more limited exposure yet who still function in the authentically public way that Arendt envisions. Any one of us steps into the public world when we rise to speak at a town meeting, take a seat at a business meeting, or attend a class. It doesn’t occur to us often, but the sanctuary where a worship service takes place is also an example of a public setting. We will come back to this last point.
Besides public figures, we also think of the public places where people congregate. A public park, a public library, a restaurant or bar, the city sidewalk are “public” because anyone and everyone, the general public, can access them. But for the most part, these are public places where we conduct private business (walking, reading, eating and socializing). It is not until a word is addressed to all present and intentionally spoken to them that a public place becomes part of the public world. However, such public spaces demand a public manner or demeanor that bind us private individuals, anonymously, into a public creation.
The public world Arendt speaks of is perhaps best thought of as a “public moment” when people in a certain setting engage each other directly. An apt example is Speakers Corner in London’s Hyde Park. A huge area, freely utilized by individuals who otherwise have nothing to do with each other, suddenly arranges itself on a Sunday afternoon into a public moment, summoned by a speaker with a topic (or an axe to grind). In such moments, we cease to be anonymous individuals.
Whenever we step into such a moment, our public life resumes, after which we retreat into the amenities of private life.
We come together on Sundays to be alone with God. We come to church, typically, as Americans raised in generally pietistic channels, for private communion with God. Church life needs its complement of the public life. As practiced, worship doesn’t presently qualify as public, notwithstanding protestations to the contrary (“All Are Welcome” on every front lawn). Neither does the coffee hour nor many other church activities, with the exception of the council and committee meetings.
What would make worship a public event? That is, an event to which a stranger to the proceedings would feel inclined to participate? Or is Christian worship intrinsically the occult proceeding of a secret society? A rally of the institution’s stakeholders?
Might we explore the number of different voices heard in the hour and to whom they belong, as an index of how public an event it is?
