A movement of non-religious Sunday get-togethers is spreading across the world
By J.S. and B.C.
EVEN in a world where many people feel jaded by organised religion, there can still be lots of room for organised non-religion. That's one of the many reasons offered by Sanderson Jones for the steadily growing success of the Sunday Assembly, a movement of exuberant atheist gatherings that began in London only ten months ago and is apparently going global.
It all started with a "service" on a Sunday morning in a deconsecrated place of worship in Islington, an area of London where lots of young professional singles live: the sort of people who might in a previous generation have gone to conventional church in search of soulmates or potential partners. Instead of prayer, they got a mixture of storytelling, humour and the chance to croon along to some catchy live music. The sessions now happen twice a month in the Conway Hall, a building in a more central location that has room for 500. Mr Jones (who once worked as an Economist salesman) and his collaborator Pippa Evans use their skills as standup comedians to work the crowd.
At a recent Assembly, Mr Jones had his listeners so fired up that he struggled to calm them down for the usual minute of silence. People kept giggling over his latest pun and a crying toddler added to the noise. "Okay, let's dedicate this minute to the baby," Mr Jones suggested, but that only sparked further laughter. The Assembly can also have serious parts. At one gathering, Mr Jones spoke about the early death of his mother. He invites distinguished scholars or newspaper columnists to address the crowd. The London participants have already set up a book club, a philosophy circle and a self-help group.
And the phenomenon is spreading rapidly. The two co-founders have just embarked on an assembly-launching tour—which they are calling "40 dates and 40 nights"—all over the British Isles, North America and Australia. Mr Jones says that on present signs at least 35 assemblies will have been created in different cities by the end of the year. They are launching a crowd-funding campaign to raise £500,000 ($810,000), which as they put it should enable them to create a digital platform and "massively scale up" the assembly-planting movement.
There have been some unexpected reactions. Some religious figures have said they understand what the movement is about. After all, it is speaking to some of the human needs that religion also addresses: the need for fellowship, mutual support and powerful group emotions. And some atheists have been rather sceptical; there have been secularist gatherings in London since the 19th century, if not earlier. Alain de Botton, a
llectual, has a particular gripe: he says he first advocated a "secular assembly" five years ago, but what he had in mind was a "richer, deeper and more serious" concept than Mr Jones's brainchild.
Mr Jones, meanwhile, says his initiative may still be too much like a church for the liking of some anti-religious types. "
C
ertain atheists have such a negative view of religion that it contaminates every aspect of 'church'. I suppose if we called ourselves a vertically integrated holistic wellness provider, it would draw a lot of emotion from the debate, but it would also be a very ugly, soulless description. There is such a mistrust of 'organised religion' that our organised non-religion is instantly dismissed," he says.
But he sees no reason to apologise for his movement's church-like features, or for the fact that he is hoping to building an extensive structure. "L
arge organisations have enabled much of the efficiency gains and wealth creation in the world, and we are looking to take the best business practices, and apply them to our mission: to help everyone live this one life as fully as possible."
Moreover, as
Mr Jones puts it, digital platforms have been an efficient way of bringing together two sides of a market, such as spare bedrooms and people needing a place to stay.
In the Assembly's case, the aim is to bring to life what Mr Jones describes as tens of thousands of potential communities lurking in towns and cities all over the world, united under the slogan "live better, help often, wonder more..."
The Sunday Assembly has trademarked its name, branding and logo—just in case people using its label should commit some terrible sin like sacrificing pets, or being boring. Both these misdeeds "are things we are massively against," he adds.
The hard question, for this and every other religion and quasi-religion, is whether charisma can be franchised. All the great world religions have in some sense managed to reproduce, across aeons of time and space, a certain intangible something—a sensibility, an atmosphere, a particular sense of the divine—which believers can recognise and respond to. Moreover, they did it without digital platforms. It is too early to say whether Mr Jones and Ms Evans can pull off anything like that.
