by Max Weber
Throughout their history, all the sects that grew up on the basis of the Baptist movement, especially the Quakers, exercised a ruthlessly rigorous control over the conduct of their members, paying particular attention to their business probity. The “Church discipline” exercised by Puritan “innerworldly asceticism” came to focus particularly on this aspect. The principal, indeed virtually the only means of demonstrating one’s qualification as a Christian and thus achieving moral legitimation for membership of the sect, depended on absolute rectitude. Hence the system of fixed retail prices, exemplary management of credit, and avoidance of all “worldly” extravagance and any kind of debauchery—in short, sobriety and hard work in one’s “calling” throughout life.
In America today, the discussion in sermons of questions of dogma is frowned upon—particularly the so-called distinctive doctrines. Pulpit exchange (temporary exchange of popular preachers between sects) is common, and there is at the moment a noticeable tendency to form interdenominational cartels to prevent “unfair competition” in the recruitment of members. These things are today in part a symptom of the mood of indifference that Europeanization has brought with it. But in the past, too, there have been other such “undogmatic” eras, and (relative) indifference toward dogma can almost be described as a feature of what we might broadly describe as “Pietist” Christianity.
A single basic tenet is common to all the different varieties of “ascetic” Protestantism. Radical Calvinists, Baptists, Mennonites, Quakers, Methodists, and the ascetic branches of continental Pietism all believe that only proving oneself in life [Bewährung], and particularly through labor in a calling, can bring assurance of regeneration and justification. This belief led inevitably to the conviction that the “proven” Christian is the one who is proven “in his calling,” in particular the efficient businessman (from the capitalist point of view). This type of Christianity was one of the chief educators of “capitalist” man. As early as the seventeenth century, Quaker writers were rejoicing at the visible blessing of God, who brought the “children of the world” as customers into their shops, confident in the knowledge that they would find there the most dependable service, fixed prices, etc. It was the constitution of these religious communities as “sects” (in this particular sense of the word) that contributed to this “educational” effect then, as indeed it continues to do so in some degree to this day.
What, then, is this particular sense? And what, within Western Christianity, is a “sect,” as opposed to a “church”?6
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It is not in itself the mere smallness of the numbers of adherents that is the critical factor—the Baptists are the most numerous of all the Protestant denominations. Neither is the absence of legal “recognition” of the church by the state, and the privilege that goes with it a critical factor—in America none of the denominations is recognized in this way. We know, however, that the size of a social group generally has the most far-reaching effect on its inner structure. And the limitation of the size of the church congregation (the unit recognized by church law), to a size small enough for all the members to know each other personally, has always been one of the fundamental principles of the Baptist movement. This enabled them mutually to assess and keep a check on how they are “proving” themselves. So-called class meetings, in which the members kept a check on each other through mutual confession, was also an essential feature of genuine Methodism. Pietists practiced something similar in their “ecclesiolae.” One only has to look at the Berlin Cathedral to know that it is certainly not in this grandiose Caesaro-Papist showpiece but rather in the small meeting halls of the Quakers and Baptists, where there is no such mystical adornment, that the “spirit” of Protestantism is most truly manifested. The great expansion of Methodism, which represents a unique blend of “church” and “sect” principles, has, on the other hand, visibly encouraged the undoubted preponderance of “church” principles that we see today.
It should be noted that although the mere fact of small numbers is, in itself, closely linked with the inner “essence” of the sect, it is not itself that essence. Furthermore, with regard to the relationship to the state, the “church” may, of course, share with the “sect” the de facto absence of state “recognition.” The true difference lies in the fact that what is for the “church,” whether Lutheran, Reformed, or Catholic, “contingency,” and is definitely not a matter of principle governing their whole structure, is for the “sects” the expression of a religious idea. For all the sects that grew out of the magnificent popular Baptist movement, the “separation of church and state” is a principle of dogma, while for radical Pietist communities (Calvinist Independents and radical Methodists), it is at least a structural principle.
A “church” claims to be an “institution” [Anstalt], a kind of divine gift in trust [Fideikomiβstiftung] for the salvation of the souls of those who are born into it. These people are, as a matter of principle, the object of its ministrations, which are tied to its “office.” A “sect”—according to the terminology adopted here ad hoc, one that of course would not be used by the “sects” themselves—is, by contrast, a free community of individuals who qualify for membership on purely religious grounds. They are accepted into this community on the basis of a decision freely entered into by both sides.
As usual, the historically given forms of religious community life do not fit neatly into these conceptual opposites. One can only ask in what respects a particular denomination corresponds to, or is close to, one or other of the two “types.” But the difference in principle between the basic ideas of each type stands out again and again. Baptism administered purely on the grounds of a decision freely taken by adult believers was the adequate symbol of the “sect” character of the Baptist faith. By contrast, the inner falsity of “confirmation” (and we know that even Stoecker7 takes the view that children are too young for this) reveals the inner contradiction between this purely formally “spontaneous” confession of faith and the structure of our “churches,” which, as such, are never able, in principle, to progress beyond the rustic notion that the priest, as the administrator of that divine gift in trust, has to have a stronger faith than his congregation and, thanks to special gifts of grace, is capable of this. The “universalism” of the “churches” lets their light shine on the just and the unjust: only open rebellion against authority, expressed in notorious and obstinate hardening of the heart, leads to excommunication.
The identity of the “chosen few,” the “invisible church,” is known only to God. For the genuine “sect,” however, the “purity” of its membership is vital. When the Pietist sects were being formed, the driving force was always a profound horror of sharing Holy Communion with a “reprobate,” let alone receiving it from the hand of a reprobate, an official “hireling,” whose conduct did not mark him out as one of the elect. The “sect” claims to be a religious “elite,” and sees itself, the “invisible church,” visibly portrayed in the community of the “proven” members. Interference in its internal life by those not religiously qualified is intolerable to it. This includes, in particular, any relations with earthly rulers. In this context, the principle “We ought to obey God rather than men,” whose various interpretations and implications encapsulate, in a sense, the whole cultural mission of Western European Christianity, takes on a distinctly antiauthoritarian tone.
To judge a man solely according to the religious qualities which he demonstrates in his conduct inevitably cuts off any feudal and dynastic romanticism at the roots. Abhorrence of every kind of “idolatry” was, it is true, neither limited to the “sects” as we understand them, nor was it necessarily found in all communities built on the sect principle. It was rather an attribute of every essentially ascetic form of religiosity. And in the case of the Calvinist Puritans, it was a direct consequence of the idea of predestination, before whose terrible gravity any claims by earthly powers to have been appointed by God would inevitably be swept aside as a blasphemous f
raud.
Nevertheless, it was on the naturally antiauthoritarian ground of the sects that this attitude came to its fullest flowering. If the Quaker, in his determination to eschew all forms of courtly reverence, or those which derived from courtly life, took upon himself not only the martyr’s crown, but the far heavier burden of daily mockery, he did this out of the conviction that such tokens of reverence were due to God alone and that it was an insult to his majesty to grant them to a man. The absolute rejection of all those demands made by the state which went “against the conscience” and the demand for “freedom of conscience” as an absolute right of the individual against the state were only logically conceivable as a positively religious demand when made by a sect. It was in the Quaker ethic that this demand was most firmly based. It was a Quaker principle that the same thing could be the duty of one person and wrong for someone else. This was the case if one person, after thoroughly searching his conscience, became convinced that he should do a certain thing, while another person’s conscience told him to refrain from it. In this way the autonomy of the individual became anchored, not in indifference, but in religious standpoints, and the struggle against all kinds of “authoritarian” arbitrariness assumed the proportions of a religious duty. And at the same time, individualism, in the era of its heroic youth, gained a remarkable power to form a community. The universalism of the “Church,” which tended to be linked with ethical complacency, was confronted in the sect by a leaning toward propaganda, linked with ethical rigor. This is again developed most consistently in the Quaker ethic, according to which God may impart his “inner light” even to those who have never been reached by the gospel. The continuing, never completed, revelation comes not through objectivized documents and traditions, but through the religiously qualified individual.
The “invisible” church, then, is greater than the “visible” sect, and the task is to gather its members. The main burden of the Protestant mission has been taken up not by the orthodox “churches,” tied to their “official” parochial functions as they are, but by Pietism and the sects. The examples previously quoted have demonstrated the powerful economic interests that the sects harnessed to form their communities. The sect itself is a naturally “particularist” formation, but the religiosity of the sects is one of the clearest examples of living (not merely traditional) “folk” religiosity. It is only the sects that have succeeded in combining positive religiosity and political radicalism. They alone, on the ground of Protestant religiosity, have been able to inspire the mass of the people, especially the modern workers, with an interest in the Church which, for intensity, can otherwise only be compared with the bigoted fanaticism of the backward peasantry. In this way their significance extended well beyond the religious sphere.
It was only they who gave, for example, to American democracy its characteristic flexibility of structure and its individualistic character. The individual knew that nothing but the religious qualifications bestowed on him by God would decide his fate. No sacramental magic could assist him, only the “proof” provided by his practical conduct could be a sign [Symptom] that he was on the path of salvation. He was thus left entirely to his own resources. This “proof,” manifested in each individual, then became the exclusive foundation for the social cohesion of the congregation. And the great mass of social for-mations, which have penetrated every corner of American life, is constituted according to the schema of the “sect.”
Anyone who, in the manner beloved of our romantics, imagines “democracy” to be a mass of humanity ground down to atoms, is profoundly mistaken, at least as far as American democracy is concerned. It is bureaucratic rationalism, not democracy, which leads to this thoroughgoing “atomization”—and it cannot be removed by the imposition of “order” from above, in the manner so often favored. The genuine American society—and we are talking here about the “middle” and “lower” strata of the population—has never simply been such a heap of sand. Neither has it ever been an edifice where anyone who comes along could expect to find open doors. It always was, and remains, riddled with all kinds of “exclusiveness.” [1] Where the old circumstances still prevail, the individual can never get firm ground under his feet or really get established, whether in the university or in business life, unless he succeeds in being voted in as a member of an association [soziale Verband] of some kind or an-other (formerly, this was almost always a church association), and making his mark there. And deep within the heart of these associations the old “spirit of the sects” rules with unsparing force. They remain “artifacts”: in the terminology of Ferdinand Tönnies, “societies” [Gesellschaften] and not “communities” [Gemeinschaften]. That is to say, they rest neither on the needs of “emotion” nor do they strive for the values of “emotion.” The individual seeks to make his mark himself by integrating himself into the social group. There is none of that undifferentiated organic “Gemütlichkeit” of the peasant kind, without which Germans feel incapable of cultivating any close community.
The cool objectivity [Sachlichkeit] of sociation encourages the individual to find his precise place in the purposeful activity [Zwecktätigkeit] of the group—whether this be a football club or a political party—but it does not in any way diminish the necessity for the individual to be constantly looking for ways to assert himself. On the contrary, it is precisely within the group, in the circle of his companions, that the task of “proving” himself becomes most urgent. For this reason, too, the association to which the individual belongs is never something “organic” and all-embracing that mystically hovers above him and surrounds him. Instead, it has always been quite consciously a mechanism for his own purposes, whether material or ideal [ideell]. This includes the highest social corporations, toward which the typical “disrespectfulness” of the modern American is so vigorously shown. Thus, discounting bills of exchange is a business and entering decrees in state files also a business and the latter is not distinguished from the former by any particular “solemnity.” And “it works!” as unprejudiced German officials regularly have to admit, to their surprise, when they see the excellent work done by American officers, though the work is performed out of our sight—hidden from our eyes under a thick layer of big-city corruption, party machinations, and bluff.
Certainly, the democratic character of North America is determined by the colonial character of its culture, and therefore tends to become weaker as the culture becomes weaker. Even some of those peculiarly American qualities that we have discussed have been determined by the sober, pessimistic judgment of men and of all the works of men which is common to of all manifestations, of Puritanism, even the “ecclesiastical” ones. But this combination of the inner isolation of the individual, which leads to a maximum degree of energy being directed outward with the empowerment of the individual to form highly coherent social groups with the maximum thrust—this combination first emerged in its most highly developed form from within the sects.
We modern, religiously “unmusical” people find it difficult to imagine, or even simply to believe, what a powerful role was played by these religious elements in that age, when the character of the modern civilized nations [Kulturnationen] was being formed. At that time, when concern about the “afterlife” was the most real thing in the world to people, these elements overshadowed everything else. It remains our fate that, for numerous historical reasons, the religious revolution at that time took a form for us Germans that did not give new energy to individuals, but rather added to the aura of the “office.” Along with this, a situation arose which, because the religious community still only existed in the form of the institutional “church,” inevitably drove all the individual’s striving for emancipation from “authority,” in fact all “liberalism” in the broadest sense of the word, in the direction of hostility toward the religious communities, at the same time depriving it of that community-building force which—alongside other historical factors!—was provided by (among other things) the school of the “sect” i
n the Anglo-Saxon world, a world which was quite different in all these matters.
Of course, this development cannot be “repeated” among religious communities today, even if that were desirable. Today’s “free churches” would not wish or be able to become “sects.” Above all, a “cultural religion” based on Goethe is the absolute antithesis of genuine sectarianism, as also is any theology, especially liberal theology. Of course, even the sects have not failed to develop their own theology. But there is nothing against which the genuine and consistent “sect” protests more passionately than the esteem accorded to learned analysis of religious questions. It is the religious qualities of the personality, not some erudite knowledge, that gives legitimacy to the leadership of the congregation—all the sects within Protestantism have fought for this principle. It is for this reason that, for example, the fight conducted by Cromwell’s “saints” finally intensified into what was virtually a war against theology, against the “office,” and against the “tithe,” which supported the “office,” and thus a war against the economic and ideological [ideell] foundations of the politically and intellectually educated “leisure classes,” and especially against the universities. It was the tragic inner rift in Cromwell’s life’s work that in this point he, as a “Realpolitiker,” was forced to part company with his own followers. It meant that he measured religious assumptions against extrareligious political and intellectual cultural values. This is why he said, on his deathbed, that he was once “in a state of grace.” About one thing, however, there can be no mistake. All the arguments against the “narrowness” and “abstruseness” of the sects which we hear from the finest, “most modern,” and dogmatically least committed advocates of the ideal of the universalist Protestant “Church,” mean the same thing: cultural values, not genuine religious needs, are the decisive factor for them.
