The paradox at the heart of group identity

This week Harbor Online Community celebrates its fourth birthday. I’m trying to process how this feels. I could have sworn we just started this thing the other day; at the same time, I can barely remember my life without it.

Sometimes I reflect back on Harbor’s earliest days and I think, “Dang, I’m old,” then I think, “Dang, I have gotten to build community with some of the raddest people on earth,” then I think, “Dang (what a word), Harbor is so different from what it used to be.”

And that difference relates to the paradox I want to invite you to reflect on today. It is one of my favorite paradoxes (and I love a good paradox): the ship of Theseus. Okay it’s more of an awesome thought experiment than a paradox, but there’s no need for me to quibble with myself about definitions before we even hear about the ship. Here’s my rendition of the paradox:

Theseus has a ship. It’s made up of many individual pieces of wood. A few years after the ship is built, a piece is damaged and replaced. Everyone agrees this is still “the ship of Theseus.” Years go by, and as they do some more of the wooden parts decay. Each one is replaced. Whenever a replacement part is added, everyone agrees it’s still the same ship. Even after Theseus dies, it’s still the same ship (we can still call it “the ship of Theseus,” more so as the ship’s name than as a statement of ownership).

But eventually the final original wooden piece of the ship decays. It is replaced. Just like every other time a replacement is made, everyone agrees this is still the ship of Theseus. But now at this point, not one single part of the original ship remains. It is an entirely new and different ship from the one at the beginning of the story—or is it?

The paradox and identity

This thought experiment has been used to explore fascinating questions about identity. You can even apply it to the question of personal identity. What makes you you? Human cells are constantly dying and replacing themselves. While a couple types of human cells are thought to be permanent, let’s just say for the sake of argument that they aren’t. If every single one of your cells were replacements of the cells you had 10 years ago, are you the same person you were 10 years ago?

I think the wooden ship is even more helpful for considering group identities. Take a church. It doesn’t have to be some cool online experiment like Harbor; let’s start by imagining an old, boring (ha!) brick-and-mortar church. Let’s say, First Lutheran Church of SmallTown. Take a snapshot of it in your mind.

Then fast-forward the imaginary clock. Years go by. First Lutheran gets a new building. Still the same church. They hire a new pastor. Same church. They go through an evangelical-curious phase and change their name to Cornerstone Community. Same church.

But what about when every single thing has changed? When not one congregant, staff member, building, church name, or service time is the same as it was for the First Lutheran in your original snapshot? It’s tempting to think it’s a different church entirely. But wait! We go to Cornerstone’s hip imaginary website and sure enough, on the History tab, there’s a long story that begins with “When we were founded in 1972, we were called First Lutheran and we met on the other side of SmallTown…” We were called First Lutheran.

When it comes to self-identity (individual or group), it seems that the experience of continuity across time supersedes or transcends the replacement, even the total replacement, of constituent parts.

The ship of Harboreus

Okay setting aside those weirdly large and nerdy words, here at Harbor’s 4th birthday, I have been reflecting on our history. Almost nothing at Harbor is the same as it was 4 years ago. Nearly every person from those days is gone. Nearly all our practices have evolved into new versions of themselves. We have three pastors and a community administrator. We gather at an annual in-person retreat.

For a long time it felt like (outside our name, which hopefully won’t ever need to change) there were 2 things that remained from the time of Harbor’s birth: me and the website. Our humble website, and my own presence in this ragtag community, were the two original planks in Theseus’s ship. In a sense, the website tethered me to the snapshot I carried with me of Original Harbor.

If you somehow missed it, our website was completely refreshed. And let me say, for the record, it was time for a refresh. A quick Google search confirms that a website’s lifespan should be 2–3 years and, as I keep mentioning, we just turned 4. Not to mention that the new site design is AMAZING.

Still, there has been a tiny moment of mourning as I realize I am the only plank left in the ship of Theseus.

But the moment really is tiny. It gives way swiftly to celebration. We are Harbor. We will keep being Harbor. Even if this last plank goes the way of the buffalo, Harbor will still be Harbor.

What makes us us is not the presence of a pastor or a website. It’s this community of people, journeying together, finding connection, experiencing transformation, creating beauty and justice as we explore what it means to follow the way of Jesus.

And there is always room for more planks.