The Church Still Lives
Stories
Lectionary Tales For The Pulpit
Series II Cycle B
I was the only former church leader present at the closing ceremony of the tiny country church. It was a melancholy service: serious and nostalgic. It was cold and windy outside, with the shutters banging in a rhythmic fashion. The thunder stopped long enough to give the narrator a chance for a long introduction. He asked for people to share their memories. There was a steady stream who took the microphone.
Jeff told how as a little boy he would help his mother pump the organ on the last hymn. He would "have to count to three and then step on the pedal." He said it was hard work, but he felt it was such an honor. Jeff felt it was great inspiration to become the piano player for his church choir 22 years ago.
Marta was crying when she stepped up to the microphone. She remembered her grandmother, her parents, and their siblings singing in the choir. She remembered quietly playing under the choir pews, coloring with her little sister during choir practice. When she could no longer sit comfortably under the pew, she was allowed to join in the singing of the chorus. She still loves to sing, she said.
Several others came forward to share stories. Some were antics played out as children during worship, church picnics, or funerals. Some were love stories. Some were testimonies of faith.
Finally, Bruce stood up and looked around. "I appreciate all you have said here on this sad day. But there is one thing missing. I have to say that as of today, I no longer have a church. I was baptized here. My children were baptized here and my grandchildren and two great-grandchildren were baptized here. We were all confirmed here too, even the year the church steeple burned down in the lightning storm. Several of the family were married here.
"But now I am sad," he continued. "Where am I going to go to pray? To have a quiet place to think? I don't want to go 27 miles up the road to a big, fancy church. I don't want to drive thirteen miles to the nearest church where they are all stewing in family feuds. I like it right here. For the first time in 68 years, I don't have a church."
No eye was dry when he sat down. We knew what he was saying. The bishop's representative read a proclamation, said some words, and the congregation sang "Amazing Grace." We all filed out slowly and quietly.
I sat with Bruce at the picnic afterwards. He was "feeling much better," he said, and shared several humorous stories about what had happened in the church outhouse, the parking lot, and the softball field across the driveway. He left on a light note.
Three years later, Bruce bought the church building for $500 at the auction. Most of the items inside had been sold and auctioned. He bought three pews. Bruce had the church moved a quarter of a mile down the road, to the edge of his property, where it still stands. He maintains a driveway to the church, keeping the doors unlocked so anyone can go inside.
Several people stop at the church, especially in the summer when people are heading to reunions. Bruce feels it is his obligation to provide a place of rest, a place of quiet, for anyone who cares to come inside. There is a large-print Bible at the end of one of the pews. And there is a guest book.
Bruce and his wife have moved to a larger town where they joined a church, but every Saturday he is there at the tiny country church to mow the lawn or clear the snow. As long as he can, he says he will keep the little church open.
It's a place of quiet. A place of rest. A place to pray.
Jeff told how as a little boy he would help his mother pump the organ on the last hymn. He would "have to count to three and then step on the pedal." He said it was hard work, but he felt it was such an honor. Jeff felt it was great inspiration to become the piano player for his church choir 22 years ago.
Marta was crying when she stepped up to the microphone. She remembered her grandmother, her parents, and their siblings singing in the choir. She remembered quietly playing under the choir pews, coloring with her little sister during choir practice. When she could no longer sit comfortably under the pew, she was allowed to join in the singing of the chorus. She still loves to sing, she said.
Several others came forward to share stories. Some were antics played out as children during worship, church picnics, or funerals. Some were love stories. Some were testimonies of faith.
Finally, Bruce stood up and looked around. "I appreciate all you have said here on this sad day. But there is one thing missing. I have to say that as of today, I no longer have a church. I was baptized here. My children were baptized here and my grandchildren and two great-grandchildren were baptized here. We were all confirmed here too, even the year the church steeple burned down in the lightning storm. Several of the family were married here.
"But now I am sad," he continued. "Where am I going to go to pray? To have a quiet place to think? I don't want to go 27 miles up the road to a big, fancy church. I don't want to drive thirteen miles to the nearest church where they are all stewing in family feuds. I like it right here. For the first time in 68 years, I don't have a church."
No eye was dry when he sat down. We knew what he was saying. The bishop's representative read a proclamation, said some words, and the congregation sang "Amazing Grace." We all filed out slowly and quietly.
I sat with Bruce at the picnic afterwards. He was "feeling much better," he said, and shared several humorous stories about what had happened in the church outhouse, the parking lot, and the softball field across the driveway. He left on a light note.
Three years later, Bruce bought the church building for $500 at the auction. Most of the items inside had been sold and auctioned. He bought three pews. Bruce had the church moved a quarter of a mile down the road, to the edge of his property, where it still stands. He maintains a driveway to the church, keeping the doors unlocked so anyone can go inside.
Several people stop at the church, especially in the summer when people are heading to reunions. Bruce feels it is his obligation to provide a place of rest, a place of quiet, for anyone who cares to come inside. There is a large-print Bible at the end of one of the pews. And there is a guest book.
Bruce and his wife have moved to a larger town where they joined a church, but every Saturday he is there at the tiny country church to mow the lawn or clear the snow. As long as he can, he says he will keep the little church open.
It's a place of quiet. A place of rest. A place to pray.
