I know people who are really drawn to certain kinds of buildings. Barns, for instance. They are drawn to the beauty and intrigue of the many kinds of barns that dot the landscape of our country. Red barns, brick barns, perfectly painted white barns. Barns that have 'Mail Pouch' painted across the side, offering advertising from a different time. Round barns with green roofs. Giant barns with several silos. There is something solid and purely American about barns.
Barns are great but I am drawn to churches. My family has been known to set limits on the number of churches that can be entered on any given day while we are on vacation. On car vacations I always look out the window toward the steeples reaching from the main streets of small towns that are just out of reach of the speeding traffic. These steeples change in architecture and style, usually influenced by the ethnicity of those who settled the particular area. For my money, you can't beat the small, white wood church with a simple steeple that can be seen in nearly every small town across the land.
Once while riding the Atlanta Metro with friends, mostly church professionals, one voice rang out:"Wow! There it is!" We all turned to look at the grey cinder-block building with the simple sign that said:'The Perfect Church". We laughed out loud thinking of all the times we had tried to create just that…..the perfect church. No disagreements there. No out-of-tune choirs. Perfectly executed sermons, deeply engaged parishioners, children who never wiggle and are always well behaved. Our laughter may have held some longing but also the deep knowing that the perfect church was perfectly impossible.
Last week while traipsing off the main highway my husband and I came upon another interesting church building. It sat well back off the road. What had been the lawn was filled now with overgrown weeds and fallen branches. Its once white exterior was chipping paint and the red cross that had been painted on the side of the church seemed tarnished. The sign on the outside simply said "EndTimes House of Prayer". I had to stop and simply look at this place that had at one time meant a great deal to those who found a place to express their faith. Its doors now closed,clearly abandoned, I wondered where its members had gone. While I know that the end times of which they most assuredly spoke was not something I think much about, I did wonder: Had their prayer held them through the end times of their lives together? I pray so.
In a few weeks I will attend our denominations' annual gathering of clergy and lay people where we will, not only ordain people for ministry, but also take action to close churches that are no longer able to support a congregation. It is always a deeply sad time as we are present to a remnant of people whose lives have been tied up in the life sustaining work of a faith community. Births, baptisms, deaths, funerals and all the very ordinary events have held these people together in a building that has provided, not only shelter, but a deep sense of place. The walls of these church buildings have held the tears and joy of all the holy days that have been celebrated. They also hold the prayers, all the prayers, that have been spoken and offered for the many life events that connect humans to one another and to God. The building itself holds the power of home. A home that will be no more.
Today I found myself offering this prayer…..For these end times and all the end times that come our way, may we each find our house of prayer.
