The Long View

Churches are declining, some say even dying.  It’s all over the blogosphere, if you don’t believe me, google it.  Churches are outdated, and they need to change the way they do things.  Churches should just accept the idea that they will be small, or else "sell-out" to consumerism in order to grow.  Many people identify as “nones”, those with no pervasive religious beliefs, or as “spiritual but not religious”.  This is the future and lots of people are concerned about it.  Just take a tour around the Christian blogs and you will see the worry and the doom.  People are not getting what they need at church--except for those of us who are.  Here I am, young (at least young enough that people at church consider me "young"), progressive, liberal, free-thinking, and I am back at church, a mainline church, a high-liturgy, smells-and-bells, small-town Episcopal church.  

There is something I need that I can only get at church.  There is something that no other community can deliver, some connection that no other place can make for me.  It’s not the theology.  Don’t get me wrong, there is wonderful theology at church.  My priest, a PhD, and a great speaker, leads lively discussions in adult formation about liturgy, the trinity, the nature of God in suffering, all kinds of meaty stuff.  But, I can get great theology at home, on my own schedule and for less trouble.  On my shelf, I’ve got C.S. Lewis, Robert Capon, Mark McIntosh, Dan Edwards, Nadia Bolz-Weber, Marcus Borg, and St. Augustine.  I’ve even read a few of them.  I can find podcasts, blogs, sermons, discussion groups, all sorts of enriching educational opportunities from the comfort of my own home.  Give me the Book of Common Prayer and a daily devotional, and I’ve got church on the go.

It’s not community service.  Again, I’m proud of the service my church does in our town.  It’s important to me to live by the Christian principles of caring for the least of these, and putting others first.  But, I can serve the community at food banks, homeless shelters, mentoring organizations, scouts, and 4-H.  I don’t need to show up on Sundays to worship and support a church to serve my community.

There’s something deeper that drove me through those red doors two years ago--connection to something bigger than me.  See, I’m a typical product of post-modern, freely mobile times.  Neither my husband nor myself live close to where we grew up; we live 40 miles from his childhood home and 400 miles from mine.  We have family, extended family, great neighbors, and close friends.  But, we live in a town and work in towns where we have no real history.  This is typical for people my age, but I didn’t grow up this way. I lived in the same house my entire young life, a 150 year old farmhouse.  The farm used to be part of my ancestors’ family farm; my grandmother attended slumber parties on the front porch.  We had a history there.

In my hometown, we attended church where my mother and grandmother were both baptized and married.  We all sat in the same pew, the second from the back on the right side, in front of the Jabergs and behind the Pfisters, for generations.  My family, and many other families, remember when that church was founded, and we remember all the trauma, strife, and exultation in its history.  People came and we welcomed them, and they left and we mourned their leaving.  We took the good with the bad, we struggled, we persevered, we celebrated, we rejoiced.   We took the long view of things.

These days, life is full of ambition, change, freedom, and immediacy. Work, homes, friends, are all transient in this post-modern world.  Those of us with enough means have a multitude of opportunities; we are no longer held prisoner by our family’s expectations, our family’s businesses, the family pew in church.  I do not believe we should return to those days of forced stability. My husband and I chose our home for the property values and the school system; we have fulfilling jobs, and great friends.  But, there are no ancestors buried in the cemeteries, no local traditions dating back for generations, and no one asks me, “Aren’t you John's and Florence’s granddaughter?”  No one takes the long view--except at church.

At church, I may be new to the place, but I’m part of a long-hallowed community.  I worship with people who know their baptismal day in 1941, whose parents and grandparents were married in that community, who sit in the same pew with four generations of their family.  They welcome the newcomers as if they are opening their home to us; actually, they are.  They listen to our ideas, offer advice on our plans, complete projects; all the time holding the history of the people and place in their hearts.  Some of us are new, brash, and full of ideas.  Some have the mortar of that building in their bones, the liturgy and tradition in their blood.  Some are full of ideas and change and things that need to get done right away, and some take the long, long view.

I cannot think of another place in my life that connects me to the past, present, and future of my community the way my parish does.  I cannot think of another place where people care for my children as if they are their own grandchildren, where I engage in meaningful discussion with people 30 years younger than me and 30 years old than me. Beyond the theology, prayer and service, my church gives me more.  My church gives me a connection to my town, more meaningful than service organizations, neighbors, or friends.  My church gives my family roots, continuity, and a place to take the long view.