My Grandpa Tanner was 91 years old when he died. He had lived a good life. He was frail, sick, and in pain and living in a nursing home when he died. His death was not a surprise. I was glad that his pain had ended and that he could claim his Heavenly reward. And yet I sobbed at his funeral. I was sad because I'd miss him. I was sad that my kids would never know him. I was sad because the world had lost one of the most loving people possible. In fact, the thought that went through my head most often was "who will I find to love me like Grandpa did?" Grandpa loved everyone. His love was unconditional. And he delighted in me. Some people never get to experience love like that, and I knew I was lucky to have had him. I missed and feared the loss of such a loving presence in my life.
Shortly after Grandpa died, I started attending St Thomas Church. I liked the place and people immediately. It seemed like just the kind of church I wanted to raise my kids in. Just a few weeks later Neil died. And St Thomas Church loved me. They loved me with hugs. They loved me with space and silence. They loved me with prayers. More than a year after Neil died, Anne Gibbs told me that she still prayed for me every day. They didn't really know me yet, but they loved me anyway.
St Thomas Church loved me through two emotionally difficult pregnancies. They welcomed and loved my babies. As my babies grew and became energetic toddlers, St Thomas still embraced our family. I never felt like my kids were a problem or that I was a bad mom just because my kids were loud or literally climbing the walls. When my kids were baptized, the people of St Thomas promised to help raise them in God's family, and they have followed through. They have loved my kids and encouraged them to participate in worship.
The amazing love from these people has helped me heal from depression and social anxiety. They have helped me heal from church wounds. They have helped me heal after Neil's death. I would not be who I am today without St Thomas Church.
Last Sunday at St Thomas Church's annual meeting, eight adults present agreed that our small number could no longer sustain a congregation. For more than five years, we've been without a pastor, and lay leadership has done everything in our powerful to keep the church thriving. However, the lack of clergy has been difficult, and we have no hope of getting a pastor in the near future. Our financial situation would allow us to keep the doors open for up to one year. Those present felt like we had given the church all we had even as membership has slowly decreased as people burned out. Rather than wait a year and attempt to grow a church when we were running on fumes, they decided to end it now. Essentially, they voted to stop being a church immediately.
I say "they" because I couldn't bring myself to vote for or against the end of St Thomas Church. I knew that the church was dying, but when the end came I was still sad. I just sat and cried. At first, I had no words. I knew that my life has had a lot of change recently, and part of my grief was cumulative. But as I thought about it, I found I was asking myself, "Who will love me like St Thomas did?" Who will love me because of and despite how well they know me? Will they smile when Maggie suddenly loudly sings "all the doo dah day" or "E-I-E-I-O" during prayers? Will they offer to let Lucy help take up the offering? Will my kids be allowed to eat bread with everyone else? Will I feel a swell of support or judgement when my kids act up in church? Who will love me and us like St Thomas has?
I feel like an incredibly loving entity has passed away. Who will love our community like St Thomas did? If you're poor or uneducated or over-educated or gay or trans or awkward or from elsewhere or just feel like an outsider, who will love you like St Thomas did? Who will welcome you and show hospitality and always be happy to see you?
Our second lesson on Sunday was from 1 Corinthians 12 about the parts belonging to one body. I ruefully considered that perhaps our church body committed suicide after potluck that day. Eyes were tired of seeing and noses tired of smelling without rest and just decided to stop. But that's not quite how the metaphor works. When enough parts quit a real body, the body dies. And when a real body dies, the parts die, too. But the scattering parts of St Thomas Church are not dead. It's more like they are organs being donated. It gives me some hope that the parts of St Thomas that did all of the loving will continue to do so in new bodies. (I know that being a part of the St Thomas body has made me a more loving and open and generous person.) And just as organ recipients sometimes mysteriously develop qualities of the people that donated organs to them, perhaps the congregations that receive the parts of St Thomas will develop more of the loving character that made St Thomas Church so special.
Perhaps rather than a death, this change is more like planting a seed or grafting a plant. Perhaps something new can grow and spread in ways it couldn't when it was contained at St Thomas. I'm always up for planting a seed and seeing what grows.
