A Seed Must Fall to the Ground

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.

I Am a Christian

I have come to dislike most denominational and doctrinal labels, and I am especially reluctant to label myself, especially since I don't really fit any category perfectly.

I attend an Episcopalian church. It's kind of a joint Lutheran (ELCA)/Episcopalian church, but it considers itself Episcopalian. I like the people. I like the emphasis on social justice. I like the liturgical style of worship. I don't mind real bread and wine at communion. However, I don't believe in sacraments. I don't think Jesus causes bread and wine to become his literal body and blood. I don't think that communion imparts grace. I don't believe that infant baptism saves a person; I think a person must choose to be a Christian. Now, I don't know that God doesn't work through sacraments. He can do whatever he wants. I just don't believe that that's how God works. But I go to an Episcopalian church because the Episcopalians don't care if I believe in sacraments. I am a Christian, and that's good enough for them to accept me. And that's why I attend an Episcopalian church.

I used to work at a Lutheran Church (ELCA). During the years I worked at at Lutheran Church in Wisconsin, I didn't actually attend church. And the Lutherans didn't mind that I didn't go to church. They were also very accepting, very loving people. They are very serious about the Bible, which I like, but a little hung up on Martin Luther, which I didn't like so much. Like the Episcopalians, they're sacramental, so I don't agree with everything they believe; but I love the Lutherans.

I grew up in the Assemblies of God. I still consider myself Pentecostal (the Episcopalians don't mind that either). There are many things about my fundamentalist Pentecostal upbringing that I appreciate. Years of Sunday School and Bible Quiz have given me a solid knowledge of the Bible. A/G education is excellent. It made sure I knew what I believed and why. Some of what I believe has changed, but I know why, and that knowing why comes from growing up A/G.

I'm glad for the wide variety of experiences I've had with Christians. Although I don't agree about everything with all of them (Who could?), I am trying to live in unity with all of them just as Jesus prayed in John 17.

For all the saints who from their labors rest...

Today is All Saints' Day.  I grew to appreciate All Saints' while working at Luther Memorial.  It is a day to remember not only canonized saints but saints in the more general sense of all Christians.  It is a reflective day and often a bit sad.  In January, I sent out a New Year's letter because of all the new beginnings we anticipated in 2010.  I have considered sending an All Saints' letter since I'm not sure I'll be up to Christmas cards or another New Year's letter.

It's been a rough year.  Losing Grandpa was tough even though his health had been declining for some time.  I realized several years ago that he was the most consistent source of unconditional love in my life.  His absence still leaves a hole in our family.  Losing Neil was devastating.  Though I wasn't initially thrilled about being pregnant, I became more and more excited about meeting him as I got to know him.  He was intelligent and resourceful and opinionated and aware of the world he hadn't yet seen.  As he approached full term, he even played with me.  I was happy and hopeful, which is rare for a person with chronic depression.  I knew he was remarkable and a gift from God.  Unfortunately, I didn't get to keep my gift, and the hope and happiness evaporated, leaving a gaping void in my life.  I have found new activities to fill my time, but I find I still miss him daily.  The extended family also recently experienced loss with the death of Aunt Wanda died.  And though it seems petty in comparison to the other losses, even beloved family pets, Dante and Rascal, have died since last All Saints'.  It's been a rough year.

The title of this post is from a hymn that in later verses says, "And yet there breaks a still more glorious dawn."  Most days the hope of seeing loved ones again does not outweigh the feelings of loss I have now in the darkness of my grief.  But there is hope.  And in my powerlessness to change what is and was, all I can do is hope for what will be.

I sometimes get responses to my posts and typically welcome them, but I think I'd prefer not to hear from anyone about this post.  Most words of "comfort," no matter how true or well-meant, irritate me.  Please be caring enough not to add irritation to my grief.