Never Fearing Wild Things

There are a series of three photographs hanging on the wall of the rectory living room.  I bought them at an art shop in Toronto a number of years ago.  They are of a church in Detroit.  I can’t remember if I ever knew what kind of church, but obviously congregationalist (design gives so much away).  Large vaulted ceilings, a balcony with long curved wooden pews, the organ with its own small balcony hovering to the side of the sanctuary, a simple, elegant cross painted on the wall behind the altar.  

One of the photographs is of an empty hall way leading to an open door and an abandoned piano.  There is debris on the floor and dust on the pews.  Some of the lantern shaped lights are broken and the walls are dark with the grime of age and neglect.

Though these are photographs of a church that hasn’t held a service of worship for decades, there is a beauty and elegance to them that caught my eye.  There is also a reality, as startling and stark as it is, that caught my heart.

We do not like to look at death, and rightly so.  We were, after all, created for life.  Whether it is a decomposing body, a dying relationship or an abandoned building, we’d rather turn away.

And yet, so we are told, we are resurrection people.  And resurrection cannot happen if death does not happen.  Easter necessitates Good Friday.

I have long wondered at our collective inability as the church to grieve death well.  We are a product, no doubt, of our culture which is quite death adverse.  Whether it is the grief that comes at the time of a death of loved one or the death of a particular gathered community, closing the doors of its beloved church, we’d rather get on with life than honour that grief.  Tears are messy and many forms of organized religion have never been overly fond of wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Death has been redeemed, and we continue to live as though it hasn’t.  I wonder if this is part of the church’s problem with its current state of change and death.  We see attendance numbers dwindling and we think that means we are failing.  We see contributions not meeting the real cost of running the church and we wonder what we have done wrong.  

Is it possible we are in a “Good Friday” stage of being church.  It’s awful and messy and it looks very much like we have lost the battle.  All our efforts were for naught and the gloom and despair knocking at our doors grows louder and more compelling.  At the last breath, when we are sure all is lost, we scatter to our own homes.

I suspect that God is not judging us harshly for this.  We, as human beings, are not quick to learn our lessons, even centuries later.  Despite this flaw in our DNA, God still seems to love us, call us and dwell within us.  Thank you God.

As resurrection people, we are not asked to pretend that the death isn’t happening.  Death is still very sad, very much the opposite of life, inviting us to grieve and to grieve well with respect, honour and love.  Tears are to be expected and even welcomed, held with the sacramental fervour of God-loving hearts.  We can enter into this season of grief, not as the first disciples, fearful that all is lost, but rather hopeful, knowing that this sunset speaks only of a sunrise to come.

As I look at the pictures on my wall of the empty and derelict Detroit church I see beauty and life, remembered and celebrated.  But it is not there anymore.  It is somewhere else.  It looks different, probably sounds different, but it still very much exists.  As we know, life does not end when death comes upon us.  

Shall we start living as though we believe this to be true?