“What an embarrassment of riches.” That’s what keeps going through my head as I gather photos for an upcoming church celebration. We’re celebrating 50 years in our current building, which makes it just 7 years older than me. The series of photos that triggered that phrase were of my bridal shower in the Fellowship Hall. Rows and rows of chairs filled by generations of women who were spending part of their afternoon balancing tiny plates on their laps along with little cups of green punch to celebrate my upcoming wedding. It completely overwhelms me with gratitude that I got to have that. Something that seemed par for the course at the time, now feels like such an incredible gift.
I got to have a church family that was family. Now, it’s true that I mean that literally; as a large chunk of the church was related to me in some way and we were 6 generations deep in our membership. But, I also mean it in the larger sense. We showed up for one another. We accepted (and tolerated) one another. We engaged with one another. I guess some of it was manners and Southern culture – an unspoken but honored social contract. But there was also real care, real prayer, real investment, real affection. We really ached and wept for one another. We really rejoiced and celebrated with one another.
It made for a shiny golden childhood and adolescence for me in so many ways. If the doors were open, I was there. Sunday School and Sunday Service, Wednesday Night Prayer Meetings, Revivals, Choir, Youth, VBS, Christmas Plays, Easter Egg Hunts, Fundraisers, Potlucks, Ice Cream Socials, Lock-ins, Chili Cook-Offs, Fall Festivals.
And later in my teen years, I was there opening the door for myself as the custodian, dusting and vacuuming like it was my own home. Because by that point, it was.
It was the place I learned the foundations and practices and ceremonies of my faith. The place of my grandparents’ funerals, my baptism, special prayer circles for my little cousin’s cancer, my wedding, my daughter’s baptism. The place I memorized scripture and saw Bible stories acted out on felt boards and learned “Jesus Loves the Little Children”.
It was also the place I ate Krispy Kreme each Sunday once I was in the high school class (a much anticipated privilege). The place I hid in dark rooms playing sardines during lock-ins. It was the place I watched Rescue 911 on a tiny static-y TV with a few other kids while our moms were at choir practice. It was the place I played a made-up game with my sister on the covered sidewalk where we tried to catch each other running between poles. The place I counted the rafters of the sanctuary when the prayers were getting too long, and where I played hangman and tic tac toe on the back of offering envelopes when the sermons were getting too long. It’s the place I first saw my husband visiting in the pews from my place in the choir loft.
And this was all just in that one building.
Something I’ve learned over time is how essential it is that my relationship with Christ be housed within me and not contingent on any religious institution. Similarly, I found my relationship with the Church has to be with the people and not the building.
But I confess, I love the building. Not because it is particularly amazing, but because it has housed so many parts of my life and my family’s life.
Even when I’m the only person in my family there, I still feel them with me.
The church is the people, without a doubt. It’s why church feels different when people leave and when they show up. But the building has its own story. It makes so many of the memories possible.
To have a safe, functional space to meet regularly and to host one another and the community is a resource not every church body has. A place can become a touchstone. A familiar setting to return to, to recalibrate in. A place to worship and fellowship and make memories together. A place to fill with laughter and fun and prayer and music. A place to grieve and ache and seek healing. A place to know you are welcome to come as you are. A place to rest and wrestle with faith. A place you can show up to and know you will be met with goodness. A place of peace and excitement; of quiet and silliness. A place of traditions and rituals and ceremonies. A place that will stay steady while time shifts everything else – even some of those traditions and rituals and ceremonies.
A church building without the life of the church body within it holds no special significance, but when it is used and filled with the the activity of the family of God, it is imbued with light and hope and peace and joy and opportunity.
I’m so glad that so much of my life has happened in this building.
