Church Closings

My old church is closed.

When I was growing up, I attended the Church of the Messiah in the Olneyville section of Providence, Rhode Island. It was the same church that my mother had attended as a little girl, and that my maternal Grandmother and Grandfather attended. It was an old church, but I don’t remember it being an old congregation. Sure there were older folks, but there were plenty of kids as well. Whole families attended and there were enough members to justify two services on Sunday. I went back there with my brother about two years ago. It seemed smaller than it did when I was a kid, but other than that, it was exactly as I remembered. There were only a few people there, and some of them even remembered my brother and I. It had been thirty years since I had last set foot in the place, but those decades fell away the minute I walked in the door.

I loved the Church of the Messiah. I loved getting there early, and sometimes sitting there alone. I loved being alone in the church. I would look in awe at the huge Oak beam that ran across the entire worship area, with a carved oak cross at the very midpoint. I loved watching the sun stream in through the stained glass windows, I loved touching those windows, and the lead between each individual piece of glass. I loved the smell and feel of that place.

As we walked in the door, we passed the baptismal font and I paused. I ran my hand over the cold stone. It was pink Vermont granite, in the shape of a chalice. I remember thinking of how many babies (myself included) had been baptized there. I remember, as a kid, standing at the back, handing out bulletins when I was in the “Senior” department. Sometimes we even got to take up the collection. I remember how the money would go into a red velvet bag in each gold collection plate. I looked, they were still there - thirty years later. Still sitting on the little table at the back, right side, right under the little lamp that seemed to always be on.

I saw the bell rope, and I remember how we sometimes got to ring the bell before services. That job usually went to Doug Fox, a boy in our class who’s father died when we were all about 12. Doug had keys, and would sometimes take us through the little door at the entryway that led down into the basement. It was dark and spooky down there. The church had burned to a stone skeleton in 1920 and the basement still showed distinct signs of the fire. Down there, you could feel the soot even 40 years later. It smelled like a burned building, it was dark, and mysterious.

I knew that building inside and out, and being back there after so long felt like coming home, the quiet and peacefulness of the place wrapped around me like a blanket.

We went in, and I took a seat by the crucifixion window on the left side, even with the row that I sat in when I was in the “Junior” department, next to the image of Mary, holding a dead Jesus, the wounds in his hands and feet which you could actually touch if you stood up on the end of the pew – which you could only do when there weren’t any adults around. (There weren’t, so I did).

The organ played, and I sang. I mean I really sang -from my soul - for the first time in a long while. It came time to take communion, and more memories flooded back.

I remember Saturday morning catechism classes – being cooped up in church on a clear, bright day off from school. I remember what it felt like to finally take that first communion, and trying hard to remember to do everything just the way we had been taught. I remember being so anxious for the usher to finally reach our row, so we could go up. I remember walking right up the three steps at the front, and past the organ on the right, seeing Mrs. Bishop playing softly, the HUGE organ pipes on the left, behind the choir. Then, stand in line and wait for your turn at the communion rail, the place where the “little kids” couldn’t go yet. I remember kneeling down on the cushions (not like the hard rails in the pews), right there with the adults, right hand cupped into left, waiting for Rev. Welch to put the wafer in my hand. I remember while waiting I would look at the big carved chair that was only used when the Bishop was visiting us. I remember how the railing was just a little too high for me, so I had to stretch out for the wafer. Put the wafer in your mouth immediately if you wanted to sip the wine (yes, real wine).

And now it was thirty years later, and the reflection staring back up from the bottom of the communion chalice wasn’t that of a 12 year old. I saw the face of a middle aged, balding man, and it both surprised me, and made me a little sad. But I remembered what we had been taught so long ago - you let the wafer dissolve in your mouth - never chew it because Mrs. Dircolee told us”… we don’t chew Jesus…”. Then walk back to your pew with your hands folded, kneel down and wait for everyone else to have communion.

So that’s what I did, but I also fought back tears brought on by emotions I still haven’t sorted out. If you had asked me thirty years ago why I went to church, I would have said I went because “…mom says we have to go”. But I now realize that I was going there to be with God.

The Church of The Messiah is closed, and all that’s left are the empty shell and memories. It was a victim of changing demographics. But it was, and always will be a part of who I am, and has touched, and will continue to touch everything I ever do. I close my eyes and I am there, full of people, full of kids. I am one of them again.

It is still the place I think of when I preach and when I pray. It is still the place that helps me to sing – really sing – from my soul.

As I think about it, the truth is no real church EVER closes.

Peace to you all,