Requiem: The Death of a Church

In a couple of weeks, I will be stepping out of my ministerial retirement to preach at the last service of the church I once served for 15 years.  The church made it a hundred years longer than I did.  The church will be 115 years old at its closing.  I guess in a way I will be preaching its eulogy.  I’ve never done a funeral service for a church.  It will be my first and last.

The regional minister who lured me from Nebraska to the church in Montana many years ago was once talking about the state of the regional church at that time.  Basically, we were the congregations within the state of Montana in our denomination.  During this regional minister’s time of service, the region had gone through a lot of change and transition.  Some congregations left the denomination, several closed, a partnership with another denomination failed, and ultimately a new region was formed.  In our conversation this regional minister once told me that the church I was serving would be around long after the two of us were gone.  I believed it.

 

We were wrong.

 

I truly believed that upon my retirement the church would go on in some shape or form.  I figured that the congregation would find a lay, retired, or bi-vocational pastor to continue the ministry of the church.  At the same time, I also knew that my retirement might be a wake-up call for the congregation.  In the end with prayer, discussion, and discernment the congregation voted to close its doors after 115 years.  The reasons were simple enough . . . low attendance, an older congregation, dwindling financial resources, an aging building, and they were tired.

 

I must have the “touch of death” when it comes to the churches I served over the span of my ministry.  In the 40 years of ministry, I served six congregations (seven churches but two were yoked) and only three continue to serve the communities where they are located.  The first church I served in the ministry left the denomination and is now independent.  The second left the denomination, became independent, and eventually folded and closed its doors.  The next congregation joined and partnered with another congregation to combine their ministries, resources, and people while staying true to both of their denominational affiliations.  The next was a yoked parish serving two congregations in different denominations in two different towns—they have folded and closed.  The one I served before coming to Montana continues to push on with a lay minister who was born and raised in that church.  I imagine that it will eventually close when the pastor, who is my age, finally retires. 

 

See what I mean!  The touch of death!

 

It is more common than one would think.  For the past couple of years, churches have been closing faster than new churches can be established.  The rate is three closings to every two openings . . . three to two.  Two steps forward, three steps back.  To use good old evangelical terminology, the world is never going to be saved for Jesus at this rate.  Nope, it is a slow death.  Echoing the words of Billy Joel . . . “I didn’t start the fire” . . . but it is burning.

 

What are the sparks that started the fire?  What are the reasons that the “church” as most of us know it and grew up with is dying?  Let me throw a few out there to consider I suspect will give us some sort of understanding on how the fire started:

•        Less people identify themselves as Christian or even religious.  The pool is growing smaller.

•         Congregations are older and have no youth to replace them.

•         Life happens—people move, people die, arguments happen, division takes place, poop happens, and people don’t come back.

•         Generational change—church became less important as generations were added.  Where grandparents were weekly regular attenders, their children were sporadic, and their children didn’t even go.  It is not important anymore.

•         One of the biggest reasons is that people see “church” as judgmental and hypocritical.  There is a mixing of the political affiliation with one’s practice of faith—they have become one and the same.  This creates disagreements and division.  The church is seen as the moral police for everyone.  Because of that people do not feel accepted or safe—they cannot be themselves.  This is especially true for young people.

•        People don’t feel safe.  Questions cannot be asked.  Doubts cannot be shared.  People cannot be themselves and feel supported.

•         Won’t embrace climate change and other social issues facing the world today.

I imagine the list could go on . . . that everyone could throw another log on the fire based on their own experiences.

The fact is that the “church” and maybe even Christianity is dying.  There will be more church closings before a fork is stuck in this one or a miracle happens to stop this swan song. 

 

I can honestly say that the disbanding congregation I will be preaching at in a couple of weeks can look at that list and agree with several of the “causes” as to why a church die.  For them it does not matter.  They are sad.  They are embarrassed.  They are frustrated.  They are lost.  They are scared.  A church should never die . . . it is the house of God . . . the home of God . . . it is home.  And now it is gone.  No words I could ever speak will make it better or remove the grief.

 

The reality, whether it can be accepted or not, is that the times are changing.  What once was is no longer and all God’s children are scrambling to figure it out.  Unfortunately, I am not of the evangelical or conservative church faction.  For those faithful the solution has always been simple . . . bring more people to the forgiveness of Jesus . . . evangelize!  Remember, Jesus will save us!  After all, that is why he died . . . right?  Jesus didn’t die to “save” us.  God has been in that business since the beginning of creation.  That is the business of God.  Jesus called everyone to come back to God.  Jesus died because he struck a nerve with those who were in power . . . those who were in control.  He was a threat . . . someone who was turning over the apple cart.  Jesus was eliminated, murdered, because what he represented, preached, taught, and lived scared the powerful.  As the scriptures say, Jesus shows us the way.

 

I don’t know if the fire can be extinguished.  It might be too late.  Instead, what needs to be done is those of us who see the fire begin to change towards those things that bring people together in the spiritual journey we are all on.  That we learn to walk together.  That we accept one another.  That we learn to care for one another.  That we talk . . . and more importantly listen.  Listen to the questions, concerns, and doubts.  This is the place of growth and faith.  That we quit thinking that our politics represent our faith.  Stop reviling those who are different than us.  That we quit fighting and start working together.  That we start loving . . . not those closest to us, but those who are outside of the circle, those who are in the shadows.  That we create safe space for all and welcome one another to the table.  I mean, come on, if we are going to take the scripture seriously as the “word of God”, then we must embrace the fact that everyone has been created in the image of God and is worthy of love.

 

That is where we must begin.

 

At this point I have no idea what I want to say to those who gather for the last service of a dying church.  Acknowledgement of the grief . . . hope for the future . . . and the fact that God’s love or that higher being or whatever gets a person through the night is always there.  I hope to create a safe space where in the sadness and grief of the moment everyone can acknowledge the depth of that pain of loss . . . acknowledge one another . . . and find common ground as the children of God.  That none of us is alone.  That there can be laughter in the midst of tears.  That together we can realize that life is lived between a laugh and tear. And maybe, we can discover that it is here that we are called to be community. 

 

And so, it begins . . . new beginnings.   

 

Kiss My Ash Goodbye!

 

I am not a morbid person . . . especially when it comes to death.  As a minister I have dealt with more than my fair share of death.  I have officiated at a lot of funerals.  I have had family and friends die.  Beloved pets.  My wife is a hospice chaplain and regales me with nightly stories of how she is helping people transition from life to . . . well, death.  You can’t escape death if you read the newspapers, listen to the radio, or watch television . . . death is a nightly topic within those realms.  But I am not a morbid person who spends a lot of time focusing on death.

I am not certain, at this stage of my life, exactly what I think about death.  Sounds strange for a person who spent a lifetime comforting people as they died . . . supporting families who lost loved one . . . and, mourning for those within my family and friends who have died.  You would think that as a retired pastor I would have a few opinions about death and all that it involves . . . past, present, and future.  That is not to say that I don’t have thoughts and ideas about death . . . even my own death, but nothing is written in stone.  My thoughts and ideas are a myriad of just that—thoughts and ideas.

 

I have a friend who is now in his nineties.  Fascinating friend who loves old music, spooky stories, dry humor, tawdry references and puns, and loves to write.  He has several blogs, and one happens to be about death.  The blog is called Death Happens.  I appreciate his thoughts about death . . . he makes you think and he can be as random as me.  Of course, he has a BIG head start on me!

 

So, if I’m not morbid then why am I writing about death?  Well, because I woke up this morning hoping for an idea to write a blog about.  It seems death was what popped into my mind.  It was a song.  One of my favorite singer/songwriters is the late John Prine . . . has been since I was in high school way back when.  Please Don’t Bury Me came screaming through my mind loud and clear. I don’t think that it is an omen of some sort . . . a sign of things to come, but it did get me to thinking.  Death might be a fun topic to tackle.

 

Prine wrote the song way back in 1973 and it still resonates today.  The song is about waking up, slipping in the kitchen, hitting his head, and dying.  Upon getting to heaven, he is told what happened and what were the last words he said.  Basically, he declares that he does not want to be buried and instead that all of him is to be given away.  He must have been a medical donor long before it became a “thing” to do. The song is funny and puts a smile on the face.  If you love puns and dad jokes . . . well, you will love the song.  Here are the words:

 

Woke up this morning

Put on my slippers

Walked in the kitchen and died

And oh what a feeling!

When my soul went through the ceiling

And on up into heaven I did ride

When I got there they did say

John, it happened this way

You slipped upon the floor

And hit your head

And all the angels say

Just before you passed away

These were the very last words

That you said

 

Please don't bury me

Down in the cold cold ground

No, I'd druther have 'em cut me up

And pass me all around

Throw my brain in a hurricane

And the blind can have my eyes

And the deaf can take both of my ears

If they don't mind the size

 

Give my stomach to Milwaukee

If they run out of beer

Put my socks in a cedar box

Just get 'em out of here

Venus de Milo can have my arms

Look out! I've got your nose

Sell my heart to the Junkman

And give my love to Rose

 

But please don't bury me

Down in that cold, cold ground

No, I'd druther have 'em cut me up

And pass me all around

Throw my brain in a hurricane

And the blind can have my eyes

And the deaf can take both of my ears

If they don't mind the size

 

Give my feet to the footloose

Careless, fancy free

Give my knees to the needy

Don't pull that stuff on me

Hand me down my walking cane

It's a sin to tell a lie

Send my mouth way down south

And kiss my ass goodbye

 

But please don't bury me

Down in that cold cold ground

No, I'd druther have 'em cut me up

And pass me all around

Throw my brain in a hurricane

And the blind can have my eyes

And the deaf can take both of my ears

If they don't mind the size

 

You can listen to the song at this LINK.

 

When my parents died, they were cremated and buried in the mountains of North Carolina.  That was their wish.  I did both of their graveside services there on the top of a hill overlooking the Appalachian Mountains at the Methodist Church my mother attended growing up.  None of the family had any problem with that, though there were people in my life who thought this was terrible.  Terrible because where would my parents be come the rapture?  Come the biblical resurrection?  Their bodies would be gone.  In my mind it was not a problem.  God can do anything.  I imagine that for God cremation is sort of like a freeze-dried meal . . . add a little water and POOF! Everything is back to normal.  Sort of like cooking up a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese.

 

This was not a problem for the family.  It was not our issue.  Our parents were gone, and we celebrated them the best that we could.  And we miss them.  God will take care of the rest.  God’s ways are mysterious, but God cares for us despite our silliness.

 

My parents’ death got my siblings and I to thinking . . . more my siblings because none of them are married.  For the most part we are all we have and it is going to be up to us to make decisions whenever one or the other dies . . . decisions like what do you want us to do with you!  My sister and I have discussed this the most.  My brothers, they chose cremation.  In fact, our brother David was cremated a few years ago when he died.  I think that is the choice for our youngest brother.  And it is definitely the choice of my sister. 

 

Of course, what is supposed to be done with the cremains?

 

The brothers . . . they will be interred in the cemetery in North Carolina.  Makes sense since we have quite a few family plots there and very few family members to place in them.  My sister . . . well, she’s a tough cookie.  Her wishes are to be flushed down the toilet.  That is good enough for her.  I guess that makes sense when one considers how much time in our lives we spend upon that porcelain throne contemplating life.  Now if she doesn’t beat me to death’s door, she might not have much say in the whole thing.  I might do whatever I want.  She said that might not be a wise choice as she would haunt me forever.  The toilet might be it.

 

But the thing here is that the choice in the end is cremation.  As a person of faith that calls for stewardship . . . well that makes sense.  I have said it a million times (at least): “ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”  Help out the mother earth.  Do the Johnny Appleseed thing . . . throw in a few seeds with my ashes.  I can handle it.  In fact, I am told that there are funeral homes and cemeteries that specialize in this sort of thing.  The body is buried with a tree and the tree grows as a memorial to the deceased.  Sounds like good stewardship.

 

Speaking of “good stewardship” I think that was the idea behind declaring oneself a “medical donor” on our driver’s license.  Upon death all of our vital organs are divvied up and sparse out to those who need them more than we do at that point.  Help save a life.  I am a “medical donor”.  I want whatever is useable in my body to be used by someone who can benefit from it.  Again, the idea of “good stewardship”.  And, like John Prine, I imagine that the choices are much as he described in his song. 

 

Then I want to be cremated.

 

I have never thought about what I want to have done with my cremains.  There are the plots in North Carolina, except I doubt if there would be annual trips back to the grave there by the family in Montana.  I could have my ashes spread over one of the many beautiful trails throughout the Absaroka and Beartooth mountains that the family has enjoyed over the years and will in the future.  I just don’t know.  Haven’t given it a whole bunch of thought.

 

One of the funeral directors I worked with for many years was always dumping ashes on the local golf course in the small town we were living in.  He did this even though the town eventually outlawed such acts with cremains.  That didn’t stop him, he did what his clients wanted.  Whenever he was playing a round of golf he would take a few handfuls here and there, throwing them as he drove around the course.  He figured that it was for the best because these people wanted to be where their people were . . . on the golf course, not in some cemetery.

 

Whatever the case, I am going the cremation route.  Plus, my sister is beginning to make sense to me.  Once I am gone what do I care?  I will be physically gone.  I can’t be put in the corner of the living room . . . something has to be done.  Being flushed might be the route to go.  At least whenever anyone sits upon the porcelain throne, they will be reminded of me.  After all, it is better to be remembered than forgotten.