At the last service, what caught me by surprise was my own sense of grief as well as my own personal role in the story of this congregation that had now closed. Five years prior, I had entered an informal relationship with a small Episcopalian congregation as a Lutheran (ELCA) pastor. They could only afford a presiding pastor to come once a month, which was an arrangement that worked well in my life at the time.
I quickly grew to love the congregation. In some ways they were the American version of “Vicar of Dibley,” a cast of characters who were both quirky and lovable. The organist regularly wore a hat to church, often with a flower on it. The lead lay person was a man who spoke directly and often told me the ways he disagreed with my sermon (a habit of his I grew to love). Another man was a member of the Shriners. Yet another was a retired pharmacist, and he and his wife were generous donors to the area community. Another was a regular hunter and would share his dried venison at coffee hour. There were, of course, many others who were part of the church, each as colorful, outspoken, faithful, and committed as the next.
When I first began, I was curious about the ways the congregation could be renewed and perhaps grow. But each suggestion was met with tired eyes, a deep sigh, and sometimes a story. They told about the hard times that they have met over the years: difficulties with leadership, frustrations from not seeing eye-to-eye at critical times, and challenges that resulted from not fully working through the speed bumps over the years. I came to realize that my role with them was going to be something like a hospice chaplain. We began to have conversations about what it might look like to end well.
It felt a little like watching a bird build her nest. The ongoing conversation about closing happened slowly and in bits.
- It was built on both thorny memories and sparkling celebrations.
- People remembered times when the wounds had cut deep, and people left.
- They remembered the significant contributions they had made to the community.
Over the course of several years, things started to take shape. What once seemed like a far-off wisp of an idea, now became clearer. It was time to choose a final date.
When it came time to prepare for the final service, I read over the 143-year history once more. There was so much texture, so much history and, if the current congregation was any evidence, a great number of characters. As I stood in the pulpit, as well as standing in my own grief, I felt a deep connection to the founding pastor. We were bookends to one another. I doubt he would have foreseen the path and ultimate ending the congregation would take. I hope he would have found it as beautiful and as endearing as I did.
In that last service, we talked about what it means to share the legacy of the congregation in new places. We talked about how the story of the congregation and its many gifts and wonderful people would continue to live on in each person. As we would go out into new places, we would bring the congregation with us. The spark we each carried would light a fire in a new place. I am grateful for the fire this spark has lit in me and how this congregation continues to live on in new ways.
