Burning Down the Church

At a recent Youth for Christ banquet, I was inspired by a great story-teller (who will remain unnamed in case the following story isn’t any good).  I’ve taken a few of the details of his story and created a much different one (which I can do since I have my poetic license – right here in my backpack).  Here it is –

Mrs. Mabel Johnson put on her Sunday best (including the bonnet her grandson had just gotten for her on E-bay), covered herself with her full-length L.L. Bean coat (from her daughter, of course - Mabel would never pay such a price), and walked out to face a bright, brisk Easter morning.  She then drove to church for sunrise service.  To say it was a sunrise service was a stretch.  It started at 8 a.m. because the members of Oxbury First Church just didn’t get up and going soon enough to greet the sunrise.

Children from the church (the few that were left) called O.F.C. “Old Farts Church”.  It was true that most of the members of the church (at least those who bothered to show up) were well into their 70s.  But to call them “farts” was just plain crude, thought Mabel, as she pulled out of her driveway in her pristine 1999 Oldsmobile.  After all, the church had been a pillar of the community since 1886.  Mabel’s ancestors – Zechariah and Annabelle Ard – were founding members, a fact she touted whenever she wanted to get something done.

Mabel drove to the sunrise service, thinking about this – the past glory of the church – when the pews were filled and so much was happening.  This, in turn, filled her with great comfort and joy.  She smiled as she turned onto Broadway and Main.  She didn’t think much about the present because it was too depressing, what with so many gone.  Truthfully, she didn’t think much about the future of the church, either.  She did feel bad that her family would be left to shoulder the burden of somehow keeping the church alive.  But, what could she do about it?

She was still lost in her reverie as she pulled into the church parking lot.  Suddenly, something struck her.  The church wasn’t there.  It had burned to the ground.  She stumbled out of the car, took a few steps toward the charred remains, then promptly fainted in the memorial garden dedicated to her mother.

*****

Pastor Timothy Stillwell was walking around the roped off area that once formed the shape of his first church out of seminary.  He looked lost in prayer, communing with the Lord of all life, asking the age-old question, “Why?”  In truth, he was trying to remember if he had turned off his coffee pot before he left his study late Saturday night.

When Pastor Timothy looked up, he saw the crowd of worshippers (maybe 30 or so – it was a big Sunday) beginning to arrive and quietly form a circle of support, crying and hugging, shaking their heads, and asking questions.   He searched his mind for something profound to say, but nothing came out.  Finally, with all eyes on him, he somehow found within him the strength to say, “Let us pray.”

“Dear Lord, we don’t know why this has happened.  But help us celebrate the new life you give us in Jesus Christ this Resurrection Day.  Amen.”

Then it came to him.  He spoke up, “Christ is Risen!”  The people looked at each other, then mumbled, “He is Risen Indeed!”  “Christ is Risen!” Pastor Tim repeated.  “He is Risen Indeed!”  said the people.  This time Pastor Tim shouted it out – “CHRIST IS RISEN!”  And the people, as enthusiastic as 30 people in their 70s could be, responded – “HE IS RISEN INDEED!”

***** 

By this time, some curious on-lookers had gathered and were standing a little ways off from the “remnant of 30″.  They were mostly Hispanics who lived nearby.  They were those who, according to Mabel, had ”taken over the neighborhood and ruined the church. 

Pastor Tim looked around the crowd – now numbering nearly 100 and yelled out, “Who has a guitar?”  A man named Miguel – looked around, then raised his hand.  Miguel was a landscaper you might call a “lapsed Catholic” (since he hadn’t set foot in the Church since his wedding 35 years ago in “the old country”).  “Go get it.”  said Pastor Tim.  Miguel jumped up and ran to his house.

“Anyone else have an instrument to praise the Lord?”  asked the Pastor.  Little Genevieve Johnson, Mabel’s grandaughter raised her hand meekly and said in a soft voice, “I have my flute in the car.”  “Go get it.” replied the good Pastor.

In no time at all, they had a guitar, a flute, and a keyboard (with an extension cords running to the nearest neighbor’s house).  The children were shaking Easter eggs filled with candy.  Mothers brought out pots and pans and wooden spoons and those without instruments banged along.    They weren’t even sure what they were playing (though Mavis Walters insisted it was “Christ the Lord is Risen Today”).  They were anything but a heavenly orchestra, but they gave the Lord all they had to give.  And that was a lot.

 *****

Nobody had noticed Mabel, who was still lying in the Memorial Garden.  The joyful noise awakened her.  She sat up and looked at the crowd, confused.  Her mind wanted to drift back to the glory days of Easters gone by, but, try as she might it just wouldn’t. 

This was Easter!  This was the day the Lord had made. 

 She would rejoice and be glad in it.  It was Resurrection Day and new life had come to one Old Farts Church.