Head and Heart: Missing Church

A friend of mine told me this story that sounds like my story. This minister-friend went to see Barbara Brown Taylor one day, She has written a multitude of good books but she has also been a Pastor. My friend asked her, “Could we go see your old church?” And she agreed. They walked up the steps to the church door. “Could I look inside?” She nodded her head. She told him the church was not locked. She turned the knob and nothing happened. “I forgot this door always gets stuck.” So she leaned her shoulder against the door and it opened into a small sanctuary. My friend asked her, “Do you miss it?” “Oh, yes—I miss it.”

As a Pastor for many years I can identify with those words. Looking back on all the churches I served, I miss them. Some, knowing my story would think I was crazy. Some of those places nearly gobbled me up or broke my heart. And yet even in those churches I miss the faces. The memories. The weddings we had. The funerals—some young folks in the prime of their lives. I think of the struggles we had and the momentous things we did together. Maybe memories has faded most of the dark things But, oh I miss church.

And so I look around at this plague that has affected us all. We closed churches everywhere. Since last March or maybe April—a a year ago I haven’t been to church since. Oh, most of the churches tried to open. Six feet apart. Outside. Masks, of course required. Choirs too, six feet apart. And when the virus was worse most closed the door to in-person church. And then after a while we sorta opened them. And the churches have turned to technology. Zoom. Face time. Ytube. Streaming But I haven’t gone back to church and neither has my wife. When you are over eighty we are told not to get to close.

But Sunday after Sunday I miss church. Streaming helps—but it isn’t the same. Some of our members have had the virus. Some have died. And so we stayed away. But I miss it. The stained glass windows—like the burning bush and so many others. I miss the Cross which is the centerpiece of our Sanctuary. I miss the Resurrection window in the back. Like my wife I miss the music terribly. Mostly congregational singing. Those Sundays when my 97 years old buddy and me share a hymn book and sing. Yes, I miss it. Looking around at young parents and squirmy kids, old folk—some crippled or in wheel chairs. I miss the piano solos and our magnificent organ that always lifted me up. And the Choir—we miss those anthems that sometimes brought tears to our eyes. We miss the Bread and the Cup and just waiting our turn in the line—watching old and young and some people of different color. Seeing the servers leaving the Table and take these mementoes of our faith to those who cannot stand. I miss the silence. And those times when I bow my head and sometimes even pray. Sermons—of course I miss them. Our minister works hard and does a good job even in this strange time. But this is not why I come. Sometimes I get homesick and wish I was a standing up there behind that pulpit—but not often. I am like the old basketball player sitting on the bench remembering.

I miss so many of the faces, shaking hands and the hugs. This may be one of the most important part of my longing. Just people. Old and young and college students and families sitting together. I miss those who sit alone because the person they loved the most is now gone. And they come even with their heavy grief.

I miss the Scripture some Sundays. And more than anything just thinking of my family and letting so many names run through my mind as I whisper: “God help" and often: “Forgive me.”I miss the hoping I find there. And seeing all those others with me just hanging on by their fingernails just praying this crazy virus will go away. And remembering all those everywhere with not enough to eat, those being evicted—and those who cannot touch their loved ones in the hospital.

And after Church is over—I look back over my shoulder at that wonderful Resurrection window reminding me that somewhere, somehow we will make it not because we are strong—but because the light that filters through that window falls on all of us. And we go on despite all the heartbreak out there and the craziness of the awful too-muchness and the burden of our own lives.

Do I miss it? Oh yes, I miss it.

*first photo by Ellyn B