Old Elegance: Church Visit #3

Down the hill from our house is a Presbyterian church named after Sojourner Truth, an African American abolitionist and preacher. My dog and I walk by it quite often, and whenever we do, I wonder how a black congregation fares in a predominantly white denomination. Janice and I decided to attend there a few Sundays ago. I'm behind on my church reflections, but hey, I'm on sabbatical.

As soon as we entered, I felt way underdressed. The members wore their Sunday best, a remnant of days gone by. Where I’ve worshipped over the last few decades, it’s when I put a tie on that I’ve gotten funny looks. Janice always looks good, but I felt a little self-conscious sporting an untucked, short-sleeved, collared shirt, a pair of faded black jeans, and my well-worn Doc Martens; not to mention that I was the lone Asian and my wife the lone Caucasian. In short order though, none of that mattered. We were greeted with nothing but smiles and kindness and pleasant curiosity. The people made us feel at home almost immediately.

It was a small, aging congregation, like the one I serve. As I mingled with the people, I sensed a quality I can only describe as “old elegance,” which described their building as well. I imagined this church, say, thirty years ago. Their love for Jesus and each other brought them together. Believing that the church was essential for the spiritual and moral health of their neighborhood, they named themselves after a champion of freedom and justice for fellow African Americans and women. Sojourner Truth Presbyterian Church.

The stained-glass windows glistened with newness. Well-dressed worshippers with their well-dressed but rambunctious kids filled the pews. The choir looked sharp in their distinguished robes, and they were pitch-perfect. Unlike the stereotypical white Presbyterian church, the worship was raucous, full of world-changing energy and radical faith. The neighbors knew they were there, not just by the exuberance emanating from the building, but also by the good deeds of the saints.

That was thirty years ago, I imagined. But now here they sit, their (our) heads adorned with gray hair or no hair. Walkers and canes leaned against the back wall like parked cars. Open hymnbooks trembled in rhythm with the shaky hands that held them. Their children, whom they raised in the faith, were nowhere to be found. They’ve all grown up and have likely moved away from the area and/or the faith. My glib self thought of John Prine’s song, “Hello in There:”

Ya know that old trees just grow stronger

And old rivers run wilder every day

Old people just grow lonesome

Waiting for someone to say, “Hello in there, hello.”

I could have gone further down that depressing road, but during one of the hymns we sang, I looked at the worshippers once again and didn’t see people just sadly growing old. I saw lives well-lived. I sensed wisdom in the room wrought from the rough-and-tumble of marriages, births, deaths, jobs, education, church dramas, economic recessions, heartaches, transitions, awards, hard decisions, political battles lost and won. I sensed God’s embrace, the host of heaven preparing to say, “Well done, good and faithful servants.”

At that point, it didn’t seem to matter whether this church was still going to be here in the future or not. So what if churches one day age out? Is that a bad thing? Who said churches are supposed to last forever? In fact, history shows that the longer churches hang around, the more institutionalized they get. And what is an institution, whose primary purpose seems to be preservation, but an entity devoid of the Spirit? Perhaps some churches are supposed to die, and if so, they should die with their heads held high, with dignity.  

Enjoying time with my grandsons Zayne and Pax

Part of a church dying with dignity is not lamenting that it failed to cultivate a new generation to keep it going. On the contrary, it’s to continue to bear witness to the love and peace and justice of God until its last breath. It’s to continue to point toward the coming kingdom, the life to come, the joy that awaits. That is the purpose of the church at any age. The last words of a dying church shouldn’t be, “Sorry we didn’t do it right.” Instead, it should be, “Jesus loves you. Hope to see you later.”