"A Hymn in Praise of Our Remaining Churches"

Demise of rural places of worship raises questions about our belief systems

This was written by Ron Macinnis who authors a column titled LIVING IN THE PROMISED LAND for the Halifax Herald in Halifax, Nova Scotia.  I was taken by his words because they reminded me of an earlier time in my life and the virtues that were such an integral part of the values, and that were so ingrained in our character and how we related to others.  True, it was a simpler life but, I believe, it was a better life because we did not have the diversions that took our attention away from those with whom we shared our lives and the community in which we lived.   We genuinely cared about one another and we were always ready to lend a helping hand whenever and wherever it was needed.  We did not have the wonders of the electronic age to trump our ability to talk to and relate to one another.  Each day was there for us to appreciate the essence of the life we shared and, above all else, to feel the pain and suffering that was often our common lot, but which were to be endured in one form or another.

The churches which were willingly supported by the people of those small towns sustained us and kept hope alive when that was about all we had.  That compassion is a characteristic I truly miss.  Nothing about what passes for “fun” and the mountain of visceral and material pleasures we covet today could ever tap into those finer aspects of what we were as human beings and which were a cherished part of each day we lived.  Those churches may look like tombs, but to some of us we know that deep within the recesses of those silent structures is a box of treasures somewhere from a golden age when people had character and decency but, sadly, seem long forgotten in the din, hustle and bustle of today’s hectic pace of life.

Are we really any better now?

Cowboy Bob

The Sagebrush Philosopher

February 19, 2014      

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What I saw in my travels one day stopped me dead in my tracks.  It was in that moment that full impact of the metaphoric content of the scene hit me. 

For here was a vision that underlined the reality of what we, as a society, have done: we have, for all intents and purposes, albeit unavoidably put our churches, and all they stood for, out on the street.

While it is true that some of our old, gracious, highly symbolic, old rural Nova Scotia church buildings have been “repurposed,” and their physical form will take on new function, their demeanor, their aura, their evocative spirit and their important role as a gathering place will change indelibly, and in that I find there is, for our rural communities, a monumental loss of something deeply important to us all.

It is hard to know where to start with this one:  maybe with a nostalgic drive through our little rural hollows and hamlets, and the warming, esthetic pleasure I have derived from the presence of the tidy, little white churches dotting the green countryside, and how they spoke to me as would an open-armed, warm-and-welcome greeting on the doorstep of a friend – this would be a good place to stop and meet some of the folk, I would think.  Or if need be, for whatever reason, I could find help.  And certainly, at a deep level our churches spoke to me, based on my experience in rural community development, of the important role they played in holding our communities together:  of the dinners, of Christmas baskets, of the outreach to those in need and the endless but socially bonding conversations that took place when people got together as they did in the old days.  And, of course, there was the music, sometimes nothing short of spectacular. 

Perhaps most important, though, all of these churches stood for the virtues of compassion, of forgiveness, of loving one’s neighbor, of the importance of community and of keeping that fabric together.  I must say, in the years of community work I did in a small village, churches played a vital role in stitching community fabric together.  But it was one of ever-diminishing impact:  One could see their disappearance coming for years in the rising tide of grey hair in the pews. 

Why may that have been?

Perhaps because of the seeds of the demise of the church were planted many years ago.  I explored this at depth once out of curiosity and was gripped by the tale, tragic as it was.

Somehow, over time, the simple but beautiful everyday teachings of the man, Jesus, ended up being bought and sold by the early church’s heavenly gatekeepers: many of those precious lessons, scratched in the sand on a beach, became tangled in rhetoric, overrun with twisted brambles of myth and ritual, and frightening tales of a petulant, demanding and vengeful god who could all but hurl thunderbolts if He got ticked. 

And then there was the added burden through the centuries of rising costs to pay for buildings, the construction of which was specifically and ironically declared irrelevant by the church’s own spiritual master.  (“For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.” Mathew 18:20)

Maybe Jesus understood something about human nature we did not. 

Little wonder then that our last couple of generations, with a sea of spiritualities and diversions on the other side of a keyboard, have little or no desire to do what is required

to keep those charming old buildings afloat, much less to be impassioned on a Sunday morning to go to church.

Our new cathedrals, after all, if we are forthright about it, are those big-boxes bursting with bargains, a sales flyer for a church bulletin, and an offering plate up front.  That is where all the cars are on Sunday.

But the big question is, what now?

Where may we find the moral and spiritual guidance, however imperfect it may have been, that came from the churches of past days?  From whence the reminder of human decency that one saw from afar when approaching our little rural communities?  Of the importance of compassion?  Of the loving heart?  Of community?

Sadly, from where I sit, I do not know the answer to my own question. 

But one never knows. 

Maybe new churches will spring up online.  Maybe congregations will buy into the idea of adaptive reuse, wherein other compatible organizations can share space and responsibilities of support.  Maybe some of the old churches will be repurposed as a new kind of church with new and younger adherents and a more concise “gospel,” less complex, more relevant, and tailored to the longings of today’s citizens, young and old alike.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

But, in the meantime, we should keep our eye on the ball:  whatever happens we need a moral guiding light of some sort to help keep our social fabric intact and to get us across the shoals of our uncertain future. 

With our churches falling away at an alarming rate – I know of at least 20, but data is hard to get – we may do well to keep in mind in our quest for that guiding light the uncomplicated but sweeping theology of one Rabbi Hillel, who lived in Jerusalem in the days of King Herod. 

When a skeptical young infidel came to him and agreed to join his church if the rabbi could explain the contents of his holy book while he stood on one foot, the young man was humbled by the answer he heard.  Hillel said, in so many words,
“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.  This is the whole book:  the rest is commentary.”

Ron Macinnis closes off with this request:  “Your thoughts on this matter, dear reader, would be most welcome.”  (promisedland@herald.can)