The children of a parishioner showed me a picture of their mother standing next to our church’s cornerstone as it was being laid. She was 4 years old and standing there next to a big stone inscribed with “1928.”
When this lifelong member died, no one questioned whether her funeral should be at the church. She had spent so much of her life there. She was raised there, was in the choir for six decades, and raised her kids there and they theirs. There was only one problem: on the date that all these kids, grandkids and now great-grandkids could be together, the church was unavailable.
Frustrated, the family looked elsewhere, knowing nothing would compare to the faith home their mother had created over 90 years. Disheartened, they started making arrangements down the street at a funeral home. Other church members, including those who were in charge of the conflicting event, were also lost as to how to handle this situation. But it had been decided: her service would be at the funeral home.
On the day of the funeral, standing in the space where we would say goodbye, it felt empty. With no one around, the space was foreign. Could we shake the feeling of being strangers in another person’s house? Yet as guests arrived, something miraculous happened. The familiarity of the faces and the warm conversations of memories started to transform the funeral home. By the time the service started, all the unfamiliar had fallen away and this place had become her church, which was my church as well. Sure, the address wasn’t right, but what we established that day could best be described in a familiar children’s song: “The church is not a not a building; the church is not a steeple; the church is not a resting place; the church is the people!”
We didn’t need walls or a ceiling to make this place God’s house. We sang songs, read Scripture, broke bread and drank wine, and through it all our church was present and accounted for.
In Mark 13:1-2, Jesus’ disciples are walking out of the temple and exclaim, “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” Jesus responds, “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another .…”
Will there be a day when not one stone will be left on my church? I hope not. But if there is, what would it change? We could still meet, worship, sing, read Scripture, break bread and drink wine until the truth of a childhood song is realized: “I am the church! You are the church! We are the church together!”
