farewell to trinity
I remember the sights and sounds and smells of my baptism. For a Baptist, it's a big moment. I remember the rich chocolate voice of Buckner Fanning, the watery smell of the water in the baptistry, with the majestic stained-glass window behind me and the choir loft below, leading down to the pews whose aisles I always saw as connected to the four rivers of life proceeding from the figure of Christ on that window. It was in the evening, and I remember peering out straight across to the three windows above the balcony, at the back of the church, squinting a bit in their evening light.
Today, I went up to that place again — full of water this very day — and stood in front of it. I looked out again over that church that has changed so little and so much in all the right and wrong ways. I peered at the stained-glass windows, now the only ones that actually admit sunlight, looked all over the rivers of pews and of people angry and sad and helpless and in need, and I said, "Farewell."
Saturday, our pastor, Charlie Johnson, called my mom, whom he has always come to as a mentor, and told her that, in the face of threats and personal attacks, he couldn't continue. Today, he announced his resignation.
So. Maybe he was lying, or mistaken. Or, maybe, today the Pottery Barn Principle, as a good friend puts it, goes into effect: You Break It, You Own It. It's a lovely building. It needs God.
Not vice versa.
What constitutes faithfulness? Do I stay and do what I can? Do I stay and plow one-handed, shield in the other, or finally, at last, go to a place where I don't have to fight to simply serve? Several people have said that the kids at church need me. Catherine pointed out, a year ago, that kids in lots of churches need a good Sunday school teacher. Pretty convincing a year ago; very convincing today.
Pray for Charlie, not that he won't be just fine. Think! Tomorrow he'll wake up without a headache. Pray for Catherine and me; we will serve in the undamageable Kingdom, wherever we are led to, even at Trinity. If you feel like it, pray for "Trinity," whatever that is. And thank God that the meadow stays beautiful, not because God resuscitates flowers or keeps them from dying, but because he dresses the meadow in splendor with Ah! new flowers.
Today, I went up to that place again — full of water this very day — and stood in front of it. I looked out again over that church that has changed so little and so much in all the right and wrong ways. I peered at the stained-glass windows, now the only ones that actually admit sunlight, looked all over the rivers of pews and of people angry and sad and helpless and in need, and I said, "Farewell."
Saturday, our pastor, Charlie Johnson, called my mom, whom he has always come to as a mentor, and told her that, in the face of threats and personal attacks, he couldn't continue. Today, he announced his resignation.
So. Maybe he was lying, or mistaken. Or, maybe, today the Pottery Barn Principle, as a good friend puts it, goes into effect: You Break It, You Own It. It's a lovely building. It needs God.
Not vice versa.
What constitutes faithfulness? Do I stay and do what I can? Do I stay and plow one-handed, shield in the other, or finally, at last, go to a place where I don't have to fight to simply serve? Several people have said that the kids at church need me. Catherine pointed out, a year ago, that kids in lots of churches need a good Sunday school teacher. Pretty convincing a year ago; very convincing today.
Pray for Charlie, not that he won't be just fine. Think! Tomorrow he'll wake up without a headache. Pray for Catherine and me; we will serve in the undamageable Kingdom, wherever we are led to, even at Trinity. If you feel like it, pray for "Trinity," whatever that is. And thank God that the meadow stays beautiful, not because God resuscitates flowers or keeps them from dying, but because he dresses the meadow in splendor with Ah! new flowers.
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