“If you were accused of being a Christian, would there be enough
evidence to convict you?” This question sometimes appears in church
newsletters or on bulletin boards. It’s a way of challenging our faith,
of determining how serious our Christian claim may be. The answer to
this particular question is best left between an individual and his or
her God. But a similar question poses a legitimate challenge to our life
together as a congregation and more importantly to us as individuals:
“How serious are we about our claim to be a church? “
It’s a question we need to prayerfully consider at this time.
Virtually our entire congregational life is or is about to be new and
different: worship space, office space, gathering space, pastor, even,
with Tim’s announcement, music director (and, maybe, music program).
With the new children we’ve welcomed, even our church school is
different. To some extent, continual rebirth is intrinsic to church
life, but the changes usually occur one by one. The tasks we face, taken
together, would pose a monumental challenge to any congregation. To us,
the challenge is increased by the obstacles and burden we have become
accustomed to bearing. Although aspects of these obstacles may occur to
us from time to time, perhaps we seldom look at them as a whole. Since
they are so formidable, and we face such huge challenges, we need to
honestly consider them.
The obstacle that is most obvious and most keenly felt is our lack of
a permanent home. This reality, constantly before us, intensifies all
others. Although our temporary home was preferred according to the mail
vote a month ago, still, it is temporary. Nor is it by any means
perfect. After being there nearly five months, it still feels strange.
Food preparation is complicated, as is storage and meeting space. The
occupation of contiguous space by the “neighboring tenant” five days a
week complicates matters. Some of us seem ready to move on from the past
to whatever awaits; others seem very much in grief and very connected to
the ground where our former building stood. Our differences in these
feelings seem profound. Our insurance settlement and need to find
permanent space keeps us constantly focused on our uncertain future,
which brings anxiety.
Hardly new, the obstacle that we are next most aware of is our
numbers. That we are small, very small, for the size of our budget and
program affects everything else. As Leon has put it so well, the numbers
on the books mean very little; it’s the 45 to 65 of us who are in
worship weekly that really constitute the church. It’s our small size
that makes it hard to add choir voices, staff church school classes,
fill our ministries and then have adequate attendance for a quorum, so a
meeting can be held. Not that long ago we changed our constitutional
quorum requirement, so we could hold congregational meetings. We did the
same thing with our ministries, and I recently heard a member suggest
downsizing our ministries again. Similarly, our size leads to duplicate
tasks and roles in the church, so the same member sits on a ministry, a
committee, and drives the van, ushers, or sings in the choir or teaches
church school. These overlapping roles deplete our energy. Our small
numbers also seem to magnify conflict and heighten our sense of
vulnerability to strife. Finally, dwarfed by the worship space we
inhabit, whether at 9606 Euclid or 3000 Euclid, our small size regularly
lends the discouraging sense that we lack critical mass.
Because the future looms ever before us, we are more keenly aware of the
age of our congregation. As the Search Committee discovered in writing
its Church Profile, most of our membership is now over fifty-five. In
ten years, at our current rate, we will have very few members under
sixty, and most will be over seventy. Our “young” members are nearly
fifty. But this problem not only hinders our future; it affects us right
now. Not a few of our members are of sufficient age that evening
meetings that require night driving are not preferred. Also, some tasks
involved in mission or other church work may strain the physical or
emotional abilities of older members. On the other end of the spectrum,
members who are still working may find it difficult to assume positions
and tasks in the church, given the onerous schedules most working people
shoulder these days.
These three obstacles are merely facts. The fire took our building,
and time only moves ahead. Our size, we hope, can be changed. But if so,
it will surely take time, and thus far, growth has come very slowly.
There are, however, other burdens our congregation carries that can be
changed. And it is those we need to honestly face at this crucial
juncture in our history.
One of these is the willingness to participate, to do the work of the
church. It’s worthwhile to recall as we approach the appointment of a
nominating committee how difficult that group’s task is. Anyone who has
been on a nominating committee knows the daunting challenge that its
members face, as they ask members to simply rotate to a new role.
Members simply often have other priorities. That fact seems evident from
our preference for Sunday meetings, about which I have written before.
We all have lives beyond our church involvement, and no doubt many of us
would gladly remove some of the EACC hats we wear. But given our size,
positions unfilled lead to fewer and fewer people doing the work of the
church and meetings that sometimes lack a quorum. Most recently our
Worship and Arts Ministry struggled with this old problem, resulting in
a solution that stretched our constitution.
Finally, there is the aspect of our peculiar style of congregational
life, which is a curious mixture of close personal relationships and
tension born of recurrent conflict. Though our “Core Values” sessions
with Jim Oates have identified “community” as one of the most cherished
aspects of our life together, at the most recent session one of our
members spoke emotionally of the need for “healing” among us. I have
heard members speak with pride of our tradition of independence, the
vigorous assertion of our strong and diverse personalities. Perhaps this
is even an unidentified “core value.” But it may have been one that the
large congregation of our forbears could afford better than can its
current remnant. When our entire congregation numbers maybe seventy
souls, maybe eighty, constant lurching in different, even opposite,
directions may be more of a liability than an asset. Independent
assertion can be a good thing if it results in creativity and a dynamic,
vigorous environment. But if it results in organizational dysfunction
and frequent strife among the membership, its value to the body as a
whole is dubious.
If the above paragraphs seem bleak or even judgmental, it is only
because reality can be harsh. It is well known that I have perspectives
on these issues. But I have tried to be objective in these paragraphs,
neither taking sides nor unfairly characterizing. We are who we are, and
each of us has a right to full membership and participation in this
church. But I fear that if our outside activities take precedence over
our church commitment, it will be harder and harder for us to operate.
Some years ago when we had only two councils, we were enjoined at weekly
worship to “step up” and assume responsibility. If we ever needed to
“step up,” now is the time.
And if we value the vigorous assertion of our strong and diverse
personalities more than working together to fashion a shared future,
that very future may be in jeopardy. It is my sense that not everyone
has equal tolerance for recurrent tension. And the burdens mentioned
above do not give us a lot of wiggle room for the status quo to
continue.
Many hoped that the fire would mark the end of the old way of doing
business. But it brought its own pressures and strained our fellowship
in new ways. As we prepare to meet, greet, and welcome a new settled
pastor, to work with her and discover the gifts and vision she brings to
us, let us to rise to the “new thing” (Is. 43:19) God is doing in our
midst by letting go of our old ways. Unlike hope, second chances are not
endless.
WHAT HAPPENED TO THE TIME CAPSULES AND OTHER STORIES
Now that our lovely old church building exists only in our minds,
photos, and the laptops of some members, members may be asking what is
left of it. I write this as a follow-up to the letter you recently
received from me on behalf of the Disaster Response Team to reassure
you that utmost care has been taken with the precious few artifacts
that were salvaged from the fire.
The large stone with the church’s name on it, the “1866” cornerstone,
and the bell are being safely kept by the Milano Monument company on Brookpark Road in Parma. We were very fortunate to find this company
and even more fortunate that its proprietor was a friend of Leon Bibb.
They promptly picked up that massive stone and the other two items
and will hold them until we need them.
Many documents were retrieved from the church vault in the basement,
which apparently was closed at the time of the fire. All of the
material was water-soaked but intact. Several boxes of this material
were taken to the Kulis Freeze Dry Company in Bedford, Ohio. They
were immediately frozen and then freeze-dried, a process which takes
about a week in a special machine. At this writing, some of the
material has been delivered to the Western Reserve Historical Society
for evaluation while some of it still awaits completion by Kulis.
Again we are indebted to some of our members for help. Tim Robson
knew that wet material needed to be freeze-dried immediately and put
us in touch with Charlayne Gubnik, Case Western Reserve Library’s
preservation librarian, who advised us and referred us to Kulis. Our
faithful custodian, Ernie Clark, delivered the material, and Al Parks
accompanied me to pick up what has been finished.
Several bronze plaques of historical importance were taken from the
exterior of the building. Again, we are indebted to Ernie Clark for
doing this. He did it soon after the fire and without damage before
any demolition could harm them. At present, these plaques are in my
garage while it is decided where best to store them.
Finally, three time capsules were retrieved from the demolition
project by B&B Wrecking Company and delivered to me. One was
apparently the original, a sealed lead box. It was intact with no
apparent breach or damage. Kathy Smith Baker, who remembers the
process of its retrieval in 1987 at the Centennial of the building,
believes it to hold the original documents from 1887. A second time
capsule was copper and glass, which Charlene Higginbotham recalls was
given to us by Brown-Forward Funeral Home, was slightly damaged and
the contents damp. Finally, there was a Tupperware plastic container
which held what material would not fit into the copper box. It was
cracked and the contents damp. All three of these time capsules were
delivered to the Western Reserve Historical Society. We are also
indebted to that institution for their help at this time.
A final word must be said about the demolition company. Although they
were assigned to our project by the City of Cleveland, we were indeed
fortunate to have had their services. From the foreman, Pete Mihalek,
to Freddy, the onsite boss, to each heavy equipment operator, they
were always available, polite, and responsive to our every request.
They made every effort to retrieve what could be saved and notify us
of their findings. They even kept some of the carved and figured
stones aside and only put them behind the lot at the end of the
cleanup. It is really something to see a massive steel shovel
carefully lift from an ashen pit a container of dishes and gently set
them down on the ground without breaking one. As I watched this
happening, I thought, “How diverse are the servants in the household
of God!”
The dishes will be made available as mementos to member families of
the church on a sign-up basis.
Dean Sieck, Moderator
Pastel seems to be the color of spring. Whether it’s orange or blue
or pink or green or yellow, the colors of spring seem to be the softer
shades that merely hint of color, so even the deeper colors seem to lose
their intensity. I’m sure we all look forward to spring and being bathed
in pastels in eggs, clothing, flowers, and, at EACC, in balloons. We
also look forward to Easter lilies, all grouped together, their horns
pointing at us, as if to shout “Hosanna!” I’m sure you as I assumed that
once again, our chancel would be adorned with these lovely white
flowers, clustered around the pulpit, as we sang “Christ the Lord is
Risen Today,” and many filed up to the choir loft to join our choir in
“Hallelujah!”
We may see pastels and lilies on April 4, and maybe even balloons,
but as we all know now, it won’t be on our chancel or around our pulpit.
And the colors I saw on Tuesday morning at a little after one were
hardly pastels. The colors pouring from every window and door of our
church were deep, and intense, and seemingly angry: every shade of red
and orange and yellow seemed pitted against the beautiful old building
that harbored so many memories for all of us. I worked in the Forest
Service when I was in college, so I’ve seen fire and felt its heat. But
this was so concentrated, so confined, it was like an oven, like an
inferno. For two hours I stood across the street, mostly in the rain,
and watched the raging fire destroy our oak and our pews and our windows
and our organ. I couldn’t actually see these things, but I knew what was
dying inside as the fire raged on, consuming first what made our
sanctuary unique and then itself, gradually losing its power and
intensity.
As I drove home, soaked, discouraged, and overwhelmed by what I had
watched the previous two hours, I found the words of a hymn coming to
me: “O God, Our Help in Ages Past, Our Hope for Years to Come.” Indeed,
it seemed to me as though watching the fire had put me in touch with
people who were the age I am now when I first came to EACC. And when
Pastor Terri asked us at Mt. Zion to name something we had lost, I
didn’t really even realize until later the really irreplaceable thing I
had lost: the sense of the spirits of those who preceded me at EACC who
were somehow there each time I sat in that sanctuary and looked around
and saw the places where Ruby Pernell sat and Armentha Nesbitt and
Christine Crone and Paul Jerabek and Deroy and Helen Stratton and
Phyllis Martien and Henry Edwards and Johnnie Mitchell. The saints who
from their labors rest always seemed somehow to still inhabit that
space—at least once a week. And now the space, where their shadows yet
to me moved and spoke, sang and laughed, is also gone.
But in the hours following, as I walked in my neighborhood, enjoying
the early promises of spring in warmer weather and a few peeking pastel
blooms, another hymn came to me. It’s one of the last hymns that I ever
heard in our beautiful sanctuary, a hymn that seems so perfectly
constructed because the words and music seem to complement one another
so well. Ruth Garwood says that it’s one of her favorites; she was
pleasantly surprised that Tim used it as an introit on March 21. How
could we have known how meaningful it could become in just a few hours?
How could we have imagined that “our end” (well, at least, some end) lay
just around the corner. How could we have anticipated that we would need
to come together in ways we may never have before to find “a new
beginning?” How could we have even conceived of the meaning of trusting
in a shared future “God alone can see?”
Now, after the events of the past week, I encourage you to engage
these words, read them over and think about them, sing them, taste them,
feel them, and discover them in terms of what lies before us.
In the bulb there is a flower; in the seed, an apple tree;
In cocoons, a hidden promise: butterflies will soon be free!
In the cold and snow of winter there’s a spring that waits to be,
Unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.
There’s a song in every silence, seeking word and melody;
There’s a dawn in every darkness, bringing hope to you and me.
From the past will come the future; what it holds, a mystery,
Unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.
In our end is our beginning; in our time, infinity;
In our doubt there is believing; in our life, eternity,
In our death, a resurrection; at the last, a victory,
Unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.
As we trust in that unknown future, may we work together to create
what God alone can see, and discover not only the God of “our past”, now
seemingly laid to rest, but our hope for years to come.
– Dean Sieck