Taking a Walk with Uncertainty, and Faith
Rainy days are heavenly for some of us. I love listening to the quiet pelting of the rain on the window panes of the porch while the wind howls and the waves crash along the shore. It’s the perfect time to read the book that’s been on the nightstand for far too long, to write a letter, or cuddle up under a good blanket and watch an old movie.
Late this afternoon, I sat down to write a few pages. I always begin by listening. I move from a book to my “morning pages” to another book, to the Sunday paper, to the Bible, to Facebook (yes), and then back again. I’m listening, pondering, and waiting for God’s voice to speak before I begin writing.
In such a busy world, it’s becoming harder to hear God’s voice. Some of us have stopped listening to it altogether. I have days like that, sometimes too many in a row, before the Spirit calls me back with a gentle tug or a faceplant. Either way, I’m thankful.
A few weeks ago, I learned that the little church I grew up in is struggling to keep its doors open. I knew, of course, but when I received the letter saying they were making the decision soon, I made a phone call, and then another. Two weeks into knowing this was possible, I met with my friends from years gone by, worshipped with them, and listened to their hearts. I’ve used what I know about business to help them create a framework for communicating that may help, or not. Time will tell.
This church is like many in America, with dwindling congregations and resources. The average congregation now has 65 people in it. Less than half of Americans say they belong to a church, according to Gallup. Where congregations persist despite challenges and an uncertain future is where they offer two key benefits: a sense of community and a sense of mission to rally around, says Christian researcher and author Bob Smietana. That would be true of my church here in Madison, Wisconsin, Christ Presbyterian Church, but we’ve also seen smaller numbers post-pandemic.
Still, both churches and all churches really, hold important stories which are woven into the fabric of the community. We don’t just see a building but the people leading the choir, playing the piano, and ringing the church bells. We don’t just see empty pews; some of us see the sweet souls who shaped who we are today. That’s who I see when I walk through the doors.
I see Marvel Williams, who was just as lovely and dignified as Queen Elizabeth, giving us a bulletin as we walk through the doors. I see Bernice Brown leading the children singing at the top of her lungs, “We’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy, down in our hearts, down in hearts, to stay!” My Great Aunt Eileen is singing near the small organ in the front while Viola Krueger, wearing a dress and practical shoes, plays. I’m sitting by my mother, leaning in too closely, with my sister on her other side. We sing songs. We giggle in the pew and play in the churchyard after services.
Each of us has memories of this place, and by God’s grace, all of that happened and more. But we can’t be done yet, can we? Isn’t there more music to be played and children to be loved? More people who want prayer? More kindness to give?
The First Presbyterian Church of Apple River was originally built in 1865 and rebuilt in 1916. The building committee names remain on the building today. I wonder what their hopes and dreams were over 100 years ago. Did we fulfill them? Can we do more, still? Did they think there would be a “Second Presbyterian Church of Apple River”? Oh what optimists they must have been! Or is it finished?
For me, the Presbyterian Church in Apple River feels like going home. Far more than school, this is where I felt seen and loved, known and accepted, built up for better things, and then sent off to do them. The people of this congregation were my cornerstone, every one of them. They remain a part of who I am, just as those who shaped your life have become a part of you.
I remember my mother teaching Sunday school and doing a craft project with old glass bottles, masking tape, and shellac. Mom wasn’t a crafty person, but I still remember her patience with each of us as we made these works of art to take home. We all sat around the big white table in the basement classroom, working on these over a few weeks. Looking back, it likely kept us focused and quiet for a long while too, and I’m sure there was a lesson in there somewhere.
In some ways, our little church is like that art project. Those three things on their own — the glass, tape, and shellac are like the building, pews, and piano. Nice to have, but without the people to create something unique together, there is nothing to celebrate and enjoy. I believe it is so much more than a building. It is part of the community's soul and that if it goes, much will be lost.
Even after 45 years, I can still see my bottle. It must have been used at our house for countless vases of dandelions, and peonies picked from the yard. It was hardly a work of art with the scraps of tape covering it, but mom loved it.
Jesus feels the same about us. We’re a messy bunch, the whole lot of us. But we are loved just as we are, beautiful, broken, needy, hurting, and wanting.
Although we can read our Bibles on our own and do church online now, pray when we want to, and put God on the sidelines of our Sunday mornings, it is only in community that we experience real growth. This is where we see God and experience the fullness of the deity.
I don’t know what will happen to our little church yet. But I know that God is on the move, and this is a resilient, strong, and kind group of men and women. I will be walking with them in the coming months and writing about it. I hope you’ll join us on this journey.
This story may just be beginning in some ways. Maybe a new chapter or a new thing is being born? In a world where certainty is just a mouse click away, it’s a beautiful thing to take a walk with uncertainty and faith. It’s exciting to think of what could happen here. Good things grow in small places. I know because I am a witness.
