When churches burn, we are heartbroken, I told him. His little voice asked what happened and why I was upset at the news. I told him, Jesus weeps with us. God knows our sadness when something beautiful is destroyed.
When churches burn, we gasp and hold our breath, unable to believe that this mighty structure could also be gone. We remember when the walls were built, how long it took to build this place, stone by stone.
We remember how it took a directive, a collection, an offering of the widow’s mite to pay for each brick, each timber, and each nail. How could their gifts be destroyed like this? How could their legacy be turned to ash?
When churches burn, we see each part of the sacred space and remember our vocabulary for religious architecture. We see the arches, the flying buttresses, and the nave as the grand spire collapses. The baptistry, the narthex, and the vestibule name the thresholds where we crossed from the ordinary into the holy spaces.
When churches burn, we remember the first time we stepped into that place. How the heavy door made us aware of our inadequate muscles, how the stained glass seemed to shine every color in the created world. We remember how the choir voices sounded like they could lift the ceiling and even the whispered litanies echoed with power because they were spoken in that sanctuary. We remember how we looked up at the ceiling, curved as a shield for the gathered people. We remember how it felt to visit, to worship, to be a part of this place.
When churches burn, we watch the fire consume precious treasures. We hold on to hope that the irreplaceable artifacts and sacred relics will be kept, somehow – the shrouds, the crown of thorns, the cup, and the tunic. The tattered Bible, the handmade quilt, the cross-stitched words of hope are the treasures entrusted to us by our beloved gone, our great cloud of witnesses.
When churches burn, we watch flames and wonder what will be consumed and what will be spared. We give thanks for the firefighters and first responders who walk toward the inferno and battle the flames. We hope we can recognize this sacred space when the smoke clears.
We know that this address will always be known by the fire.
When churches burn, we think of the displaced congregation. We think of the priests and deacons and choirmasters and pastors and ministers because their work has changed. They are shepherding a people with no shelter. They are walking ahead and pointing towards the green pastures and still waters to a people whose eyes see flames.
When churches burn, we listen to the leaders and hope their statements get close to what is true. We listen to the reports try to stumble their way through a response to tragic loss. We cringe at the speculation of how the fire began, knowing that sometimes accidents spark flames and sometimes hate starts fires.
We wonder which one this will be, exhaling that at least this loss was not because of evil. Enough have been.
When churches burn, we name the loss. We speak of the community who has lost their building and their home, but not their name.
We weep with Notre Dame Cathedral Paris. We weep with Mount Pleasant Baptist Church and St. Mary Baptist Church and Greater Union Baptist Church. We weep with each church that has burned.
When churches burn, we rebuild. We sing on.
CREATIVE PRACTICE:
Sing. Out loud. Know that your voice is not alone, and sing for the congregations whose walls are destroyed today.
“While millions join the theme, I will sing, I will sing!
While millions join the theme, I will sing.”
I am not sure how I came to be on your mailing list, but I am grateful for your words this week. Thank you.