Dear friends, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that has come on you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice inasmuch as you participate in the sufferings of Christ, so that you may be overjoyed when his glory is revealed. (1 Peter 4:12-13)
In October of my first year in seminary in New Jersey, an arsonist came through parts of Florida, setting churches ablaze. On October 21, he came to my hometown, Lake City, Florida, and to my home church, First Presbyterian Church. He torched the sanctuary and part of the educational building, just as he’d done with other churches in the area. Our church was decimated. My mom called me with the news. I burst into tears. She mailed me the newspaper articles with photos, and when I opened them, the tears fell hard again. It was devastating. I had spent ten years of my life in Sunday School class there, memorizing the order of the Bible’s great books and winning ribbons for perfect attendance, sitting in a circle on couches with my middle and high school friends and our cool youth pastor, leading worship from the sanctuary and singing in the choir. My pastor’s father had been the Senior Minister there for 30 years, and then his son for the next 30. The Montgomery family had shaped our town deeply and forever — even today there are many streets and buildings named after those kind and holy folks. My pastor’s wife was my piano teacher and I gave my Senior piano recital in the church’s Social Hall. It was in those old wooden pews where I sat with my dad every Sunday, trying to keep him from falling asleep. It was where my sister got married to her husband, me standing up with her as her maid of honor. A schizophrenic drifter was eventually — the following February — found guilty of setting 16 churches on fire over a 3-month period. There was no reason ever stated, no pattern to what he did, no beef he had to grind with God or religious folks. He was just sick. Though I was far away from Florida that next Sunday, unable to fly home to be with our family of faith, I was certainly with my fellow members in spirit the next Sunday morning when they gathered on the grounds, far away from the building, huddled in a corner of the parking lot, still close enough to see the ashes still smoldering, and breathe in the smoky air. It was the only time they gathered there before moving to an out-of-business tuxedo rental shop in our local mall. The first time I preached for my home congregation after a few seminary classes, it was in that makeshift chapel where a collective of men’s fancy suits once hung. It was church at the mall — and a place they would call home for 2 years. But as they gathered there, that first Sunday after the fire, my mom told me that the Rev. Dr. Montgomery had preached on the passage above from 1 Peter. “Do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that has come on you to test you.” I remember asking myself whether I thought God sent a fire to test our community, to test Christians, to sharpen our faith. Hogwash. I didn’t believe that for a second. But the passage was compelling, and it did speak truth. For we were being tested by the fire, and we would be for several years — trying to keep our staff active and engaged with members, raising funds to get us beyond the insurance money that would rebuild the bricks and mortar, caring for those heartbroken by our loss. Baptisms, weddings, and funerals at the mall were challenging, for sure, and they required creativity in our celebrations of life and death. But God wasn’t the one testing us. The fire tested us. One man’s mental illness and the lack of the resources and care he needed tested us. And by sticking together, hearts and hands united, justice and mercy joining hands, he went to jail and got treatment. We rebuilt. Two years later, I preached just after my graduation from seminary and entered ordained ministry. By then, I knew — ministry would be fraught with pain and peril, and that the church had great value in times of struggle. Pastors and preachers are called to speak to our hearts in a time of need, to uplift, to support, and to guide. When things are good, when life is calm, when the economy is great, when Americans unite around common moral themes and spiritual values, when there is no pandemic — we coast a bit. But when we are in pain, and when we are facing our greatest trials — we best be ready to practice what we preach. We must be sure of what we hold in our hearts — faith in a time of trial, the ability to accept uncertainty and doubt, the willingness to embrace questions and simply say, multiple times, “I do not know, but God is here, and we are loved.” Annie Dillard, American non-fiction writer and novelist, turns 75 on April 30, the same day my newest granddaughter turns 1. The author of another blog posting wrote this about her — “You’ll likely know her for her memoir of her time living along a creek in Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains. A Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, won the Pulitzer Prize for nonfiction in 1975. In this masterful book, Annie wove first-hand observations and marvelous facts about the natural world with reflections on theology and literature. Here’s how the book begins: “I live by a creek, Tinker Creek, in a valley in Virginia’s Blue Ridge. An anchorite’s hermitage is called an anchor-hold; some anchor-holds were simple sheds clamped to the side of a church like a barnacle or a rock. I think of this house clamped to the side of Tinker Creek as an anchor-hold. It holds me at anchor to the rock bottom of the creek itself and keeps me steadied in the current, as a sea anchor does, facing the stream of light pouring down. It’s a good place to live; there’s a lot to think about. But here’s the kicker: Dillard decided to omit from her masterpiece several things about her life, including the fact that she lived in the house with her husband (a writing professor), and that the house wasn’t a Walden-in-the-wilderness, much less a hermitage, but rather was located in a conventional suburban development in Roanoke, with a backyard that sloped down to a little stream. Many reviewers (and readers) mistakenly assumed Dillard wrote while living alone in a remote cabin in the woods. In the end, this isn’t sleight-of-hand so much as a splendid act of imagination: through Dillard’s eyes, we can see how “wilderness” - and the quality of mind wilderness can provide - is actually all around us, even in suburbia!” Friends, our anchor-hold is not available to us just now, not in the same way. And boy, are we in a wilderness time, one that looks different from any woods we’ve been in before. But like Annie, it is up to our imagination to bring church alive — in our hearts, in our community, on our screens, out in nature. We need our splendid imaginations to remember our anchor-hold of First Pres, but also to realize we are not tethered to a building, sanctuary, or time or day of worship. Imagine with me what church will look like for months, most likely, to come. Remain open in your mind and your heart and your spirit. Imagine. That’s what will help us when life does begin to take baby steps towards a new normal. The Coronavirus is testing us. Most days I don’t feel much like rejoicing about it, but I do rejoice in this. Our Lord who suffered, suffers with us, and understands. Our Lord who died and rose, will see us to rise someday from the ashes of this virus. Our Lord who reigns in power for us empowers us to grow, to learn, to endure, and despite the suffering we see and know, even to rejoice. Peace be with you, Rev. Melissa Anne Rogers
2 Comments
Karen Miller
4/24/2020 03:31:42 pm
Thank you for this, Mel. It's so helpful. God bless.
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Nancy Fox
4/26/2020 06:18:43 am
Thank you, Mel for much needed words of comfort and perspective.
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