Upon whose shoulders do u stand?
What sown seeds blossomed u?
Who tilled the soil
that u might stand tall?
May we honour our relations!
(A Pres-bit|@wpgpres)
Closed
This week I gathered with Sisters & Brothers discussing emergent ministry in our Presbytery. In that time, we dug deep and shared some pretty amazing things that are unfolding in our midst. We discussed some of the tensions that exist as we engage in the transformation that is occurring within our Protestant context. We shared some of the things we had seen, some of the places I have been and will shortly undertake to follow the Spirit … and then … someone named something – which affected me like being doused with frigid water – completely new to me in this manner: ‘refugees from closed congregations.’ I was jarred still!
At first, I admit, I was not sure what to do with this experience. Refugees? Closed congregations? Why would anyone feel that way? Our denomination – after all – aspires to hospitality and welcome. A gifted place where we endeavour to embrace diversity as a precious symbol of God’s presence! And then … then … I got it!
In this emergent time, where things are influx and we as Christians in a new land are trying to follow to that place to which we are being led, people get left behind. They get exiled, their homes of faith close, and – too often I learned – we must recognise we leave them behind to wander lost, hurt and grieving …
In this moment of lament (with these words of recognition) I am also aware that there is the tension that such realities of closure, assets reclaimed, and redistributed are images of new seeds sown into soil not yet even tilled. And though I know that in this paradox of hope there is abundance, I had not thought that we – corporately – sometimes forget that the shoulders of those upon whom we stand are still in our midst.
Sometimes, they lie on our periphery. They have suffered the pain of closure, of seeing the Tent of generations of the faithful dismantled. Sometimes, as their tears fall, chests heave and sobs threaten to halt breath, we walk away spying the horizon of the new land and our hand slips from theirs and they stand alone crying, “Eloi Eloi lama sabachthani” (Ps 22.1). And … should we have the courage to look into the mirror … it is not the Holy who has abandoned them … it is us. With good intentions, inspired by the transitions of new growth in our midst, we have walked on … we have walked away …
My God, my God,
why have you forsaken me?
Ps. 22.1 (NRSV)
I am not sure that many words that are needed. Self-recrimination can be just as paralysing as denial. What I do with this new awareness is hopefully reply with some sensitivity in places where things are in flux, where decisions of transformation can and will leave people behind. What we do as a denomination, what you do as the Reader, I pray is to reflect upon who are the refugees of closed congregations within your context? How do you make space to hear those stories of grief – even if difficult – in order to invite a lost Brother or Sister back into community?
I think there is great fear at becoming a refugee from people who see change bearing down on us like a giant wave that will wash away all that is familiar. It is a balance to move into new lands, while bringing with us enough that is from the old that we are still connected to that history. It is a journey that I walk with my congregation as we move into amalgamation.
Hi Kimiko,
Thanks for this – amalgamation does indeed possess the potential to experience newness, even in the reality of death. I’ve also been struck how – sometimes – refugee can also be owing to a change from rural to urban and how that can be unmooring for one’s identity as a person of faith. Especially when it seems that there is no community readily accessible. Does that tension make sense?
There is a closed church near us, we try to connect, with intention – by call and visit – but there’s a great deal of hurt and wounding too. Trying to walk with folk as they re-align themselves, doing the best we can to let them know we’re here.
Thanks for this, Richard. Our pastoral charge has recently amalgamated with another. I am acutely aware of those who felt abandoned before, during and after the transition. For some, it has been a forward-looking time of excitement; for others it feels like a betrayal. The changes are not complete yet — one of the churches involved is slated for closure in the near future. I thank you for bringing the phrase — “refugees of closed congregations” — forward. It seems a useful phrase for opening a new kind of dialogue.
Terrie
Thanks Terrie & Keith. I am wondering if – in your context – you have heard those deeper stories of refugee experiences that are connected with closures further in the past as well? Closures that have never been given space to name and/or grieve? Closures of home congregations long since disbanded? Adults whose family places of worship have slipped into the forgotten? Do these questions make sense?