PeaceBang

Church Fair

We had our harvest fair at church today and it was just beautiful. The building with a beehive humming with lots and lots of volunteers, visitors, the aroma of great food and the crackle of autumnal energy. The parish hall looked absolutely beautiful: dried flower arrangements against the far wall, the silent auction set up in the middle, homemade baked goods, jams and relishes against the back wall, handmade crafts on the right, and a book sale in the parlor. The kitchen crew cooked up delicious lunches and served them to a steady stream of customers. Children’s toys were downstairs, “grandma’s attic” up.

I worked the book table for a few hours and since I didn’t have on my name tag, no one from outside the congregation knew, or cared, who I was. It was a really nice feeling. I was able to watch the fair in action from an ‘up on the balcony’ perspective, observing the dance and the dancers move in their old, time-honored patterns.

And tonight I feel ineffably sad and extremely mortal. This congregation is 365 years old. On some days I simply pray that I won’t be remembered for something really stupid like burning down the parsonage (”They finally got a woman and she burned down the house with her curling iron!”) or leave any scandalous legacy, as did Deodate Lawson in the 17th century when he disappeared for months at a time (probably moonlighting) and supported the persecution and hanging of those accused of witchcraft in Salem. Sometimes the long, grand tradition of this historic congregation overwhelms me and I feel that I am an insignificant blip on its map — a map whose origins predate the founding of this nation. What a tiny bit of time we are given to live out such grand passion; the building up of God’s kingdom on earth. What a frail, vain creature to accomplish even a tiny portion of what God has given me to hope and dream.

Tomorrow I’ll stand in the pulpit and look to the back of the meetinghouse which bears the likenesses of most of my 27 male predecessors. Hello boys. Did you ever feel like an insignificant blip, too? I do love them, one and all, flawed and frail or magnificent and memorable as they were. Someday my portrait will be up there, too. Already my tenure is far longer than the sad soul who died a year after being installed, and a few years longer than some of the more tempestuous firebrands. My favorite predecessor from the distant past is the Reverend David Barnes, D.D., who served the congregation for 57 years (1754-1811)) and was one of the first Unitarians in New England. He’s on there, too, in silhouette, of course. What a cool dude. Because of him, the congregation was one of the few in the area that got through the great Unitarian Controversy without a major rift. Dr. Barnes had been preaching the liberal gospel for such a long time it was a non-issue.

Can you imagine? Fifty-seven years?

It’s a tough one to figure: how do you make a positive contribution to the life of an historic institution without trying to settle in and become part of the furniture?