A few weeks ago, my wife, Cathy (the Reverend), and I went to a special service of sung prayer at St. Paul’s Cathedral in downtown Buffalo. They have this service once a month on a Saturday evening. Darkness, candles, and simple songs from the Taize Community in France.

     About 40 people were in attendance, and the fellow who ran the show was surprised and pleased at the turnout – the best in three years of monthly Taize services.

     I know the feeling. The Reverend knows the feeling. You know the feeling.

     We try, and try, and try, and try again, don’t we, and we try once more.

     I was pleased to give a colleague in ministry good feelings, and I was sad, too, because I knew that I was there to steal any good ideas that I could.

     As the service continued, and the silences between the songs piled up, I began to pray for “my” church. I realized that this is something that I seldom do.

     Lord help us, I prayed.

     Lord help us. Loving God, loving God, loving God. Help us.

     As we filed out in the dark that had gathered to match the friendly dark of the space in which we had gathered, the fellow handed me his card, and we exchanged a few words, and then the Reverend and I went home.

     I’m drawn to sung prayer in the Taize fashion, and the Reverend is, too. In fact, she is planning to begin a weekly Taize service at her church, West Avenue Presbyterian, and I’m going to develop a web page for the effort, and you can bet that I’ll be stealing all the good ideas that I can with the goal of discerning what similar effort would be right for Pierce Avenue.

     What I like is the hushed tones of the singing, the expectation that silence will balance the singing, and that all will be prayer.

     Sanctuary.

     It has been said* that churches divide into four types – Civic, Evangelical, Activist, and Sanctuary.

     Civic churches expect the pastor to serve on community boards. Such churches have that First Church attitude. They seek to anchor the community.

     Evangelical churches seek to spread the Word of God, the Good News, the Gospel. Bringing souls to Christ drives these churches.

     Activist churches expect all members to be out in the community, working for the Kingdom of God. Members of these generally small churches may only worship together once a month, spending the rest of the Sundays in nearby mission fields.

     Sanctuary churches stress the family feel of being there. Hymns and liturgy are familiar and comforting. The worship space is a haven and a harbor, a place to come in from the world and revel in the love of God.

     Pierce Avenue is, I believe, a Sanctuary church.

     I am, I believe, a Sanctuary-style pastor.

     These facts are good, bad, and indifferent.

     Good, because we value the regenerating effect of God’s love. Bad, because we run the risk of hiding out in that love and becoming unable to share. Indifferent, because these are just words used to describe realities we may barely understand.

     Some churches become Sanctuary churches because of negative trends in attendance, giving, and energy. Other churches are Sanctuary churches no matter what happens in terms of trends. Pierce Avenue, I believe, was once a largely Civic church with Sanctuary and Evangelical edges. At that time, the Sunday School numbered in the hundreds, and the corp of teachers was substantial. Today, as the congregation ages, and shrinks, the Civic strain has become an unsettling memory and the Sanctuary edge has come into the center, with the Evangelical edge still there, still important.

     Lord help us, Lord help us. Loving God, loving God, loving God. Help us.

     God does not give up, nor do we, though the price of our persistence includes anger, sadness, and fear, wrapped up in a quiet, deep joy, like hot and sour soup, or ice cream and hot fudge, or laughing through tears.

     And impatience. Lord, I get impatient sometimes. The pace of recovery seems, sometimes, to defy detection, but I am convinced that recovery is what is happening to us. Otherwise, I would not be your pastor, because you would not need one. Fossilized churches can draw pastoral presence from the pictures on the wall of the fine men who have served them in the past. Memories will serve where motion has fled. Shoulds and oughts will serve where vision has become blurred.

     It is hard enough to age and die. Must we also witness the Church mimicing us? The answer is no. I will not give up, nor will you, and I suspect that you will teach me important lessons about how to have a picnic on the edge of the volcano that we call Life. The future of the Church, and the future of “our” church, too, is important to us, but we must cling to a sense of perspective and insight that only God can teach us. Jesus Christ builds the Church; we carry the boards and drive the nails. We do not provide the blueprints; we do supply the energy and commitment. We do not supply the vision; we catch the vision, from God, in God’s time.

     I will be your God, God says, and you will be my people. I will give and give and give, and you will receive. I will send you my Son, my heart and soul, and you will ignore him, misrepresent him, and crucify him. And I will be your God, and you will be my people. And I will send you rain and sun, joy and sorrow, laughter and tears, and I will raise up leaders who will fight among themselves about matters of little consequence, and you will shake your heads and wonder what all the fuss is about. I will raise you up, and I will watch you fall, and I will tell you how to pick yourselves up, and I will send you prophets who will whisper true things to you, and dance and sing the truth to you, and you will learn to follow your common heart and mind.

     You will weep and lament, and the world will rejoice, and you will have sorrow.

     And your sorrow will be turned into joy.