I smile when I think of the handful of times—over two decades ago—when I had the honor of preaching at the Cowboy Church at Woodstown, New Jersey’s Cowtown Rodeo. Truth be told, it wasn’t much of a church. It was a lean-to tent propped against the rodeo office. A congregation of ropers, rough stock riders, and barrel racers sat on bales of straw. Two 1” X 6” planks were nailed together to form a cross, and a karaoke machine served as the sound system. But it was still church.
I’ve never seen the great cathedrals of Europe, but I’d willingly donate a kidney and possibly a portion of my liver for the opportunity to worship God in the majesty of Chartres Cathedral or Saint Paul’s in London or—dare I say it being a Lutheran?—even Saint Peter’s in Rome. These glorious houses of worship reflect a passion for the divine, an attempt, however inadequate, to reflect in art and opulence the wonder and mystery of God. I imagine I’d stand in these great monuments to faith with a really stupid look on my face whispering, “Dang! This is really church!”
Alas, I don’t get quite that thrill in many of our American mid-century worship spaces. They have neither the homely simplicity of the little country clapboard church nor the powerful and exquisite inspiration of the cathedral. They seem to be stuck someplace in the middle. They strike me as big barns, simple, yet profoundly uninteresting. I have to wonder what we were thinking when we built these churches. We made them huge but totally lacking in aesthetic expression. It’s as if our post-war American hubris was at odds with our introverted Lutheran nature (Or maybe we were afraid too much artistic beauty might make us look like we were copying the Roman church—Haven forbid!).
I’d be willing to bet many of these worship spaces—which make up the lion’s share of the footprint on any church property—stand empty Monday through Saturday and fill to only about 25% capacity on Sunday. We all know the crowds these halls were built to hold just don’t turn out like they used to. What’s more, the upkeep on such gargantuans is mind-blowing. The cost to heat and cool and insure and keep in repair must leave the congregants gaping in terror as they watch the bequests of previous generations of Lutherans get sucked away inch by inch, year by year.
And
yet, the parts of these facilities not
consecrated for worship—the Sunday School classrooms, the fellowship spaces,
the kitchens—may be anthills of activity on weekdays. They’re jammed with
12-step groups, childcare or adult daycare centers, food cupboards, or any
number of local programs serving folks who will never venture into the
cavernous worship spaces on Sunday morning.
It seems to me that many of our congregations, either from financial necessity or out of a sense of mission, have opened their doors to their neighborhoods and turned our churches into community centers. And that’s not such a bad thing, is it? If the church has now become the community center, why don’t we decide to build intentional community centers?
So
much usable area on church property is taken up by worship spaces which are
both obsolete and intimidating. Many were constructed with the idea that they
would always seat well over a hundred worshipers on a Sunday who would sing
traditional Euro-centric hymnody with a 30-voice choir accompanied by a
monstrous pipe organ. But current worship numbers have declined, and musical
preferences have changed. Even some of our old liturgical practices have
evolved. I think of the custom of having two reading desks in the chancel, a lectern
for laity and a pulpit for the clergy. This once had a symbolic meaning but now
has become just an idolatry (and one at odds with our Lutheran confessional understanding
of the Priesthood of all Believers). Yet many of our churches have this
architectural anachronism built in to their worship spaces.
There’s also an intimidation factor inherent in our vaulted-ceilinged giants. I ask myself if a huge, pitched roof building with a cross and steeple might say “You’re not welcome here if you’re not a Christian” to the roughly 33% of our fellow Americans who identify with no religious affiliation[i]. I would hope that the House of God would be open to everyone and anyone who could benefit from the services provided within.
Here's what I propose: Let’s build new structures specifically designed to house community services such as childcare centers, preschools, AA meetings, food cupboards, after school drop-in centers and the like. Let’s openly invite NGOs to share these spaces and contribute to their upkeep. Let’s involve our ecumenical partners, too. Centrally located within each facility—possibly opposite the restrooms for maximum visibility and foot traffic—would be a small chapel seating 50 to 70 worshipers at most. I imagine the altar being placed in the center of the room like the table in the old Roman house churches, “democratizing the space” as Nadia Bolz-Weber has said[ii]. The chapel could be shared by different religious communities, and there could be a wide number of worship times to accommodate the schedules of worshipers.
The chapel would not require a massive pipe organ or a choir stall. Its doors would be open when the building was in use so anyone passing could take a moment to step inside and have quiet time with God. Activities and worship times would be posted outside the door to be easily accessible—and much easier to read than a church signboard one passes while driving thirty miles per hour down a busy street.
An assessment of specific community needs would have to precede the creation of one of these community center/churches. Instead of being constructed new, such a church might be planted by repurposing an existing structure such as a closed store. Synods could fund these new centers from the sale of closed churches.
I’ll grant that it will be tough for us to watch some of our old buildings go the way of all flesh. Nevertheless, maintaining our current facilities is like dragging a dead camel across the desert. If our buildings aren’t serving our mission, it’s time to get rid of them. Can we create something new which can be used by anyone regardless of religion or lack of same, is designed to provide the sort of services our neighbors need, and yet still can house a comfortable and comforting worship space appropriate to the size and styles of our 21st century congregations?
[ii] https://onbeing.org/programs/nadia-bolz-weber-seeing-the-underside-and-seeing-god-tattoos-tradition-and-grace/
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