Column If church means a building, somethings
missing
By JEANNETTE BATZ
The other reporter thought it was a
sure shot: Give mush-hearted Batz the story about the people in the city losing
their churches.
I passed.
Hardhearted, I announced that, in my opinion, these people should
have done the sensible thing a long time ago and merged into one or two urban
congregations.
At this our roles reversed completely, my cynical colleague
quietly reminding me that these were the sacred buildings in which these people
had been baptized, married, blessed and renewed weekly.
He doesnt even go to church.
Me, maybe I go too often. I am heartily sick of hearing about the
hole in the roof, the leak in the basement pipe, the need to restore the organ.
These are necessary and costly repairs, but -- perhaps because parishioners
like me are so reluctant to hear about them the balance often tips. The
hole takes precedence over the holy.
From what Ive heard, the early church lived unhampered by
possessions or habitations. They worshipped in each others homes or in
whatever safe room was open to them. Their idea of capital
improvements had more to do with living and spreading the good news.
This, no doubt, is an idealized view; they were probably paranoid,
rootless and transient paving the way for us, centuries later, to become
complacent, root bound and moribund. Today, modifying a beloved church is worse
than hammering theses to its door. Figuring out that you cant afford to
sustain a sprawling old church every 10 city blocks is as unsettling as
converting to Zoroastrianism.
Surely the diocese could afford to infuse these city churches with
operating funds, my friend pointed out, assuming the usual
trove-in-the-catacombs. No doubt they could, I agreed but at what cost?
Surely there is more important work to do than fix vast roofs to shelter three
stubborn souls.
Laudably stubborn souls, loyal to the end, he countered. They
responded to the sacred symbols of those spaces, and they are fighting to
preserve them. What if Europe had shrugged off history and art, and allowed its
old cathedrals to disintegrate?
These arent cathedrals, I sighed. These are neighborhood
churches, grand old brick remnants from a different time. I, too, would like to
see the city filled with fat-walleted churchgoers again, and those old red
bricks sandblasted into glory. Id also like to see the old movie theatres
and independent bookstores preserved, not to mention the art nouveau office
buildings.
But if what is important about going to church is the building
where youve always done it, then my grade school catechism about
church is not a building was way off base.
Too often Ive fought for things because I personally thought
they had a value society was missing. I fought for obscure abstract art to
receive public funding; I signed (twice, whod count?) a petition to keep
an expensive five-student graduate program in medieval history. Now, age is
turning me into a supply-side cynic more interested in sustainability than
preservation for its own sake.
There ought to be a certain ebb and flow to such things, Ive
decided, and the ebbs, especially, ought to be dictated by the needs of the
times. How else can we figure out what were evolving toward?
So maybe people in love with one particular golden shard of
history will have to specialize on their own, out of sheer love of their
subject, instead of getting a tenure-track professorship to teach it. Maybe
those of us whod like to spend our time writing philosophical essays
about human nature will have to get a day job. Maybe parishioners will have to
forge a new sense of community in an unfamiliar church building with other
city-dwellers in the same boat.
Maybe it will become an ark.
Jeannette Batz is a staff writer for The Riverfront Times,
an alternative weekly newspaper in St. Louis.
National Catholic Reporter, September 24,
1999
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