This is a rural Presbyterian church in Washington County. It’s an old, old congregation, founded in the 1700s—though this building dates to 1872. This church was a significant spot on the frontier during the Second Great Awakening, and you might still catch a whiff of that old backcountry revivalism in the old churches that stand sentinel among these broad green hills.
I was here for the funeral of a once-dear friend from long ago, who died at the age of 49, leaving behind a wife and three children—the youngest just 10 years old. His was the kind of death that people don’t talk about…not a suicide, but a “death of despair,” as they call them these days. My friend had deep, deep roots in this place—one of the smartest people I’ve ever known, but so profoundly and inextricably a part of this soil to which his body has been returned. Over 2 decades ago, when his first daughter was born and we were both in seminary, he asked me if I’d come here to this church to fill in for him at the Sunday morning church service. He was their student pastor at the time. I still had horrible stage fright back in those days, so demurred…and forever regretted it. I really should have worked up my courage and helped the guy out. And now? Now these 22 years later, I came at last to this same old brick church on a hill, not to preach, but to see my old friend laid in the ground.
One of the first things I do in any church I visit is look to see which hymnals and pew Bibles they use. The books here are standard fare for rural Western Pennsylvania.
In a surprising twist of liturgical awareness, the simple windows of this far-flung house of prayer are colored according to the seasons of the church year: red for Pentecost, white & gold for Easter and Christmas, green for ordinary time, and purple for Lent and Advent.
The little chancel is bedecked all in red for Pentecost…which was once a holiday as big as Christmas. Or maybe I should say that Christmas was once a holiday as small as Pentecost.
The pews are divided down the middle so that women can sit on one side and listen to the sermon while men sit on the other side and nod off to sleep. Of course, nowadays, anyone can sit anywhere. I mean, you’re technically allowed to sit anywhere, but folks in these old country churches always sit in their same regular spots each week on Sunday morning. You have to be careful not to take someone’s unofficial seat by accident. People often mark their territory with cushions and boxes of Kleenex. But honestly, this room probably seats 200, and I’m sure it needs less than a fifth of all these seats. There’s LOTS of room to spread out…
A clergyman from an old Scotch-Irish family will always have the bagpipes at his graveside.
And this? This is our local parish up near my camp.
I’ll probably be seeing more of this place in the days ahead, though I don’t get many Sundays away from Pittsburgh. It’s dark on the inside but still a place with a bright feel about it. Of course, up here in the North Country, all these little churches had oil money—unlike the above church in Washington County, which surely had some wealthy shopkeepers and dairy farmers, but little if any income from the coalfields that surround it. There’s a whole different feel up here in the rural northwest part of the state, as compared to the green hills in its southwest corner. The north seems more…industrialized.
No comments:
Post a Comment