Dying Church

Last year I created a painting that I called "Dying Church". Three months in the making, it is the most time-consuming piece of visual art that I have made. I meant to share it here with all of you a long time ago, but life gets busy, and to be honest I was a bit nervous about sharing it. "Dying Church" is meant to be thought-provoking and challenging - not a feel-good piece of art. And that's a bit intimidating! But I also think it is important to raise difficult questions, because that is a part of how we learn and grow. So with that preamble out of the way, I'd love to tell you more about my painting!

"Dying Church" was created as a multi-staged painting, with each stage accompanied by a short poem. To see all the stages and read the accompanying poetry, you can visit my website: leanewinger.com.

I created this painting as I wrestled with the question - Can a church die? How does that happen? And why would God let that happen?

This is the most evident in the walls of the church in the painting. They are literally crumbling and falling down, but no one seems to be noticing or doing anything about it.

The stained-glass windows tell us a little bit about this church. The righthand window symbolizes money, and the window beside it represents safety and security. While neither of these things are inherently bad, they become very problematic when they are idols being worshipped in the church. The centre window has itself been broken. Once, it represented social justice, but a social justice that obscured Christ, and neglected the centrality of what he did on the cross. It is a stark reminder that even good and important things can become idols that turn our hearts away from the One True God.

The accompanying poem ends in a very dark place:

dust rises
choking out the light
lost and empty, staring
into nothing

It reflects that hopelessness that I feel when I see just how broken and apathetic the church can be. But even in this ending, there is a glimmer of hope; a hope that can be seen if we return to the beginning of the poem:

out of nothing
everything
brilliant light
a voice

Because, you see, God can work with nothing. He's done it before. Even if we fail, and all our efforts and good intentions crumble away, that is not the end for God. He can do far more with our nothingness than we could ever imagine. Christ came so that we may have life, and sometimes before we can truly accept that we need to realize how dead we are, how helpless we are without him.

The theme of death and rebirth is found in the second stage of the painting - Nebula. Both the graveyard of dying stars, and the nursery of new stars, Nebulae are hauntingly beautiful, and a reminder that we do not need to fear death, because we know the maker of new beginnings.

Christ's sacrifice reaches even us. No matter how much we have failed, or how much we or our churches are falling apart. That is why we still have hope, because our hope is not in ourselves. Our hope is in our Creator God, who can make something out of our nothingness. Our hope is in Christ our Saviour, who died to give us life.

As a complete work, "Dying Church" is a sobering call for the people of God to wake up, to put away our idols, and to reach out to the hurting and disillusioned world that we have left outside our crumbling walls. It is a call to not turn our backs on the saving work of Christ, but to find our identity and hope in the one who gave himself for us and who can make us new.

Mommy Moments: Song Selection

Me: *playing Jesus paid it all on the piano*

4 Year Old: What are you doing, mommy?

Me: Deciding what songs we should sing at church on Sunday.

–One week later–

Me: *playing The lion sleeps tonight on the piano*

4 Year Old: We should sing that song at church, mommy!!

Me: ...

Sacrament

Cheerio off the nursery floor.
Holy sacrament.
Placed into cupped hands—
Take.
Eat.
His body given for you.

And the wine now turned to water
Poured out
From the sippy cup that leaks.
Drink it, mommy.

A sacred moment—
Enshrined in the holy of holies
Behind plexiglas windows.
Has anyone been missed?

Cheerio off the nursery floor.
Holy sacrament.

Disruptive Children

"Your kids are being very disruptive."

I don't think any parent likes hearing those words, but as the young woman returned haughtily to her seat, I was left reeling. How was I supposed to respond to that? It's not like I didn't know they were being disruptive. That is exactly why we sit up in the balcony at church—so that the boys can move and talk without making too much of a disturbance. This particular Sunday they were especially antsy. All that would stop them from trying to unplug the Christmas lights was running lengths back and forth on the landing at the top of the stairs. I was acutely aware of how noisy they were being, and I was keeping them as quiet as I could.

When that young woman came storming over to me like that, part of me wanted to respond very sarcastically: Thank you, Captain Obvious, I was not aware that my toddler is currently having a meltdown over not being allowed to play with electricity. Thanks for letting me know. But my annoyance was completely overshadowed by my embarrassment and shame. If one person is upset enough to talk to me like that, how many more people are resenting the presence of my rambunctious little family? I felt self-conscious, judged, and unwanted. A social leper. Feverishly, I redoubled my efforts to contain the boys. After Jesse took them to Children's Church, I sat alone, with tears in my eyes. I didn't know how to process what had just happened. I'm still trying to process it.

As the mother of two energetic little boys, I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later. It probably won't be the last time either. But as a recovering people-pleaser who is constantly aware of the emotions of others, it's really hard to know that other people are being bothered by my children. I don't want to be disruptive, I really don't. But I also want my children to be able to live without constantly being shushed and told to sit down. I want them to grow up knowing that they are valued members of the community, just the way they are—not second class citizens until they've had the enthusiasm of youth choked out of them. I also want to be able to continue to live my life, with my kids in it. I want to be able to sit with them in church, and go to events with them, and include them in things. So I guess that means there will be people who find my children disruptive. But I still feel pretty awful about it. I don't like bothering people.

As for the rest of my story, thankfully there were a couple of things that helped me get though the rest of the morning at church. It was a communion service, and one of the pieces that the pianist played during communion was from Handel's Messiah. That made me think of my favourite Aria from the Messiah, "He shall feed his flock":

"He shall feed his flock like a shepherd
And he shall gather the lambs with his arm
And carry them in his bosom
And gently lead those that are with young."

The memory of those words made me want to cry: and gently lead those that are with young. Oh, how us mothers of the young need that gentle hand! Stretched to our limit day after day to care for and raise these little ones who take every drop of love and attention and patience that we can give. By our own standards and the world's we so often fall short. But no matter how many voices of judgment and criticism there may be, our Saviour is gentle with us. And his is the voice that really matters.

After the service I was also able to talk with a friend who had seen the whole exchange. His indignation on my behalf helped me feel a lot better too.

Thankful

Not long ago, I received an email update from a friend who is a missionary overseas. As I was reading her email, one quote seemed to jump right off the page:

"The next step after a seed is planted is not fruit; it’s roots."

This quote helped me define exactly what it is that I am thankful for this Thanksgiving—roots. I am starting to grow roots, however slowly and tentatively. It feels like it has taken such a long time to feel secure enough for roots to start taking hold. And no wonder—in the ten years since I finished high school I have lived in ten different homes, across four different cities/parts of the world. I suppose that's the life of a student, but it always seemed like I would just start making friends and then have to say goodbye; I would just get used to my classes or work and then be moving on to the next chapter. But somehow, just recently, I am actually starting to feel like I belong where I am, like I have roots.

It is easy to become frustrated by a perceived lack of "fruit", feeling like I don't have many friends, like I don't belong, like I'm just surviving. But this quote helped remind me that things take time. We can't throw our lives together in a few days or weeks. Our lives are more like a garden—grown and cultivated over many years. It's so easy to see how far I have to go, but today I'm thankful that my roots are growing.

Part of me is terrified that something will happen, that things will change again, and I will again feel the pain of those tender roots being torn out of their soil. It has happened so often over the past ten years—so often that those roots that used to stretch out eagerly have become reluctant and tentative. But still, there they are.

The place where I have noticed these roots the most lately is at church. Jesse and I have been attending the same church for four years now—ever since we got married and decided that we wanted to find a home church. Last Sunday we had a communion service and there was a time of sharing when people from the congregation could stand up and share something that was on their heart. As I looked around the congregation, I suddenly realized that I felt like I was home, that this is my church, and my family. It was quite an overwhelming moment for me, because I haven't felt like that in so long.

I am very thankful for my church. It is not perfect, of course, but I see a community of people who are learning and growing and seeking to follow in the way of Jesus. It is a place where we have a voice and where we have something to offer. Jesse and I are still trying to make friends there—it is slow going, especially when so much of the congregation has been attending for so long and already has their friends and connections. But at least now when I look around me I see faces that I know. There are many whose stories I have heard, and many whose struggles I know and care about.

Sometimes it is easier to think about how it takes so long for roots to grow. Our Thanksgiving weekend is event-less, except for playing a game of D&D online with a friend. Our family is far away, and most people are busy with their own families. We keep trying to make new friends and connect with old friends who are still in the area, but it always seems like everyone is too busy. But this Thanksgiving I want to focus on the roots that I have been growing, however slowly it may be. I am thankful to finally be home.