The Archdeacon: Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Some Bad News for St. Osmund’s

“So, you are not going to fight for me then,” she said.

“Christa, I would always fight for you. It’s just that I cannot recommend that St. Osmund’s be kept open.”

There was a moment of silence between them.  Although it had taken him some time to get to this last visit in Milbank Deanery, Christa was the only one with whom he openly discussed the future of her parish.  He did not feel he could play any coy games with her. They had known each other for too long and they had shared too much.  Christa knew the truth anyway.  She knew that her parish, once a thriving cardinal parish in the town of Midway and now a shadow of its former self, could not survive.

For those who are not ordained, it may not be easy to understand how devastating it is for a priest to see their parish closed.  It’s personal. Clergy feel the weight of the success or failure of a parish so profoundly upon their shoulders that it cannot be otherwise. While they place much of that burden on themselves, lay people, bishops, and fellow clergy also play a part in laying on the burden.  When a new priest arrives at a struggling parish there is so much expectation, so much optimism, so much hope that the right person can turn things around.  In rare cases, the right person, with the cards falling in the right way, might be able to pull a rabbit from a hat.  However, for most of us, the burden is more than we can bear. We cannot single-handedly halt and reverse demographic shifts, control the housing market, birth rates, the scheduling of hockey practices on Sunday mornings, or ban Sunday shopping. Nor can we compete with the evangelical charlatans just up the road, who have all the answers, whose parking lots are always full, and with whom we are invariably always compared.  Yet, there is ever the hope that when a new priest comes to a parish, especially if they are young and energetic, that they be that one magician in a thousand who will come and work their magic and save the church.

Such were the expectations on Christa Clement when she arrived at St. Osmund’s, oh those many years ago. She was young and smart. She was a fine preacher and able administrator. She was full of energy and she was attractive.  She had a brilliant mind and was “all in” for the work that lay ahead of her.  She seemed to have it all. What she did not have was the ability to ban snowbirds from traveling to Florida every winter.  She could not keep the skiers off the ski hills on snowy weekends.  She could not prevent the cottagers from enjoying their summer properties from May to October. She could not close down arenas, or shopping malls, or all the other things upon which we place a higher priority than attending our parish church. She was now in middle age, so adding a couple of babies to up the Sunday school numbers was no longer possible, either.

Many who attend church semi-regularly, also give to the church semi-regularly.  However, the bills still come into the parish regularly. The people of St. Osmund’s were, on the whole, a well-to-do lot. They travelled and cruised; they cottaged and golfed; they skied and dined, but they were not exceptionally generous with the church, and it showed.

The roof on the big old church was now in need of being completely redone, which would cost well over $200,000.00. A building inspection had recently revealed some very serious foundation damage and decay.  The stained glass windows on the south side of the building were bowed and warped from the heat of the sun and all of them needed to be removed, reset, and reinstalled. The organ was on its last legs – the organist needing to avoid certain notes due to ciphers – and the two large boilers were quickly coming to the end of their life.  As a building alone, the church had seen better days.  While the parish list was large, as can be imagined, Sunday attendance was small. It had cost so much to keep the church going that there was significant donor fatigue and the faithful remnant were getting tired of pumping their own money into the place. They expected the diocese to bail them out, after all, they were pouring money into little places like Fr. Fairview’s country parish.  This was a cardinal parish. Surely the diocese would not let it disappear.  They were wrong.

“Christa, you have tried your best with this place, with these people. It’s not about you, maybe it’s not even about them. Nothing is forever. Maybe it’s simply time.”

Her head was down. The weight of the place sat so heavily upon her and she was devastated. She loved those people, with all their flaws. She had been with them for years, buried so many of the old saints, journeyed with so many families in times of crisis and joy. She could not bear that thought of losing it all. She even loved that crumbling old building, with all its bumps and bruises. She hated the idea of being the priest that closed the place. She hated the idea of being seen as a failure by the people, by the bishop, by her colleagues, and yes, by the Archdeacon whom she loved. So much had been entrusted to her. So much of her life and spirit was in that place, and she felt like a thorough failure.

The Archdeacon knew all of this. She didn’t need to explain any of it to him. He knew her well, and he knew the parish well. He didn’t need to walk around the old crumbling building, or to see its financial statements and vestry book to know that church needed to close. 

He also knew she was far too good a priest to be wasted on such a place. He could see that, even though she could not.  When we are failing in a church it feels so all-encompassing, as if the whole world were just that parish, and if it all goes off the rails, it feels like we lose everything. He understood that, but knew she could find life in another place.  He was not being cruel by recommending the closure of her parish; rather, at least he felt that she ought to be given the opportunity to flourish, to use her wonderful gifts, to thrive in another ministry, a new ministry.  He wanted to see her come to life and thrive again.

What he failed to understand is that she was thriving at St. Osmund’s.  Yes, the future of the parish was bleak, but that did not mean that she was failing.  Even under the weight and pressure of it all, she loved it. She was happy and contented there. The people did love her, and she did good ministry every single day. The numbers did not reflect it, nor did the offerings, but she was a good priest – perhaps not a perfect priest – but she was a very good priest, indeed. Everyone knew this but there were bigger considerations at play.

“I get it, Tom. The church sits on some prime real estate.  If it were sold, the diocese wouldn’t have to deal with all the problems with the building, and they could get a nice sum of cash to pour into some more viable ministry somewhere else. This town hasn’t needed two Anglican churches for years. I get it. But it still hurts; and hurts that you are the one doing this to me…to us.”

He was without words. He had already submitted his report to the bishop before he had met with Christa.  He knew what had to be done. He didn’t need to visit the parish to know that. He didn’t need to interview Christa to know that. Nothing needed to be confirmed to him. He knew that if he did not submit his report before he saw her, that he would be tempted to relent.

“It’s done,” he said.

“Yes, I believe it is,” she replied and got up and left the room.

...THE ARCHDEACON CONCLUDES ON MONDAY.