He was ready to join the church, a middle-aged man, married with a young son. In fact, he’d been a Universalist Unitarian preacher who had been pulled closer to the witness of Jesus and his church. He was theological, reflective, and ready. But he had never been baptized. In our conversation I explained how that works in our church. Adults kneel at the font when it comes time to administer the water.

He interjected, “I would really like to be baptized by immersion.”

This wasn’t about spectacle or drama. He wanted to be buried with Christ into his death and raised to new life. He needed the imagery of the tomb and the experience of washing in the water of grace.

“Well, we don’t have a baptistry, so I’m not sure how we make that happen,” I stammered back.

“How about the Roanoke River.”

I’m a Presbyterian. We don’t do that much water. And we have no expertise in river baptisms.

But, when the Spirit arrives, you say yes.

“We can do that,” I mused, “But we don’t do private baptisms. Baptism is about our collective belonging to one another in the church. We make promises to one another. Our session (the leadership body of the church) will need to approve a special worship service and everyone be invited. He agreed.

It had taken this man longer than the rest of his family to integrate into the congregation, so I worried he would get cold feet (pun intended) about the river baptism if we waited very long. The problem, though, is that it was already late September, and the Roanoke River would be getting quite chilly in the weeks ahead as would the air. Alas, we settled on the Sunday when we celebrated All Saints’ Day, the first Sunday in November.

In many churches, All Saints’ Day remembers those within the congregation who have died in the past year. The liturgical language is “entered the Church Triumphant.” That Sunday in November, therefore, we listed those names in our prayer before celebrating communion, tolling a bell after each one. Our hope is this act draws lives to mind before the living Church of what our priorities are and how we live in light of our death and the eternal promises of God. It is a day to grieve as well as evaluate our own faithfulness.

At the benediction, I reminded the congregation that they were all invited to Dave’s baptism at the Roanoke River that afternoon at 2:00 PM.

The week before our associate pastor and I had ventured to the river to find a spot where people could both park their cars and where we could successfully enter and exit the river. The bank is steep with many roots, rocks, and a great deal of slippery mud. We returned to that spot a few minutes before the service was to begin.

I had solicited wisdom from social media about performing a river baptism. Luckily I have many friends in believers’ baptism communities. They told me to point the body upstream as he went under the water. Lower him downstream, and you risk the current taking him away from you, and who knows where you’ll find him raised in glory! One preacher told me to be sure you’re upstream of any cattle, as you don’t want their evidence floating by during the sacrament. Several suggested wearing waders.

I couldn’t get behind the waders. If the candidate for baptism was climbing into the cold river water on this cloudy, fifty-six-degree day, then I would too. So I wore a white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and a cheap pair of black suit pants I’d bought at an outlet years before. I did wear Chacos.

About fifty congregants gathered at the river bank. Hugh brought his guitar and we sang, “Down to the River to Pray” and “Shall We Gather at the River.” We read scripture, had a prayer, and I offered a brief meditation. Then we guided Dave into the river for the baptism.

Dave is a tall guy, but with Matthew’s help we got him lowered in and raised to new life. Towels waited for us on the shore. There were hugs and tears.

Yes it was cold. Yes it was unnecessary. Yes grace is real without such rituals. But it drew the congregation from the sanctuary and into the city. It exposed them to grace in a way atypical for us. It illustrated those images that we recite in the prayers- cleansed from sin, raised to new life, grafted into the body of Christ. It cemented our ties in a new way. It spoke to the heart of who we are.

In my first month in my first call, I went to my initial Worship and Music Committee meeting at our Presbyterian Church. It was held in the church “parlor.” This is the room made up of antique couches with mauve upholstery, glass lamps that date back to the invention of the electric light bulb, a Wurlitzer piano in the corner a quarter-step flat, used in the 1970s for the Sunday school hymns and now to hold the extra copies of the “quarterly” Bible study lessons. Each member of the committee took a lumpy seat in the circle of furniture. They had notebooks and pens.

Seeking to mask my incompetence, I had a yellow legal pad and sat in the most uncomfortable chair. I remember it didn’t have arms. I was fully exposed.

Dr. John was chair of the committee and opened the meeting. He was gregarious and generous, kind and comforting. His ancestors had helped to found this church some 150 years before. He opened the meeting with prayer.

“Andrew, our previous minister really helped us grow in thinking more ecumenically, and so while we’ve been in between pastors, we have continued exploring how we can learn from other Christian traditions. Each of us has been researching topics, and I thought we’d open with sharing what we’ve learned.”

John began, “I’ve been searching for a good patron saint for our church.” He went on to describe three possibilities, but concluded, “The one I thought was best cannot be historically verified as a real person, so I will continue exploring and update you at the next meeting.”

Don’t change anything in your first year.

“Patron saint?” I wrote on my legal pad, eyes down, trying to keep a poker face. What did they think “ecumenical” meant?

Next was Sue. She was a retired music professor, with bifocals and a gray bob haircut. Sue’s job had been to explore the potential of a columbarium on site of the church. She talked about potential locations and sizes needed. I was familiar with columbariums at other Presbyterian churches, though a daunting possibility in my first month here.

“And to drum up interest, I’ve researched the cost savings for the columbarium versus traditional burial, and I think we can advertise it in the church newsletter.” She paused for dramatic effect, and then with exploding jazz hands exclaimed, “We’ll stash your ash for half the cash!”

A few smiles and general nods of approval. I was unsure if they were serious.

“A bit crude?” I wrote on my legal pad. I unfolded and refolded my legs.

Third in the circle was Libby. Libby was a local businesswoman. “Now, you know that Mr. Thompson carved the wooden cross at the front of the sanctuary from the old walnut tree that used to be on the church grounds. So I’ve been looking at removable crucifixes that could be attached so that we can honor his contribution but integrate this ecumenical element as well.”

Libby proceeds to pass around printed pages from a website that indeed sells attachable crucifixes. Dying Jesus in various sizes to match the proportions of your cross and sanctuary depth.

Now the empty cross is a pretty significant symbol of the Protestant Christian tradition. The cross is empty because Jesus is risen. We don’t keep Jesus on the cross. It’s a common way to talk about how our faith is rooted in the gratitude we know in our salvation known through the resurrection and not the guilt of our sin often associated with Christ’s atoning death. That doesn’t mean we aren’t committed to our Roman Catholic neighbors, but we do hold to our particular theological perspective.

I couldn’t stay silent, but I also didn’t want to offend the open-hearted, well-intentioned saints of this church. How could I address this concern without sounding like an arrogant know-it-all? I cleared my throat.

“Um, sorry to interrupt, but could you all tell me exactly why you want to attach a crucifix to the cross in the sanctuary?”

Silence.

Everyone’s eyes begin to cut to the others in the circle. I shifted from one broken lump of foam to another under the mauve upholstery of my armless chair, wishing for anything I could sink into so that I might disappear into the quiet.

Then smiles. Then great laughter.

“Gotcha!” Dr. John exclaimed. “I can’t believe we kept it going that long! I thought you’d catch on right from the start!”

Ecumenial. More like ecu-maniacal.

It wasn’t a call to change the world, to upend the social order, or reach unreached people for Christ. It was a call to tend the communion of saints gathered, to welcome in new people to the way of grace, to share the griefs and joys of life in the hope of resurrection. It was a call to prick hearts for justice, mold human action toward mercy, make an attempt to be people of forgiveness and reconciliation. It was a call to teach people to sing, to pray, to listen. It was a call to nurture souls in community that would bear witness and bear fruit within the community where God planted us.

I’ve been privileged to answer that call in two churches over these fifteen years, and overall, I have been able to live that calling. I love the Church. I love being a pastor. I get to be in every season of life all the time- welcoming babies and burying the dead, visiting with empty nest parents and those entering retirement, counseling young adults deciding on a career or preparing for marriage. I engage in social issues in the city, dream of new possibilities for peace and justice. I lament and rage but mostly am given the opportunity to abide and hope. I am not unique in this vocation. I have many colleagues who lovingly and joyfully live out this calling each day in vibrant faith communities.

What I could not foresee fifteen years was the speed of collapse of the Church in its institutional and cultural form. My denomination, the PC(USA) is half the number of people it was when I was ordained. We do not have enough candidates for ministry to fill open positions in local congregations who seek ministers. Our campus ministry, global outreach, and efforts at organizing new churches has severely decreased. Denominational seminaries enroll half the number of students they did when I attended, and few of those are seeking to serve in local congregations.

Stories of abusive churches, abusive ministers, difficult congregants and demanding expectations dominate the discourse in many regional gatherings and online forums. Conferences are organized around how to keep going with fewer resources, how to avoid burnout, how to keep the fire lit when life is so exhausting. We have become exceedingly capable of naming injustices and tearing down institutions and naming past sins. It is enough to question if the Church is worth sustaining.

There is validity to those stories.

But there are other stories. These are the stories of the local congregation- those men and women who rise on the Lord’s Day and climb in their cars and drive to the church. Those choir members who keep coming to rehearsal on Wednesday night. The Sunday school teachers with glue sticks and popsicle sticks. Those tireless mission workers who run the supply drive and cook at the day shelter. The people of prayer who call the sick, write to the grieving, bring the casserole to the family with a new baby.

My intent with this newsletter is to tell those stories. I have no solutions for the large-scale issues facing the Church, but I think any future we have begins by reclaiming the joy and hope of daily Christian life. Aren’t you tired of being told how exhausting life is? I will be telling those stories here, stories of my own ministry of real people who are responding to the call of the risen Christ in their ways. These are stories of failure, grace, routine, surprise, and hope.

My prayer for you reading this is that these are stories to sustain you in your Christian walk, to remember what makes the Church beautiful and fulfilling and an incredible gift to the world.