It was a
beautiful, sunny Sunday morning in New England.
Late summer is especially kind to the coastline of Connecticut. The air isn’t heavy anymore. It’s
bright and clear and fresh. It can dazzle your soul – if you’re outside.
I wasn’t. I had work to do.
Sitting on an old chair on the altar of an old church, I waited
patiently for my turn to speak to the pleasant congregation before me. As they
stared at the minister and then at the choir and then back at the minister, they
surely wondered who I was. But, they knew the drill. After all, not everyone
got to sit up there looking back at the people in the church. I must be somebody and they would find out sooner or later. Little did they
know this is the only way I feel comfortable in a church, so my back isn’t to the door.
It was about 45 minutes into the 8:00 o’clock morning worship service
and things were going well so far. We were in the final stages of a very
successful capital campaign for this exquisite colonial Church in Mystic, Connecticut. However, I
had a challenge ahead of me. In front of me were a few hundred people in a town
of several thousand who came to church on Sunday for no particular reason other
than habit, tradition and socialization. Most were there because it was a very
pleasant and proper thing to do on a nice Sunday morning. But, that mindset and
the culture that propagated it were clearly not enough to keep this church
alive and growing. For this place to become and remain a vibrant, influential
element of this community, the way it had been for the first one hundred years
of its history, the people were going to have to face the challenges ahead with
a different attitude.
If they didn’t, then this church,
like thousands of others across America,
was in trouble.
Gazing out at the people, half
listening to the announcement about the upcoming bake sale, I understood the
pressure on me and the importance of the little talk I was about to give. The
excellent people on the campaign committee were very clear about the points
they wanted me to make. But, it was up to me as to how I would make the message
powerful enough to stick. As I assessed the congregation that morning I knew it
wasn’t going to be easy.
The stakes were indeed high. This church had to move forward or it
would wither on the vine. They could not stand still. Keeping the status quo
wasn’t an option. The population of the church was aging and there would be no
one left in a few years. If they didn’t start actively investing in the church
right now, then its future would never be as bright as the magnificent skies
outside.
I said a quick prayer - yes, it had come to that - for God to
guide me in my words.
“And now, I would like to introduce
you to someone who has been working with our campaign committee for several
months behind the scenes.” That was me. My turn at bat.
I stood up and walked forward. I had
made some quick notes on the church’s Sunday Bulletin. I held it in my hand.
When I reached the podium I tucked the bulletin next to the Bible that was opened
in front of me. The microphone waited for me to speak into it. I tried to
remember what I had scribbled on the paper. Not a word came to me. Nothing. “Oh God,” I prayed silently, “please make this your message.” This prayer, while extremely helpful and
effective, is also the last bastion of a desperate public speaker.
Then, something occurred to me. I
thought about what my friend Andre had said to me a few years ago. I was
planning a January trip to Moscow
for a ministry I was working with at the time. I finally reached him on the
phone at his apartment near Red Square. “Hey,
Andre, what kind of clothes should I wear in the winter in Russia? I don’t
want to be cold,” I asked him. “No,” he said. “You are not cold in Russia in the
winter. You are either warm or dead.”
I knew exactly what he meant.
Sometimes you can’t afford to be cold, to stay in one place or be stagnant. You
either prepare for the cold, or you are dead from it. If you are not ready, if
you are caught unprepared, then it’s already too late. The cold will kill you.
You
are either warm or dead.
“My father,” I began, “was a gunner in a B-29 in the Pacific during
World War II.”
This is definitely not in my
notes.
“My stepfather was B-24 pilot. My Pastor, a radio man in a B-17.”
I have no clue where this is
going.
“My mother worked for the USO and in a factory in Hartford, making engine parts for airplanes.”
The only thing I knew after I said all this – because I certainly had no idea what I was going to say next – was that all the older
people in the congregation were not only paying attention, they were
smiling.
Okay, maybe I’m on to
something here.
“I’m telling you this because I want to speak to those of you who
are of their generation. I’m not excluding the rest of you. You can listen along.
But, there is something I have to say especially to those of you who came of
age when Franklin Roosevelt was President. You were raised in the Great
Depression. It has always been hard for me to even comprehend the scope of that
era. It was such a different world then. Perhaps it’s always hard for younger
generations to find a point of reference or commonality with days past. It was
difficult beyond anything that younger generations have ever known. That’s why
I am always amazed at the fondness I hear in your voices when you talk about
those days. Because every time you tell the stories, you speak with such
longing. Yet, all those stories begin with the same phrase, ‘We had nothing.’
“I don’t know what it is to have
nothing. Or to live in a nation of people who all have nothing. You were children, of course, but you were
growing up in smaller communities that looked after one another and supported
each other. You knew your neighbors, they knew you. You went to church on
Sundays and so did everyone else. You had each other to turn to in times of
trouble. You were not isolated or alone, but a part of a great struggle to
survive and make it through each day.
“Then, sixty years ago, began the
greatest open conflict in the history of the world. You took the character and
courage the Depression had given you and fought against the most powerful
armies on earth. Now, please understand that not too many things really hold me
in awe. But what you did during those years, well, I can’t even begin to
express my amazement. It’s not an overstatement to say that you, all of you,
men and women, saved the world.
“Then, you came home. And you built
everything. It was your generation that produced this modern nation. You
started the businesses, invented the machines, built the roads, bridges,
factories, and schools. Growing up, we just thought they had always been there.
What did we know? But, it was you. All along, it was all of you.
“It was you who had been molded as
children during the Depression, put to the test as young people during World
War II, and had the character to build a great nation as adults.
“And now, I stand before you to tell
you that I’m scared.”
I paused here because I was getting choked up. My stepfather had
died two years earlier and I was thinking of him. He was the pilot I mentioned
a few moments ago and everything I was saying now, was about him. His face was
right in front of me.
“I’m scared, because we’re losing you. And God help us all when
you’re gone.
“You have watched how the world has
changed. You have seen the worst and best of humanity. You have seen your
grandchildren growing up in prosperity and abundance. You have seen the ease at
which we go about our lives.
“And you know it can’t last forever.
“You know their day will come, because
you’re old and wise enough to know that it always comes. You know a time is
coming that will test their character. You know someday they will find
themselves in a crisis, and they will need a place they can turn to.
“Will they come to the church when
they are in peril? Will they look for answers here? And if they do, will they
find what they are looking for?
“I want to ask you something, you of
that great generation. Do you think we’re ready? Do you think we have what it
takes to face the dangers that lay ahead? You know they’re coming. You know
that day is coming when the people will show up at the door of this church,
looking for something. Hope. Safety. Shelter.
“Are we ready for that day when your
grandchildren realize the world is not as safe and secure as they’ve been lead
to believe?
“And is the church prepared to face
the consequences if we’re not ready for that day? What if they find us still
fighting with each other, still deciding whether or not to get new hymnals, still
gossiping, and still ignoring them? What if we are arguing politics instead of
agreeing that we are here to help people? What if we are all too busy clinging
to traditions rather than faith?
“What then?
“I just want to suggest that maybe
we should prepare for that day. Maybe we should focus on what is really
important. Put ourselves aside and serve the Lord and His people. He’s made it
pretty clear what we should do. He gave us His incredible Son as an example.
“So what are we waiting for?
“Should we wait for that one Sunday
when trouble comes and people we have never seen before are desperately looking for answers? Do we start then?
“I am only saying that, as a church, we must be absolutely ready
and totally prepared when the masses come through these doors.”
I had said enough. I thanked them
for their dedication and for allowing me to speak. Before finishing, I made a
quick glance at my scribbled notes on the bulletin in front of me to make sure
I didn’t miss anything. The only thing I remember seeing is the date on the
cover, “September 9, 2001.”
One week later,
that Sunday came. And we weren’t ready.
