Today was the annual All Saints' Day service at my church. It's a day for remembering the congregants who are no longer with us. The Saints. Dad passed away five months and one day ago, and was among those honored. I think he might cringe a bit at being deemed "saintly," although it is true that he always lived his life guided by an honest will to be a Good Person, on the principle of leaving the world a better place than he found it. He always lived his life as if he were leading by example, and worked hard at making sure the way he paved was a sure one.
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Not to be irreverent or anything, and completely off topic, BUT.
I went to look up quotes about "saints" to use as a title for this post, and there, smack in the middle of a plethora of words waxing beatific, was this:
"We're going to make every effort to keep the Saints as Louisiana's team."
~ Paul Tagliabue
It made me laugh. I opted to go with one from Anne Sexton, instead.
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I grew up in this church, as did my father before me. He started attending when he was in junior high, as I recall it, and quickly formed a very strong bond with Dr. Truman Potter, the Lead Pastor at the time. Dr. Potter and his wife, Skipper, became like an extra set of parents to my dad. They opened up their home to him and his friends, feeding their seemingly bottomless appetites and offering a safe place to ask life's big questions. Dr. Potter entrusted my dad with a key to the church's activities building, with its gym on the top floor, and Dad would spend hours there every day, sometimes by himself, honing his already perfect jump shot, other times organizing scrimmage games with kids from the neighborhood.
My father blossomed into somewhat of a superstar in his high school years, and ended up as a highly recruited basketball player. His relationship with Dr. Potter was invaluable during these heady, confusing times, a fact I know because tales from this period were among the many stories Dad shared with us, repeatedly, even in his final days. One night, Dad returned from a campus visit where the coach had dangled a rather nefarious offer. If Dad would choose to commit to his team, this coach said, the school would also give a full scholarship to one of his classmates who would otherwise never even dare dream of the chance for a college education.
Dad struggled with this, mightily. He didn't want to attend this particular school, and he didn't like the coach - especially once he put him in this untenable position. But how could he turn down this opportunity for his friend? He took his problem to Dr. Potter, who listened, quietly and intently, and told Dad, in no uncertain terms, that it was going to be okay. Three days later, the classmate received a full scholarship to a very good college in Chicago, and Dad's dilemma was, just like that, no more.
I don't think Dad ever learned the details of how this all transpired, but he always knew who made it happen.
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Dr. Potter married my parents. He christened my brother and me. He was omnipresent in my life as a child, as our family was quite involved in the church. I have distinct childhood memories of looking at Dr. Potter, tall and bald, with studious looking glasses, a generous smile, a deep, melodic baritone of a voice, black robes flowing, and wondering if he were God.
It didn't seem so far fatched to my young and wide open mind.
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We went to Sunday School and then church, every week. Dad coached basketball. Mom taught Sunday school. My brother and I played basketball, were active in youth groups. Many of my parents' dearest friends were members, too, and their families were just an extension of our own.
In the early morning hours of Saturday, July 19, 1969, a horrific fire consumed the historic sanctuary of our beautiful, gothic style church. Seven fire companies descended on the blaze in an effort to save the building; at the end of the day, while they couldn't save the sanctuary, the activities/education building, the gorgeous chapel, and the bell tower were all spared significant damage. Still, the church was uninhabitable and we, the congregation, spent the next four years meeting on the campus of a local college.
I was six years old when all of this happened, and I remember it in vague chunks. The church was distraught, but determined, and what I mostly remember is the enthusiasm and excitement as the membership banded together to devise a plan to rebuild. Dad served on the building committee, and it was a role he took very seriously.
I remember one Sunday during this time with eerie clarity. My Sunday school class was taking advantage of a lovely day by sitting on the campus lawn by the river for our session. Dr. Potter wandered by, and a little boy in my class started asking questions about when we might return to our "real church." Dr. Potter smiled and said, "Son, church is not a building. Look around you at the people you are with today. Look around us at the people we are sharing this day and this fellowship with, here on the grass on this beautiful day. It doesn't matter where we gather to worship; it matters that we are together, and supporting each other, with God in our hearts. That is what "church" is."
I could swear I remember Dr. Potter's words verbatim, although it's more likely that I remember them in spirit. What I know without question is that those words made such a powerful impression on me. They form the foundation for my own spirituality even to this day. I never feel any particular guilt about not going to church, the building, to praise the Lord. Instead, I feel a certain gratitude knowing that my spirituality is just as real for carrying it in my heart.
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Still, it struck me today that this old building has a place in my heart, too. When we moved back to Charleston a couple of years ago and bought this house just three blocks from the church, I walked to services on the first Sunday morning after settling in. As soon as I opened the door, it felt like coming home.
My parents were married in the chapel, as were my brother and his wife, and me and my beloved. My father's ashes are interred in the old bell tower, now known as the All Saints' Columbarium. Standing just at the corner, I can look up to the mountain top cemetery overlooking the city and spot the gravesites of all four of my grandparents. I like to think they see me, too, and watch over me as I walk.
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As the new sanctuary was nearing completion in 1973, the church staff and membership began to hum with excitement. A decision was taken to hold the first service in the new sanctuary on Easter Sunday, despite the fact that the seating and finishing furnishings were not yet in place. On that day, the new sanctuary was packed - everybody was there.
My dad was feeling especially proud that morning of the work he and the other committee members had done. The new space was linear and contemporary, an intentionally stark contrast to the gothic style of the old sanctuary, and the remaining chapel and bell tower. It was meant to represent newness, a rebirth, while complementing the old. And for the most part, it succeeded.
For the most part.
On that first Sunday, as we all stood for Easter service, my very tall father felt a tug at his sleeve. He looked around, didn't see anyone, and focused again on the service at hand. But then, moments later, he felt the tug again. He turned around and saw a small, elderly woman standing just behind him. "Yes, ma'am?" he asked. "Can I help you with something?"
She looked up at him, completely unaware of who he was or his role in the thing, and said, lip curled, "Doesn't this place just make you want to vomit?"
Apparently, she was not a fan of the contemporary design.
This is another story I know by heart, by virtue of its repeated retelling, followed by a humbled chuckle, even forty years after it happened.
Humility.
That's a beatitude, isn't it?
If it isn't, it should be.
My father exuded it.
I could use more of it.
And see? There he goes again.
Still managing to guide me gently through life's lessons, just when I least expect it.
