L. Gail Irwin - Toward the Better Country: Church Closure and Resurrection

Church Closure and Resurrection

L. Gail Irwin

Foreword by David Schoen

From one person, and this one as good as dead, descendants were born, as many as the stars of heaven and as the innumerable grains of sand by the seashore.

All of these died in faith without having received the promises, but from a distance they saw and greeted them. They confessed that they were strangers and foreigners on the earth, for people who speak in this way make it clear that they are seeking a homeland. If they had been thinking of the land that they had left behind, they would have had opportunity to return. But as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God; indeed, he has prepared a city for them.

Hebrews :

My Churchs Story

I grew up in the heyday of the mainline church, in a growing suburb of Los Angeles, among nuclear families living in the burgeoning subdivisions that replaced the avocado orchards of an earlier time. My church was a product of the new era. Started in 1960 , my parents were charter members. The United Church of Christ was a young denomination, and the church attracted mobile, upper-middle-class Christians moving to California, who populated its sprawling Sunday School wing and married in its romantic contemporary sanctuary. I remember busy classrooms that smelled of paste, crowded Christmas programs, and youth group meetings attended by dozens of students.

When I entered seminary in the mid 1980 s, I presumed the church I was devoting my life to would be similar to the one I grew up in. But by the time I was ordained a few years later, I felt the culture shifting in ways I could not predict. I moved to the Midwest and accepted a call to a small-town congregation where I did everything I was taught to do: taught confirmation class to teenagers, married young couples, and buried the dead. The church didnt grow, but it held its own as the elderly passed away and new families moved in. Reading the news and feeling the pulse of culture, I had the sense that change was on the horizon, but in that small town, the cyclone of history didnt touch down very often. I immersed myself in the daily routines of ministry, and I loved it.

About a decade later, at the turn of a new century, I asked God for a new challenge. God obliged and sent me to a small, urban church that was on the brink of collapse. Started in 1960 , like my home church, its founders had high hopes for it to grow into a large, suburban program church. Based on the history of American churches up to that time, this wasnt a far-fetched dream. But for many reasons, that dream did not take hold. The suburban housing developments that sprang up in the area put this church off the high-traffic roadways. The pastors chosen were perhaps not equipped with the skills needed to grow the church after its initial burst of energy. The congregation had no partners in its denominational family to offer support; instead, it was seen by neighbor churches as competition.

In the early s, when the church had reached its peak of about members, they called in a consultant who advised them to leave their location and purchase land for a building more visible from a major highway. Instead, they built an addition, including a larger sanctuary and office space.

With the new addition built but not yet paid for, the church began to spiral into decline. A previous pastor was accused of sexual misconduct. Another was blamed for poor handling of the accusation. In the mounting tension, members jumped ship, leaving the small church saddled with betrayal and debt.

When I arrived at this church as their pastor, they were depressed and listless. Their membership had plummeted, and there were about forty worshipers each week, barely enough to pay my half-time salary, manage the building, and provide basic programming. But when the option of closing surfaced in conversation, it was not seriously considered. That would amount to giving up.

Despite their hard times, the church had a number of unusual assets. The leadership included several young retirees, local artists, and musicians who were passionate about the ministry. The congregation had effectively reached out to gay and lesbian Christians in the community and was known informally as a welcoming place for all. It was embedded in a neighborhood that was now more urban than suburban, a community experiencing ethnic and demographic change.

I spent several years rebuilding what I imagined was a functional faith community. Position descriptions were clarified for leaders. We paid off the mortgage. The Sunday School was revived and strengthened. I attended revitalization conferences held by my denomination. Spiritual formation became a new focus for us. A few new members joined. We shared our building with a Hmong congregation, a food cooperative, a drumming group, and an AA meeting. We came out of the closet as a church welcoming of gay and lesbian Christians. Although progress was slow, it seemed to be steady.

Then, about seven years into my tenure, worship attendance began to drop. For a struggling church like mine, such a sign was like the slowing of a heartbeat. Still, I was not willing to give up. Finally, I asked for a sabbatical. I wanted to explore what it might mean to do church in new ways. I went away for three months, studied the emergent church movement, and came back full of ideas.

When I returned, it was September, 2008 , the month that insurance giant AIG collapsed and the stock market came down with it. Almost immediately, I could see the church was sick. It was like returning home to find a familiar parent aging in unfamiliar ways. My little congregation was showing all the signs of impending death. They turned inward and communicated in hushed tones. Committees began to function outside their normal boundaries. Programs were planned, but no one would show up. When I tried to get people to talk about what they were experiencing, they were silent.

Less than a year after my return from sabbatical, I was asked to resign. I had been with them eleven years. I had failed to help them revitalize, and now I was leaving without helping them close.

Throughout my tenure in that congregation, I sought professional and pastoral advice on how to love and pastor them through decline. Instead, I received a lot of advice about revitalization and church growth. But this was a congregation that had lost its capacity to grow. I knew I was beating a dead horse. What no one helped me with was how to lay the horse peacefully to rest.

This book is the outcome of my experience with that congregation, and the compilation of dozens of interviews I have conducted since then with lay people, clergy, and denominational leaders who have experienced the decline and death of churches. I have found Gods presence in the telling and hearing of stories like these, and I hope you will too. My goal is to help you reflect on what your church and denomination are experiencing in the day-to-day process of leading declining congregations. My intention is not just to help churches close with dignity, but to help them be resurrected as part of the universal church, in new forms that address peoples continuing spiritual longings, our hunger for justice and peace, and our cultures need for places of social engagement.

Your Churchs Story

If you have opened this book, you probably have already observed that the pews at your church are not as full as they used to be on Sunday morning. In fact, Im guessing that you have already spent significant energy on keeping your church open. You have spearheaded stewardship programs, walked the neighborhood with flyers, launched fundraisers and capital campaigns, or streamlined your churchs organizational structure. You are one of the first to arrive at a church function, and one of the last left folding up the chairs. Sometimes, you are the only one who shows up.