Since the beginning of the new year, on Tuesday and Thursday mornings I had decided to join the Daily Devotions meetings of my church. At 9:00 a group of 8 to 10 congregants usually meet on Zoom to read from Our Daily Bread, a booklet of devotions with the Scriptural verses for that reflection. This past Tuesday, I joined promptly at 9:00 and immediately noticed how our leader, Mark, was visibly upset, so unlike his usual jovial manner. He was nervous, agitated, and finally he said gravely, “The church is on fire.”
“You are kidding,” said Janet in disbelief. “No, I’m not.” Mark explained how he was called this morning by another church member who somehow was notified by another person with a Ring doorbell about the fire. Another devotion group leader, John, sped off to see the church. Mark put John on speaker phone, as John described how the flames of the fire were burning through the roof in the back of the church. “It looks to me like the roof is collapsing,” John said. The remaining devotion group decided we could not continue, quickly lifted up the church in prayer, and left the meeting.
Tears were welling in my eyes and my heart tightened into grief. I felt I couldn’t breathe as the shock of the news overwhelmed me. I really couldn’t believe it. How could this happen? I didn’t think Mark was joking about such a serious matter, but I needed to see the church. In this instance, I was a Doubting Thomas, unwilling to believe the truth until I could see it with my own eyes. I wanted to symbolically touch the hands of Christ. I called up a friend who would pick me up at 10:45. We headed down Grove Street and as we neared the church site at Tuxedo Road, several fire engines had blocked off the road. We were able to park on Grove and then walk to the church. By 11:00 the fire had been mostly extinguished, and several firefighters were sitting in the road, relaxing after a hard battle with the fire. Carmen and I walked towards the church. The perimeter had been taped off and no one except for the firefighters could get near the church. In the distance I could see a corner of the roof missing, with some blackened beams sticking up into clouds of smoke rising upwards to the sky,
Turning the corner onto Tuxedo Road, we saw some church members standing on the grass and staring at the church. Immediately, we went over and hugged them. A choir member whispered in my ear, “The choir loft is gone, the organ is gone…” Hearing those mournful words, I felt a wave of sorrow, as if I had discovered that our child was missing. I thought of so many Thursday evening choir practices, of the Christmastime performances of Bach’s cantatas, of the springtime Gospel services. Those rich, melodious organ music tones would never be played or heard again.
The pastor and the secretary, who had been there from the morning, came over and we hugged one another. We all knew that no words could express our deep emotions of pain and heartbreak, only the silent hug of a seeming reassurance that we felt the sorrow that we all shared in.
And then, I turned and faced the wall of the church, the stones still standing firm. But oh, those windows! Where there were once beautiful stained glass Biblical scenes, nothing remained but empty space through which I could see the blackened inside of the sanctuary. The words of Edgar Allan Poe came to mind, “The eyes are the windows to the soul.” Those windows had been the beauty and glory of the church. The exterior stones were solid and plain, but the stained-glass windows were like gorgeous jewels. It seemed to me now that they had been gouged out by the rapacious flames and there was nothing but hollowed out eyes now. It was both sad and horrifying.
When I lose something precious, I feel a sense of remorse that I took that thing for granted, that I did not appreciate it, that I did not stop to notice it enough. Now I felt so remorseful that every Sunday, whenever I entered the narthex and received the order of worship program, I did not stop for a few minutes to admire the stained-glass windows there. I was too much in a hurry to sit down, or greet friends, and find a seat. I do not even remember what the scenes were, and now they are gone. Irretrievably lost!
All the many losses melded into a stone weight on my heart as I walked back to the car. I felt thankful to my friend who drove because honestly, I don’t think I could have had a steady enough hand and heart. Later that afternoon, I received a email from the church. There was going to be a prayer meeting at the Presbyterian Church of Upper Montclair (PCUM) in the evening at 7:00 PM. My friend offered to pick me up again, but this time, I had offered to pick up a friend if she wanted to go. I waited for her answer, but in the end, she declined. I went alone.
PCUM is a beautiful church very close to my home. I sat with other friends and felt grateful that PCUM opened its doors to welcome us. All afternoon, I felt the impact of losing a spiritual home that I had been attending since the 1980’s. My children had grown up in Grace Church, my daughter had been married there, and I had grown in my Christian walk of faith there. But “there” was no longer a place we could enter. The fire department had taped off the church premises.
After Pastor Robin’s moving meditation and prayer, the floor was open to everyone to speak whatever was on their hearts. The first person to speak was a mother in Glen Ridge whose children attended the church school. Her daughters had decided to have a lemonade stand to raise money for the church. Amazingly, they raised $600! When I heard this heartwarming news, I thought of the miracle of the loaves and fishes and the parable of the mustard seed. Even the children’s small cups of lemonade could be used to begin the rebuilding of the church. Then the captain of our church Deacons spoke of rays of hope: the wooden cross anchored outside the church was still standing and the church’s walls and bell tower were not damaged. Could there be any greater message than the crucifix proclaiming that, despite the fire that had raged within, our faith still remained, steadfast and unwavering for everyone passing by to see. The treasurer of the Deacons’ Fund stood up. He spoke with certainty and conviction that the Deacons would agree to donate this special fund whose purpose was to benefit emergency needs of individual congregants. If ever there was an emergency, the time was now. One after another, people expressed how much the church meant to their lives and how they were willing to do what was necessary towards its rebuilding. What an uplifting outpouring of support and caring!
As we sang the hymn “How Great Thou Art,” with all our being and spirit, I was overwhelmed with gratitude, realizing that we were not alone in our struggles. Other bodies of believers were willing to come by us and stand with us. The body of Christ was not just our congregation confined to the walls of a church building, but outflowed among the community, the town, and beyond. The legacy built up by generations of saints before were seeds planted that had taken root and continued flourishing decades beyond. The original people may have moved away to other churches and other states, but there is always a remnant that will be nourished by faith. We are the children of God and He will never abandon us. We do not have to worry or fear, just believe that God is with us and that He is working to bring about good from bad circumstances.
I went to the prayer meeting with a sad, heavy heart in a spirit of grieving and mourning. I emerged with a thankful heart and a spirit of celebration and acceptance! Hallelujah!
“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” Romans 8:28
“Because of the Lord’s great love, we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning: great is your faithfulness.” Lamentations 3:22–23
Emy Kamihara, August 17, 2023