There’s a body at the foot of the church bell tower, slumped on the concrete stairs. The same stairs where they blow bubbles after a wedding. The stairs with a removable center rail so the coffins can get in and out. Near the spot where I would sometimes greet folks on the way out of Sunday service.
I don’t see any movement besides a trickle of blood headed toward the street. From this height I can’t tell if he’s alive. He looks vaguely familiar, like someone I met forever ago or saw in a dream. Maybe someone I knew from seminary? I hope when the morning AA meeting gets out someone will find him. But maybe no one else will notice for a long, long time.
It is quiet downtown this time of day except for the chatter of the chimney swifts as they leave their roosts somewhere above me, flitting through the gaps in the chicken wire in the tall open-air widows near the top of the tower. My temporary paralysis fades and I back away from the ledge, suddenly aware that I don’t know how I got up here.
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The first time I saw the church tower was not long after they emailed me about the position. We were on our way home from visiting family when we pulled up to the four corners of the small town I had only vaguely heard of. We turned left, and up ahead a few blocks was a soaring brick bell tower attached to an aging, rambling church building. The tallest building in this once-proud mid-sized New England town. I looked up and had one overriding thought.
I had long prepared for, dreamed of, and prayed about being a pastor in New England, despite most of a lifetime of having zero interest in any kind of leadership. But after years of preparation and anticipation, that was all I wanted. So when a church finally showed interest in me and my resume, I had to take a look before I replied to their email. It was only a 30 minute detour through the rolling mountains.
I got out of the car, craned my neck to get a better look at that tower proudly scraping the clear sky. And all I could think of was: “Oh heck no.” Or, to translate into my current parlance: “Oh fuck no.” This was far too much for the likes of me. A little white clapboard church on a gently sloping hill outside of town would be much more manageable. Dear God, give me something smaller, simpler.
After a lifetime of being told not to trust my feelings, I didn’t.
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The first sermon I delivered at Churchill Baptist was my “tryout” not long after I met with the search committee. Apparently my performance at the interview didn't bomb as much as I'd feared. So as my introduction to my future congregation, I turned to the fifth chapter of the gospel of Luke and told the good people of Churchill Baptist Church that “Jesus, the great fisherman, is fishing for you, and calling you to come fish too.” Not my best, but not my worst either. Nothing could be worse than my former classmate's legendary sermon titled "God Loves Big Buts" which was apparently a study on conjunctions.
Though inexperienced, I was becoming a good preacher. I exegeted the scriptures in the ancient languages, which I boiled down to a pithy phrase and three memorable points carefully applied to everyday life. Tried to make it helpful and hopeful. Scholarly to a degree, but with love and humor. Passionate, compelling and presented with PowerPoint. I put my mind and heart into it each and every week, and poured out my soul on Sunday for all to see. Maybe I took it a little too seriously.
The congregation, mostly populated by elderly and middle-aged ladies, were apparently delighted with that first sermon, although in retrospect I think most of them had little interest in what I was saying. As life-long church-goers with very little exposure to actual Bible teaching, my approach was certainly new to them. Yet I knew that if God's Spirit was moving hearts, good things could happen: sometimes because of, but sometimes despite of, what was said from the pulpit.
It didn’t hurt that I was young but not too young, had a “nice family” and, most importantly, was willing to move to a small, declining town to take on the project of leading a small, declining church into a new, vibrant era.
My deep conviction for the mission of revitalizing an aging church (and my strong drive to be liked) gave me the strength to turn on enough charm to win a near unanimous congregational vote: 47-1 (there's always one holdout). Not even finished with seminary, though with a bit of so-called "life experience", I was suddenly the next pastor of Churchill Baptist Church.
A few months later during my first week on the job, at one of the first quiet moments at the end of the day, I made my way to the top of the aging bell tower. The chimney swifts were returning to their nests somewhere inside, hovering for a moment before falling in a graceful flutter.
The view from the tall open-air windows wasn't nearly as intimidating as the view from the curb.
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Bob Wiegers is a former pastor, recovering IT worker, and emerging writer and artist. He lives in New England with his family and one very small dog. His website is bobwiegers.com