{We are touring forty sanctuaries in these forty days of Lent 2021, and today I offer a church that has some personal history. Admittedly, this reflection will be of far more interest to my kin than to the casual reader. My paternal grandmother was a Stanton, and my middle name is her “maiden name.” Some genealogical research connects us to Elizabeth Cady Stanton. Yes, she married a Stanton, but already was in the Stanton line! That bit of pride aside, we humbly go on to England.}

It’s common to speak of a church family. But today, I write about a family church.

In 2018 Joan and I visited some family heritage sites in England. This small village church is in Staunton-in-the Vale, Nottinghamshire, and has been for some time. It stands on the grounds of the Staunton Hall residence and was the family chapel. It is now the parish church for Staunton and Flawborough. The 1086 Domesday Book records a church and a priest in the village, but it is unclear if it was on the present site. Certain church features have been dated as far back as the 12th century.

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One description I read on line calls this a “Village church with rare Crusader tombs, Norman font and armorial hatchments.” As is the case with many or most churches this old, the building has some very old features, but has been severely modified over the centuries. One account complained about such modifications, questioning their necessity. Sounds familiar.  Here is what I found from one source focusing on Staunton history:

“The nave and chancel were rebuilt in 1859, and the north aisle and chancel are 14th century. The church contains tombs of the Staunton family who have lived next to the church since 1066. On the inside walls are hatchments with the coat of arms of ancestors who lived and died here, mainly in 18th century. The Rood screen [dates from] from 1530.” Even earlier, circa 1172, there is the ancient font, and restored south doorway, suggesting a 12th century rebuilding.

Speaking of the Staunton family, further research provided this gem: the local Staunton family, which has resided in the area since the Norman Conquest and possibly before, [makes] them one of the oldest families in the country continuously living on its own estate. (Another sidebar: the name Staunton was originally Stanton.] Further, the pages of “The Heart of Midlothian,” written while Sir Walter Scott was a guest at Staunton Hall, contain pen pictures of Staunton-in-the-Vale, under the pseudonym of Willingham. [And there’s this fun fact: Joan and I once lived in Midlothian…but the one in Virginia!]

A view toward the rear of the sanctuary

The first parish churches were not built by the ecclesiastical hierarchies, but by the local lords. A website called “Britain Express” explains:

“It is speculated by historians that parish boundaries were originally those of Saxon manors. The extent to which the church parish and the local lord’s authority overlapped is apparent when you consider that before the Norman invasion one of the accepted ways of becoming a thegn [thane] was to build a church, especially one with a tower (the tower was a defensive measure against the threat of Danish invaders).”

All that is very interesting, but more to the point here, for me, is the very idea of walking the same aisle that my ancesters walked toward baptisms, weddings, coffins, and that altar with its sacramental meal. I stood in the pulpit there, just to pose, where some Stanton clergyman stood to preach. (I pause each time I type those male terms, but there sure weren’t any women in that pulpit back then…the church’s loss.) In the U.S. we may sit in the same pew a grandparent occupied, or be married where our parents wed. But our country is still relatively young and those sanctuaries in Europe that we visited held such deep traditions within ancient walls. We went into many churches we were able to connect with our family history and each time we wanted to linger longer than time allowed.

I took few photos of this sanctuary itself, centering more on the coats of arms, hatchments, and the organ. The church is still used, but I didn’t see signs of life beyond worship. That is not unlike some of the churches in our own cities and towns, some of them once large congregations where nurture, mission, and outreach were hallmarks of thriving faith at work. When I retired, I was on the local “supply list,” filling in for pastors on vacation or study leave, or just filling an empty space on a dying church’s Sunday calendar. Most don’t want to admit they are dying, though their members admit their glory days are way behnd them. Empty bulletin boards and vacant nurseries, inactive committees and few active members — signs that such churches are sick unto death. A church that has little to celebrate but its place in history will sing more songs of lament than praise.

As we tourists enter such chapels and churches, we may use words like “quaint” or “awesome” to describe such houses of worship. But when the psalmist sang, “How lovely is thy dwelling place, O Lord,” the word had more to do with the activity of God and God’s people than nostalgia. (Imagine the psalm saying, “How quaint is your dwelling place…!) The 84th Psalm sings of the joy, of exhuberant anticipation of entering into the presence of God. One of my teachers, James Luther Mays, notes that one’s yearning for the presence of God indicates that faith must take the form of movement. A thriving faith is a driving faith! (That last line is mine; don’t blame it on Jim Mays!) Old buildings just sit there. The faithful church must push its adherants to action. Service. Courage. Justice. And love. Love as an active verb.

All this is not to criticize this family church of mine. I just have to remember that amid the coats of arms and entombed forbears there, the font, altar, and pulpit must energize the community to not simply believe in Jesus, but believe him, trusting in his words and living into his call to extend grace and welcome and service to all.

{We are so very grateful to the current Staunton family that lives in the hall and provides stewardship of the property, thankful for their welcoming us to that touch of “home” in Nottinghamshire.}