{Another in my Lenten writing (or reading?) exercise, words about the word “room.”}
Tower rooms are fascinating places. The one at college housed the school’s carillon along with a panoramic view of the campus and surrounding Western Pennsylvania hills. The trip up there seemed both harrowing and maybe against the campus rules, except that I “legally” accompanied Cal Steck as he headed for the bells.
Another tower, another room: the tower of the church we attend now has the heavy rope that rings the church bell. More notably, that room was home to my Sunday School class when I was in 7th or 8th grade. It was a terrible space for learning; we were cramped and encircled by church debris…props from pageants, old books, and the ladder to that huge bell hidden from us by the water-stained ceiling. I’ve climbed up close to the tower’s bell, but not quite to the very top; it wasn’t safe.
Today, though, I write of a tower room that was at one time a pastor’s office. By the time I was called to the East Craftsbury Presbyterian Church in Vermont, the room had been long-abandoned. I never worked a minute in that room, choosing my study at the manse instead. (Yes, I wrote about that early in this series.) The ECPC tower room was a relic from days of yore, but also a reminder of the church’s faithful past. Anyone who is or has been connected with a church with an aging building can identify with this room, especially pastors, church officers, and educators. That’s because they’ve seen their own version of this space beneath the church bell. Some clutter.
First, the old books, including Bibles. Every old church building (and maybe newer ones too) have cupboards and closets bursting with volumes people are reluctant to toss. Bibles are especially hard to part with, even those of torn bindings, missing pages, and translations no longer helpful to modern readers. Then there are collections of out-of-date Sunday School curriculum. Better save it; might come in handy in the future, if we can’t find something new we can afford. We can skip over the references to dial telephones and AM radio. Piles of that literature, dusty and askew, remain on shelves for decades.
And I found that all that stuff in our Vermont tower room. Along with old posters, an ancient table around which students once learned Bible verses, and, the most interesting artifact: a 16mm Kodak Pageant projector that once belonged to anthropologist Margaret Mead. Turns out, she lived just down the road from the church in an old one-room school house. When the house was closed up and put on the market, that projector found its way to the church, whose doors I am told she had entered long ago. (I assume those visits were for speaking engagements, not for worship.) When I left that church for my next and last call, I was so tempted to carry that projector with me, the church having no use for it. But I left it there in the tower room, since that’s what most folks do: leave old things in old churches.
One more thing about the church bell overhead. I think that’s the church where folks said it was best to not ring it. The supports holding the bell in place were not to be trusted and any tugging on the rope or swinging of the bell might bring the bell crashing down. That situation was later remedied and the bell sang again. (I recall ringing it when the 9/11 terrorist attacks prompted all the churches to ring their bells at the same time to mark the occasion.)
Back to the room itself. Why was the room not used? Because of Vermont winters. Church services were on Sundays, except for times like Lent, Christmas, memorial services, and so on. There was no reason to fight the frigid temperatures by burning fuel oil during the week when meetings and other gatherings could be held in the warm manse. So, when I was pastor there, I only used the room for two things: to store my vestments (so I could change into them shortly before Sunday worship), and to signal to passersby that the church was alive and well (and not shuttered and abandoned as some rural churches were along the New England landscape). To accomplish that “signal” I maintained a light in the stained glass window that fronted the road.
It was just an electric candle, a 7 watt bulb left on at all times, but visible to those driving by at night, glowing behind that colorful glass. Maybe no one else paid attention to it, but it was important to me. On a dark winter’s night, sometimes with snow squalls circling the building, there was one small sign of life in the tower room window.
[The “one little candle” tradition is a custom for me and Joan. We consider a candle in each window at home a sign of welcome and peace. We carried that tradition from our Richmond home to the Vermont manse — and the tower room — and as I type this, I can see candles in the living room windows where we live, move, and have our being.]
I must add here that what I’ve written is not to be taken as a criticism of our Vermont church or any other congregation. Churches have messes, and if that is the only mess I recall from a decade there in that beloved congregation of ours (and it is) we are truly blessed!
Speaking of messes, I’ll be writing about our attic at some point. Judge not.
Peace, Grace, and Jazz! 