by Jill Fandrich

In 2014, Joan Gray, a Presbyterian pastor and former moderator of the denomination, wrote a book called Sailboat Church. In it, she described two types of churches-- rowboats and sailboats.  Rowboats, she said, are controlled by the power of the people rowing. With enough strength, effort and determination, rowers can move the boat on a fairly straight path in the direction they want it to go, often working against forces which could take them in a different direction altogether. They might reach their goal, but they often exhaust themselves in the effort.  
​
A sailboat church, on the other hand, functions like a sailboat. A sailboat harnesses the power of the wind rather than the brute strength of the sailors. Those controlling the sails and the rudder are in sync with the wind and the water. Sometimes that means tacking back and forth, going sideways in order to go forward. Sometimes the trip can take a long time, because wind can change direction. Sometimes they end up where they didn’t think they were headed.

I read this book when it first came out six years ago. I liked the analogy but could see how in many ways our church was more of a rowboat than a sailboat. We had (and still have) capable, hardworking, and dedicated people who put a lot of energy and time into the work of the church. That’s a good thing, right? But were we putting all our effort into reaching destinations we chose, all the while fighting the tides which might take us elsewhere?

I have a confession to make. I’m a rowboat type myself. I like to feel in control. I like to have a destination and a plan. I don’t deal well with change. I definitely don’t like unknowns. I’m not afraid to work hard, and I like to work with others who do too. I never really liked sailing when my husband tried to teach me years ago. I couldn’t get the hang of reading the wind. It was scary to let the wind take control. I chafed a little when I read this book the first time. I didn’t want our church to be a sailboat church. I thought we were doing just fine rowing along.

Then 2020 happened, and I’m revisiting this analogy. This year, I’d rather be a sailboat than a rowboat.

What happens to boats when they are caught in sudden unexpected storms? Sometimes out of the blue, winds and waves can make a pleasant boat ride terrifying and dangerous. We were traveling along pretty happily in our boats when the pandemic hit in March, buffeting us against the rocks of isolation, job loss, loneliness, economic uncertainty, mental health issues, and change.

Dropping anchor in a storm isn’t a good choice for either rowboats or sailboats. At best, they don’t move, either forward or backward. At worst, they sink, allowing the boat to be washed over by waves.

Skilled sailors have a better chance in a storm than rowers. Rowers would have to work very hard against strong winds or waves, and could expend all their energy just staying afloat. Sailors, however, can use the power of the winds to keep going, if (and this is a big if) they can read the winds correctly. Reading the wind’s direction and working with it will keep the boat not only afloat but moving forward. It might be a wild ride, but it can take the boat to new and exciting places.

In case I haven’t overworked this analogy enough, the “wind” for sailboat churches is the Holy Spirit, which came to the early Christians as a “mighty rush of wind” at Pentecost. Not a gentle breeze, mind you. A mighty rush.

I’m happy to say as we proceed through 2020, we are becoming more capable sailors. This year, we swiftly adapted to new ways to worship, serve, and gather. Online worship turned out to be an unexpected joy, opening our church to people who did not or could not join us in person before and who are now beloved members of our church family. We are free to experiment and try new things. We're taking our lead from God. We're trusting better. We're listening better. We're more in the moment, open to ambiguities and creative potential.

A sailboat church is not only more effective, it’s more faithful. As we let go of the oars, and let the Holy Spirit fill our sails, God only knows where we’ll go from here.
                                                                                                                   

by Audrey McNally and Jill Fandrich
What does Westminster Presbyterian Church have in common with the Washington National Cathedral and the Biltmore, America’s largest private residence? All are homes to an E.M. Skinner pipe organ, crafted by American’s pre-eminent organ builder of the 20th century.
 
Ernest Martin Skinner (1866-1960) was both an artistic and mechanical engineering genius. Using a new and innovative electro-pneumatic system to power the organ, Skinner strove to increase the instrument’s expressive tones and to simulate the sounds of an entire orchestra. His organs were the best money could buy, and they were installed in hundreds of churches, concert halls, universities, and private homes throughout the United States and beyond.
 
A pipe organ is very different in structure from the modern electronic organ that many faith congregations now rely upon. Praised by Mozart as the “king of instruments”, a pipe organ is powerful and complex, with thousands of metal or wooden pipes, each producing a single sound. Only some of these pipes are visible (often those being strictly ornamental), while the ones that create all the different pitches and timbres of sounds are arranged like trees in a forest, hidden in a chamber apart from the console where the organist plays. A wind-raising device, or bellows, often located in the basement, provides the air for what is essentially a gigantic wind instrument.
 
Westminster’s pipe organ, referred to as “Opus 579”, was built in 1926 at the peak of E.M. Skinner’s popularity and influence. The noun “opus” (from the Latin for “work”), followed by a chronological number, is often used to describe a work of art, such as a musical composition. But in this case, “opus plus number” refers to a particular organ, each one having been individually and uniquely crafted for the space in which it was installed.
 
Westminster’s Skinner organ has three keyboards (called manuals) and a pedal board controlling 2,069 pipes. (For comparison, the great organ of the National Cathedral has 10,647 pipes.) At the time of its installation, this organ cost approximately $15,000 and was paid for by donations from among Westminster’s [then] 800+ members. Today, a brand new pipe organ of comparable size and quality would cost over $1,000,000.  The Skinner Opus 579 was dedicated on December 6, 1926, with a recital featuring a guest organist from New York City and a soloist from the Rochester Opera Company. The dedicatory hymn included this verse:
           
            Then through the waking pipes there thrill,
            As love shall touch the keys,
            Now loud and grand, now soft and still,
            The heavenly melodies.
 
Pipe organs and Christian churches share an extensive history. The introduction of church organs is traditionally attributed to Pope Vitalian in the 7th century, and an organ is the emblem of St. Cecilia, the patron saint of music. The pipe organ is ideally suited to accompany human voices, including cantors, choirs, and entire congregations. As Chicago-based organist John Scherer explains, the organ is “great to accompany 1,000 people singing their hearts out – because it can support them and make them sound better”.
 
Although Westminster’s sanctuary can seat nearly 500 worshippers or concertgoers, the sound the pipe organ produces can fill the vast space with a mighty resonance. Our adult children have fond but spine-tingling early memories of nearly jumping from their pews when, during the climactic portion of the Good Friday Tenebrae service (when Jesus dies), the organist would create a terrifying blast of noise by laying the upper part of her body across a good portion of the manuals.
 
Well-built and carefully maintained pipe organs usually last for about 100 years before extensive work or restoration is required.  At 95 years of age, Westminster’s organ has begun to exhibit problems with ciphers, tonal issues, and sound quality. After nearly five years of study by a special committee and evaluations by organ builders and consultants, the Westminster congregation and its leaders have committed to an historical restoration of Auburn’s only Skinner organ to its original condition. Through donations, pledges, foundational grants, and loans in what we have enthusiastically christened our “Ode to Joy” campaign, the organ will be fully restored in 2021 by Kerner & Merchant Pipe Organ Builders of Syracuse.
 
Westminster’s members recognize and affirm the importance of music, and particularly organ music, to our worship experience. For nearly a century, our rare and valuable Skinner organ has been played for countless worship services, funerals, weddings, and community concerts, and we want it to continue to inspire and thrill listeners for many years to come.
 
For additional information about Westminster’s Skinner pipe organ and the “Ode to Joy” campaign, please visit the Ode to Joy Skinner Organ Restoration Campaign page of this website.  

by Jill Fandrich
 “We value questions as much as answers.”

My church’s Welcome Statement includes this sentence.  This summer, we tested whether we really mean it. Turns out we do.
Throughout July, our pastor Patrick Heery abandoned his usual sermon format, and instead used the sermon time in worship for a series called “Stump the Pastor.” He encouraged us to ask questions about faith, religion, and what we believe (or don’t believe).

The questions started to pour in.
What is sin?
Who or what is the Holy Spirit?
Is Christianity the one true faith?
Does prayer really do anything?

Every question brought more! As we worshiped on Facebook Live, the comments section was abuzz with more inquiries and follow ups, all of which Pastor Patrick attempted to answer within a self-imposed 2-minute time limit. The conversations continued throughout the week on Facebook.

Our church has always been open to honest struggling with faith, but not all churches are. I grew up in a church which was pretty dogmatic in matters of theology. It was a church full of lovely, loving people, but there wasn’t much room for diverse theological thought.

I remember when I first started to question what I believed. I was a teenager in the late 60s/early 70s, the years of “Jesus Christ Superstar” and “Godspell.” I remember looking at Christianity with new eyes. I also remember the fear and guilt I felt at questioning what I’d always been taught.  

But once I started, I couldn’t stop! In high school and college, years when many people explore new ways of thinking, I allowed myself to broaden my understanding of God, and I began to see the holes in narrow theology and the inconsistencies in the Bible. I didn’t stop attending church, but I did find churches that embraced curiosity, exploration, and doubts.

I joined Westminster when I moved to Auburn in 1980, and one of the things that attracted me to the church was that it was filled with bright, curious, thoughtful people. The educational programs for children and adults were stimulating and lively. We were encouraged to explore how God is at work in our lives. We studied the Bible’s historical context, and considered how its times and therefore its understandings differed from today. We read works from a wide variety of contemplative scholars. I taught Sunday School from preschool to teens for many years, and I’m sure I learned more as the teacher than the kids did from me.  Children ask lots of questions, and that’s certainly what having “childlike faith” means!  I even led Adult Ed, and I loved the free-wheeling conversations we had.

I’m 65 years old now, and you’d think that after decades of asking questions, I’d have some answers by now. But I don’t. The only thing I’m sure of is that I as a mere mortal cannot comprehend what is greater than our limited minds can fathom. My understanding of God will always be short of any absolute truths. I can see glimpses of God, and I do all the time, in people, in nature, in music, and in solitude. There are what the Celts call “thin places” where God’s presence seems near, and I’ve experienced them at births, at deaths, by the water or in the woods, or in sacred places which can be anywhere.

I doubt that I will ever be able to articulate what I believe.  Religions are human constructs that attempt to define the undefinable. Greater minds than mine have tried to describe how God touches our lives and interacts with humankind. I am a Christian because I see God revealed in Jesus Christ. I understand the Holy Spirit as the very breath that makes us be alive. I know God the Creator as the force who is greater than our understanding.

One of my favorite writers is Anne Lamott, who has written many books and essays on her struggles with faith. She says, "The opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty. Certainty is missing the point entirely. Faith includes noticing the mess, the emptiness and the discomfort, and letting it be there until some light returns." 

So yes, we value questions as much as answers. Faith evolves through doubt, skepticism, and curiosity. Don't be afraid to lean into the mystery. You might not find answers but you may find truth.  

by Patrick Heery

​Sometime, on Sunday night, our church's Black Lives Matter sign was vandalized. The same sign that had spoken such hope into our lives when it was stolen in hate and returned in love, in solidarity with both Black Lives and our Police. Someone saw that beauty, and decided to stomp on it.
They cut out the Black from All Lives Matter. Which has been the problem all along. All lives do matter; the problem is we're not acting like it; the problem is that the lives of some people---whether Black, or immigrant, or LGBTQ, or woman, or poor, or disabled, or abused---are not allowed to matter equally.
A banner is just fabric, but behind that fabric stand the lives of Black and Brown people and their allies who are hurting. Behind that fabric are all the parents who are afraid every morning to send their child out into a world that hates, and might kill, their child.
On Monday, that child had to ride their bike past a sign, where their identity, the very value of their life, had been erased. Consider that. A gaping hole that says: You don't belong; you don't matter; you are invisible. I wish I could say it was just one bad person. But the truth is that racism is very alive in Harriet Tubman's hometown. We like to think we are better than this; we are not. While a uniformed police officer and I stood outside the church talking on Monday, people drove by and smirked. One woman slowed down and shouted, "They fixed that sign!" brazenly applauding an act of vandalism and hate.
While we may not be better than this, as Abraham Lincoln once said, our angels are. "The better angels of our nature" have been singing loud and clear. The outpouring of love and support has been overwhelming. People have donated enough money to put up 10 signs or more! Artists have volunteered to make signs. People, formerly on the sidelines of this movement, are speaking out and getting to work. Phone calls poured in from community members and the press. Auburn's Police have once again been amazing. This time it was Officer Guzalak who answered the call; you might remember her from the national photo of a Black Lives Matter demonstration, where she and her fellow officers took a knee in solidarity with George Floyd. Once again, this officer and I had a powerful, loving, joyful conversation about working together to end racial injustice and to become a people who honor the humanity in one another, including hers as a police officer.
That morning, I crafted a somewhat crude poster that says in big bold letters "BLACK". I duct taped it to the sign, restoring the message. The scars are still there, a visible reminder of violence and division. But Black is Back, a message that we will not be silenced, Black lives will not be erased, Black children do belong. As I made the sign, I felt an odd import come over me---like it wasn't just a sign I was repairing, like I held in my hands precious life, that child riding his bike.
Now there is talk of placing signs all over our community. To all the haters out there, hear us: For every sign you destroy, ten more will rise in its place.
We will not be deterred. Your hate only feeds our love. Your hate only makes us stronger, louder. You have shown who you truly are; we see you. We see that when you said "All Lives Matter," you lied, because you just literally cut out Black Lives. And without Black Lives there are no All Lives.
Why will we not be deterred? Because we serve a God who takes what you mean for evil and uses it for good. We follow a brown-skinned Savior who took your cross, your hate, your violence, and turned it into Easter resurrection. Like Jesus, we rise! We rise! We rise! Just try to hold us down.
#BlackLivesMatter
#BlackLivesinCayugaCountyMatter
#AndStillWeRise
#AuburnStrong

by Patrick Heery

​On Thursday, July 2, our church’s Black Lives Matter sign was stolen in an act of hate. Let me tell you the story of the traveling sign, and how it made its way back home, in a divine message of hope on the eve of July Fourth.
​
For weeks, Westminster Presbyterian Church, Auburn, NY—a proudly open and affirming community of justice founded in the cause of abolition, where Harriet Tubman herself was married—has displayed a Black Lives Matter sign and LGBTQ+ Pride feather flags.

Thursday night, a white man in his 50s meticulously cut the zip ties holding the banner and stuffed the banner in his bag, before running off. It just happened that exactly at this time friends of the church were driving by and witnessed the act. In a beautiful twist of divine irony, these friends weren’t just anyone; they were two women, one Black and one White, who are married to each other, two people of deep Christian faith, whose beauty, dignity, rights, and lives our very banners were proclaiming: Nairobi O. Smith and Liz Jorolemon. They are our first heroes of the night, Liz having just come off a 12.5 hour shift of nursing at Upstate’s COVID Quarantine unit, and Nairobi having just finished preparing a church to resume worship as its worship leader.
They called the police, and then called me, the pastor. I too called the police, while church members posted on social media.
Within 30 minutes of my phone call, no more than an hour and a half since the crime, a police officer pulled up to the church and got out of his car carrying the banner in his arms, like a precious child. He is the next hero of our evening: Officer Caruso.
He explained that he had found a man fitting the description provided by the witnesses. The man was inebriated. Having received the banner back, without much damage, and having been reassured that the police have his information should something happen in the future, I decided not to press charges. We are a church of love, after all. I do not know what addictions or struggles this man may face. I do know that inebriation is no excuse; he could have done anything, anywhere, but he targeted our sign, came prepared with scissors, and carefully cut each tie. There is undoubtedly hate in this man’s heart—to steal a sign proclaiming the value of life from a church. But I also know that someone had to put that hate there. I hope that, in our small act of forgiveness, a little love will slip in. For he too is a child of God.
But the night did not end there. No. The police officer and I proceeded to have a meaningful, loving conversation about Black Lives Matter. We talked about how we wanted to work together to improve our community. We quickly became friends. Unlike in many cities, the Auburn Police Department has stood in solidarity with our (completely peaceful) demonstrations for racial justice; our police chief took a knee with us. They are actively working with our advocacy organizations to create structural change. I thanked him profusely for his service to us tonight and for his solidarity. I told him that, contrary to popular conception, our proud and defiant statement of Black Lives Matter does not mean that we do not also value the lives of our police officers; we do value them, greatly; rather, it means that we want justice, healing, and freedom for Black and Brown Americans, who are not safe, whose lives are not allowed to matter as much as White lives due to entrenched racism. But we know that there are good, committed police officers, and this Officer Caruso was clearly one tonight. I thanked him for his service, for I know the risks he takes, the good he does, the difference he makes, and how little appreciation he often receives.
We parted, saying we wished we could shake each other’s hands (oh COVID!). We parted with love.
And so that’s the story of how a church’s Black Lives Matter sign was stolen by a drunk white man, witnessed and reported by a lesbian, interracial couple, retrieved by a white police officer who immediately jumped into action, and returned to the church, which forgave its violator, prayed for his welfare, and proceeded to have a beautiful, empowering conversation, police officer and pastor, about working together for Black Lives Matter so that in the end all lives can matter. That’s the story of how God had to put all these people together, just at the right moment. That’s the story of how a simple sign became a message of hope in a world that feels like it’s burning. It is just a small moment. There is so much work to do, so much systemic injustice to confront, so many people who cannot breathe. But on that one precious night, for a moment, all was LOVE.
May love win! Always!

by Kimberly Patch
 
We have entered a time when we can no longer ignore the cries of “I can’t breathe,” “Stop killing us,” and “Black lives matter” ringing from the voices of the Black community. How we have ignored these cries for so long is beyond my comprehension. I have begun the process of educating myself by listening, and I have promised to simply do better. But this promise is only as good as the verifiable actions I take in my life.
 
I have made many changes in the ways I protest. Aside from attending every protest possible, I wear a protest t-shirt almost every single day. I have several shirts that are bold with the message of Black Lives Matter. Wearing these shirts is an easy way to protest passively while making an impact. I have had great conversations about the subject of protest on my shirts. I have also infuriated those who are steeped in racism and white fragility. I am able to create a mini protest within a larger movement, a protest of one, anywhere I go.
 
My family has taken action by hanging a Black Lives Matter flag from our home. At first our children, who have been brought up to love people, were afraid that someone would vandalize our house, coming from a place of hate. This was also at the forefront of my mind. As you may have read last week, we at Westminster Presbyterian Church recently experienced acts of hate stealing and defacing the Black Lives Matter sign on our front lawn. Our family’s decision to hang up the flag was the right thing to do and it has flown from our house ever since. Only once did someone say something negative about it but my husband ensured the conversation was brief.
 
There are many positive outcomes from flying this flag on our home. People whom we have never spoken to before smile and wave or stop to talk. We have shown our home and our family to be a safe space. Our biracial foster son has taken pride in being the one to place the flag pole in its holder on the house each morning. He is reminded that his life matters before most of the occupants in our home awaken. One day I was standing on the porch and two children, approximately eight to ten years old, were racing down the sidewalk on their bikes. The young white girl yelled with excitement in her voice to her friend to look at the flag. He immediately looked up with pride glowing on his face. He proclaimed in a loud and sure voice, “ BLACK LIVES MATTER. I’m black and my life matters!” It was in that moment I realized, if no one ever sees that flag flowing in the breeze from our home again, it is okay. The flag has done its job by affirming this little boy. It was a beautiful affirmation that I am sure his parents have reinforced since his birth, but this time, he saw it hanging on a white neighbor’s home.
 
A friend of mine who lives on a well travelled road in a rural area, recently told me she was driving home from work and she witnessed a single white teenager standing at the end of his driveway holding a sign that simply said, Black Lives Matter. It was a small but meaningful act against hatred.
 
It is times like this when we hear of the murders of people such as Elijah McCain, Breonna Taylor, Eric Garner, Philando Castile, Tamir Rice, George Floyd, Botham Jean, the list goes on, it is times like these, our voices must lift up the message of the Black community. Black lives matter. Black lives are holy lives. The Black community is a holy community. Until we can look deep into the eyes of Black men, women and children, proclaiming their holiness as the image of God coming from the farthest reaches of every sinew of our bodies, until then, we have work to do. Until all people see the value, humanity, and beauty in every person of color, we must continue to educate ourselves and others. We can make a difference, one small act at a time whether it be holding a sign at the end of your driveway, wearing a t-shirt or hanging a flag. It can have an enormous impact in this great movement against the injustice of hatred and bigotry. Do something, regardless of how small.
 
Kimberly Patch is a graduate (M.A., Master of Divinity) of Northeastern Seminary. She is an inquirer for ordination to the Ministry of Word and Sacrament, under the care of Westminster Presbyterian Church. She lives in Auburn with her husband and children. She is also a foster mother, a social justice advocate and president of the board of directors of the new Auburn Hunger Task Force, which is working to provide free daily meals to the Auburn community. 


 

Rev. Patrick D. Heery
These are strange times. Businesses are shuttered. Schools are closed. Hospitals and nursing homes are denying visitors. Masks cover the faces of strangers. A new phrase, "social distancing," has entered our vocabulary, as people adjust to a stay-at-home order. A virus none of us had even heard of seven months ago has become the leading cause of death in the United States. For the first time in US history, every state is under a disaster declaration. Protestors are demanding a return to normalcy, while experts warn of a possible resurgence if we end social distancing too soon. Worries abound for the millions who are especially vulnerable to this fast-acting, easily spreading virus, as well as for the many who are out of work, the businesses that may never reopen, the children and youth who are being irrevocably changed by this experience, and those who are especially unsafe right now: abuse victims, people struggling with addiction or depression, people with disabilities, farmworkers and other immigrants, and low- or no-income families.

At a time when people need the church more than ever, church buildings are closed. Doors are locked. Programs are canceled.

It may feel like these are unprecedented times. I've certainly never experienced anything like this before; there's a good chance neither have you. And yet, we are not the first to tread these waters.

Our story, as Jews and Christians, was born in these waters. The Torah tells us that when the people of the earth sought to gather in one place, and eliminate all differences among them, and thus posed a danger to the world, God struck down the Tower of Babel and "scattered" the people (Gen. 11). In the Book of Exodus, God commands the Israelites to shelter in their homes, while disease traveled through the land. From this day comes the Feast of Passover, celebrated by Jesus himself: "And when your children ask you, ‘What do you mean by this observance?’ you shall say, ‘It is the passover sacrifice to the Lord, for he passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt, when he struck down the Egyptians but spared our houses.’ And the people bowed down and worshiped" (Ex. 12:26-27).

The laws instituted by God in the Books of Exodus and Deuteronomy make special provision for the protection of the most vulnerable: widows, orphans, the poor, the immigrant, escaped slaves. These laws demand that the rest of society make sacrifices to ensure their wellbeing. These laws even make special note of how to guard against the spread of disease, implementing an ancient version of social distancing.

According to the Gospels, after Jesus died, the disciples were scattered, isolated. Though a few came to his tomb, the resurrected Jesus did not wait for the disciples to gather together in one place. No. He came to them and found them where they were. He met disciples on a highway to Emmaus; he met others in a locked house, who sheltered in fear; yet others, he met on a lakeshore, essential workers whose fishing could not wait.

The early church of Acts was not one of grand steeples and packed stadiums. Mostly, it consisted of house churches, underground movements, small cadres of people proclaiming the love of God. The gospel spread one household at a time. It was in that context that the Apostle Paul penned these words: "Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord" (Rom. 8:35, 37-39).

When Paul wrote those words in Romans, stating that nothing, not coronavirus, not social distancing, can separate us from the love of God, or the love of one another, he did so remotely. All those epistles from Paul, they were all written from afar, sometimes from prison, sometimes from illness, sometimes across whole continents. He knew that the Word of God could travel any distance; the Church does not close. We may not be together physically, but we are always the body of Christ, and that body cannot be broken. Paul's letters became the visible link between those separated households of worshipers, and eventually became the bedrock of a new movement, first called the Way, and then Christianity. Far from a hindrance, those letters spread the gospel; they left us something permanent we can read to this day.

Paul used letters; we're using letters too: mailings, newsletters, phone calls, social media, online worship. He used trusted disciples to deliver his messages; we're using the Internet, perhaps not as trustworthy(!), but certainly quicker! And just as Paul, from afar, connected with his siblings in Christ through prayer, so do we. Churches did this during the pandemic of 1918, commonly and mistakenly known as the Spanish Flu, and we're doing it now.

I think we've never been closer to our roots than right now: facing hardship and fear, we make the difficult choices necessary to love and protect one another, while refusing to cease in our worship and praise of God, in our proclamation of the Love that vanquishes even death.

Our worship has seen more participation than ever, with hundreds and hundreds of people worshiping with us every week, including many folks who haven't previously been able to. Palm Sunday alone had 1200 views. Holy Week services of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter Sunrise saw far more participants than I've ever experienced in my time with you. Every Sunday, people joyously interact, posting hundreds of comments, including prayer requests and worship responses. We're seeing faith become more personal, as people move from Sunday-only worship to daily spiritual practices. Many of you are engaging in acts of compassion and service, as you seek to care for others.

This is the day we remember: the church isn't a building; it's not coffee hour, or a pretty bulletin, or committee meetings, or thriving programs, or generous endowments, or even that wondrous organ. The church is people... people loving God, loving one another, when it's night and there's no apparent reason to do so. We are the Love that will not be stopped.

I can imagine no greater tradition for us to uphold in this time of social distancing.