Faith Works 2-18-06
Jeff Gill

What Burns But Isn’t Consumed?

As I am typing this, ten churches in Alabama have burned. Five white, five black in membership, but all Baptist, with the arsonists driving past Christian churches of other sorts to reach their targets.
Since we can’t slot this tale into the standard hate crime category, it is being skittishly avoided in favor of coverage of Arab riots ostensibly over some five month old Danish cartoons. Only one religion story per news cycle, please.
Is it even possible for there to be people angry – rationally or obsessively – at Baptists in particular? Whoops, now we’ve gone and asked the question out loud, and there it is. Of course there can be hate crimes against Baptist Christians or even Christians in general, but how does one describe assaults against the majority? It would be like arguing that men get a raw deal sometimes in family court, or that the Catholic Church gets an unfair swipe in "The DaVinci Code." Yeah, yeah, tell me something interesting.
So what will we hear when the Alabama church fires are pinned down to the two angry fellows who had to kick their way (leaving hand and footprints behind) out of a church they had lit from within starting at the communion table, an apparent common thread in the storyline? No, that couldn’t show a perspective and bias, torching the communion table at the heart of the worship area as the primary act of arson.
The story may be unfolding as you read this, and I encourage you to listen for what’s not said in the wire service and TV media summaries.
The close of that narrative I can’t anticipate: two criminals argues less for monomania than a shared grievance, over an act of exclusion or affirmation of boundaries that left someone angrily outside, now breaking in with gasoline and matches in hand, or a pair of pranksters with a deeper motivation that kept the joke going for a chillingly long strand of burning fuse.
What I can speak to is the unique blow that a church fire can be to a community, let alone to the congregation in question. Except for families who have lost a home to fire, there are few who actually can relate to the drawn-out loss and anguish that is a church lost to flames.
I’ve stood with fellow congregants on a cold night while the roof collapses under the hoses of valiant firefighters at work saving neighboring structures more than worried about the total loss before them. With the senior pastor, I’ve met with fire department staff and heard the shocking words "suspected arson," and though our tale was one of age and decay leading to ignition, not malice in the end, the weeks of wondering leave a sour taste indeed.
You don’t realize until you’ve been through a fire, home or church, that you "lose" little; the complete conflagration is rare. What you get is one last chance to look at precious artifacts and memories, now blackened, twisted, and soon to be on the trash heap. You get books that look a bit swollen from singeing on the outside and water absorption within, but mostly fine, and then a helpful insurance fellow tells you that the fungi and molds that will grow from them could overtake your other books, so it too must be pitched.
Very little is never seen again: what you see is contorted beyond belief, and must be cast aside as an act of necessary but unwilling volition, including the ragged walls that are left, and usually even the foundations, which are now usually toxic waste for which you will pay a premium to have hauled away.
You say to the TV cameras, boldly and quite honestly as you say it: "The church is not the building, the church is the people." But you confront in new and profound ways how the building was a source of unity and cohesion that is not easily replaced, even when faith is strong and hope is bright. The kindly offers of temporary quarters become, unavoidably, an imposition, and even unvoiced the question "When are you moving on?" is always in the air.
All of this, and more, hovers about some ten congregations in northern Alabama. Their Christian neighbors have offered worship space, some have insurance and many do not, and they continue to meet on the Lord’s Day to give thanks for many blessings.
And let me assure you, they need our prayers as much as they need our checks. Most will rebuild, none will be the same. A fortunate few will be better faith communities for having experienced this fire that burnt them, but did not consume them, and many texts from Scripture will never read the same, either.

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around central Ohio; he’s been through a church fire and seen the new life on the other side. Tell him your stories of new life at disciple@voyager.net.