Words for the closing of a church. (Listen.)
Once upon a time, nearly eight years ago, some of us did something very foolish. A bunch of people who had mostly drifted away from church or were burned by church or had been rejected by church bumped into a quirky minister on holiday, and wondered if they might try again.
‘But I’m not sure if I have faith anymore,’ said one. ‘It’s like a dry shrivelled stick.’ ‘I don’t believe in pastors,’ said another, ‘nor in paying for the work.’ ‘I hate church,’ said a third. ‘Don’t ever use the words church or congregation or community with me.’ ‘What gives you the right to preach?’ demanded a fourth. ‘Who do you think you are?’
‘Whatever,’ I said, and so did others observing, ‘you all seem very hungry and this sounds like a call.’ So I moved to Warrnambool and Sanctuary began. Foolishness indeed.
The plan was to feed hungry people with scripture and silence and singing and soup and, of course, to provide sanctuary. Because many of us needed a sanctuary in our lives. A place to rest, recover, and know healing. Somewhere both gentle and fierce where the vulnerable could flourish, knowing they were protected and cherished. A place in which the gospel could be embodied through the gathered community, and proclaimed beyond the church. A place where people could worship, and where church refugees would find asylum. A place where questioners and questers could truly belong; so, too, children, and queer and neurodivergent folk. A humble, hospitable, holy place where the Spirit of the Living God just might seek to dwell.
Seven and a half years later, and what a ride it’s been. Together we’ve asked questions and shared stories and wrestled with God and even one another at times. We’ve prayed in countless ways about everything under the sun. We’ve marked life’s passages with school, house and baby blessings, a baptism in the river, and by adding the names of so many loved ones who have died to the Cloud of Witnesses on the wall.
We weathered two years of lockdowns with rich, intimate Zoom services, and The Rattle Bag of prayers and practices to be done at home. We held carboot communion in local paddocks and cul-de-sacs, then when outdoor gatherings were illegal but food delivery was still allowed, I dropped off Ribena and crackers, candles and liturgies, and called it mailbox communion.
During Holy Week, we washed one another’s feet, then greeted the dawn around campfires and in the Botanic Gardens and even, one year, on Zoom. We’ve played with scripture, and affirmed that, in this place, instead of thistles, manna gums grow, and instead of blackberries, sheoaks; and that this indeed is a witness to God, a living and lasting testimony (Isaiah 55).
We’ve turned our Bible reading inside out with insights from First Nations, queer, poor and nonwhite perspectives; and some of us read the Bible in a year. I developed a preaching style which gave you plenty to chew on yet made space for further questions and your insights, and this generated some immensely powerful conversations.
And again and again, while we were together, we sensed the Spirit drifting down like rain. As a person of no faith said, ‘There’s the people in the room, then there’s more. I don’t get it, but it’s the more that I’m here for. There’s always more.’
Stories like this became testimonies, and every year people of all ages wrote about faith in their everyday lives; and we gathered up these stories into collections to be read and shared during Lent. Meanwhile the group continued to change and grow. Where once we were fairly homogenous, we became much more healthily and beautifully diverse, and savoured the richness and joy of this.
Thinking back over the time, I wonder, how on earth did we pull this off, and for so long? It was a foolish, even impossible, task to gather up people who felt deeply ambiguous about churches and pastors, found it difficult to trust them, and in some cases really didn’t want them.
As I reflect, I am drawn to two things. The first is Psalm 127: ‘Unless God builds the house, in vain the builders labour.’ From the beginning it was abundantly evident that God had long been preparing the way. My family had a holiday, we bumped into people we sorta kinda knew who had made a similar paradigm shift about faith, they were curious, we were ready for an adventure, and even a building became available which perfectly suited our needs. There is no way all this could have coalesced through human effort; the hand of providence ran through and through.
I am also drawn to a story near the end of the gospel according to John. We are told that the disciples had in fear barricaded themselves into a room, when the Risen Jesus came and stood among them. ‘Peace be with you,’ he said; and he showed them his wounds. Then he blessed them, breathed Spirit into them, and commissioned them to continue his work.
Sanctuary includes many people who, despite complex personal histories, have been able to say ‘Yes!’ to the foolishness of trying again. And I suspect you were willing to give it a whirl not because of my gifts, but because of my wounds.
As most of you know, I have a long history of struggle with churches and church leaders. I am never an easy fit, never satisfied with dominant readings, never able to reconcile theology or activity which preferences the already privileged with the witness of Jesus Christ. And because I cannot keep my mouth shut, I too have been sidelined and even rejected by church leaders, both historically and in ongoing ways. So I know the pain of rejection by the church, and my faith and ministry have been forged in that struggle.
Yet it’s not all bad news. I believe that God uses us not despite but through our wounds: and so I have tried to minister out of them. This means bringing an awareness of hurt and the dynamics of power, yet also bringing the things that I have found to be healing. And so I have offered clear boundaries and a deep commitment to your safety and freedom, including the freedom to experience the consequences of your choices. I have also brought a passion for praying together, wrestling with scripture, attending to creation, listening to frequently overlooked voices, telling our own stories, singing in harmony, connecting in vulnerability, and being broken open again and again by love.
All this has been crucial to my ongoing healing, and so it has shaped my approach to Sanctuary and to every one of you; and many of you tell me that you have found this ministry to be a blessing.
But as we all know, ministry is never limited to the pastor. Week after week, our service ends with some version of the words: ‘We go in peace to love and serve our God, in the name of Christ: Amen.’ And week after week, in your own woundedness you have gone from here to love and serve through praying and feeding and healing and listening and teaching and gardening and lobbying and marching and caring and singing and all the other things that you do.
Today, we will say those words together in this place for the last time, then I will leave and the church will disperse. But wherever you end up, never forget that, you, too, are commissioned to move towards people who have barricaded themselves behind walls of fear and shame, self-loathing and condemnation and loneliness. You, too, are called to speak words of peace, only peace. You, too, are called to reveal your wounds, and to bless people, and to breathe new Spirit into them, and to bring a sense of sanctuary into their lives and this world.
My beautiful, beloved friends, this particular expression of church is closing, but ‘the service of worship never ends: it must be lived.’ So in the name of the Risen Christ, I urge you: go to it. Ω
A reflection by Alison Sampson on John 20:19-23 given to Sanctuary on 26 November 2023 © Sanctuary 2023 (off lectionary). Image shows James He Qi. The Doubt of St Thomas (2014). Sanctuary is based on Peek Whurrong country. Acknowledgement of country here.
Sanctuary 