I’ll never forget that July afternoon. I was thirteen, and it was a very special time in my hometown: “Yankee Homecoming Week.” For one week each summer, business as usual would cease, and the people of Newburyport, Massachusetts would work a little less, visit a little more with old friends, and celebrate our historical town with giant barbecues, craft fairs, outdoor concerts, old fashioned “hand-tub musters” (contests between ancient fire-trucks based on which can pump a stream of water the farthest), and the best event of them all, the big parade which closed the festivities each year and, as it happened, ran right by my house.

And this year was no different. As that parade made its way by my house, the wonderful aroma of my Father’s barbecue was in the air, and I was busily selling lemonade to passers by (this, by the way, was a great deal for me: my parents supplied the sugar, lemons and everything else—and I got to keep the profit … it’s good to be a kid!) as I did each year on this long-anticipated day. As the parade, and the warm day, began to wind down, there was suddenly excitement among the crowd gathered along the elm-lined streets—there was something in the sky people were point at, gasping at. A thick, jet-black, and menacing billow of smoke was rising against the blue sky, and it was clear that whatever was burning was nearby. Immediately, everyone—and I mean everyone—dropped what they were doing and began to run toward the center of town. And as I joined the crowd in running toward the source of the panic, rounding the corner of High and State, and racing down the quaint brick sidewalk toward the downtown, all soon became painfully clear.

It was my Church. The building was a historian’s dream: originally the second Presbyterian Church, erected in the late 18th century, tall, mighty and white-washed. It had been purchased by the founding mothers and fathers of the Annunciation parish family in the first quarter of the 20th century, and had been my spiritual home since I was baptized, there, in that simple copper font (which thankfully survived the fire) as an infant. It was obvious from the beginning that the blazing, consuming and aggressive fire would result in a total loss; I remember the tears and anguish of the parishioners, who quickly began to assemble on site. I remember how, as soon as possible, they began to charge into the Church building in search of the holy vessels, icons, archives—anything they could get their hands on. Those striking images made an impression on me then, and remain with me, just as vividly as on that painful day.

This was a day of loss. Recently, our parish family suffered a loss as well: the burning of our beloved parsonage. The people of Holy Mother of God Church made this building happen roughly 40 years ago, and it was no easy task. Building it involved sacrifice, financial risk, and much trust in the Lord that everything would be fine, even though the parish had to stretch to finish the project. But, again, our parish—you—made it happen. You wanted to make sure your priests had a warm, safe place to live. You watched their families grow up there. You watched your children play in and around the house, watched them swing the backyard. In later years, as its use transitioned and it became office and storage space, it became a center of fellowship and learning. You adorned the walls with books, tapes, videos and other tools for the spiritual growth of your children and parish families. Archives were stored there, precious pictures, cards and correspondences—memories of a lifetime. It was a comfortable place: you came and went to chat, have a cup of coffee, or dig into some serious volunteer work in the back conference room.

You built memories there, in the little parsonage. This reality can’t be brushed off. That loss is as hard as concrete, and it deserves to be mourned.

But I want to share with you something very, very important that our parish priest in Newburyport shared with us on the day of the fire. In fact, he was on-air, being interviewed by a local news station, at the time. He was asked how he and the parish felt about the fire and what they planned to do from this point. This intelligent, humble and very holy man responded without hesitation: “It is important for us all to remember that the Church is not a building; the Church is the people of God.”

Even with this great loss, the Church was intact, the Church would go on. As precious and important to us as our holy buildings become to us, the true foundation of the Church is not in concrete, brick or stone. The foundation is the Gospel; the true rock, or cornerstone, is our faith—the ultimate reality of our Church is all of us, the ekklesia, the assembly, gathered round the Gospel, giving thanks to God, praising Him, receiving Him, learning about Him, basking in the power of the Holy Spirit and spreading the Good News to all through our holy witness and action. These things cannot be lost in a fire or flood, and no one can come and take them from us. They are gifts from the Lord; as long as we believe in Him, and as long as we hold fast to Him, we will be intact, we will be whole—we will go on.

And while we can’t walk into our parsonage again and have chats and coffee there, or do important, holy work there as a parish council, as we could only a few months ago, you can still go there in your heart. You can remember the sacrifice and love which that unassuming little building represented; you can take inspiration from the important events and discussions that took place there. You can draw a breath of fresh air from the sweet memories and reflections of your time spent there in learning, striving and fellowship.

But here’s the challenge: go there when you need to … revisit … draw inspiration—but don’t stay there, don’t remain in the past. Go forward. We have been challenged by circumstance. Now, the Lord is challenging us to go forward, to keep the faith, to fight the good fight, to be good stewards of His Holy Church, and to serve His flock. We can take this blow to our Church family, and we can turn it on its ear, just like Christ took the image of the cross—before His sacrifice, a symbol of degradation and death—and transformed it to the ultimate symbol of love, sacrifice and salvation. We can use this event as an opportunity to take spiritual inventory of our parish family, to focus on priorities, to be re-invigorated in the Spirit, to take better care of each and every member of our parish family—and to make a strong, bold commitment to outreach, offering our faith with vigor to the people of Tallahassee, to all of God’s sheep. Let this be a time of unprecedented vision, of courage, of enthusiasm, and hope for the future of our Church.

And all of these things, we will do together, as a family. May 2006 be a year of great blessings for you and your family; may our parish grow in every way: in new and beloved members of our flock, in personal spirituality, in commitment to the Gospel, in love—in every way that is pleasing to God.

With love in the Lord,

Fr. Alex

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