Part of the Same Story

 

When I was at Massey’s yesterday, I spent some time digging through the disorganized box of old files I have. Most of it is useless: lists of committees, trustee notes from long ago, a folder filled with scraps of treasurer receipts from the 1950s, ancient charge profiles stating a woman pastor would be okay but not a black one. In a folder labeled “history,” I found the notes from a church meeting followed by a special charge conference in 2001 (referenced in my previous post).

The language used to describe the relationship between the full-time Parkwood UMC and the quarter-time Massey’s Chapel was “satellite.” In 1999, Parkwood was in desperate financial straits, so Massey’s Chapel, who needed a pastor, became a “satellite” of the larger church, and paid that church $6,000 a year for their pastor to preach on Sundays and do a few other pastoral duties. Massey’s gave up their 11 a.m. worship time and began to worship at 9 a.m. to accommodate the new arrangement.

The partnership held for two years. Parkwood’s pastor told Massey’s that most people at Parkwood loved the arrangement, loved Massey’s Chapel and “felt” (sorry) for them.  I doubt the feelings were mutual. The pastor told Massey’s the only reason their church had survived was because one of their previous pastors had stayed for nine years, providing stability.

But look at you now, he told them. Massey’s family members had recently sold their property to Southpoint developers (leaving a postage-size property for the church), and all moved away – to Timberlake, to Rougemont, to Holly Springs. You can’t have a viable church with leaders living so far away, he said.

Parkwood’s pastor had prepared a multi-page booklet for the meeting, laying out the only options he saw for Massey’s Chapel: close; withdraw from the UMC and purchase the property from the Conference for half a million dollars (this option must have been discussed among the membership); accept a part-time pastor if one could be found (which was unlikely, he said); or work toward merging with Parkwood, to become one church, selling the Massey’s property to the greedy developers building Southpoint Mall. The greedy developers would take the property eventually anyway, he told them. They had money and lawyers, and Massey’s did not. The Durham County historical designation would not mean squat. No option existed of becoming a multi-point charge, not anymore. All the part-time churches within a 10-mile radius had closed.

It was obvious Parkwood’s pastor wanted a church merger. After having served small, fierce, rural churches, this option seemed laughable to me.  

It made me a little sick to my stomach to think this was exactly the kind of document I would have produced for Aldersgate in Chapel Hill had I thought of it. When I served Aldersgate, I emphasized that Light Rail was coming right through the church front yard. There was no stopping it! The construction alone would mean the end of the church, so we had better sell now while the property still had value.

Light Rail never came, although the proponents certainly had seemed hell-bent on it. The greedy developers never took Massey’s Chapel; they just built all around it. Massey’s received a retired part-time pastor who worked out fine. Later, the church received a part-time local pastor who presided over a tripling of attendance. Aldersgate never got that chance.

I think now: If members sold their property to Southpoint developers, there should have been money to provide other options for Massey's Chapel. Maybe not. 

The other aspect of the notes that made me queasy was sensing the church’s hostile, sullen attitude leaking out, especially in the special charge conference notes. Almost the only people who attended were members of the ruling family, most of whom now dwell in the cemetery. Reading the notes, I was reminded of the dour, surly attitude of the declining churches I have served.

God, I am glad to be away from them. Massey’s Chapel received so many new members in the past decade it ceased to be a grim, angry church long before I arrived. Maybe it never really was.