Not one stone will be left … (Matthew 24:2)
Holy God,
whose presence is known
in the structures we build
and also in their collapse:
establish in us a desire
not to contain your mystery,
but to be led beyond security
into your sacred space,
through Jesus Christ: Amen.
It is decided. On 26 November, Sanctuary will close. The group which has met regularly since my resignation has been exploring options, and has come to a deeper understanding of the work which has gone into Sanctuary and which would be required for it to continue as is. More, it has come to recognize that, while people are willing to perform this task or that, there is not currently anyone with the overarching vision or capacity to hold it all together and carry the project forward.
I find it very hard to write these words, and I know I am not alone in my grief. It’s been a labour of love to build a safe and welcoming place for precarious, vulnerable, and marginalized people; to walk with you as you renegotiate your faith and come to a renewed understanding; and to curate spaces where the Holy Spirit has graced us with a presence like gentle rain. It’s been an adventure, a privilege, a pilgrimage, and an incredible joy to pastor in this place. In the structure we built and called Sanctuary, I have known God’s healing, growth and transformation again and again and again, not only for others but also for myself. I am so grateful for the call, the gift, the work, and the people who were willing to risk something called church, and I am incredibly sad that Sanctuary will close.
And yet healthy structures require not just solid foundations, but attentive and ongoing maintenance: difficult to manage in a small, marginal context. Without a passionate person holding it all together, we are likely to see an unwitting breach of the Code of Conduct here, a lack of awareness of the law there, an ill-chosen song which excludes here and a ball or two dropped there. Over time, an accumulation of small erosions can have devastating effects, compromising the witness of love. And so, trusting in the foolishness of death, we will close.
At this painful time, I look to the God who both builds up and tears down, plants and uproots, gives and takes away, and who through it all accompanies us and lavishes the world with grace. If our faith means anything, let us turn to the one who consoles us, and who creates paths in the wilderness, streams through the desert, and newness where death seems to reign. I know beyond doubt that God’s presence was seen in the structure of Sanctuary: let it also be seen in its collapse. And when we disband, may God lead each and every one of us beyond the security of this little project into a vaster, wilder, greater mystery than we have ever known.
Shalom,
Alison
Emailed to Sanctuary on 25 October 2023 © Alison Sampson. Prayer adapted from a prayer by Janet Morley, found in the ever-rich All Desires Known (3rd edition). Harrisburg, PA/New York, NY: Morehouse Publishing, 2006: 30. Photo by Marek Piwnicki on Unsplash (alt’d).
Alison and the whale 