The Old Stone Church

A Short Story by E. B. Hill

For five years, my wife and I had been hearing about Old Stone Church. We were told that it had a growing congregation, an effective Sunday school, and supported two full-time workers in Costa Rica. The reputation that spread the farthest and seemed most remarkable, however, concerned the kind of caring fellowship the church had among members as diverse as recovered drug addicts, bank presidents, former prostitutes, farmers, ex-convicts, schoolteachers, and what-have-you.

I related this at a board meeting one night and got some typical reactions. George Hathaway said, “ I’d hate to try and run a church with some of those members. You’d never know when they’d go back to their old habit and disgrace the congregation.” “Right,” Jim Peoples agreed. “And that bit about supporting missionaries doesn’t stir me much. I happen to know that’s a paper mill town. All you’d need would be a couple of those big shots in a church to make that extra giving possible.”

Guy Forbes spoke up: “Yes, and all that stuff about having so much love and caring sounds more like publicity than reality. Of course, it’s more than a hundred miles from here. Maybe you’d find as much bickering and fault-finding there as, well, maybe even more, than we have.”

That was when I decided to visit Old Stone Church when my family went to visit my folks in the fall. It wouldn’t be far out of our way, and maybe it would answer some questions. Funny thing was that when we finally got there, we couldn’t find the church. We’d plan to make it for the 11:00 a.m. worship, but by 11:05 we were still driving around looking. Surely in a town of this size, you ought to be able to spot a big, old, stone church.

We finally got directions from a boy on a bicycle who pointed confidently at a fairly new red brick church. Since we were already late, we decided to worship there and find the other church another time. We sure were surprised to be handed a bulletin with the words on the cover welcoming us to Old Stone Church. After we were seated we noticed the picture on the bulletin. It was strange. A cross lay at a peculiar angle on a broken wooden surface. My wife nudged me, and I looked where her eyes directed me. Sure enough, there in the front of the church was the real thing. It looked as if the heavy cross had dropped onto a beautiful walnut table and was badly damaged.

I must admit I’d had enough surprises, so I didn’t hear much of the message that morning. We lagged behind after the service. I wanted to know about the accident that had caused the cross to fall. “Must have just happened. Did it?” I asked an usher. “Oh, no, sir,” he answered quickly. “It was when we first moved into this new church five years ago. It was the very first Sunday, in fact.”

When the preacher greeted us, I hung on to his hand as if he might get away. “I need some information,” I said. “This is all very confusing. Why is this new brick church called Old Stone Church and why hasn’t somebody done something about that fallen cross in five years?!” We were answered by a smile that told us he’d heard this many times before. He asked us if we had time to talk after the others left. We did and he ushered us into his study.

I always talk too much, so I started out, “I suppose the ‘Old Stone Church’ name came from the fact that the old church was stone and you just kept the name when you built this one.” “No,” the preacher answered. “When I came, the congregation had a white frame building. They were not much alive spiritually and the big push was to build a new building. That seemed to be the answer, they thought, to new life in the church.”

“What happened?” I asked. “Well, it’s nothing to brag about,” the preacher answered. “From the beginning we had unbelievable arguments. The spiteful things that were said and done almost drove me out of the ministry. We couldn’t agree on anything. When the majority ruled, the minority threatened towithdraw support.” “

For two years people fought with the architect and with one another. Some parts of the church had to be redesigned five times. Then at last we got down to the matter of the cross. Some oldtimers said the one planned would make the church look Catholic. Others said all new Protestant churches were using crosses now.”

“At last, they got to the place where they decided on a plain, heavy cross to be suspended over a handsome, polished walnut table. Most thought it was simple and tasteful and for a day or two everything was reasonably peaceful. Then came a new explosion. How should the cross be suspended? The man who was donating it thought it should be held in place by a pipe extending from the wall to the point of intersection on the cross.” “Sounds reasonable,” I commented. “But it wasn’t done that way, was it?”

“No,” the preacher answered. “That argument got so hot the donor of the cross left the church. He had been called bossy and self-centered for two years, but now somebody dug up an old indescretion from his younger days and flung it at him just for spite. Then they suspended the cross from the ceiling with almost invisible nylon cords. The architect advised against it, talking about stress and strain. But it was to no avail.”

“Well, during the first service, the cross fell. It was a shocking thing to see and hear. Since nobody seemed to be in a worshipful mood anyway, bedlam broke loose. Everybody was blaming somebody else for all the things that had gone wrong during the building.” The preacher shook his head and then went on: “I was sure this would be my last service. I had failed to help them become a church. As one last act there, I shouted for them to return to their seats. Reluctantly they did, except for old Brother Weaver, who slipped out the door.”

“I started to speak after most of the noise subsided. ‘Look at the Cross’, I said. ‘We are not worthy to have it in our midst. As we look at it, let it speak to us of our sins committed against one another and against the Lord. Just sit there and look at it!’ They did, and for twenty minutes there was silence except for some low sobbing and much blowing of noses.” “While I looked at the cross myself, I decided it should stay ‘just where it was. I knew I’d be staying too.”

“Then one man got up and quietly made his way toward another member whom he had accused of terrible things. He asked for forgiveness, and they embraced. Soon, just about everybody was following the example.” “After a while, I called them to order again by singing, ‘Blest Be the Tie That Binds Our Hearts in Christian Love.’”

“Just as we finished sining, we heard a rumbling noise, and there, coming down the aisle, was old Brother Weaver pulling a child’s red wagon full of stones. When he got to the front of the church, he made a simple speech that went something like this:

I went out and picked up these stones and I want each of you to have one. Don’t ever get rid of it [or throw it] until you’re sure you are [justified] in using it. Carry it with you every place you go. When you get angry and want to hurt somebody, take that stone in your hand. While you squeeze it, remember the words of our Lord, “He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone.” [He went on….] These are just plain old stones, but any old stone will do when you feel qualified to throw it at one of God’s children.”

[The pastor went on with the story…] “Everybody took a stone and went home. If you had looked into pockets and purses here today you would have found we all had stones with us. We present our new members with stones and tell them the story. Those little old stones have been used by the Lord to transform this church!” The preacher had finished and it was time for us to go.

“I’m thrilled with what I ‘ve heard here today,” I said as I extended my hand toward the preacher. “You are to be congratulated. This church was dying, I understand, when you took over. Of course, I have heard that the preacher ahead of you couldn’t preach worth a cent, and he certainly wasn’t an organizer, and…..”

The preacher’s look stopped me. Without taking his eyes off me, he reached over and handed me a stone. I stared at it. And then I understood the significance of the revival in Old Stone Church. I carry that stone with me everywhere I go, even though as Brother Weaver said, “any old stone would do.”