The Silver Chalice

The black hands on the clock were motionless; its timekeeping mechanism was silent. The clock had stopped keeping time at 6:10 – I wondered what year its batteries had finally lost their charge. An old bulletin remained on the table in the narthex.  Before plumbing was added in 1978, a black-rimmed, white porcelain bucket filled with fresh water, accompanied by a slightly dented aluminum ladle, would have been at home on that table.  The stack of aged hymnals was covered in dust.  Cobwebs were draped from pew to pew, creating a barricade from the front row to the back row. A sun-faded church banner, hanging on the wall between the two lancet-shaped windows facing the road, bore my mother’s familiar handiwork. The altar was barren, its contents relocated to a temporary home for the service in the dining hall.

The drab, gray sky of this October day echoed its somber ambiance into the hall.  The Rite of Disposition of the church in Modena felt like a funeral.  It was, indeed, final. Today – after about one hundred forty-four years of worship – would be the last time St. Paul’s Lutheran Church would be St. Paul’s Lutheran Church. 

I noticed my cousin, Jeremy, sitting in the back of the room, and as I gazed across the small group that had gathered, I realized that most of us in attendance were descendants of the very community members who started the church back in 1870.  My dad was baptized and confirmed at St. Paul’s.  My grandparents' funerals were in the church.  My great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather were members.  Great-great-grandfather Adolf was one of the first Pfunds to set foot in the original one-story log structure built in 1872 before it was moved to the present location.  Great-grandfather Rudolph and Grandpa Eugene were council members.  For a time, my dad was an Elder and Trustee.

After the short worship service concluded the Rite of Disposition began.

“Lord, we give thanks to You for Your presence in this place,” Pastor Pfaffe prayed.

As we neared the final act in the Rite of Disposition, several of the worshipers were asked to carry out the vessels and articles of the church as Pastor Pfaffe named them and gave a blessing for each:  the brass candelabra, with dribbles of wax that had once been a molten stream;  the silver chalice, which was once used as a common cup for communion;  the brass offering plates, dull from age; the brass cross from the altar, still erect and strong; the Gospel stand, which for so many years had held the Word of God; and the pastor’s stoles, untouched for over seven years.

With reverence, I held the silver chalice in both of my hands. In a solemn procession, we left the dining hall and moved toward the narthex to the door, which for many years had been the main entrance to the church, but now was partially hidden by an overgrowth of rogue tree saplings. Once outside, our cavalcade continued down the set of seven concrete steps.  I looked at the black iron railing.  I couldn’t help but remember how many times I’d slid down that railing as a young child, waiting for my dad to pick me up from Sunday School, laughing and playing with my friends.

Pastor Pfaffe inserted the key into the lock on the door.  With the twist of his wrist and a final prayer, the door was locked. With finality in his voice, he said, “Let us go forth in peace.”

Like a dying man exhaling for the last time, the church was no longer a church.  

My cousin, Jeremy, and I were the last of our Pfund family to walk down the steps at St. Paul’s Lutheran Church in Modena, and those who gathered with us were the last of their family members to do the same. 

Without warning, a tear trickled down my face. Its saltiness touched my lips and I grabbed a tissue out of my pocket.  The sorrow I felt was not for the building, but for the sudden recollection I’d had about all the people in my life that I’d known and loved that were no longer with me.  My parents and grandparents, as well as the great and great-great-grandparents whom I’d never met, but who existed in the words I’ve read and stories that have been told about them. My aunts and uncles, along with those greats.  My Sunday School and Bible School teachers.  The church family I had while I was a member at St. Paul’s Lutheran.

With a longing to hold my memories close, I paused for a moment to reflect, to ingrain them forever in my mind.

Every church has a seating chart.  Not by design or requirement, but by habit.  I remember where our family sat in church.  I’d often sit next to my grandparents because Grandpa always had a lifesaver in his jacket pocket.  He’d slip a lifesaver into my hand and when the time was just right, I’d sneak it into my mouth.

There were summer Bible School days, filled with memory verses, freshly baked cookies, and chocolate milk. Our Christmas Programs were complete with each child reciting a passage from the Nativity, the singing of Silent Night, and other carols, followed by treat bags filled with salted-in-the-shell peanuts, chocolate angel food candy, and colorful ribbon candy. The Easter service celebrated our joy of Jesus’ resurrection as well as the fellowship that goes hand in hand with warm and fluffy pancakes, savory sausages, and sweet maple syrup.  

The Tabitha Ladies Aid members served lunch in the parish hall after my grandfather’s funeral and another lunch twenty-eight years later – after my cousins and I carried our grandmother’s casket out of the church and into the hearse for the short trip over the hill to the cemetery to join Grandpa.

Eventually, my life took me away from Modena, until the last time I had been to St. Paul’s before the Disposition – at my mother’s funeral in August of 2011. With just a handful of members left, St. Paul’s was already feeling the decline of its membership roll. Pastor Pfaffe noted at the Disposition that the last worship service was held in 2014. 

In 2016, a few years after St. Paul’s had discontinued their worship services and I’d had my own share of life-changing events, my dad asked me what I thought about helping him find a new church. I slowly inhaled, then exhaled, and without hesitation, suggested he consider Zion in Mondovi – and I offered to go with him. 

Dad and I attended Zion that summer and it wasn’t long before I asked him if he wanted to join. “I’ll join with you,” I offered. I had already been in contact with the pastor at Zion and after a pleasant conversation, he had welcomed both of us with open arms. 

With my dad sitting next to me in the church pew and kneeling beside me at the Communion rail at Zion, I felt true peace. I felt like I’d come back home to my roots. I felt as if the turmoil in my life had been extinguished and with my dad at my side, I’d come full circle, once again worshiping with him in God’s house. 

Recently, as I ambled up and down the grassy green hill in the cemetery past the gravestones, I paused to look around myself in every direction. Fluttering in the breeze I caught a glimpse of red roses and white daisies, placed with love at several of the stones, as well as a multitude of familiar names. I could see the names of most of the people from my church family at St. Paul’s Lutheran and the names of relatives that I knew, along with some I’d never met, but in my heart, loved them all just the same. My feelings were manifested in the realization that almost all of these people were a part of my life in one way or another.

St. Paul’s Lutheran Church in Modena was formally disposed on October 24, 2021. As I held the silver chalice in my hand and walked down the steps in the solemn procession, I also carried with me all the warm and loving memories of my childhood there in Modena, and I was sure that everyone who was there with me that day must have done the same.

The testament of our ancestors to the Lord our God was not solely in the church building, but in their very being, and this testament was passed down from one generation to the next. That door of faith they opened for us can never be closed.

Pastor Pfaffe’s words resonated with me, and now I can proclaim the same.

"Lord, I give thanks to You for Your presence in that place and I thank you for the ministry of your Word carried out there, which was a strong pillar of my religious education and will abide in my heart forever."