Why do we still need a church?

Dear sisters and brothers,

the anniversary of our church’s dedication.

What exactly are we celebrating?

That a building was completed many years ago?

If that were reason enough for an annual celebration, we would have to celebrate the town hall’s birthday every year too.

Or the sports hall’s.

With a solemn Mass, incense and a sparkling-wine reception.

So a church dedication anniversary must be a little more than the birthday of an old building.

Because let us be honest:

From a purely economic perspective, a church is initially quite a questionable enterprise.

It is large.

It needs heating.

The roof has to be watertight.

The bells need maintenance.

And sooner or later, someone is guaranteed to say the dreaded sentence:

“We really ought to do something about that.”

And every parish finance council knows:

That sentence rarely comes cheap.

So we might ask:

Do we still need all this at all?

There are fewer people.

Fewer worshippers too.

Costs are rising.

Perhaps it could be turned into flats.

Or an events venue.

Or — especially interesting economically — a gym.

Then, instead of:

“The Lord be with you”,

we would hear:

“Three more repetitions!”

And instead of incense, there would be protein shakes.

But perhaps that helps us realise:

A church is more than just any building.

It is a different kind of space.

And such spaces may be becoming increasingly important.

Because outside, almost everything revolves around achievement.

You have to function.

Be available.

Make decisions.

Present yourself in a certain way.

Even on holiday these days, you have to take beautiful photographs so everyone can see how wonderfully you are relaxing.

And then, in the middle of Berghausen, stands this church.

And it says:

Here, for now, you do not have to do anything at all.

You may come in.

Sit down.

Be silent.

Be grateful.

Be sad.

You may even argue with God.

And nobody asks for proof of achievement on the way out.

Perhaps that is one of a church’s great gifts:

Here, people are not asked what they can do.

They are asked who they are.

A human being.

With a story.

With hopes.

Mistakes.

Wounds.

With their whole life.

And those stories are held in these walls too.

How many people must have come through these doors?

People with racing hearts before their wedding.

Parents with a small child at baptism.

Children at their First Communion.

People at Christmas.

People who simply lit a candle.

And people who sat here and knew:

Now I must say goodbye.

If these walls could talk …

they would probably have more to tell about Berghausen than many a village chronicle.

They know joy and grief.

Great celebrations and quiet prayers.

And probably a few sermons that nobody remembers today.

Perhaps, in some cases, that is just as well.

But this dedication anniversary reminds us of more than what once happened here.

Otherwise, the church would be a museum.

A beautiful museum.

With candles.

An organ.

Statues of saints.

And occasional incense.

But Jesus did not establish museums.

He gathered people.

Because “church” did not originally mean a building.

Church means community.

People who believe:

There is more than what I can see.

People who hope:

Love is stronger than hatred.

Reconciliation is stronger than guilt.

Life is stronger than death.

And God has certainly not given up on this world.

So it would be a misunderstanding if today we only said:

“How lovely that we have this church.”

The more interesting question is:

What actually happens outside because this church exists?

Are people comforted?

Are lonely people visited?

Are children welcomed?

Do people find community?

Do we stand up when others are excluded?

Are we a place where people realise:

Here, what counts is not where you come from.

Nor how old you are.

Nor how much money you have.

Nor whether your life has always run smoothly.

Instead:

You are here.

And that is why you belong.

Then a church is alive.

Otherwise, one day we will have an excellently renovated building —

but have forgotten why we built it in the first place.

Perhaps, then, a church dedication anniversary is something like the Church’s annual roadworthiness test.

It is not the roof structure being inspected.

Nor the bells.

It is ourselves.

The question is:

Are we still what this house stands for?

Open?

Welcoming?

Hopeful?

Humane?

Or do we sometimes protect our traditions better than we protect people?

The Church may have tradition.

A great deal of it, in fact.

But tradition does not mean:

guarding the ashes.

Tradition means:

passing on the fire.

The hope.

The faith.

The experience:

You do not have to carry your life alone.

God is there.

And people are at your side.

That is why we celebrate this dedication anniversary today.

Not because stones have birthdays.

But because, for generations, people have said:

We need a place in the heart of our village

that reminds us

that life is bigger than our everyday routine.

A place for gratitude.

For doubt.

For hope.

For farewells.

For new beginnings.

A place for God.

And perhaps also a place where God occasionally reminds us:

“I’m glad you are renovating my church.

But please do not forget the people.”

Because the true Church of God

is not made of sandstone,

wood,

a tower

or a beautiful organ.

The true Church of God —

is us.

And so, for this dedication anniversary, my wish for us is:

May this church in Berghausen stand for a very long time to come.

But even more, I wish:

May it be alive.

Through people who can laugh.

Who celebrate together.

Who support one another.

Who can forgive.

Who remain curious.

And who say, in the midst of this world:

We still believe

that God dwells here.

Within these walls, certainly.

And in our midst.

Amen.