Fragments of Faith

Harold Martin hadn’t always been a cynic. In fact, he had been a fairly optimistic child filled with life, joy, and hope for the future. That’s what drew him to the church in the first place. The hope found in Christ's message, the promise of eternal life, and the joy of community.

His mother had called him her “Golden Boy” because of his dirty blonde hair, and the light that seemed to pour out of him when he quoted scripture or sang hymns.

As a young man he was on fire for Christ, and his first youth pastor position gave him such a sense of home, purpose, and belonging that he didn’t even bother pursuing getting married or starting a family of his own. His family was the church.

And so the years floated by in spiritual bliss, and before he knew it Harold was about to turn forty, and was heading out to Sanfeld, Manitoba, to start his first lead pastor position. All his dreams were coming true, and he just knew he was on the path God had chosen for him.

The sanctuary was only half full on Harold’s first Sunday in Sanfeld, but that didn’t bother him. He was there for the pews that were full, not those that were empty.

A year into his position, the congregation had to cut his salary in half, but Harold just took that in stride. He got a job at the local gas station to help pay the bills, so he could keep shepherding his little flock in the prairie.

But as the years passed by, the church numbers dwindled, and these little inconveniences started to add up, slowly chipping away at his hope, and joyful spirit.

The church sold the parsonage to offset costs, and Harold moved into the church basement. Chip.

Harold’s car died and he couldn’t afford a new one, leaving him stranded in Sanfeld unless he begged for a ride. Chip.

The church boiler broke down, forcing Harold to take cold showers and curl up next to an electric heater to keep warm in the winter. Chip.

Little by little, these things chipped away at him, until Harold was in his mid-fifties, a shell of the man he had once been, pastoring an ageing congregation of only six people.

He didn’t feel hopeful anymore, nor did he feel joyful or full of life. He felt something about halfway between helpless and morbid. Cynical. That’s how Harold felt. A foul pessimism had crept into Harold’s soul and set up shop.

Then Helen Friesen died, leaving only five people in the congregation. He could now count his entire flock on one hand. Peter and Maria Kornelsen, David and Elisabeth Penner, and Helen’s widower, Johann Friesen.

It was a cold February evening when they gathered in the sanctuary for Helen’s visitation. She had been cremated, and Harold set her urn on the altar at the front of the sanctuary. He tried to warm up the building, but with the boiler broken he could only do so much, so everybody wore their parkas and mitts as they huddled at the front of the church.

Johann shook Harold’s hand. “Thanks for being here, Harold. It really means a lot to have a steadfast pastor…to bid farewell to Helen…the right way.”

Harold nodded, unable to look at Johann. He didn’t feel steadfast at all.

Johann let go of his hand, and Harold made his way to the pulpit, taking out his sermon. The pages crinkled in the cold. He could see his breath, and he thought to himself…what’s the point? I mean, what’s the point of this all, really? Is this going to make any difference at all? Does any of this matter?

Harold looked out at the sanctuary. Five people, huddled together in a freezing room. That’s all his life had amounted to. Five lousy people.

Harold sighed, then delivered his message, the same message he had delivered the past dozen visitations. He had it memorized by now, but he still looked down at the words, watching his breath float over the page and disappear into the air. He couldn’t recognize his own handwriting. The person who had written this sermon had faith. Had belief. Had hope of an everlasting life after death. And Harold had none of that. He felt hollow. Empty.

He looked up from the pulpit, and was surprised to see a young woman sitting in the back row of the sanctuary, watching him. Harold didn’t recognize her, and wondered if she was a relative of Helen’s, or just some stranger passing through town.

After he finished the message, the woman made her way to the front of the sanctuary. “Excuse me. Do you mind if I say a few words?”

Harold nodded, stepping aside as the woman stepped up to the pulpit. Her voice wavered as she spoke.

“Hi. I’m Nina. Helen was my Oma. I haven’t seen any of you for quite a while, but I always had such fond memories of this place as a young kid. Running up and down the aisles, playing hide and seek during the sermon—“ she looked at Harold sheepishly, “sorry, pastor.”

Harold chuckled and shook his head. “It’s fine.”

“Anyways,” Nina continued. “My Oma taught me about the importance of family, the importance of faith, and the importance of tradition. She also made the best banana chocolate chip muffins, which I am pleased to say I have the recipe for right here.”

Nina held up little piece of faded paper, and everyone chuckled. Nina’s lip quivered, and she continued. “Anyways, I just wanted to share how much…how very much Helen Friesen meant to me…and how much this community means to me.”

Nina sighed, then looked up at the congregation, her eyes glistening with tears. “You all hold a very special place in my heart. Thank you.”

As Nina walked off the stage, Harold felt a weight lift off his heart. Through her words, he glimpsed a vision of what the church had been, and what it could still be…with time and effort.

Harold led the congregation in a closing hymn, and when the song ended Nina was gone. He never got to speak to her face to face. But Harold went home that night feeling a sense of hope and optimism he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Nina. Was his congregation about to grow by one person? No, probably not. But it was still nice to have the hope of someone else. Of something else. Of a world beyond what he knew. Beyond the piddling few who still came to watch him beat this dead horse every Sunday.

Saturday morning was the burial. It was bitterly cold, and windy. The only person who showed up was Johann, and since Helen had been cremated, this was really just a formality to unveil her tombstone. Johann planned spread her ashes in the summer.

“Can you keep it short, Pastor Martin?” Johan asked, shivering.

Harold nodded, and looked around. Nina was nowhere to be seen. And that was that. He said a few words, then shook Johann’s hand and headed back home.

That afternoon during his shift at the gas station, a group of local kids kept jumping on the hose signal outside, making bell ring over and over again inside. Harold ran out to chase them off, but they just kept coming back.

Little devils, Harold thought, resigning himself to the fact that they were there, and the bell would ring. He retreated into himself, into his darkness, pessimism, and inner cold. Into his hatred of the world.

He returned home that night with a dark cloud over his head. What had his life become?

Sitting in his easy chair in the church basement, Harold glared at the TV, then looked around the sparsely decorated room. Was this all God had planned for him? Was this all he was? Had he even made a difference in the world?

If he decided to get up and walk out into a field that night, would anyone even notice?

He looked at the rattling plywood spread over the broken window. The wind was howling outside. He wouldn’t last an hour out there in the cold. Harold shivered. He hated the cold. He wanted to be warm. In his bed.

He climbed under the covers, lay his head on his pillow, and exhaled. His nose was still cold. Typical. He shoved his head under the covers. He couldn’t breathe under there.

He stuck his head out and sighed. This was going to be a long night. Harold lay in the darkness. Angry, lonely, and exhausted. Slowly, agonizingly, time dragged by, and as the minutes stretched into hours, Harold slowly drifted off to sleep.

“What is it for?” called a voice.

Harold opened his eyes. It was dark. He couldn’t see anything.

“P-p-pardon me?”

“What is it for?” the voice called again.

“What is what for?” replied Harold.

“This. That. Anything. What is it for?” the voice called, and suddenly a white face revealed itself in the darkness. There was no body. It was just a face hovering in the darkness, like a mask with hollow eyes, dark nostrils, and a black mouth.

“Is it to build the church? A great house of God? A monument to the divine?”

“Uhh…no, no,” Harold stammered.

“Then what? If not for the church, then what is it for? The community? Those young ones you hate so much? Those little devils? Is that why you do what you do?”

Harold scoffed, “Of course not.”

“Then the world, perhaps? Everything beyond the borders of this little town. Everything just beyond your reach. Are you here for the world?”

Harold shook his head solemnly. “No. It’s not for the world.”

“Then what? What is it for?”

Harold stared into the hollow eyes before him. “I don’t know.”

“Hmm…” the face replied, nodding. “Your life…is meaningless. And all your acts will amount to nothing.”

The words fell like a hammer on Harold’s heart, and the face leaned in. “But that’s not the point, is it Harold?”

Harold looked at the mask. That voice. He recognized it.

“What did you say?”

“Your life has never been about outcomes, has it?”

Harold couldn’t quite place the voice, or where he knew it from. But it made him feel reassured, somehow. Calm, and at peace.

“Um…well, it’s nice to know that you’ve accomplished something, right?”

The voice chuckled, like a soft melody taking shape.

“Harold. Have you forgotten why you started on this path?”

Suddenly the mask softened, transforming into a kind face with bright eyes and a warm smile. Suddenly it didn’t look like a creature out of a nightmare, but something calming, reassuring. Those shining eyes, that gentle smile. He knew this face. It was his mother, and she was wearing a white robe.

“As a boy, did you quote scripture or sing songs in order to get something out of others?”

Harold shook his head. “No. I did it because I felt joy inside.”

“And as a young man, did you choose church over family life because there was something you wanted to achieve?”

“It was the opposite. I chose the church because it was my family. It was my home.”

His mother nodded. “And when you came here to Sanfeld, did you come to save souls? To rescue people from death and everlasting darkness?”

“I came here because it was a calling. To do the Lord’s work.”

“Hmm…and so you have…and so you still can.”

She took Harold’s hand into her own. “Your life…the Lord’s work…it’s about being here for those who remain, and celebrating the lives of those who have left us.”

His mother laid a warm hand on Harold’s shoulder, and through her touch he felt life, and hope.

“You are not dead, Harold…You are not lost, and you are not forgotten. Your heart still beats, and you still have love to give. Don’t hold it back.”

She smiled. “Don’t hold back your love. Give it freely. My Golden Boy.”

Harold stared at his mother as she exhaled, disappearing into a cloud of golden dust that fell on his face and shoulders, allowing him to bask in the glow she had left behind.

Harold woke up. He was in bed. It was Sunday morning, and he was still alive. He was still the pastor of a church, and he still had love to give.

“Don’t hold back your love. Give it freely,” Harold said to himself, staring up at the ceiling.

Making his way to the church that morning, Harold felt different. Not completely different, mind you. His bones still ached, and he had a slight headache. But that didn’t matter. He felt ready and self-assured in a way he hadn’t been in years. He smiled at the congregants as they made their way into the church. It was the same five. The same as usual.

And yet, something was different. These weren’t just the same five people as before. These were his five people. The five that remained. The five that were here. In this moment. Here with Harold. Here for hope. Here for joy. Here for life. And he was here too. Here to serve them.

Harold made his way to the pulpit to give his sermon. The same sermon he gave the morning after every funeral. He began to speak, and the words flowed out of him, like a light pouring out of his soul. Part way through the sermon, he looked up at the sanctuary. And there, sitting in the back pew, was the young woman. Nina. She had come back. And she was smiling at Harold.