The Heartbreak of Corruption

Somewhere, somehow, among the 23 brass plaques memorializing the good parishioners in a tiny church in New Jersey, I found the good Lord. For several years I attended services at this tiny church. It's an Anglican church in an hispanic town. When I began attending services, the congregation numbered nearly a hundred every Sunday. That was down from three hundred five years earlier. When I left, Sunday attendence was down to thirty five or forty.

It is said by many that the changing demographics of the town are responsible for the decline in parishioners. Many point to the over all decline in attendence of all the 'major' demoninations. Some conclude that this tiny church is simply dying a natural death.

Others say bunk. In looking at who has left the parish, and when they left it, something odd jumps out. Immediately prior to leaving, many of those who have left, served on the Vestry, as treasurer or on the Finance Committee. A mass exodus occurs when ever someone 'discovers' that the Reserve Fund's Constitution prohibits using it's monies for 'Operating Expenses'. Those who leave are the ones who realize that looting the Reserve Fund in this way is like stealing from dead people. Those who stay aren't bad people. they just don't see the 'man behind the curtin'. They don't realize that this wonderful little church is the victim of murder.

Another friend just discovered the corruption and may be leaving this tiny church. In a couple more years, the Reserve Fund will be exhausted, the looters will move on, and the building will be empty. Except for the ghosts of 150 years of loyal parishioners who gave to the church thinking it would always be there, the halls will be quiet. That's the greatest heartbreak of all. A quiet church. I prefere to remember this tiny church with a huge organ blasting out to a sanctuary full of parishioners singing Christmas songs in the candle light. I prefere to remember this church when the sancturary was full, and a small boy read the scriptures loud enough for all to hear. I remember the baptisms, and sadly, the funerals. I prefer to remember a living church.

And, regretably, I will probably never forget the looters.