A couple of weeks ago, Andrew and I went down to Camp Lookout for an overnight retreat. It was an opportunity the camp provided for us to rest and to recharge our batteries after a wearisome past several months. It was so refreshing to be back in that space where I hadn’t been since we were there with our Confirmation class the weekend before Covid shut the world down.
While I was there, I took a walk by myself around the camp. One of the things I realized was how many crosses there are at the camp. There’s the cross at Vesper Point where we have morning devotions at summer camp. There’s the cross at the Maynard worship area beside the lake where we share Holy Communion at the close of our Confirmation retreats. There’s also a cross at the fire circle where we gather in the evenings to sing songs around the campfire. But I hadn’t really noticed this cross before this visit. Maybe that was because it was usually dark when we gathered there. But here I was looking at it by the light of day.
It’s a cross that consists of eight rectangular blocks of concrete in which are embedded stones. The stones are various sizes, shapes and colors. Some of them are big and some are small. Some are round, some are flat, some are oblong. Some are black, some are gray or brown, and some are blue or red or orange or purple.
But one of the first things I noticed about this cross was that some of the stones are missing. In their place are their uniquely shaped and hollowed-out cavities in the concrete.
I looked at the spaces their absence left empty, and I felt sad. I felt sad for the missing stones, and I began to wonder what had happened to them that they were now missing.
Had the weather over the years worn them loose? Had the concrete swelled and squeezed them so that they simply slipped from its embrace? Had an angel of the Lord appeared and rolled the stones away from the cross? What happened to those stones?
I couldn’t stop thinking about that cross and its missing stones. I thought about it the whole rest of the day.
I called the camp director Don Washburn after we got back home to ask him about this cross. He told me that several years ago the theme for summer camp was “God Rocks,” and one of the counselors that year invited the campers to pick out a rock or a stone each week to bring it with them to the Communion service, where together they embedded their rocks and stones into the wet concrete. He did this each week for all eight weeks of summer camp. At the end of the summer, he formed the eight blocks together into the shape of a cross, and the cross was placed at the fire circle. Don told me that the guy is an engineer now; he’s probably still designing and building things out of concrete.
I asked Don about the missing stones. He didn’t know what had happened to them either. Maybe it was the weather. Maybe some later campers thumbed some of them loose. He even suggested that maybe some of the original campers came back to pry away the stone they had placed there to take away with them.
I keep thinking about those stones that have gone missing from that cross. Maybe that’s because I keep thinking about the people who have gone missing from the church, especially over these past several months.
I know a lot of folks have been staying safer at home during the pandemic who tell us they still feel connected to the church through online worship, social media and digital communications, and that’s good to know. I also know a lot of folks who told us they would come back to church when they’re fully vaccinated or restrictions are relaxed or worship is more “back to normal,” and many of them have already returned. I know we’ve lost some folks to some other churches, and I know we’ve lost some who have died.
I also know we’ve engaged some new people during the pandemic that we weren’t reaching before the pandemic. There are a few new stones on the cross, and that’s good to know, too.
But there are still some who have gone missing. As far as we can tell, they don’t seem to be going to church somewhere else. They don’t seem to be going to church at all. Maybe they simply got out of the habit and haven’t gotten back into it. Or maybe they have come to feel church really isn’t as important to them as they thought it was.
Andrew shared with me recently some research that the Barna group conducted on the current state of the church in the US (https://www.barna.com/stateofthechurch/). While overall worship attendance among adults in the US has been in a long and steady decline, they found that during the pandemic, the weekly worship attendance (either in-person or online) of those who identify as “practicing Christians” dropped from 79% pre-pandemic to 51% during Covid, while those who identify as “churched adults” dropped from 54% to 37%.
But most worrisome was that 19% of “practicing Christians” have not attended worship at all – either in person or online — during the pandemic. That’s nearly one in five of those who were previously dedicated, devoted disciples of Christ who are now disconnected. For “churched adults” it was 22%.
That’s a lot of stones that have gone missing.
I wish I knew what happened, where they are now and what we can do about it. Was it the weather? Did someone – perhaps the old Devil himself – come and snatch them away? Was the concrete not strong enough to hold them?
I know I’m supposed to be thankful for the stones that are still on the cross, those who have stayed connected to the church. And I am. God knows – and I hope they know – that I thank God every day for those beautiful, unique and absolutely precious stones on “the old rugged cross” of the church.
And I know what the church growth experts say, that it is easier to mix new concrete and help new stones find their place there than it is to try to gather up the missing stones. I know all that.
But I can’t quit thinking about that cross and those missing stones. I hope somehow they know that they are still precious in the sight of the Lord of the cross, and that there is still a place there for them that fits them just right, and that maybe they will find their way back there someday.
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