“Come build a church with soul and spirit,
come build a church of flesh and bone.
We need no tower rising skyward;
no house of wood or glass or stone.”
Come Build a Church, Ken Medema, 1993

“The church is not a building, the church is not a steeple,
the church is not a resting place,
the church is a people,”
We Are the Church, Avery and Marsh, 1972

Recently I saw a quote from a church expert of some sort suggesting that eight of every ten Protestant churches in North America would do well to sell their buildings — or something like that. Said churches should then give away most of the proceeds, invest some in grassroots ministry, and find inexpensive space to rent.

I understand this impulse. I get it. I truly do. 

Look at so many church structures. Usually a dated, somewhat worn, unloved, and ugly, “education wing” is attached. The pride and joy of 1963 now sits nearly unused. Maybe a local nonprofit group or two now office in the musty former classrooms.

I know firsthand that church buildings are money pits. They demand so much time and energy. It’s always something. Not simply the day-to-day upkeep. If the roof wasn’t damaged by hail, a sump pump failed, the windows are drafty, or tree roots are jumbling the sidewalk.

And behind all this there is something — is it cultural? theological? — a bias that buildings are worldly, vain, irrelevant, status symbols. A bias confirmed by the rousing songs of yesteryear mentioned above.

I don’t really disagree with any of this. Nonetheless…

I consider some of the small, rural churches of upstate New York that formed me and my understanding of ministry. These congregations are now over 225 years old, in buildings nearly that old. No one today would intentionally start a church in these locales. Still, they aren’t, as critics contend, dead or introverted, unimportant or merely surviving. True, they won’t be mentioned in the next great book on leadership. Perhaps they aren’t even vibrant, but they are tenacious. And they are genuine, living examples of a church. Ministry in the name of Jesus takes place there. The Word is proclaimed. The sacraments are celebrated. 

It’s hard to imagine these churches surviving this long if they did not have buildings. And if they were to put their building up for sale, I don’t think there would be any clamor for the property. Perhaps someone could store farm equipment there? Give a try as apartments, a restaurant, a gallery? Seems unlikely. Moreover, their buildings are keystones, identity-givers in their communities. 

Is a congregation that is 100 or 200 years old merely a relic, an antiquarian oddity, a testament more to stubbornness than selflessness? Or is it a token of perseverance, steadfastness, and faithfulness? 

I understand why churches rent space in strip malls, gymnasiums, coffee houses, and theaters, or gather in homes. It may not only be about possible cost savings or being nimble. Perhaps it is also about cultural familiarity, being non-threatening, meeting people where they are. 

Still, is a church somehow different from a discount shoe store that has a 10-12 year life expectancy or the all-you-can-eat buffet that will endure for five years? Are we okay with churches having a 25 year shelf-life? Should we be? 

Comparing European churches to North American churches isn’t necessarily apples-to-apples. Nonetheless, I recall reading that “rather than seeing their old sanctuaries as relics of a past age, Dutch congregations seem to embrace them as means for missional outreach.” No one is claiming that the Protestant churches in the Netherlands are now thriving or that their old buildings are the primary reason for any momentum. But it is an interesting observation. 

In Puritan New England, the church building was usually a prominent, substantial structure, often located on the village green, sometimes directly opposite the courthouse or city hall. The symbolism was obvious. 

In contrast, in Quaker Pennsylvania, church buildings (meeting houses) were typically humble, unobtrusive, peripheral buildings. For many of us, myself included, our initial, chastened, post-Christian inclination today is to lean toward the Quaker sensibilities. 

In his book, Puritan Boston and Quaker Philadelphia, E. Digby Baltzell contends that the Puritan culture — and this very much included the size and placement of the church building — imbued a deep sense of civic responsibility and community service, along with a transparent, honorable personal life. Religion was a major contributor to public life. Meanwhile the inconspicuous Quaker structures were part of a culture where religion was private and quiet, leaving a vacuum in public life that invited the unscrupulous. Personal lives were out of sight and unaccountable, and frequently then, opulent and indulgent. 

Most of my observations have been more cultural-sociological than overtly theological. I don’t doubt, however, that parallel theological arguments could be made. And don’t take me as an absolutist, defending church buildings at all costs and in every situation. I’m simply suggesting that they might not be the bane we often imagine.