Church of the Incarnation

A friend of mine was hired to plant a new church in a growing area of Birmingham, Alabama. A study of the job market as well as of new construction trends pointed to this neighborhood as a prime location for a new Episcopal church. Long before my friend was hired, the diocese had located key Episcopalians in the area and obtained their commitments to be part of the new church. A temporary location was set up with an altar and pews, and donations of linens and vessels were collected. The day my friend held his first service, it was to a full congregation and with all the trappings one would expect in an established Episcopal church.

Incarnation began very differently from this. We began like the tiny mustard seed which doesn't appear large enough ever to produce anything of real value. Early in the eighteenth century, a Rev. C. C. Pinckney held Episcopal services at the Limestone Springs, a resort hotel in the building which now houses Limestone College's administration. But these earliest seeds showed no evidence of germination.

A hundred years later, in the 1840s, a string of missionary clergy renewed the effort to establish an Episcopal church here, once more holding services in the formal parlor of the Limestone Springs. The gathered congregation elected a vestry and even located land for a church building; tiny green shoots began to peek out of the soil. But in 1861 the Civil War began. Men took up arms and went off to fight, while women worked day and night just to feed and clothe their families. With many clergy joining the ranks on the battlefields, missionary clergy were pulled from their posts and sent back to established churches. The fledgling church in Gaffney was too young and tender to survive the harsh conditions of wartime. Its little shoots curled back in on themselves.

In 1873, a talented and energetic missionary clergyman began holding regular Episcopal services in a Presbyterian church in Gaffney. The congregation grew in numbers and faith, as well as in their dedication to their little church. In 1880, the cornerstone was laid at the corner of Buford and Brown streets for the first Church of the Incarnation building. The priest designed the building, carved the bishop's chair and altar, and constructed windows similar to these for behind the altar. In 1882 the building was consecrated. The seed planted so long ago was sprouting leaves and reaching for the sun.

The enthusiastic missionary clergyman moved on to other new churches once Incarnation's building was finished, and we were served by a string of four priests in the next ten years. Membership began to decline, until in 1907 there remained only two members. The church was closed, and the little plant again withered.

Twenty years later, Gaffney was feeling the crush of the depression. The newly-formed Diocese of Upper South Carolina sent a priest to Incarnation to see if, with proper care, the withered plant here could be revived. The priest found a small group of worshippers who were eager to clean out the church building, which had been used as a stable. They toiled and sweated and prayed, and others were attracted by their faith. In the early 1930s, eleven communicants applied for Church of the Incarnation to be admitted as a mission congregation of the diocese. Altar Guilds from thriving churches all over the country were moved by the faith of Incarnation, and gifts of linens came pouring in. There was no running water in the church, so members brought water from their homes to clean their church and wash up from parish suppers. And there, in the midst of the depression, the little sprout of Incarnation grew taller and again stretched out her leaves toward the sun's warmth.

As the Second World War emptied pews across the country, sending worshippers into the battlefields, Incarnation barely held on. There were many times when the vestry discussed closing the church again, but somehow the little plant survived.

After the war, Capers Satterlee at Church of the Advent in Spartanburg took Incarnation under his wing. We had no priest of our own, but he made sure services were held here each Sunday morning, coming himself once a month to celebrate Communion. Incarnation thrived, with an active Women's group and Youth Group. In the early fifties, we built a parish hall on Buford Street to hold all our programs and activities. We were doing so well that we even became a full-fledged parish for a few years. But we lost our priest, and became a mission again in 1958.

Some plants spring right up and grow tall and strong right away. Others need time to grow deep roots. Above the ground, these plants may appear to be withering, but important development is happening beneath the surface. Roots are growing deep and strong, roots which will allow the plant to withstand changes in conditions unscathed.

Incarnation's roots are very deep. All those years, when we were emptied by wars and depleted by depression, Incarnation was growing beneath the surface. The farmer in today's first parable is mystified when plants spring up from his carelessly scattered seeds. He recognizes that the growth is not of his doing, but is God's activity. Incarnation has been blessed with some remarkable leaders. The Rev. Marion Hatchett, who went on to serve on the committee which wrote the Prayer Book we use today, and who taught seminarians how to conduct worship as liturgics professor at Sewanee, served as our priest right out of seminary. Junior Warden Jimmie Sims came to church each Sunday in the 50s prepared to crawl under the building and jiggle the vacuum cleaner that powered the reed organ so we could have music. And in the 80s, Helen Callison painstakingly researched our history and wrote a 38-page booklet so we'd always know how we began. But Incarnation is here today, in our new building constructed in 1960 and recently expanded, not because of the efforts of those dedicated people. Incarnation is here today because God has been at work in us. Our efforts are no more than the tiniest sprig from the top of a cedar tree or the smallest mustard seed. But from our meager efforts, God brings the mighty cedars of Lebanon and the pervasive mustard bush, whose branches spread wide enough to shelter all the birds of the sky.

Someone told me this week that they felt Incarnation was really about to take off because of the things I'm doing here. While that's very flattering, I don't think it's at all true. Incarnation is clearly on the verge of becoming a mighty cedar, but it's not because of any of our efforts. It's because God has been at work beneath the surface of Incarnation for a long time now. From the first time worshippers gathered in the parlor of the Limestone Springs in the 1700s, God has been at work, growing our roots deep and strong, ready to support the many branches of a flourishing mustard bush.

Each of us has already found shelter in Incarnation's branches. And now it's our job not to grow the mustard bush but to flap our wings and squawk at the top of our lungs to show other birds the way to the sheltering branches of Incarnation. Call someone when you get home today and invite them to come to church with you next week. Talk to a neighbor with children and invite them to come with you to Vacation Bible School. Incarnation is not just another stalk of wheat. We're a mighty cedar of Lebanon, an enormous mustard bush. God has been at work in us for 300 years. We can't keep that a secret any longer.

Amen.

References:

• All historical data on Church of the Incarnation is from Helen Vassey Callison's pamphlet The Word Made Flesh: An Updated History of the Church of the Incarnation , 1982.