Waterloo and Presbyterians in Philadelphia, Dick Whittington and Maryland: on cherishing old churches

On the Sundays of July 1815, churches across this Kingdom heard prayers and sermons giving thanks for the victory of Allied arms at Waterloo. In the words of 'The Form of Prayer and Thanksgiving to Almighty God' at Morning and Evening Prayer on the first Sunday of July:

O God the Disposer of all human events ... accept our praise and thanksgiving for the signal victory which Thou haft recently vouchsafed to the Allied Armies in Flanders. Grant O merciful God, that the result of this mighty battle, terrible in conflict, but glorious beyond example in success, may put an end to the miseries of Europe, and stanch the blood of Nations.

The thanksgiving reflected the hopes of peace and stability after centuries of bloody conflict unleashed by the Revolution in France. In a sermon preached in the Grange parish church, in County Armagh, on that first Sunday in July, the curate, the Reverend Charles Coleman, gave voice to the understanding of the victory of Waterloo as a deliverance:

An ominous, though happily a futile attempt has since been made, by the same restless and determined foe of human happiness, who had so long involved the world in blood and misery, again to open the floodgates of iniquity, and to pour destruction over the nations of the earth ... Under the guidance of the Almighty, the nations of Europe assembled; and at one blow annihilated the power and the hopes, of the faithless invader of France.

Later in July, in the parish church of Chiswick, the vicar, the Reverend T.F. Bowerback, recognised the  human cost of the victory which secured the peace of Europe:

whilst we rejoice in the prospect which this great victory has unfolded of peace and rest to the civilized world, we must at the same time deeply feel for the individual sufferings with which it has been purchased, for the sufferings of the widow and the orphan, for the sufferings of him who, maimed and mutilated in the service of his country, looks, and has a right to look, to that country for her sympathy and gratitude.

Part of the reason for the victory at Waterloo being on my mind at present is that, during the holiday season, I will be worshipping for at least one Sunday in a parish church, built in the mid-17th century, and in which, therefore, the above prayer would have been offered and a thanksgiving sermon almost certainly delivered in July 1815. This is a part of the vocation and gift of such older church buildings. They stand as testimony to the gathering up in Christ of times and seasons, victories and defeats, war and peace, national thanksgiving and national lamentation. 

A few months ago, I came across the story of the historic Old Pine Presbyterian Church, Philadelphia. The current minister of the congregation recently described the church:

We have our own sanctuary, where I preach each week and which we labour to maintain as a beautiful architectural space in its own right. The sanctuary in our church was built in the 1700s and has undergone several careful renovations over the years. It is not as grand as a great cathedral. Our sanctuary was designed for Presbyterian worship, a tradition focused on preaching, community prayer, and hymn singing. 

While referring to the Presbyterian tradition of worship, there are similarities here with Sir Roger Scruton's description of the ordinary Anglican parish church:

The architecture is noble but bare and quiet, without the lofty aspiration of the French Gothic, or the devotional intimacy of an Italian chapel.

There is also a deep sense of history associated with Old Pine Presbyterian. Built in 1768, it was caught up with the emergence of the United States, becoming known as the 'Church of the Patriots'. The churchyard, in addition to holding the remains of many ordinary late 18th and early 19th century Presbyterian Philadelphians, is also the resting place for over 200 of those who served on the Patriot side in the Revolutionary War. 

Old Pine Presbyterian's website tells of how this rich legacy could have been lost:

By 1900, Old Pine and the neighborhood had begun to decline; by mid-century both church and churchyard stood in melancholy disrepair. Old Pine’s neighborhood declined as well. Many of the residences deteriorated. Many churches moved away, but Old Pine remained to serve its community ... However, had it not been for its unique role in Presbyterian and national history, the old church would probably have been closed and demolished.

Instead, the legacy was cherished and built upon. The churchyard and its heritage was celebrated. Presbyterian worship was maintained. Between 2011 and 2018, the congregation doubled. In the words of the minister, "Other churches moved when the neighborhoods changed ...When the neighborhoods became poor, other churches moved. We always stayed, and we ministered to whatever the population was at that time". 

Place, heritage, presence, service, prayerful community: it is a good example of how old, historic churches are to be cherished as living signs of all things caught up in Christ - times and seasons, thanksgiving and lament, continuity and change, past and present.

Then we turn to the Diocese of London and its decision to sell St Michael Paternoster Royal, a Wren church and burial place of Dick Whittington. As Marcus Walker, the vicar of nearby St. Bartholomew the Great noted, it was "doubly sad" that there was apparently no discussion with other churches in the City of London as to whether they might be interested in taking on this historic church. In an important critique of the decision, Fergus Butler-Gallie points to it as embodying the assumptions and values of "the Church's managerial caste":

Despite what the leadership think, this Church does not belong to them. Their model is not the only one for its salvation or preservation. Its buildings are not theirs to asset strip, nor are the congregations theirs to squeeze, nor are the priests theirs to bid.

A disregard for - indeed, perhaps even a contempt for - historic places of worship can be all too evident in the leadership of contemporary Anglicanism including, unfortunately, in the Church of Ireland. It is not unusual to hear those in positions of diocesan leadership bewail old parish churches as 'obstacles to the Gospel'. Such comments betray a desiccated understanding of the Gospel, stripped of place, presence, and heritage; as if the Gospel cannot take deep root in place and locality, does not leave witness over centuries to its sustaining and transfiguring grace, does not find expression in hallowed places of prayer, cherished by communities aware of such light and grace.

As I was thinking about writing on these issues, an Episcopalian friend from the United States posted the message below on X (formerly Twitter):

It wonderfully exemplifies much of what I have attempted to say here. Cherishing and sustaining old parish churches, their history, their churchyards, their ornaments, their memorials, their tradition of worship, is not merely an exercise akin to providing a tourist destination. It is, rather, chiefly a means of witnessing to the Gospel, of lives and times, thanksgivings and sorrows, births and deaths, national occasions and domestic vocations, touched by Christ, offered unto Christ, caught up into Christ.  This is why a failure to cherish and sustain old churches has theological and spiritual significance, why abandoning them causes such pain and sadness. And why cherishing and sustaining old churches is not a mere practical matter but, rather, a means of living out the church's mission.

The lot is fallen unto me in a fair ground: yea, I have a goodly heritage - Ps.16:7. Psalm 16 is one of the psalms appointed to be said or sung at Matins on the 3rd day of the month.