First Church Atlanta
by Jane Curran

It felt like a walk down Memory Lane. I was back in Atlanta and remembering my years in seminary at Emory University, and my internship at First United Methodist Church on the north end of downtown.

As it turned out my motel was less than two blocks from that historic first church of Methodism. So, I took a short walk to the church where I had spent a year in ministry.
As expected the front doors were firmly closed. I went to the side door where I had entered so often and pressed the buzzer.

A voice said, “Yes?”

“Hello. My name is Jane Curran. I used to work here. I came by to say hi. May I come in?”

“The church is closed.”

My head spun. The church is closed? Not taking any more members? No more prayers? The church is closed. What a strange thing to say. What a terrifying thing to contemplate.

Closed? To a prodigal come to the gate? To the homeless that populate every block of downtown? To anyone without the password to get through the locked door?
Questions flooded my mind. I pushed the buzzer again and said, “Please come look at me. I won’t hurt you. I was your first intern from Emory. I just want to sit in the sanctuary for a little while and pray.” The voice said, “Just a minute.” So I waited—and waited. Eventually she came to the locked door and let me in with the caution that there was a wedding rehearsal so “you can’t stay long”. I heard people talking in the office.

So I sat alone in that enormous sanctuary of First United Methodist of Atlanta with its Tiffany windows and other glowing stained glass.

In the stillness I thought about the fear of all the wildness that roams just outside the church doors on Peachtree Street. Then I felt a terrible loneliness that I’d bulldozed my way into a place that was closed. To me and whom else?

Of course, downtown Atlanta is not a place to leave house, car, or business unlocked. It’s not a place to trust everyone who wants to come in because not everyone is OK within themselves. Not everyone can be trusted not to break beautiful things. But to hear “The church is closed”. What does that say about values, hope, and community? In the insanity of daily work and the heartbreak of personal life—where can we go? Where can we find the glorious fire of stained glass and the silence to contemplate it if not in that building called the church? And if the windows get chipped, how many will have prayed in the meantime?

It’s a terrific struggle of ethics and choice. Do we risk being broken in order to serve? What happens when we open the doors and have them smashed for our trouble?
So, I’m left with a lingering sorrow that a place where I was known and loved was not open to me one autumn afternoon—and closed to whom else? We can’t know. We can only wonder. And pray.

“I was a stranger and you took me in.”

Jane Curran is a United Methodist minister and the chaplaincy supervisor at Carepartners/Mountain Area Hospice where she has served for thirteen years. Along with her chaplain’s responsibilities, Rev. Curran has worked extensively with ethical issues around end of life care. She also provides education in the Asheville/Buncombe County community on the emotional and spiritual aspects of end of life issues. Recently she has written a book for caregivers on the ongoing work of “being there” for others. Rev. Curran is also a certified spiritual director.