Today on this the Memorial of the martyrdom of the illustrious Saint John the Baptist, my heart aches as I think back on the beauty of my home parish church that has been so inconsiderately dismantled. Like so many others, I feel betrayed and experience, in some way, the agony of the disciples of John at his death. However, one key difference remains: the disciples were able to take John’s body and I am not able to recover the body of the church.
The more I think about what has happened, the more my heart aches within me as I know that my home is being destroyed. What hope I once had that the church would one day be returned to the worship of the Most High has now been dashed upon the rocks.
My fear is that the building will fall prey to vandals and the gorgeous windows that inspired the faith in so many people will be dotted with holes caused by rocks. I fear that the bushes and grass will be overgrown and the beauty of the façade will be marred through lack of loving care and concern. I fear that the roof will collapse in parts and the rain and the wind will weather the interior and fade and wash away the artwork that remains.
On the one hand, I hope that this will not happen. On the other hand, this would be far easier to bear than the church being turned into a bed and breakfast, a tavern, or any other such “profane, but not sordid use.”