In the classroom of a Midwestern Sectarian College, as I was putting on my church service vestments, I looked down at the large table used at the Coffee Hour following the weekly communion service. As usual, it was completely covered with a good variety of food in rather large amounts.

There were doughnuts, cookies, almonds, peanuts, sliced French bread, butter and jam, varieties of cheese, children’s cookies, and more. I really can’t remember it all. To drink, there was orange juice, coffee, instant hot chocolate, hot water, and tea bags.

The cups, napkins, utensils, and tablecloth were all very neatly arranged. There was regular cream and coffee creamer. In my 34 plus years as a clergy person no Coffee Hour had been so thoroughly prepared. I really had not seen anything like it in all that time. Honestly, I had not seen so much food and such variety.

After the Episcopal Church service, I came back to the same room to take off my vestments and join others in the weekly fellowship time. But, as usual, beside myself there were only five persons!

Sunday after Sunday it had been the same story in the almost eight months I had served. The average worship attendance was twelve. So, even if all of them stayed for the coffee your, there would still be far too much food, and too much from which to chose.

As I inferred earlier, almost every Sunday, no more than six even stayed for the fellowship hour. Why, then, all this food?

In the several months I’ve supplied this very small church, I’ve tried to figure that out. This past Sunday, one good possibility came to me. Those who are loyal to both church and coffee hour do not want to admit their church is dying.

It’s too painful to face the reality that it’s been more than twenty years since the average worship attendance was more than twenty.

Those left are all older than sixty years, and can recall the “glory years,” when as many as forty, even fifty, filled the pews of their only church building. However, because they did not pay the mortgage, and wanted the diocesan church to take care of eighty percent of their annual budget, the diocese sold the church out from under them. They have never gotten over that, and still talk in resentful tones about the painful experience. They still blame “the diocese” for their failures. At the same time, none of them donate more than several dollars a week.

A whole group of clergy has supplied the very little church for the last 25 years, in which they have worshiped in the chapel of the Quaker College. Some have stayed longer than others, but almost all have “fallen short,” according to the few lay leaders left. “They,” the clergy, have not known how, or been willing to do what’s necessary to make the little church not so little.

“If we just had our own building.” “If the Diocese would just give us money for a small building, then people would come, then we would grow.” This same rhetoric has gone on for years, but still twelve or so people are all that shows up Sunday after Sunday.

All this went through my mind, as I snacked on the refreshments and drank some orange juice that same Sunday. I made an excuse for having to start back on the hour and fifteen-minute drive to my home. As I exited into the hallway, I overheard one of the older gentlemen say to the other, “Now Herman, tell us about that priest you were talking about.”