This Saturday, St. John’s will be included in the Charlestown Preservation Society’s House Tour. A group of us will be welcoming neighbors starting at 1pm on Saturday. I’m out of town at a church meeting on Thursday, so haven’t written something for News & Notes, but I thought it would be fun to share with you the “Brief Architectural History” we’ll be handing out to visitors, along with a few photos.

The Church is the people, not the building—but the building’s quite nice, too, and it is an incredible gift to have received such a beautiful place in which to worship from the generations before us. (Many thanks to the generations of Building Committees in particular, and especially for those who prepared the history below!)

The congregation of St John’s was established in 1840, on the eve of Charlestown’s mid-1840s building and population boom. The cornerstone for the church was laid on 5 May 1841, on what was then called Bow Street (formerly Crooked Lane), the outermost part of Town Hill; the nave was consecrated in November of that same year. That the new church was ready within six months after breaking ground reveals the success of a staggeringly impressive construction schedule and how much easier it is to construct a building that does not require electricity, heat or water. The front façade of dark ashlar granite with crenellated tower and the tall, pointed arch windows are typical of the Early Gothic Revival style, a British import popular at that time in Eastern Massachusetts. The architect responsible for design was Richard Bond, who also designed Lewis Wharf in Boston and Gore Hall at Harvard College, a building which was torn down and replaced by the Widener Library, but whose image still graces the seal of the City of Cambridge.

The original design of the church’s interior was distinctly “low church”: warm browns, golds and terra cotta on the walls, galleries on all three sides, with organ in the rear, box pews, diamond-shaped clear glass in all the windows and only a small slightly raised sanctuary which contained two chairs, a lectern and a communion table. The two chairs are still in use today.

I’ve always loved the inscription on the baptismal font:
“From the Children of St. John’s, Easter 1845.”

In 1876-77, extensive alterations were made by architect A.C. Martin and included the arches one sees here today, which at that time were heavily decorated as was the border of the stained glass window and paneling behind the altar; there was also a decorative stencil along the top of the wainscot in the nave. The box pews remained, only to leave around 1910-11, when the wood floor of quarter-sawn oak was installed. The window over the altar is the only figured memorial window in a church in Charlestown, and is dedicated to the memory of Peter and Sara Hubbell. Peter was a long time Senior Warden of the church, a brick manufacturer who lived on Monument Square and built 1-2 Laurel Street. It was Peter Hubbell who in 1856 donated the 3,000 pound bell which still hangs in the tower and is rung by the congregation’s children every Sunday (with a little help from the adults). The window is the work of noted artisan W. J. McPherson. The stained glass on the sides of the church were produced by Kelley and Holland.

In addition to the bell and the window, the Hubbells can lay claim to another central part of our lives: Mrs. Hubbell donated the communion silver we use every week in memory of her husband, who was, as the inscription notes, Senior Warden of the parish for twenty-three years (!).

In 1998, the parish made a significant exterior restoration, including new copper roof flashing and selective slate replacement, repointing and cleaning of the granite and brick. This followed the installation of the “new” 1873 Odell tracker organ, which was bought from a church in Old Saybrook, Connecticut and fit into its space at St John’s perfectly. In 2003, with grants from Historic Boston and others, lighting for the church steeple was installed. More recently, the altar area and railings were reworked so that the original altar could be brought into the center of the platform; the step up to the altar was considerably widened and hand rails installed. In doing this work, two shoes were found in a wall cavity, a tradition of the time; however, what was unique about these shoes was that one was a man’s shoe and the other a woman’s. Pictures were taken, an article appeared in the bridge, and then the shoes were put back into the wall. The nave was also repainted at this time, in neutrals, but the narthex (entry) repainting was done in one of the historic colors and the stenciling on the wainscot was reproduced.

It is significant to note that for over a century the parish was served by only three priests. The Reverend Thomas R. Lambert served from 1856-1883; the Reverend Philo W. Sprague served from 1884-1923 (at which time he became rector emeritus), and then the Reverend Wolcott Cutler, who served from 1924-1959. The Reverend Mr. Cutler left a lasting legacy in his work to preserve Charlestown’s historic neighborhood and in his slide collection of Charlestown scenes and people, which is available for viewing through the Boston Public Library. Mr. Cutler is also primarily responsible for the Forest Garden behind the Church and Parish House, which is currently undergoing accessibility improvements funded by a Community Preservation Act grant

Today, St. John’s remains a vibrant parish church, open for worship every Sunday at 10am. The Parish House hosts community groups including the Charlestown Coalition’s Turn It Around, Jr. youth group, the Charlestown Community Cares Clothes Closet, addiction recovery meetings, and more.

I don’t have much to say, today, by way of a message “From the Rector,” but I wanted to share one small, potentially-illuminating fact about the season we’re entering, which we often call “Fall,” sometimes “Autumn,” and in our quainter or more whimsical states of mind perhaps even “Harvest,” as in the “Harvest Fair.” (I don’t think much has been harvested in Charlestown in the last 180 years, but it’s a nice bit of marketing.) Specifically, a fun fact about the season’s name.

“Fall” is in fact the most recent of the names, dating only—only!—to the 1660s, an abbreviation of the poetic “fall of the leaf.” “Autumn” had been around from the 14th century or so, a borrowing from Latin via French at a time when much English vocabulary was being borrowed into English from French. “Harvest” was the oldest name for the season after summer and before winter. In fact, in Old and Middle English “Harvest” referred primarily to the season, and only secondarily the gathering of crops. (So perhaps our “Harvest Fair” is really just a “Fall Fair” after all, without any urban farming implied!)

And yet the word “harvest” itself comes in turn from an ancient Indo-European root that means, of course, “to gather or pluck.” So “Harvest” was an action before it was a season before it was an action again, and there’s no season more suitable for such a cycling of meanings than Autumn, when the leaves fall from the trees and become mulch, and the cycle of life and growth turns toward death and rebirth again. Everything new becomes old, and everything old becomes new again in time.

And yet time is not, as has been pessimistically said, a “flat circle,” in which we do the same things time and time again, without change or growth or decline. Time is a spiral, in one direction or another. Our language grows, and where our ancestors had one word we have three, for better or for worse. Seasons pass, and the trees don’t simply shed their leaves—they grow, or die, but they never remain unchanged.

Nor do we! As the cycles of your life begin again this fall—as schools reopen, and choirs begin, and all the September shifts of life take place—I wonder which direction God’s inviting you to grow.

These last few weeks have been late summer the way it should be. Highs in the 70s, with the humidity just right, perfect for a last trip to the pool or the beach; lows in the 60s for perfect sleeping weather with the windows open all night. Colors saturated beyond all belief in my favorite combination of green leaves, blue skies, and red bricks in the shade on a sunny day, colors you can’t capture in a photo on a screen. Quiet sidewalks and empty pews as half the city tries to squeeze one more weekend of fun out of the summer.

The State of Maine isn’t the only place that can lay claim to the phrase “the way life should be.” Not these few weeks.

But not everything is as perfect as it seems. The leaves on the tree next to my desk are already beginning to turn, a sign of stress after a hot, dry summer. The joy of the last game of pick-up baseball being played in the park comes along with the sinking feeling I remember all too well of a school year about to begin. Our late-summer peace is troubled by news of war and violence, and all the anxieties of yet another election year.

This combination of flourishing and stress, of bitter and sweet, may not be “the way life should be.” But it’s certainly the way life is. And as it is with the world around us, so it is with the world inside us. Life is always both good and imperfect. And we are also always both good and imperfect. It’s a part of the human condition that the writer Dave Zahl calls “mixedness.”

When we misunderstand this reality, it has the potential to lead us to despair. Some of us crush ourselves with perfection, thinking that we’re supposed to be all beauty and no mess, that we should be able to do the right things and say the right things all the time, never making a mistake and never failing, and we find ourselves drowned in shame if we slip up. Others think we really are that great, unwilling or unable to see our rougher edges and our darker sides, and we expect the people around us to be perfect as well. A few of us might suffer from the opposite: We only see our failings and our struggles, and refuse to acknowledge the ways in which we’re good. Any of these imbalanced paths can only lead to despair.

But if we embrace the unfortunate truth of life’s “mixedness” and our own, it has the power to set us free. If you’re reading this, I am almost sure that you are mostly trying to be good. I am absolutely sure that you are imperfect. So am I. So is everyone else in your life. (And everyone else in mine!)

I can’t speak for you, I guess, but the more I come to grips with this, the better I feel. I find it easier to take the pressure of myself when I remember that my best efforts will inevitably be imperfect. I find it easier to love other people when I remember that theirs will, too. The more this truth sinks in, the more I find myself set free: free from my anxiety about my own small imperfections, free from my anger at everyone else’s minor failing, free to embrace and enjoy the good things I find all around me, knowing that they aren’t ruined by the bad.

This may not be the way life should be, but it’s certainly the way life is. And—seeing us exactly as we are, and knowing us more deeply than we know ourselves—God has chosen to love us, and to offer us a thousand small reminders of that love.

Many of you know that we’re in the midst of a process to renovate and improve the Garden, especially focusing on making the Garden a more accessible community space: widening and restoring some of the paths so they are accessible, broadening some of the paved areas in which we gather for food and conversation, adding lighting along the pathways, and gently grading the lower section of the Garden so that it forms an accessible ramp up to the upper section, rather than the sunken step (and giant puddle!) currently between the two sections. This work is being funded by a $150,000 Community Preservation Act grant.

This month, our Vestry approved a bid from one of three contractors who submitted proposals. The total cost will be well within the estimate, allowing the full cost of the project to be covered by the CPA grant. (The grant only covers accessibility and lighting, not any additional planting.) The exact timeline of the construction process has not been determined yet, but work should begin this summer.

So this week, I thought it would be fun to share a few reflections, memories, and especially photographs from the Garden’s past, as we prepare for the Garden’s future.

Around this time every year, the Wolcott Cutler Memorial Garden behind St. John’s is transformed into a sanctuary of its own. During the winter and early spring, the Garden is bare and brown, like everything, and often cut off from the world by puddles or snow. But during the spring and in the summer, it becomes an urban oasis. I often sit in the Garden to read or to write a sermon during the warmer months, and sometimes find myself absorbed by the world around me instead. The breeze rustles the leaves high above me, the shade and the cool walls of the church dispel the summer heat, the birds sign hymns all around, and—wait, have I already read this page?

And at the same time, the Garden is a wonderful community meeting place, where people from St. John’s and all of Charlestown come together: for lemonade hours and cookouts, for Monday night AA meetings and the Monday afternoon Turn It Around, Jr. youth group, for Charlestown Mothers’ Association New Moms’ groups and for Charlestown Nursery School nature exploration.

These two uses have always been a part of what was originally called the Forest Garden when it was envisioned by the Rev. Wolcutt Cutler, and later renamed the Cutler Memorial Garden in his memory. The Rev. Mr. Cutler, as you may know, was an avid photographer, and his photographs document some of the early life of the Garden: I thought I’d share some of my favorites below, along with some modern companions!

I share these pictures, the Rev. Cutler’s and mine, with deep gratitude for his vision and for the generations of volunteers who built the Forest Garden and have maintained it for generations, and especially for those members of our church who continue to keep it in such beautiful condition, and to work to improve it, today.

In 2011, the psychologist Daniel Kahneman published a book called Thinking, Fast and Slow, in which he distinguishes between two separate pathways in our minds. “System 1” is the fast path, in which the mind quickly synthesizes information and makes decisions without conscious input. With System 1, you can complete the phrase, “in sickness and in _____,” or drive on the route you’ve been taking home for decades. “System 2” is the slow path, in which your conscious processes of logic and calculation are engaged. With System 2, you can write a letter, or decide on the best way to drive from Charlestown to Braintree for an appointment at 4:00pm. (Trick question: No matter when you leave, you will be late.)

Thinking, Fast and Slow is a good book. And it’s a great title. The title came to mind for me this weekend, as I sat through the eighth hour of a special diocesan convention on the day before Pentecost, and saw two different sides of the Holy Spirit: Fast and Slow.

The Holy Spirit is, after all, the mind of the Church. Or at least, it’s the Person of the Trinity to whom we assign most of the processes of discernment and decision-making in the Church, the one for whose intervention we pray when we are in need of guidance.

In the modern Church, we often associate the Holy Spirit with the spontaneous and disruptive, the unexpected and miraculous. “Pentecostalism” is, after all, the tradition of speaking in tongues and miracle cures, whose adherents have believed in sudden outpourings of the Holy Spirit since the Azusa Street Revival and even before. When the Holy Spirit shows up, it’s with a sudden rush of wind and fires lit on people’s heads, with charismatic gifts and remarkable events. Most days, the Holy Spirit seems like a System 1 person of the Trinity.

But the Holy Spirit has a System 2, as well; the Spirit moves in more deliberate ways. Last week, I think, I wrote that the Holy Spirit shapes and guides the Church over generations, smoothing out our liturgies, refining our prayers into words that stand the test of time. It’s certainly true that the Spirit shapes us over the course of our lives; it’s no accident that “spiritual journey” has become such a common phrase, cliché as it may be. (When you’re facing the 93 South of life, where the future seems intractable, the Spirit is certainly there.)

And the Spirit moves in church conventions, too, even as they move at a comically glacial pace. Our election convention was already half an hour behind the agenda by the time the first vote was cast. (45 minutes, it turns out, was not enough time for a Eucharist with 500 people.) Each ballot took a few minutes to cast a vote, followed by twenty minutes of counting, then a few minutes to announce the results of that ballot, followed by another twenty minutes for the candidates to decide if they want to drop out before the next one, round after round of electronic voting, each of which was theoretically instant but which took forty-five minutes nevertheless.

But sometimes, the Spirit can’t do its work without some delays. Those forty-minute breaks were essential to the process. The hour we took for lunch between ballots 2 and 3 was absolutely necessary. Taking the time to reflect, and pray, and wait in a beautiful church between rounds of voting transformed what could’ve been a process of political scheming into a holy time of discernment. Sometimes, parliamentary procedure and Robert’s Rules can stifle the movement of the Holy Spirit—but sometimes all that structure and rigamarole slows things down just enough, gives just enough space, for the Spirit to help us work.

The Spirit can move fast, when it wants to, shattering our preconceptions and overturning the world in a matter of minutes. But mostly it moves slow, in our conventions and in our lives, gradually reshaping and redirecting us. The Spirit is not only fire, but wind; not only sudden transformation that burns down everything, but a gentle breeze that slowly takes us where we need to go.