I usually dream when I'm awake. And the dreams that I dream are always impossible, at least for me to accomplish in my lifetime. As if I need a good three or four lifespans to get it all done. I know that those dreams can become reality but somewhere along the way, I'll have to hand them off to someone who will outlive me. Since whatever we dream has been dreamt before and whatever we think has been thought before, I realize that I have to take a glance to the past. To see whose dream I'm carrying. So here's where our story begins.
I love old towns. Buildings abandoned whose owners passed on and perhaps the two were intertwined somehow. The shells remain but for some reason one day, the doors closed for the last time, leaving everything inside like a time capsule. I found one such building recently in a small Texas town. A house of worship, built in 1902, silent for the past 20 years. On the outside, the white paint is showing its age, but still the excellence of the woodwork and design leave one wondering if such a structure could ever be built today with this degree of craftsmanship. Have metal building companies with quick turn key operations made this particular expression of worship to God a thing of the past? It's obvious that such a building was a labor of love and must have taken quite some time to complete.
Opening the door I was greeted by a thrilling sight. The sanctuary was seemingly untouched and whatever mischief could have befallen such a magnificent place had been held at bay. The curved pews, obviously constructed for this very room, the stained glass in every window, the white pressed tin ceiling, the wooden floor that sloped gently toward the altar, the pulpit with legers containing the record of every birth, death, business transaction, and wedding held in the building in the past century. One entry mentioned a member renting a plot of farmland and a house to another for the sum of three dollars per month. To one side, an ancient chest reveals a box of glass communion cups, washed and neatly stored. Beside them, bottles of grape juice, the price tag of 39 cents each still on the lid. In a side room stands a strange and unique table, built in a U shape, obviously made for a children's class. I imagine the children who once sat there listening to stories of burning bushes and giant Phillistines are all grown or gone. It feels like I'm intruding. I stand for a moment behind the old pulpit, a century old upright piano behind me. I reach down to a shelf below and pick up a ledger, it's protective plastic cover sticky and yellowed yet it's done it's job. I open it and read. "On October 2, 1979, a special homecoming service was held here. Pastor Stanley Latham presided and Patty Taylor provided the music. One living charter member attended. That night, those present had a vision. That the truth of the Lord Jesus Christ would always be proclaimed in this community and that generations to come would come to worship here." The PA system was turned off, the microphone laid down beside the pulpit, and the little house of worship went silent to this day.
How is it that a vision dies? In the Bible visions were given to those who would never see them come to pass with their own eyes. Hebrews 11 is such an example. So I don't believe it's so much that a vision dies. More like it sleeps. It seems as though God gives a generation a kind of treasure, which is then discovered by another generation to come and in this way honor is given to the past while hope opens the doorway to the future. So then whatever dreams God has given you can be bigger than you are and live longer than you will. Dream big dreams, dreams that are big enough to be picked up by the next generation and carried farther into the future than you will ever go.