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http://www.democratandchronicle.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20060424/NEWS01/604240322/1002/NEWS
St. Augustine's closure is met with sadness, resolve
About an hour before the final Mass had even started, Francis Dollard was already tuckered out. The 93-year-old had shaken so many hands and kissed so many ladies on the cheek that he sat down on the very last pew of St. Augustine Church and let all the people come to him — and many did.
"It's good to see you wearing that pin," one woman said, motioning to the blue badge that gave his name and designated him as a minister of hospitality.
"Too bad all these people weren't here before," another said as she made her way through the crowd of people who had come early to find a seat and visit with people they hadn't seen in years.
Close to 800 people came Sunday to say farewell to St. Augustine, which opened in December 1898 but has fallen victim to a shortage of priests and declining attendance. For the past several years, people in the local Catholic diocese have wrestled with those two issues and tried to figure out the best ways to plan for the future.
The entire 12-county diocese has been divided into roughly 36 planning groups, and the group responsible for St. Augustine on Chili Avenue — along with SS. Peter and Paul Church on West Main Street, Our Lady of Good Counsel on Brooks Avenue, St. Monica Church on Genesee Street and Emmanuel Church of the Deaf, which meets at Good Counsel — decided that all the parishes should meet at St. Monica's and sell the other buildings.
In their heyday, 4,000 families attended and supported the four large church buildings, their schools and their ministries. Now about 700 people come on a regular basis.
But on Sunday, even the white folding chairs arranged in the back weren't enough to hold the people who came to say goodbye to St. Augustine.
In many ways, Sunday's final Mass seemed like a family reunion. Those who had attended the church's school and those who had been married there returned for a final look. They hugged one another. They snapped pictures of the statuary, pictures of the stained glass, pictures of people. And a few cried.
"I'm in a nostalgic mood today," said Dollard, whose four children were baptized, educated and married at St. Augustine. "In my day, no Catholic church ever closed."
Hana Adur slipped in just before the service started and found one of the last seats. By the time the choir started singing "This Little Light of Mine," people stood along the walls. Adur hummed along as the procession started. Soon the entire church was singing and clapping.
"The situation is very difficult," Adur said, but she'll move with the congregation to St. Monica's. Two of her four children already attend school there, she said as people scrambled for more folding chairs.
The pastor, the Rev. Raymond H. Fleming, asked those who had been baptized in the parish to stand.
Dozens stood.
Then he asked those who had made their first confession at St. Augustine to stand, then those who were confirmed and those who were married there.
"It's been 57 years to the day," whispered Harry Clancy as he stood next to his wife, Jean.
When Fleming asked those who had attended the school to stand, there was applause and applause and applause — and even more applause when he asked people who had ever taught at the school to stand.
"I fully expected this to be a funeral, and in many ways it is," Fleming said, once the room had quieted again. "We're losing a dear loved one."
But then he reminded the congregation that there was a time when the disciples had gathered in an upper room. They were fearful and had locked themselves inside. But Jesus came to them and said, "Peace be with you," then instructed the disciples to go out into the world.
"Today we mourn ... but we also rejoice because God's compassion is upon us," Fleming said. "God is still with us," he said, and still calling Christians to go out into the world. "And that doesn't require a building."
Soon after, the hundreds who had gathered filed out the main doors and spilled onto the street. The bells rang, and rain threatened to fall.
As the last few people made it outside, tissues in hand, Fleming closed the front doors. He took a black cloth and wrapped it through the two door handles, essentially locking them. A parishioner tucked a small bouquet of yellow flowers into the cloth.
Some people wept, and one woman stood with her arms around the shoulders of another.
"The Mass is ended," Fleming said. "Go in peace. Thanks be to God."
St. Augustine's closure is met with sadness, resolve
About an hour before the final Mass had even started, Francis Dollard was already tuckered out. The 93-year-old had shaken so many hands and kissed so many ladies on the cheek that he sat down on the very last pew of St. Augustine Church and let all the people come to him — and many did.
"It's good to see you wearing that pin," one woman said, motioning to the blue badge that gave his name and designated him as a minister of hospitality.
"Too bad all these people weren't here before," another said as she made her way through the crowd of people who had come early to find a seat and visit with people they hadn't seen in years.
Close to 800 people came Sunday to say farewell to St. Augustine, which opened in December 1898 but has fallen victim to a shortage of priests and declining attendance. For the past several years, people in the local Catholic diocese have wrestled with those two issues and tried to figure out the best ways to plan for the future.
The entire 12-county diocese has been divided into roughly 36 planning groups, and the group responsible for St. Augustine on Chili Avenue — along with SS. Peter and Paul Church on West Main Street, Our Lady of Good Counsel on Brooks Avenue, St. Monica Church on Genesee Street and Emmanuel Church of the Deaf, which meets at Good Counsel — decided that all the parishes should meet at St. Monica's and sell the other buildings.
In their heyday, 4,000 families attended and supported the four large church buildings, their schools and their ministries. Now about 700 people come on a regular basis.
But on Sunday, even the white folding chairs arranged in the back weren't enough to hold the people who came to say goodbye to St. Augustine.
In many ways, Sunday's final Mass seemed like a family reunion. Those who had attended the church's school and those who had been married there returned for a final look. They hugged one another. They snapped pictures of the statuary, pictures of the stained glass, pictures of people. And a few cried.
"I'm in a nostalgic mood today," said Dollard, whose four children were baptized, educated and married at St. Augustine. "In my day, no Catholic church ever closed."
Hana Adur slipped in just before the service started and found one of the last seats. By the time the choir started singing "This Little Light of Mine," people stood along the walls. Adur hummed along as the procession started. Soon the entire church was singing and clapping.
"The situation is very difficult," Adur said, but she'll move with the congregation to St. Monica's. Two of her four children already attend school there, she said as people scrambled for more folding chairs.
The pastor, the Rev. Raymond H. Fleming, asked those who had been baptized in the parish to stand.
Dozens stood.
Then he asked those who had made their first confession at St. Augustine to stand, then those who were confirmed and those who were married there.
"It's been 57 years to the day," whispered Harry Clancy as he stood next to his wife, Jean.
When Fleming asked those who had attended the school to stand, there was applause and applause and applause — and even more applause when he asked people who had ever taught at the school to stand.
"I fully expected this to be a funeral, and in many ways it is," Fleming said, once the room had quieted again. "We're losing a dear loved one."
But then he reminded the congregation that there was a time when the disciples had gathered in an upper room. They were fearful and had locked themselves inside. But Jesus came to them and said, "Peace be with you," then instructed the disciples to go out into the world.
"Today we mourn ... but we also rejoice because God's compassion is upon us," Fleming said. "God is still with us," he said, and still calling Christians to go out into the world. "And that doesn't require a building."
Soon after, the hundreds who had gathered filed out the main doors and spilled onto the street. The bells rang, and rain threatened to fall.
As the last few people made it outside, tissues in hand, Fleming closed the front doors. He took a black cloth and wrapped it through the two door handles, essentially locking them. A parishioner tucked a small bouquet of yellow flowers into the cloth.
Some people wept, and one woman stood with her arms around the shoulders of another.
"The Mass is ended," Fleming said. "Go in peace. Thanks be to God."