While on my way to Pittsburg today I stopped to spend some time at the Antietam National Battlefield. As some of you know I am something of a history buff and Civil War history has always interested me. As a boy I found the battlefields to be really cool. Now I find them to be very sad.
Antietam was an amazing battle. Called “The Battle that Freed the Slaves” because Lincoln issued his Emancipation Proclamation just six days after the battle, this was indeed a very important battle in American History. Some less laudable aspects can also be remembered about this battle. It was the bloodiest day in American history. It was, in a sense, the victory that cost Gen. McClellan his command. It was the battle that should have ended the Civil War and yet because of McClellan’s indecisiveness the war dragged on for two and a half more years.
All of these aspects create an atmosphere of absolute awe as one visits the battlefield. Even 147 years later it still inspires us. It is difficult to imagine the horror and agony, the bloodshed and violence, the bravery and glory that erupted there. One survivor described it as “perfect horror.” As I walked through the beautiful Maryland country side on this spring-like day, taking in the vast vistas of rolling hills and gentle farmlands it was hard to imagine what it must have been like on that hellish day in 1862.
What caught my attention on this visit was the little Dunker Church. It is an unassuming little white brick building that sits by the road on the edge of the corn fields. It was built by gentle German immigrants fleeing the religious persecution of their homeland. They were Brethren, Pacifist Ana-Baptists who settled along the quiet Antietam Creek near Sharpsburg. They built their fa
rms there and their lives mirrored the gentle flow of the lazy Antietam. They were peaceful people who formed a loving community of Christian Brethren. They rejected violence and lived lives interrupted only by the passing seasons.
Their church caught my attention because as I peered in through the window I realized that their simple wooden benches were set in a semi-circle in much the same fashion as our new church design is laid out. They obviously had the same goals in mind when they designed their church as we have for ours; a sense of community, a sense of connection and participation, a sense of inclusion. One of their tenants in a time of slavery and war was the brotherhood of all mankind.
They could have little realized as they built their farms, their stone bridge and their little brick chapel that one day nations would collide over these unassuming landmarks. The church that stood for peace and brotherhood became the central target of the bloodiest battle in our nation’s history. Back and forth the church would pass between advancing and retreating armies. Her brick and timbers would be riddled and smashed by canon fire and bullets. In the end her floors would soak red with blood as she served as a hospital.
Men would die in and around that sacred ground. The Dunker’s farms would be burned, their fields littered with dead, their ground and creek stained red with blood. The fiercest fighting of the war, where men’s lives would be violently spent, centered around their little brick house of prayer.
Eventually weather would complete the destruction of the church but one man lovingly gathered and stored her timber and bricks until finally she could be rebuilt and restored. Today she still stands as a testimony to the beliefs and convictions of the gentle Christian people who built her and worshipped there. Even the National Monument marker acknowledges this old church as “a symbol of the brotherhood of all mankind” and the “existence of a kind and loving God.”
They are all dead now; the German farmers who built and worked and worshipped there; the soldiers who fought and struggled there. The chaplains and doctors, the drummer boys and generals, they are all gone now. The battle field is silent except for a few colorful birds chirping in the spring air. The soldiers there now are stone monuments and they keep their vigil looking out over the fields in an eternal silence.
Yet one thing remains; a simple little chapel—testimony to an enduring theology of lo
ve. We are building our church for “generations yet unborn.” We cannot begin to imagine the future for good or ill. It is my hope that the little church at Shipley’s Grant will be passed from one generation of faithful Christians to the next through the ages until the Lord’s return and that the clear message of the Gospel will not only be heard from its pulpit but also from its very stone and mortar, its design and its architecture. Like the Dunker Church which speaks even today—let us build our parish church for the generations to come.
Blessings,
Fr. Martin +
Antietam was an amazing battle. Called “The Battle that Freed the Slaves” because Lincoln issued his Emancipation Proclamation just six days after the battle, this was indeed a very important battle in American History. Some less laudable aspects can also be remembered about this battle. It was the bloodiest day in American history. It was, in a sense, the victory that cost Gen. McClellan his command. It was the battle that should have ended the Civil War and yet because of McClellan’s indecisiveness the war dragged on for two and a half more years.
All of these aspects create an atmosphere of absolute awe as one visits the battlefield. Even 147 years later it still inspires us. It is difficult to imagine the horror and agony, the bloodshed and violence, the bravery and glory that erupted there. One survivor described it as “perfect horror.” As I walked through the beautiful Maryland country side on this spring-like day, taking in the vast vistas of rolling hills and gentle farmlands it was hard to imagine what it must have been like on that hellish day in 1862.
What caught my attention on this visit was the little Dunker Church. It is an unassuming little white brick building that sits by the road on the edge of the corn fields. It was built by gentle German immigrants fleeing the religious persecution of their homeland. They were Brethren, Pacifist Ana-Baptists who settled along the quiet Antietam Creek near Sharpsburg. They built their fa
rms there and their lives mirrored the gentle flow of the lazy Antietam. They were peaceful people who formed a loving community of Christian Brethren. They rejected violence and lived lives interrupted only by the passing seasons.Their church caught my attention because as I peered in through the window I realized that their simple wooden benches were set in a semi-circle in much the same fashion as our new church design is laid out. They obviously had the same goals in mind when they designed their church as we have for ours; a sense of community, a sense of connection and participation, a sense of inclusion. One of their tenants in a time of slavery and war was the brotherhood of all mankind.
They could have little realized as they built their farms, their stone bridge and their little brick chapel that one day nations would collide over these unassuming landmarks. The church that stood for peace and brotherhood became the central target of the bloodiest battle in our nation’s history. Back and forth the church would pass between advancing and retreating armies. Her brick and timbers would be riddled and smashed by canon fire and bullets. In the end her floors would soak red with blood as she served as a hospital.
Men would die in and around that sacred ground. The Dunker’s farms would be burned, their fields littered with dead, their ground and creek stained red with blood. The fiercest fighting of the war, where men’s lives would be violently spent, centered around their little brick house of prayer.
Eventually weather would complete the destruction of the church but one man lovingly gathered and stored her timber and bricks until finally she could be rebuilt and restored. Today she still stands as a testimony to the beliefs and convictions of the gentle Christian people who built her and worshipped there. Even the National Monument marker acknowledges this old church as “a symbol of the brotherhood of all mankind” and the “existence of a kind and loving God.”
They are all dead now; the German farmers who built and worked and worshipped there; the soldiers who fought and struggled there. The chaplains and doctors, the drummer boys and generals, they are all gone now. The battle field is silent except for a few colorful birds chirping in the spring air. The soldiers there now are stone monuments and they keep their vigil looking out over the fields in an eternal silence.
Yet one thing remains; a simple little chapel—testimony to an enduring theology of lo
ve. We are building our church for “generations yet unborn.” We cannot begin to imagine the future for good or ill. It is my hope that the little church at Shipley’s Grant will be passed from one generation of faithful Christians to the next through the ages until the Lord’s return and that the clear message of the Gospel will not only be heard from its pulpit but also from its very stone and mortar, its design and its architecture. Like the Dunker Church which speaks even today—let us build our parish church for the generations to come.Blessings,
Fr. Martin +
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