The Bridge Builder- Rev. Robert J. Miller

I was raised in a "mission church" of the Evangelical United Brethren denomination in  West

Hanover Township.  Calvary EUB Church was a neat little church and I have fond memories of it.   It was a good place to worship and make friends - it was my home away from home.  Lots of people tell funny stories about the church building, like when the wind blew during worship an occasional piece of hay could be seen floating down from the ceiling.  The universal and all-pervasive nugget of memory that everyone possesses about the place was how cold it was.  Why?  Because it was built on the former property of a Lenkerbrook Dairy farm in one of their old dairy barns.  Everything in the church was an "add-on," including the heat.  But for an old barn converted to a house of worship, it served its purpose well.


To me, the church was fascinating.  In reality, it was not a large building but in my childhood memories it seemed like a huge, holy place.  This was in the era where you wore dresses and behaved yourself in church.  No running and screaming and playing because the sanctuary was a sanctuary - a place to honor God and be reverent, so that was how you were expected to act. I loved all the dark wood in the front of the sanctuary and to this day, I love dark wood.  A friend told me in later years that the front of the church was actually constructed from the headboard of an antique bed.  Oh, how reality can sometimes ruin the cherished memories of our youth!    It had a basement that was broken up by large posts (it was a barn, remember?) so if you got behind one during a program, you couldn't see.  They used simple folding chairs and folding screens to separate the space into Sunday school rooms, so if you didn't like what was being taught in yours you could simply listen in to the one next door.   The floor was tile...and cold.  The folding chairs were metal...and cold.  The restrooms were dark, damp...and very cold.  I hated going to the restroom there because I always thought I might freeze to the seat.  I still think of it as a stall they forgot to renovate.

We had several choirs, all of which were large, and every summer our enormous youth choir would provide music when Bill Mann would preach at Mount Gretna.  Kids in the neighborhood would hear from other kids about the choir and would come and join.  Eventually their parents might start to attend.   The music ministry was one way in which this little mission church started to grow.  

There were two buildings - the main church building and a smaller building where the children went for Sunday school.  We had great teachers, all laity of course, who taught us the essentials of faith and made us memorize Bible verses.  In the dead of winter the short trek was always cold and icy even though there was a covering between the buildings.  It was always a mad dash in search of warmth and you always had to be wary of cars that might be coming down the hill between the buildings.  

There were two pastors there before my family attended but they were only there for a year or two.  I only remember one pastor at the old church, Reverend Robert J. Miller.  To me, this pastor was almost like God.  He was a handsome man and not very tall although at my age everyone was tall regardless or their true stature.  But stature isn't based on height alone.  Stature is the measure of a man (or woman) in their entirety, and Pastor Miller was a devout man of God with a commanding preaching voice.  I always thought of him as possessing the mysteries of God himself and, as in accord with that time, his voice carried not only the authority of God, but of my parents as well.  Maybe you wouldn't do what your parents told you to do all the time but you better darn well listen to the pastor or you'd be in trouble big time.  As far as stature went, Pastor Miller was at the top of the pile.

I also knew my father respected Rev. Miller.  If Dad didn't like someone he said it, and Dad was and is not above stating his disagreements to someone or even getting into arguments if he feels he is right.  Pastor Miller was the same, which could have led to huge rifts in any church at its worst, but they both seemed to respect each other and even when they disagreed, continued to work together and consider each other friends.  If my Dad liked someone then they were okay in my book.  I've always respected my father's insight into people's natures.  Pastor Miller passed the father test, so it was another affirmation of who Pastor Miller was as a person, as if being God-like wasn't enough. 

Pastor Miller was definitely an EUB pastor and maintained his dedication to the EUB even after we merged, liking many of the EUB rituals more than the newer Methodist versions.  I have to admit, I still prefer the old EUB hymnbook over any United Methodist hymnbook I've ever used.  This didn't mean that he cast aspersions on The United Methodist Church.  He did not, nor did I ever heard him utter one word against the merger.

At some point we outgrew the old church and regardless, the old barn was condemned.  Rev. Miller oversaw the building of a new church building.  There was great effort to try to include the youth in the move, and I vaguely remember carrying hymnbooks or something else from the old church to the new one up the hill.  At my age, it seemed like a very long walk but I believe it helped us to say goodbye to the church building we were raised in and that held so many memories.  Despite our love for our old church, a new church was exciting.  It was warm!  There was a huge white cross on a burgundy background on the front of the new Mount Calvary United Methodist Church, which used to be visible from Route 22 as you passed by Fairville Avenue.  The view of it is now obscured by trees.  To me at that time, it seemed formidable, breathtaking up close, and a great statement of faith.  The church later had a makeover when they constructed an addition to the building, and now the United Methodist cross appears on a white background.

I will never forget the day they tore the old church down after it was condemned.  My elementary school, West Hanover, was only the length of a football field or two from the church.  I very distinctly remember during recess that day, watching the dust or smoke rising above the trees that blocked the view and hearing the monotone roar of large equipment as they tour into the old structure.  I know I stood and cried on the bank by the little stream at the lower end of the playground, struggling to catch a glimpse of the church, but failing.  It felt like someone was destroying my home.  The steeple, which had been the center of concern because it was judged likely to give way and fall into the sanctuary, did not want to come down.  It was only with some difficulty that they finally leveled it.  In a way, it was a statement of faith, that in adversity the only thing that will not falter or fail us should be our faith.  

Pastor Miller taught my confirmation class.  It was held after school in the overflow of the new church sanctuary.  It was not the fluffy, barely intelligent stuff that we teach today.  Back then, confirmation was filled with information about faith, our heritage, and what was expected of you as a member of the church.  And every week, Rev. Miller assigned memorization verses for us to recite back the next week.  They weren't verses like, "Jesus wept."  They were entire pericopes, at least it seemed to me.  I was always afraid of not knowing the verses for Pastor Miller or of not having my homework done for class.  I remember sitting on my bed reading the homework and going over and over the verses.  The whole day of class I would read and say our assignment repeatedly during school.  I don't know what I thought would happen if I didn't know those verses, besides him reporting the deficiency to my parents who might well exact discipline of some sort, but I didn't want to find out.  I loved Pastor Miller and I did not want to disappoint him. He was the kind of man every pastor should be.

As the years have gone by and I think of Pastor Miller, I regret not having had the privilege of

knowing him in my adult life. I learned so much from him in my youth, from what he taught and the way he lived his life, and can only image what I could have learned from him in my adult life.  He was an interesting man who grew up a twin, was a gunner in the Pacific during WWII, and then became a pastor.  I would have loved to sit and play cards with him, like my father and other men in the church used to do, while exploring his past with him.  He and his wife, Jean, who I also remember fondly, had three children whom they adopted.  Mary and Kathy were twins, and John was the oldest.  Of that family, only Kathy survives, and I know she misses her father, mother, brother and sister very much.  I have no doubt that they are very proud of Kathy, pleased with what she does and who she has become, and are watching over her and her son very protectively.      

Today, March 16, is the 25th anniversary of the Rev. Robert Miller's passing, and in one month, on April 16th, it will be the 25th anniversary of Jean's death.  Kathy states "I could not have asked for better parents - they were smart, funny, compassionate and strong Christians. I can only hope I have made them proud with the life I have led so far. This is my father's favorite poem and he carried it in his wallet all of his adult life. With gratitude for my parents, I share it with you..."

THE BRIDGE BUILDER

An old man, going a lone highway,
Came at the evening cold and gray,
To a chasm, vast and deep and wide,
Through which was flowing a sullen tide.
The old man crossed in the twilight dim-
That sullen stream had no fears for him;
But he turned, when he reached the other side,
And built a bridge to span the tide.

"Old man," said a fellow pilgrim near,
"You are wasting strength in building here.
Your journey will end with the ending day;
You never again must pass this way.
You have crossed the chasm, deep and wide,
Why build you the bridge at the eventide?"

The builder lifted his old gray head.
"Good friend, in the path I have come," he said,
"There followeth after me today
A youth whose feet must pass this way.
This chasm that has been naught to me
To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be.
He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;
Good friend, I am building the bridge for him."

-Will Allen Dromgoole