Monsignor William F. Glosser during the final Sunday morning service at St. Stephen Church in Port Carbon. PHOTOS BY JACQUELINE DORMER
Originally appeared in the Pottsville Republican-Herald on January 12, 2020.
PORT CARBON - On the morning of its final mass, St. Stephen’s Church in Port Carbon was at its most resplendent. The sun set the stained glass windows on fire. Their floral patterns exploded into the nave, silent but for a little girl in a pink dress scrawling on a card reading “Pray For Our Priests” with her blue crayon. The melancholy notes from the organ came down softly, like raindrops.
“Today we celebrate the feast of the baptism of Jesus by his cousin John,” said Monsignor William F. Glosser, the 12th and final priest in St. Stephen’s 172-year history, to his congregation. “This feast concludes our liturgical season of Christmas. Very symbolic of the church lifestyle. The birth, the growth and finally Good Friday, the death.”
The Roman Catholic Diocese of Allentown announced the closure of St. Stephen’s in Dec. 2019, citing financial difficulties, declining attendance and a lack of both young congregants and young priests.
“It’s just a sad reality of the time and culture,” Glosser said.
The final mass.
The parish will be merged into St. Clare of Assisi Parish, St. Clair. Parish members have filed two appeals with the Diocese of Allentown in an attempt to stop the closure, and petitions were available to sign outside the church.
“However, there is a dark side to these events in history some 2,000 years ago,” Glosser continued. “In this life, Jesus’s and ours, some things must come to an end. We have no control over that. God is the master of our destiny.”
“It’s heartbreaking,” said parishioner Joseph Smyk, 89. “I attended here for 82 years. It was a closely-knit parish.”
“I think that people are stunned because this parish is an old parish, and there were a lot of bonds,” said Smyk’s niece Nancy Lescavage, 68. “It looks like a constant erosion of the place. I pray that the Catholic Church gets very seasoned businesspeople, not only here but in the big church. I’ve been thinkin’ about this for a long time, powerful leaders with great integrity. Humble priests, and more priests.”
“It’s a change in my life,” said Smyk, who has seen many area churches close. “I’m living by myself and transportation-wise, Nancy’s not always here to give me a ride to church. I don’t know what’s gonna happen.”
Glosser compared the closing of the church to the “terrible pain of separation” his parents felt when he first went to college.
“There are many unfortunate human thoughts and feelings that need to creep in during a time of excitement in our lives,” he said. “This is a time of concern. It begs the question, ‘What am I going to do?’ Or, ‘Who will take care of me?’ Or, ‘What will become of me?’ During times like this, we feel forsaken.”
The girl in the pink dress was covered in stickers. She put one on her father’s cheek. Beside them, two old, bearded Knights of Columbus sat. They smiled at the children, but bore faces of contemplation.
“There are times when we feel anger and hate, and there are times when we feel we have to blame something for these events,” Glosser said. A baby coughed.
“They blamed closing this church on lack of attendance and lack of finances,” Lescavage said, “and you see all the people who showed up today. If they showed up every Sunday…”
“The will of God is something that all Christians struggle with,” Glosser said. “But the will of God does not always mean we’re gonna be happy.
He compared St. Stephen’s situation with that of Mary Magdalene, who could not find Jesus in the tomb. When she saw him resurrected, she clung to his legs. He quoted Jesus: “Do not cling to me.” Children started to cry. The smell of incense hung in the air.
“What’s wrong with holding onto something or someone we love?” Glosser asked. “Throughout history, God has challenged people to do things they desired not to… He asks us to let go of things that we cling to. I would ask you, in these times of grief and mourning, in a quiet moment, to dust off your Bibles and open to the passage of the Crucifixion of Jesus.”
The exterior of St. Stephen Church.
As Lescavage listened to Glosser’s homily, she thought of Sept. 11, 2001. She was in Washington, D.C. at the time of the attack on the Pentagon.
“When 9/11 happened,” she said, “the churches were filled. In every war, the churches are filled. It seems like in hard times, people needed God. I pray that people look into their souls. We shouldn’t need the hard times to do that.”
“Our saying goodbye to St. Stephen’s today might be part of our earthly life, but God will always be with us,” Glosser said. “We don’t wanna grow old, and we don’t wanna die. But unless we allow that to happen, everlasting love with the father is impossible. Like our earthly lives, we too will come to an end, just like this wonderful Parish of St. Stephen’s… The decisions that led to this day have been extremely difficult and challenging. And we take time to sit down and look at it, we know that these decisions were for the right reasons.”
It was time for the last Eucharist. The clink of the censer echoed through the hall.
During the recessional, the congregation lumbered with somber faces. Noses grew red, mascara ran, incense fogged the altar. One woman wiped a tear from her eye and took one last look up to the choir. She unfurled a tissue. There were tearful hugs in the pews. The boy holding the censer struggled to hold back tears in the rising smoke. A girl crossed herself one last time.
“Emotion is a way of expressing love,” Glosser said. “It’s the greatest expression of love. I think I’d be upset if I didn’t see people crying.”
As they walked, they left behind rainbows in the aisle. The stained glass was at its brightest. In the corner, the statue of Mary had drops of black beneath her eyes.
“Turning in his grave,” said Janine Vigoda, 51, standing outside and looking at what was once her church.
“Father Matt? Yeah, definitely,” said her son Philip, 21, referring to a former priest of the parish. Philip was a student of St. Stephen’s School, which closed previously.
“I’m very upset,” he said. “All the people of St. Stephen’s will always have a place in my heart. It’s unfortunate that most of us are gonna go our separate ways and I wish that the parish and all of its people will stay together throughout the years.”
Philip is currently an architecture student who often thinks about how a building can serve a purpose to its community.
“It’s hard to see a building no longer in use,” he said. “This building is no longer a part of our lives. Truly it’s a sad day for the church of St. Stephen’s and as an architectural work of art.”
“It’s very sad that they’re closing it,” Janine said. “The historical value of the church, my children went to school here.”
“It’s irreplaceable,” said Elizabeth Harrison, 76. “My parish for my entire married life. Raised all my children here, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.”
99-year-old Dorothy Legutko, the oldest parishioner of St. Stephen’s, was given a cardboard key to ceremonially lock the doors one last time.
“Before we take leave of St. Stephen’s Parish,” Glosser said, “let us pause to once more express our deep affection for this place and the history of Christian community life that has taken place here.”
“Whatever table we gather around,” the congregation replied, “may we be reminded of the love we have shared around this one.”
Legutko shook her head as she was wheeled up to the door. She touched the lock with her key and crossed herself. Philip kissed her. Legutko was wheeled past a mossy statue of the Madonna and child, headed to the ambulance that would take her back to her nursing home.
“Sad, very very, very sad,” said Legutko, who has been a parishioner at St. Stephen’s for 90 years. “It’s unbelievable.”
The church meant “everything” to her. She walked almost a mile to evening mass each night. She married her husband there in 1941, and saw her daughter marry there as well.
“I will never feel I missed it,” she said, “because this is where I belong.”
Dorothy Legutko, 99, prepares to ceremonially lock the doors one last time.
The church was closed, but Glosser remained. He sat alone by the altar, looking at the rows of dark, empty pews. The only light came from the windows.
“You can cut my veins and coal dust comes out of them,” he said. “I am a coal region boy. I know the pain that these people felt today. I’ve experienced it myself.”
When he joined the priesthood, there were 200 priests in the diocese of Allentown. Now, there are only 90. Performing a closing liturgy was something he never expected.
“I love these people and have continued to love them for the past three years,” he said, “as their pastor, as their pastor, as a native son of Schuylkill County who has seen the decline of the economy and the population, seen the population getting older.”
He’s just as concerned as they are, but believes that creating stronger parishes is a possible solution.
“In order for that,” he said, “sometimes smaller parishes have to close. I don’t know what’s gonna happen with the petition. It’s the fact that we don’t have people. Without people we can’t do anything.”
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