What it's like to be replanted: the perspective of a dying church member

Author: Matthew Brown

I never imagined I’d be one of the key-holders of a dying church.

It still sounds wrong. Dying church. It’s a phrase that tastes far too bitter, especially when the memories inside those walls are anything but dead. We had weddings and baptisms in that sanctuary. Many saints and sinners had come through those doors. I remember when the seats were full. I remember the potlucks and prayer meetings and VBS weeks when kids would take over the classrooms. But over time, the voices grew quieter. The chairs gradually emptied. The children's laughter faded into silence.

And I stayed, along with a faithful few. 

I stayed because I wasn't ready to let go. I stayed because I knew God didn’t bring us through the heartache and pain to tell us it was over. I stayed because the church wasn’t just where I worshipped, it was part of who I was. It was where I came back to Christ. Where I learned to pray. To say it was a spiritual marker, a defining moment in my Christian Walk, wouldn't do it justice. 

And then came the meetings, upon meetings. 

As a deacon, I was one of the last to let go of the idea that we could turn it around ourselves. We’d tried to jump-start new programs, revamp worship, bring in a younger preacher, advertise, knock on doors… but it was like trying to start a fire with wet wood. No matter how much effort we gave it, the spark just didn’t catch. We were growing older, growing tired, and growing smaller.

Then came the conversation none of us wanted to have: coaching, fostering, or replanting. It was time, and we were weary. 

Another willing church...vibrant, alive, and younger offered to come in and help us replant. A fresh start under their leadership and direction. We didn't like the idea initially. Replanting was giving up. Replanting was admitting defeat. Replanting was saying God can't! Well, it was a merger. It was a partnership. But it was an autonomous replant. What is that?! That meant we’d be laying down our name, our leadership, our ways. They’d bring in a new pastor, new people, new rhythms, even a new name. We’d thought we would become something new, but not on our terms...

I wish I could say I jumped at the chance. I did not. 

The truth is I fought it. Hard. More internally than anything. Not because I didn’t care about the church, but because I did. I couldn’t see how handing over our building, our governance, our legacy to strangers was anything other than surrendering the very identity we’d spent years building.

And then there was the money.

We had over a million dollars in the bank, resulting from years of saving and selling a piece of property. Careful stewardship. Faithful giving. Tithes from people long gone. Some went to be with the Lord, and some to seek fulfillment elsewhere. That money was meant for ministry. But I couldn’t shake the question: Whose ministry? Would this replant use it for what we would have wanted? Who would be accountable for how it was spent? What if it was misused?

I felt the weight of that stewardship like a millstone on my chest. I’d served faithfully. I’d never made a decision lightly. And now I was being asked to entrust everything; our building, our money, our history to people I didn’t know.

I prayed. I wrestled. I cried. I lost sleep. I asked the hard questions. And I made it harder than I needed to for the pastor, for the replanting church, and for myself.

Because deep down, I was afraid. Not just of change, but of being forgotten. Of our sacrifices being erased. Of becoming a footnote in someone else’s success story.

But God wouldn’t let me stay there.

He kept pressing on my heart through His Word. Reminding me that the Church — (HIS Church) — isn’t held together by our traditions or our preferences, but by the blood of Christ. That the Gospel is bigger than one name on a sign. That the seeds of resurrection often get buried in the soil of surrender.

One morning, I walked into the sanctuary before anyone else had arrived. I sat alone in the same chair I’d sat in for several years. I looked around and saw what I hadn’t wanted to admit: we were at the end. The light was fading. And what would be more faithful? To guard the embers? Or to let them be fanned to ignite a new fire?

I chose to believe that maybe, just maybe, God wasn’t done with this place. That He could do something new, not because we’d earned it, but because He’s merciful. That maybe resurrection wasn’t just a theological truth, but a practical one. That what we let die, God could raise again, but better, stronger, and more fruitful.

The transition wasn’t clean. It wasn’t instant. There were hurt feelings, misunderstandings, even some who walked away in the process of us praying our way to surrender. 

Upon surrendering to His will (unanimously in complete and total agreement as a body in and of Christ), there was immediate new life. New families. New worship. Baptisms. The sound of children in the hallways again. And little by little, I saw something beautiful emerge from the ruins of what once was.

I still sit on the back row sometimes and look around at this new church, this replant. I recognize every face, and they always recognize mine. And I know the Spirit is here. And that’s what matters. Death is far from these doors. 

 As for the money? It’s being used wisely, transparently, and generously. For a place to worship, for outreach, for missions, for staffing and space and ministry. And every dollar reminds me of the faithful ones who gave it, and our God who continues to multiply it.

 I thought I was protecting the legacy of our church. But God was planting a new one.

To any fellow deacon or church member walking through this same valley: I get it. It hurts. It’s hard. It’s okay to grieve. It's okay to be apprehensive. You absolutely have to pray and seek His will, but don’t let your grip on the past cause you to miss the future He has planned. Don’t confuse your church’s history with God’s mission. He’s not done. He’s never done. 

 Sometimes, the most faithful thing you can do is let something die...

So that something greater can live.

In seeking God's will, we have to lose sight of our own. It's never easy, but it is always worth it!