Hancock Stories: Closing Witness

I was invited to the final service of the First Presbyterian Church of Hancock by one of the Writer’s Group members, Alice Price who is Clerk of Sessions at the church. She handed me an invitation.

It was late fall in upstate New York and the Maples were fading green to yellow and Sumac blazed spiky red and Oak tree leaves were rusty and bronze and the acorn harvest was heavy this year, scattered and crunching under foot along the sidewalk as I made the short walk from my house, paralleling the railroad track to the old Presbyterian church on the hill. As I walked I could see the cupola and bell tower through the trees now that the leaves have scattered.  I noticed there was no cross nor spire atop, and then the white clap board church came into view and the car park was packed. Today was the Closing Witness Service and there would be no more singing and sermons in that venerable old place. 

For nearly two-hundred years, the Presbyterian Church on the hill near my house tolled its modest bell for the people of Hancock village. The bell was discrete, like its hand was over its mouth, unlike the Catholic Church bell which rang loud, all kinds of hymns and tunes for all to hear. Although, in the last few years I noticed the Presbyterian bell was out of sync with daylight saving so sometimes eleven o’clock was actually noon. But after six months things got back in order. 

The First Presbyterian Church of Hancock stood on the hill beside the old cemetery and old growth conifer trees, green, broad, gnarled and heavy in the boughs, shed their shadows on the gravestones and the yard. Generations of families have heard the tolling of the bell and some were born, christened, married, buried and honored in this old white clap board church, well tended with a simple dark red wooden door.  

I walked up the cement path, up the steps to the door which was ajar and I pushed it open. It was the first time I’d ever ventured inside. A couple of people were gathered around the entrance to the nave and they slowly filed inside. 

I heard the church was down to less than half a dozen members but today it was crowded. It smelt of wood and linseed oil and six tall blue stained glass windows imported from England in the 1800’s filtered the sunlight and the the walls were painted white and a simple wood cross was on the alter and the floor was tongue and groove hardwood and must have cost a pretty penny. 

I found a well worn pew off to the side and I looked around me. The mood was grateful and sad at the same time. There was a flinty quality to the congregation, like they were all used to cold winters and the women’s gray hair cut short and serious. And then a piano began to play. 

At first I didn’t recognize the tune. The introduction was  long and meandering like the nearby Delaware River but finally merged with Amazing Grace  and a low hum grew from the congregation which absorbed the music like  healing balm and I wept inside and looked for the pianist who could conjure such magic, majesty and beauty in this simple house. She sat in the front near the wall and swayed and bent and she flipped the music score sheet with one hand as she performed her recital. 

I was schooled at a Church of England Grammar school in Melbourne, 

Australia and furthermore I was a boarder so I was well indoctrinated with the hymnal, rituals and prayers of church. Every morning we gathered for assembly and sang and then there was Chapel on Friday and Church on Sunday. There was an unavoidable resonance for me in that gracious sacred space and though not susceptible to the Church in the larger sense, I felt the comfort and companionship of belief, the welcome and the smiles and everyone on their best behavior on that Sunday afternoon.  I was not here to argue religion for I practiced acceptance in the Buddhist sense and I bathed in the music and light flowing through the blue windows and the quiet vigil of my neighbors.  

When the pastors took to the pulpit they lamented the passing of the church and shared stories and one said her great, great grandparents had attended The First Presbyterian Church of Hancock. Sometimes a flash went off because the Hancock Herald photographer was on the job capturing the event for posterity. One day the story might end up in the Twenty Five Years Ago section of the paper.

“Today we have celebrated with thanksgiving the love and work of the faith community of First Presbyterian Church of Hancock. It was served as a witness to God’s people. It has provided refuge, comfort and challengers for God’s people. It has served generations of the faithful people of this community” and with that came the closing hymn “God is with you till we meet again. 

And then an official from the Presbyterian Ministry stepped to the front and solemnly announced: “The building , dedicated and named The First Presbyterian Church of Hancock, together with land on which it stands and all objects remaining in it, we now commend to other purposes. We declare that as of October 26th, 2025 it is no longer the place of meeting of a congregation of the Presbyterian Church.” And that was it. 

I felt it necessary to thank the pianist who had moved me to tears and I found her closing the piano lid and collecting her things. She said she played at another church in Florida over the winter. And later I learned that my friend Alice was also a musician and played both piano and organ. She said it was a peddle organ and that at Christmas they lit candles in the church and sang carols and she played the organ. I felt ashamed that I had never ventured up the hill to the church at Christmas. And now I never would.

We were invited to downstairs to a catered reception and long tables laid out with paper plates and napkins filled the basement room. We could smell the food and when I asked who was catering was told The Circle E Diner and a busy woman with a smile and her two daughters served the food. I was sitting with Millie and Judith and went to get coffee while the first table filed past the food in stainless steel dishes and Aluminum foil: chicken masala, chicken parm, mashed potatoes, Mac and cheese, sausages and onions and help yourself. 

As we ate, somebody offered that a potter from Walton who also played the cello may rent the building. But you never really know in Hancock but one hopes. It would be a special place for music and art. 

As I walked home I wondered if the church bell would still ring. But even if it did I probably would not hear it for my ears are not too good these days but I hoped it would. I know the Catholic Church bell will continue loud and clear and I contemplated religion and a moral compass based on faith and superstition rather than the mysteries of  quantum physics and the thousands of deities that populated our known world and I shrugged because it was all a mystery to me.