Can you imagine the battles that must have raged before the first official service of your congregation.

My dear editor:

Have you ever wondered why so many churches celebrate their anniversaries as a congregation in October or November? Well, I have; and it's my letter.

My first thought was that it was a clever promotional device, a gala occasion to kick-start the Advent season and the race to get the budget out of the red before the end of the year. And, then, it occurred to me (Philosophy 101 "Discerning the Obvious"): it was the weather, stupid -- the need to finish building before the winter began and, in rural areas where most of them were, preferably before harvest.

The blinding light of this revelation illumined the cobwebbed corners of my imagination. I began to wonder how preparations for the First Official Service might differ from those tolling off the years that followed.

No doubt, there would have been a battle over the name of the church -- a friendly battle, of course; but there have been many casualties from "friendly fire." Heaven help them if they were close to evenly divided between Free Kirk and Church of Scotland allegiances -- the Knox (John) and Andrew (Saint) factions respectively. And if some unsuspecting non-Scottish soul ventured to effect a compromise by suggesting there were other apostles and worthies than Gentle John, no doubt she would be suspected of Church of England sympathies.

The village Booster and general Go-Getter (there would not yet be such things as service clubs to harness his energy) would promote "First Church" in the strong faith that once the branch line from the CPR was laid, the town -- nay -- city would no doubt have Second, Third and who knows how many Presbyterian churches.

If the village bore a euphonious name, and the building site was not identified by something like "on the Fourth Concession past Elmer Leech's place," then a simple solution was at hand: Craiglachie (or whatever) Presbyterian Church. Using a biblical locale, such as "Goshen" or "Gilead," smacks of those undignified Holy Rollers and would never do.

Though a general conformity in sanctuary furnishings has cast its pall (or comfort, if you like the assuring sameness of franchises) over most of what we see displayed today, a few fossil traces of the struggle to make an opening statement survive. Free Kirk folk preferred pulpits centre-on and massive, preferably eight feet above contradiction -- an impressive helm like the deck of the Pequod on which their own clerical Captain Ahab would be free to hunt down the white whale of sin every Sunday. The Auld Kirk (Church of Scotland) often preferred the gospel delivered sidearm, with the pulpit on the worshipper's left, the Communion table in the centre and a lectern on the right.

I have always been a bit puzzled by Communion tables, whatever the setting and liturgical tastes of the congregation first using them. Almost all are less Communion tables and more Communion invalid trays -- the size of those lap-top things on which meals are served to the bedridden, or on which they do crossword or jigsaw puzzles to while away the recovery time. Whatever other controversies plagued our forebears before opening for business, there seemed to be general agreement that Communion tables came in one size -- S.

Maybe it was the appeal of the Enlightenment. (If the reference is unclear, look it up. I'm tired and I have this awful cold.) Except for matters culinary, athletic and musical, the Scots were/are terminally rational beings anyway. The table should be ample enough for a nice arrangement of the (please, God, full) plates delivered after the offering, but not big enough to draw attention to the uncomfortable idea of tangible symbols of divine mysteries -- even if the symbols are barely tangible in our era. We seem to be under biblical instruction to do something, but let it be as unobtrusive and infrequent as possible.

Certain other harmonies and general accords must have prevailed as well. It seems obvious that any kind of what we call "wheelchair accessibility" never occurred to the First Service planners. The infirm and the nonmobile were no doubt valued for their example of martyrdom and patient suffering at home. Even in my own time, admitedly not a brief span, I have witnessed the final capitulation of some rural congregations to more universal bodily needs and the stubborn unwillingness of some people to "go before they come."

Lesser debates must have engaged the planners minds: not only to have a clock or not, but where to put it -- facing the minister or facing the people?

There are a few sanctuaries where there is ample evidence of an original intent to keep the choir out of sight. If ever a battle was lost before it began: "Minerva Hawser told me she didn't make 114 jars of her zucchini jam for that bazaar to raise money for choir gowns no one would see anyway!"

It was never easy, dear Editor. Liturgy, church architecture, anniversaries and the aspirations of the human soul spring from a mix of motives only God can understand. Furtunately, he does.

Yours for auld acquaintance, forgot or not,