Fire at the Tabernacle!

It was the first news I heard on the first day home for Christmas break. The Provo Tabernacle was on fire! By the time I woke up and rushed downtown, the roof had collapsed and the fire was torching the rubble. It was so cold that the water used to fight the fire had frozen on the outside. Since it hadn’t been detected until it was too dangerous to save the building, thousands of gallons of water were being used to keep the fire from spreading. Icicles on one side of the wall; flames, smoke and steam were on the other.

I felt as though a family member had died. From countless stake conferences, concerts, and civic events inside, to simple walks around its walls, it was the location of hundreds of treasured memories for me—as well for most valley residents. Walking around the smoking edifice brought all of those happy memories back, but also made the destruction that much more painful. After nearly 24 hours of burning through the treasured interior, all that was left was a shell. By the time the smoke had cleared, it looked like a bombed out European cathedral.

Although fire can never burn memory, it might change it. Memory is always changing—being formed and reformed in response to new events. Buildings like the Provo Tabernacle that have stood strong, tall, and (mostly) unchanging through the years link us to our past. That physical link went up in smoke. Only ash and brick is left. Given its history, no one would question that the community got more than its fair share of use out of it.

However, what if the building had only stood for a couple years before burning down? Would it still be a tragedy? Would it be more or less of one? Architectural merit for a hypothetical church building aside, if people had still had incredible spiritual experiences it would still be a loss. The newer building would have less history, but also greater promise lost. Perhaps on an accounting balance sheet, the loss would be the same—a regional center for worship. The replacement for the recent building would be easier—build a new building and the promise of the future is restored, and a short history is lost. For the tabernacle, no new building replaces the history—no matter its functionality. For that reason, I hope it will be rebuilt in the spirit of a restoration.

Yet, in spite of the fire, the only true tragedy would be to forget the joyful memories of the years when the building stood tall—and rejoice that I was able to sit in that great building before it burned down. And perhaps, given that some of life’s experiences are like fires that destroy buildings with great promise for the future, remembering with gratitude is the only thing that I can preserve with certainty.