WELS Stole St. John in Milwaukee and Then Closed It for Services. After 125 years, Bethlehem Lutheran Church holds last service. TLH Edited in Bethlehem Parsonage

Janet Engel knelt at the Communion rail at Bethlehem Lutheran Church on Sunday, tears welling in her eyes.

At 85, she'd built a lifetime of memories in this sacred space. She was confirmed here. She attended its grade school. Every Christmas, every Easter was celebrated in these pews.

And on Sunday, for the last time, Engel knelt to receive the Holy Eucharist here.

"It's heartbreaking," said Engel, who gathered with hundreds of current and former members for final services at Bethlehem, which closed its doors Sunday after 125 years.

"It's wonderful to see all of these people again," she said. "But closing the church — it's just heartbreaking."

Bethlehem Lutheran celebrated its final services Sunday, one a spartan farewell for current members who will never again worship as a family, the other a reunion that drew former congregants and clergy from across the state.

"It's been a long time since I've seen it this full," said an emotional Tyrone Dumas, his voice drowned by a choir suddenly swelled with alumni whose voices filled the church.

Bittersweet, the service echoed the themes of Ecclesiastes: that there is a time for everything, even death, but that God is eternal.

"No matter how sad it is to lose a church like this, the word of God will remain forever," said the Rev. Hunter Hofmann, one of the handful of clergy who spoke Sunday. "The building you worship in may close...but the church lives forever."

Founded by German immigrants, Bethlehem and its towering steeple have stood at the corner of N. 24th Place and W. McKinley Ave. since 1888.

Part of the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod, Bethlehem thrived into the 1950s when as many as 1,800 people filled its pews. But it has struggled, like many urban churches, to hold onto its members. What began with the white flight of the 1960s was only exacerbated by the collapse of manufacturing in the central city, the recession and a growing trend in society away from organized religion, especially mainline Christian churches.

In recent years, membership had dwindled to about 150 people, many of them elderly and shut-ins, according to Pastor Micah Wildauer, who split his time between Bethlehem and nearby Hope Lutheran Church. Most Sundays, attendance hovered around 50.

Members' contributions could no longer cover the utilities and payroll, let alone the $500,000 that would be needed to fix the roof and make other repairs needed after years of deferred maintenance.

Leaders made an unprecedented plea for help to current and former members in 2009, and donations picked up. But it wasn't enough.

The church was preparing to close a few years ago when it received a miraculous reprieve: a $167,000 bequest from a longtime member.

"We gave about 10% to missions and used the rest to survive," said Dumas. It lasted almost three years, "but we knew when we got it that it would come to an end."

That end came Sunday in a flood of memories and long embraces as members welcomed back many they hadn't seen in years. Some walked through the building reminiscing; others snapped photographs. Many discussed where they would go next. Some plan to follow Wildauer to Hope Lutheran, but others are undecided.

"It really takes you back to your childhood," said Terry Bruss who continued to attend Bethlehem after moving to Cudahy.

"I met my wife here, so it's kind of nostalgic for me," said Dan Carow, 76, who lives about an hour north of Green Bay.

"This is going to be one of the roughest days of my life," said Steve Phifer, who was baptized in the church and recently married there.

Phifer is deeply sentimental about Bethlehem, crediting the church and his mother with giving him a strong foundation in life. In recent years, Phifer maintained the church's boilers at no cost, and though he'd moved from the neighborhood, he returned regularly to mow grass and plow snow for two of his elderly teachers.

Like many, he's developed deep friendships here, across lines of race and age.

"Bethlehem is home to me," he said.

"The hardest thing will be not seeing the people we're used to seeing every week," said Esther Schedler, 97, who once taught at the school and still lives in the neighborhood.

"It's an emotional day," she said. "But we have to move on."