A Bit of Wisdom for Times of Darkness

Posted on September 29, 2026 by smaxreisert

[Adapted from a sermon preached at Old South Congregational Church, United Church of Christ, Hallowell, Maine, September 27, 2026.]

Psalm 23, A psalm of David. [Common English Bible]

The Lord is my shepherd. I lack nothing.
He lets me rest in grassy meadows; he leads me to restful waters; he keeps me alive.
He guides me in proper paths for the sake of his good name.

Even when I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no danger because you are with me.
Your rod and your staff—they protect me.

You set a table for me right in front of my enemies.
You bathe my head in oil; my cup is so full it spills over!

Yes, goodness and faithful love will pursue me all the days of my life,
and I will live in the Lord’s house as long as I live.

In 2006, there was a big Reisert family trip to Disney World.  Joseph, myself, our two kids, Joe‘s parents, Joe’s brother, his wife, and their kids. Off we all went to enjoy Disney World. In August. When it was very hot. But the weather part is not relevant for today.

Joseph and I were (and remain) the kind of people who led our family not to just go out to enjoy rides, but to take on almost every vacation like a sort of military campaign. At a place like Disney, that meant trying to get to as many rides as possible in as little time as we could manage, usually starting as early as possible in the day. So, it didn’t take long, in that August of 2006, to discover that our son was having some real issues with darkness. He complained a lot about rides that involved darkness and declared at some point that he did not want to go on any more rides then involved darkness—not even the really gentle, un-scary rides like Winnie the Pooh.

No darkness! John declared.

The problem that immediately became apparent to us was that there weren’t many rides that didn’t involve at least some bit of darkness. So even though our 7-year-old son said he didn’t want to go on rides with darkness, we quickly found ways of luring him onto rides that seemed to be in darkness and were in reality in darkness, telling him that the darkness wasn’t going last long, or it was just at the beginning of the ride— anything that would keep us moving as a group.


We thought he would get over the whole aversion to darkness business.

He didn’t.

John soon figured out that his parents couldn’t be trusted. So, he started asking Disney employees, attendants at the entrances to rides, “Is there darkness on this ride?” And, then one of us would need to stay with him, outside of the ride.

My son certainly isn’t alone in wanting to avoid darkness. Darkness is a scary thing, something to be legitimately avoided— and not just for 7-year-olds— although I’m not sure that a little darkness at an amusement park is all that terrible. But, let’s move on. It is generally unsettling not to know what is around you when you are surrounded by darkness, what might be coming toward you or what might be behind you when you can’t see anything. And, since we don’t live as if we are in a movie or television show, there’s no music to give us a clue about where and when we should be actually scared of what is lurking.

Darkness is scary—whether the darkness is of the physical world or the darkness that can loom in one’s mental and emotional environment. Darkness—uncertainty; challenges; unwelcome elements of life that bring anxiety and worry; war; chaos; violence—all of these are unsettling, disconcerting, even to the point of being terrifying.

Psalm 23 offers a balm for those who are feeling scared and agitated about darkness—the darkness all around them, and/or the darkness of the soul.

These days, Psalm 23 is best known as a funeral psalm. There is hardly a funeral or memorial service that doesn’t, in some way, involve the 23rd Psalm. But, the psalm has a lot more to say than offering a refuge in times of grief.

We should note here that the writer of the psalm knew darkness in a way that those of us who live in the 21st century really cannot truly comprehend. By that I mean that the psalmist lived in a time when there was a lot of darkness. There were no streetlights, no electric lights anywhere. No high-powered flashlights, or low-powered flashlights available at your fingertips at all times, like on your smartphone. Light came from the sun in daylight hours, or the moon and the stars by night, or fire, or a lamp of some sort. Darkness was real, and persistent.

Psalm 23, right off the bat sets us up with an image of comfort and care: “The Lord is my shepherd.  I shall not want.”  Or, as the Common English Bible puts it, “The Lord is my shepherd.  I lack nothing.”

I am, we are, each one of us, and all of us together, are cared for by the Divine Shepherd. And, there’s yet more good news.

Today’s psalm, so familiar to so many, may end up having a hard time getting past that immediate image of gentleness, strength, and security in that figure of the shepherd that is vividly linked in many of the paintings and drawings and other forms of representation of Jesus that are part of childhood and Sunday School—for those of us who went to Sunday School. But, the shepherd vibe, especially for those of us who are not shepherds and have never been shepherds and spend hardly any time at all with sheep, or their shepherds, may lead us to get trapped by that immediate vision, locked in a scene of a lovely hillside that is static and unmoving. And, that’s unfortunate. Because, as a whole, the psalm is a psalm of movement:

Leads me

Guides me

When I walk

And, then the final one, the one that likely all of us remember well:  And goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.

Except in the Common English translation, it’s different, and that’s why I chose this translation: “Yes, goodness and faithful love will pursue me all the days of my life . . . “

This translation is a lot closer to the Hebrew, with the language of the psalmist sounding less soothing, and more active. Using the verb “to pursue,” the psalmist conveys the notion that goodness and mercy, or goodness and faithful love, will not just be casually following, as if one might not really notice. Instead, goodness and mercy pursues— constantly moving toward each one of us, whether we want God’s grace or not. We aren’t going to miss that it’s there, perhaps especially when we decide to take a path that’s not so full of goodness and mercy. The Shepherd will pursue. The Shepherd will follow, with purpose.

And, if we think about the work of any shepherd, it makes some sense. The average shepherd, after all, isn’t just sitting out there on the hillside lounging about without a care in the world. The work of the shepherd is hard and demanding.

This past summer, Joseph and I went to the Maine Highland Games. We spent a short time being entertained by the shepherd who was there to demonstrate the work of his sheep dogs, and to explain a bit about how he uses sheep dogs and how he communicates with them. In this case, however, one of the sheep dogs was not so interested in doing any work. The shepherd explained that the dog was an older dog, and rather tired. When the shepherd whistled, the dog mostly just looked at him with a face that said, “I don’t think so.” With only one actually working sheep dog, the shepherd had a great deal of difficulty getting the sheep where he wanted them to go. Eventually, the sheep found a way out of the pen. Chaos ensued.

There’s a parable in there, I’m sure.

Our lives involve movement—physical, mental, spiritual, etc. Life is, quite literally, a journey. We follow a path, and sometimes we stray. There are times when we encounter uncertainty, events and circumstances that cause anxiety and despair— sometimes of our own doing, but often not at all because of something we have said, or done, or thought. Our journeys involve darkness, from time to time.

In the darkness, we are called to remember that we have companions for the journey. We have those who gather with us in a community of faith. We also have the Shepherd, capital “S.” We are guided, nurtured, protected. Importantly, it’s of great significance to notice that the psalmist declares that we are not protected FROM the difficulties and challenges of life. But, we do not face them alone, nor without the assurance of love and mercy.

May we always trust that our Shepherd is consistently and faithfully near. Amen.

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In the Farewell

Posted on September 3, 2026 by smaxreisert

Old South finally sold its sanctuary building, after a very long, arduous process. The closing was yesterday.

In anticipation of the sale, I spent some time alone in the sanctuary Tuesday afternoon. I had a Spotify playlist of traditional Protestant hymns playing on my phone. I sat in a pew. I listened, prayed, reflected, and remembered. It didn’t take long before I found myself looking around and remembering where certain people sat in the sanctuary, especially those who are no longer with us.

I remembered Bud, Alice, Louise, Harmon, Jane, Bob, Al, Judy, Debbie, Alta, Joyce, Barbara, Jim, Peter, along with others. I also remembered some of those people who are still living, but no longer part of the Old South community, many of them having moved away. As I continued to sit and listen, it came to me very clearly that I was sitting in an empty room. A lovely room. A beautiful and quiet location. A space that evoked various memories. But, no longer a meaningful place.

What gave that space substance and significance are the people with whom I shared that space, the people who have been my companions on the journey of faith in a community that continues to strive to be part of the story of God’s people, with Christ as our guide, teacher, and Savior.

In the protracted nature of the process to sell the sanctuary building, I had worried that I would have a similar experience to the drawn-out nature of the selling of my house in Waterville, when my husband and I decided to live full-time in a nearby lakes area. By the time we sold the house in Waterville, I had come to dislike that house quite a lot. Sure, it held important memories of raising our family there, but I had a lot of negative feelings too. Those negative feelings took root and developed over the long period of time it took to get to a closing.

As I sat in the sanctuary on Tuesday afternoon, I did not experience anything similar to the selling of my house, in terms of discovering a lot of negativity. Instead, I had more of a feeling of completion, that the space had served the community and had served it well for a long time. But it’s work was done, at least in terms of its relationship with the Old South community as a community of faith. It had become a burden and a drain of resources and energy that took us away from what is important about gathering together in Jesus‘s name and as people who seek to live as God‘s people in this time and place.

The building served us, and our predecessors, well, but our Christian witness now moves on in a new way, a way that has already started to make itself known. May Old South continue to be blessed with grace and courage to live in faith, through joys and challenges, and to share God’s love with reckless, and wondrous, abandon.

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May the Words of My Mouth Land Maybe Sometimes Somewhere Near Your Brain

Posted on August 31, 2026 by smaxreisert

There’s a small bit in Monty Python’s Life of Brian that shows the crowds gathering to hear Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount. The Python gang, including the titular Brian, are in the back of the crowd and can’t hear very well, and they are bickering amongst themselves about other matters, making it almost impossible to hear anything at all. But, they do catch a word or two: “I think he said ‘Blessed are the cheesemakers.'” And, that begins a short debate on what’s so great about cheesemakers. Maybe Jesus is actually referring to the whole field of dairy workers, perhaps? And, then Brian overhears a group from the better dressed in the audience, as they are walking away and discussing that Jesus doesn’t seem to understand that the meek are the problem.

While this episode is mildly amusing, it makes one wonder about who was wrote the whole thing down at the start. Did anyone test their listening and comprehension?

Over my long career in parish ministry I’ve had the great pleasure of serving church communities full of interesting people, many of those people well-educated and thoughtful— with lots of years of church involvement. Occasionally, though, in the midst of these good people, I find myself wondering about their listening skills. One of the most confounding aspects of my job as preacher and teacher is discovering that some people not only fail to listen on a regular basis to what I say from the pulpit, but manage to believe fully in a point that they are sure I made, when I know for certain that that’s not what I said. It’s a strange experience to argue with a person who thinks that I’ve said something when I actually made a point in direct opposition to what they think I said. Upon hearing my attempt at correction, they sometimes dig in, staying true to what they are sure they heard— even though it’s not at all what I said.

And, then there are other times when I have said things that I think are rather provocative, things that are meant to unsettle, yet they elicit no response at all. Part of my job, after all, is to challenge and disrupt, in order to foster spiritual growth. Occasionally, someone will follow up with a question or comment after worship, or in an email, but it’s rare.

This month at Old South the worship theme has been prayer – what is it for? how should we do it? what is the point? We have taken a quick look at the Lord’s Prayer, as Jesus’s example of how to pray. We have also considered lament, as well as Jesus’s long prayer in the Farewell Discourse in John. Last Sunday, we considered the practice of prayer, including a new look at an old method of structuring prayer. 

During the series, I offered a few thoughts and suggestions that were intended to be provocative. What does it mean when I say that I don’t think that God is all that engaged in the details, that God is not particularly involved with the everyday aspects of my life, or any individual’s life, or a community’s? What does it mean to pray if I’m not sure that God is listening or paying attention?

No questions. No comments. No argument.

Four weeks in, I invited people to stay after worship to talk about this series on prayer. We had a small group gathered around a table and the discussion was lively. The only problem was that the discussion didn’t really focus in any way on anything I had said in recent weeks. People talked about their long-held ideas around prayer, with no new ground offered for debate.

I spent weeks planning and plotting, trying to inspire a new awareness of various aspects of prayer. Yet, the small sample of the congregation gathered around a table on that Sunday morning suggested that my words didn’t hit the mark. Instead, those words had gone through a remarkable process by which they were transformed into the words that the hearers expected, words that fit neatly into already well-formed beliefs and ideas.

It’s not that the already well-formed beliefs and ideas are all wrong, because they are not. What’s missing, though, is a conscientious consideration of new ideas, an active interest in engaging in previously unexplored dimensions of one’s faith tradition. The Christian faith is a vast pool of ideas, theologies, and experiences— enough material for multiple lifetimes. Faith communities ought not be filled with people who are all there just to keep rehashing the same old notions, especially when some of those old notions are not very helpful or affirming— and some of them not connected to biblical sources.

So, what’s a pastor and teacher to do about encouraging better listening and fostering new paths of exploration? Maybe I should start extolling the virtues of cheesemakers . . .

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When the Work Is Plentiful, But the Laborers Are Few and Tired

Posted on July 25, 2026 by smaxreisert

There are many different dimensions to the life of a shrinking church, from difficult budgeting decisions to dealing with property that stubbornly refuses to shrink alongside the congregation to a sense of bewilderment around how the shrinking started and why, and when it will stop and move in the other direction. At Old South, a small congregation with two buildings, we’ve spent a great deal of time contemplating various hard choices, ending up with the heartbreaking decision to put the sanctuary building up for sale. It’s been a painful few years, although it’s been a positive thing that the congregation has maintained a commitment to being a congregation for as long as it possibly can.

As we continue to move into our next new reality, another significant issue is dealing with those aspects of congregational life that have, in the past, belonged to church members, when there are no longer any church members who wish take on such tasks. At Old South, there are some tasks that end up belonging to a single individual and when, after some time (in one case, decades) that individual expresses the desire to give up the assignment, there is simply no one else who can be identified as an adequate replacement. Old South’s treasurer, for instance, has expressed on many occasions a desire not to be the treasurer, but only recently has allowed that it might be time to pay somebody to do that work. We do not have anyone else in the community who has the necessary skills. We also have a committee chair who ends her reports to the governing board with the simple statement “I would like to be relieved of my duties.“ Unfortunately, no one is eager to take on the work.

The Vineyard is full of tasks to be done, but the laborers are few and they are getting weary and tired.

I have, in the past, pointed out the many biblical stories of older people being called to do amazing things.  But, I hesitate to speak such words these days.  The next amazing thing might be for the members of Old South to beat their pastor senseless.

For so many of the active members of Old South, growing up in the midst of the “glory days” of the 1950s and 60s (personally, I don’t think they were nearly as glorious as they are remembered to be; I’ve written on this topic in other posts, so I won’t here), when committee lists were long and well-populated (and there were boards and committees of such prestige within the community, that it was a big deal to be asked to serve), it’s a hard, hard thing, to find themselves in this place.  They are committed to keeping the church going, as a vital place for their life of faith and also their perceptions of the church as witness to and for the wider community.  But, the work involved is getting to be a big problem, especially for those who hold a strong congregational identity, not only pointing to the significance of the gathered community, but appreciating that an active laity is a foundational component of what a church is.

In the midst of the weariness, there are some who cling to a strange sort of denial: eventually, someone will come along to offer relief and respite. Only that doesn’t happen very often. Every year, we lose more people (moving away, fully or partly, or passing away) than we gain.

The next big discernment project for the congregation will very likely entail a re-visioning of what it means to be a “congregational” church, allowing some critical tasks to be done by paid professionals (paying the bills must be done, after all) and staff, while also exploring new opportunities for faithful witness. We are already seeing a renewed interest in connecting more meaningfully with the wider community, especially around social justice issues.

Will the congregation be able to embrace its weariness, recognizing that it is not an all-encompassing state of being, but instead a vestige of what used to be, but is no longer, letting go of certain components of a traditional “congregational church,” altogether or by shifting some tasks to paid professionals and paid staff? And, through that embrace, discover new dimensions of the life of faith?

I remain hopeful, mostly.

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A Certain Kind of Testimony

Posted on June 15, 2026 by smaxreisert

At the beginning of May, I traveled to New York City to attend the retirement party of a good friend. As the large group gathered before dinner, I realized that except for the retiree and her spouse, I knew only a couple of other people and neither of them I knew well. I did my best to put myself out there and to introduce myself to a few people, amid the sea of unfamiliar faces, although it was nice to finally connect a few of them to stories I’ve heard over the years.

When it was time to find a seat for dinner (seats were not assigned ahead of time), I found a spot at a table that was filled with the retiree’s old college friends. They all knew each other and were so glad to be getting caught up that they didn’t really take much notice of me, as interloper. For the most part, I just listened in. At one point, one person piped up and posed this question to the table: “What’s the worst job you’ve ever had?” Several people started to ponder the question. One person jumped in and told a story about being a personal assistant at a fancy department store— so many demands; so little kindness and respect. When the conversation started to lag, I realized that this was my big chance to contribute. I had a terrible job story too, after all. So, I launched into the telling of my experience, many years ago, of working the third shift at a swizzle stick factory. I had to define both “third shift” and “swizzle stick,” but the table seemed generally entertained. Finally, I was actually part of the conversation.

As the evening progressed, the conversation somehow drifted into the realm of religion. Christianity was essentially deemed a ridiculous faith tradition. I don’t remember what was said as one after another shared their dismissive attitudes about the religion with the most adherents around the world. But, I found myself slowly raising my hand. It was as if I didn’t really have control over my hand. It just kept inching upward. When most of the people around the table noticed my raised hand, I made my declaration: I not only go to church, but I’m a practicing Christian. And, still more outrageous, I’m a pastor and teacher to a small congregation.

After a moment of stunned silence, most of the people at my table found their way to curiosity, asking questions about what I do, what my congregation is like, and, of course, what kind of church I belong to and lead. Thank goodness, I guess, I’m a progressive Christian, so I didn’t get run out of the room. But, it was not only a little odd to defend my profession and my faith, it was weirder still when I found myself with a little internal debate around “outing” my friend and new retiree, the one at the center of the celebration we were all attending. I knew that she was a church-goer and a church member. Did they?

Watching the occasional gaped mouth reaction, along with the one person who looked upon me with open derision, was a strange experience. How should I talk about my faith in the midst of vaguely curious, and at least partially hostile, group of people?

I knew I wasn’t going to be win them over as people eager to check out a Sunday worship service, but what could I say that would encourage a more open minded consideration of Christian faith and practice? We are a pretty diverse lot, after all. Despite media attempts at painting Christianity as the tradition of Trump-loving, anti-intellectual, trad-wife leaning evangelical lunatics, other kinds of Christians exist. We are a wide and wondrous bunch. So, I shared a bit of my little corner of Christianity, along with the hopes, dreams, and struggles of my community of faith, as we endeavor to love God and our neighbors as well.

I’m not sure how successful I was, but maybe I offered enough that the next time they jump to Christian stereotypes, perhaps they’ll pause for a moment. One can hope . . .

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Through the Ages

Posted on May 31, 2026 by smaxreisert

Confession:  I’m an audiobook addict.  I listen to a lot of them, using two separate audiobook apps.  I listen to a wide variety of genres—detective stories, spy stories, police procedurals, literary fiction, historical fiction, nonfiction, memoir, young adult, and even the occasional theologically inclined piece of writing.  When it comes to the historical—fiction and nonfiction—I’m especially drawn to stories that are, one way or another, oriented to the sea and involve disaster.  I loved The Terror, by Dan Simmons (historical fiction, with a horror twist) and that led me to other stories about the doomed Franklin Expedition.  And, some of those other audiobooks led me to stories about Norwegian exploration of the Arctic—very different from the British approach.

Through these various books, I have learned a great deal about the exploration of alien and harsh environments, along with an awareness of the rather remarkable drive to venture to the outer limits of the known world, whether that be physical, mental, and/or emotional.  I’ve also learned about reckless ambition, greed, and the contempt that some explorers have for those who already inhabit the regions they are eager to explore and claim.  It’s a sober reminder that human beings possess some truly dangerous and problematic tendencies.

What exactly do we learn from the past?  Whose stories are being told and how do we engage in meaningful consideration of those stories that are not told?

Now that Old South Church is creeping ever so slowly to a closing on the sanctuary building, we find ourselves at something of a crossroads.  We look forward to what may come once we have broken the tether to the expensive and needy sanctuary building, while we are also taking a moment to look back.  The looking back part is primarily brought to us by way of the digging up of a time capsule that was buried under one of the entrances to the sanctuary building.  Now that we are close to not being owners of that building, a few people declared that it was necessary that we remove the time capsule from its home of more than thirty-five years.  Although the intended date for opening the capsule is not for decades, we just couldn’t help ourselves once it was sprung from its nest.  Although not every carefully and archivally enveloped group of items has been opened, or will be (at this time), a few have been opened.  

The perusal of items, and the lists of contents of unopened envelopes, has brought a range of responses.  We laugh at the photos of people wearing weird outfits.  We pause in silence at photos of or pieces written by precious people we remember, who are no longer with us.  We catch our breath at photos of the full choir loft.  We smirk at the carefully packed fundraising packet, championing the fundraising efforts in the 1980s, along with the note, “Thought you might need this!”

Amid all of these various items—the photos, the written pieces, the ledgers—I find myself wondering about the stories that are missing.  Way back in 2007, I officiated at the funeral of a young man.  He had died from injuries suffered in a terrible accident in California.  His family had been one of those bedrock families of the church for decades.  When they brought his remains home for a service at the family church, the parents, who were no longer active at Old South, admitted to me that their son had never felt welcome at the church.  He had known he was gay since he was a young child, and had heard many gay slurs while in the company of the church community.  The former minister who was present at the planning meeting for the funeral suggested that we just not mention it.  I insisted that we not just push the issue aside, that we needed to offer a clear and open welcome.  The church had not quite adopted its Open and Affirming statement, but it was working on it, at the time. It broke my heart that this young man would experience his first welcome at his home church on the day of his funeral, but it was important this welcome be unconditional—for him, for his family, and for his friends who would gather to remember him.  What stories might he have told about the church of his childhood?

Like other Christian communities, Old South is called to engage in its easily accessible history, as well as those aspects of its history that are more hidden and even ignored or intentionally dismissed.  These less accessible histories, by their nature, may be more difficult to consider, but that doesn’t mean we should allow them to linger in the dark recesses of the communal memory.

In delving into the church’s history, reflecting the good and the not so good, allows the community to recognize and appreciate that we are a work in progress, and always have been.  It can be all too easy to gaze upon old photos of large groups of people, and read the minutes of meetings that led to the construction of a second building when the Sunday School ballooned in number, and think that the church of the 1950s, 60s and 70s was some sort of pinnacle achievement.  If we stick to looking only at what’s been preserved, we might actually begin to think that way.  But, a more honest reckoning reminds us that the church of the past had its issues, and often failed in its mission to be the church it was called to be.

We are a work in progress.  The story continues.  We may perceive that there are no disasters in sight, but we are yet being called to explore unknown dimensions of the faith, as God still speaks, inspiring us to stretch our welcome and to share God’s love with others in what too often feels like an increasingly hostile environment.  There’s a lot to do.

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Codes, Contracts and Community

Posted on April 30, 2026 by smaxreisert

At the end of last week, as I was perusing newspaper and magazine headlines, and reading (or listening to) pieces that caught my attention in such a way that felt like they might be worth my time, I finally clicked on an opinion video on the New York Times website. It was a piece that I had considered watching a day or two earlier, but I wasn’t sure I was ready. The piece in question? It was “The Rich Don’t Play by the Rules. Why Should I? Why petty theft might be the next political protest” (here’s the link). It’s a debate involving Nadja Spiegelman (from the New York Times), Hasan Piker (political commentator), and Jia Tolentino (from The New Yorker), in which they discuss shoplifting as “microlooting” (from places like Whole Foods, owned by billionaire Jeff Bezos), as if regular looting has been an effective tool of social change.

As if I needed more fodder for the despair machine . . .

I couldn’t even listen to all of the discussion.

While I certainly share a great deal of their consternation with the ultra-wealthy, and the ways through which the extraordinarily wealthy find all kinds of ways— legal and illegal, ethical and decidedly not so ethical— of increasing their wealth while sharing less and less of it (according to the piece: “Eighty-eight corporations made $105 billion in profits in 2025, including Tesla, Southwest, United, Live Nation and Disney. And they collectively paid income taxes of zero dollars.”), including with their own employees, the concept of “they steal, so I should steal” just doesn’t hold up. Plus, the demonstration of a “moral code” that simply isn’t at all “moral” is striking. At one point, Piker declares, “We’ve got to get back to cool crimes like . . . bank robberies, stealing priceless artifacts . . . ” And, then they have a good laugh about shoplifting at Whole Foods, and continue on with justifications, including the notion that because shoplifting is already “built into” the prices of groceries, it’s perfectly fine— even honorable— to take things without paying— as long as you do so at large stores belonging to billionaires who exploit their workers, and the “system.” When it comes to public protest, they are quick to dismiss, or at least belittle, the concept, since “people” (it seemed clear that they were talking about young people) don’t have the time or the energy for that sort of thing.

Here’s a good place to heave a heavy sigh.

As I read, and listened to, the discussion among these three people who are significantly younger than I am, I was certainly outraged. I was also saddened. While they bandied about with concepts like “moral code” and “social contract,” they seem to be very much missing out on meaningful, and broad, social connection. The world they inhabit feels very small and, I think, that’s why “microlooting” seems like a legitimate social action. It’s borne out of the micro-world in which they live.

I may live in a very different environment, in a small, rural community in a corner of the country that not a lot of people think about, but I would argue that my connections are much wider and better rooted, providing an mixed array of opportunities that provide meaning, purpose, as well as an anchor for wading through the complexities, and challenges, of life. It’s a wondrous thing to belong to a faith community, for example, that participates in community action, community events, and community causes— within the faith community itself, as well as the wider community of which we are part. Our small community collects food for the local food pantry, provides a monthly meal to the homeless shelter, raises money for various causes, and a about a half dozen of us attended the most recent No Kings rally. And, that’s just a small sampling. To be clear here, it’s not just about the ways we contribute to improving the lives of others, but the ways through which our engagement enriches and supports our relationships with each other.

The communities that I participate in are ones in which people live by an actual moral code, and that moral code dictates not just our actions, but our very selves— how we relate to others, and how we respect our own selves. To steal because the ultra-wealthy steal is just more stealing. It’s not a path to meaningful change, nor is it a way to engage, in a positive way, with community building. The discourse among the young that “petty theft” may be a legitimate way to engage in political protest is a supposed statement directed at those who steal at a much different level. And, yet, it doesn’t take much to realize that what they are talking so grandly about is something that is called “petty” for a reason. It’s not significant or meaningful. And, while it may usher in a bit of additional awareness and perhaps a small token of change, it’s doubtful that that change will be positive, or productive.

I’m grateful that I’m part of a community of care, respect and decency, a community that doesn’t really need to talk about a “moral code” and the “social contract.” We live these things, including offering a space and a place for refuge and respite. We may be an older community, but we are willing to engage in public, collective action— a path to social change built on hope, respect, and love. Nothing petty about that.

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The Public Face of Faith

Posted on April 17, 2026 by smaxreisert

I recently found myself in a lengthy conversation with a former parishioner, a man who left Old South in response to my “politics.” In the conversation, which was actually much less a conversation and much more of a monologue, this gentleman— let’s call him Bill— not only underscored the reasons for his departure, but he also added that he’s aware of at least several other people who have expressed to him (but not me) that I go too far too often in expressing “political views.” Bill went on to talk about his current church home, a Baptist church, that emphasizes personal salvation and avoids political issues, because avoiding politics is what “a church should be about.”

The sermon that initially caused Bill to leave Old South, quite a few years ago, was delivered shortly before the people of Maine were set to vote on gay marriage. In my message, I explicitly told the congregation that I was not going to tell them how to vote on the issue, but to highlight how significant it was that, regardless of how one voted, we Christians endeavor to follow what Jesus called the Greatest Commandment: to love God with our whole heart and our neighbor as ourselves. We might disagree on legal rights, but we ought not disagree, as people of faith, on the issue of treating others with dignity and love. I really didn’t think it was all that controversial of a message. And yet, Bill wasn’t having it and stormed away.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the conversations I’ve had with Bill over the years (I run into him from time to time), but especially the most recent one that happened to take place on Easter, along with what is currently going on between the President (and the Vice President) and the Pope. As Pope Leo has stated, “I have no fear of either the Trump Administration or speaking out loudly the message of the Gospel. That’s what I believe I am called to do, what the church is called to do.” The Church is indeed called to speak up for the Gospel, in a variety of ways. That’s our job— all people of faith. There may very well be disagreements in our perceptions of the Gospel. There will be times when political leaders find it necessary to follow a path that is not at all in line with any perceptions of the Gospel. The United States, after all, is not a Christian country. Still, it is appropriate for the Gospel to be raised, that in the midst of this complicated and difficult world, that voices speak the challenging words and lessons of Jesus in public spaces and public places, that people of faith speak up for those whose voices are muted in times of conflict.

Over the years, I have differed with the Pope (the current Pope, as well as his predecessors) on many an occasion, often on issues having to do with women, especially the ill-reasoned arguments why the Roman Catholic Church continues to bar women from ordination. But, the Pope speaks with a certain authority, for Catholics as well as non-Catholics. When statements come to my attention, I often find myself taking time to consider them. Whether I agree or disagree, these statements help me to better define my own sense of the Gospel, and how I should encourage the living out of the Gospel in the small faith community I lead, in both the private and public dimensions of how the Christian faith influences our thoughts, actions, decision-making, etc.

The Christian faith ought not be left solely to private devotion, nor to personal salvation. To do so is to miss a critical dimension of faith, as if one’s inner life and one’s public life can be neatly divided into separate entities, as if one has nothing to do with the other. According to the biblical witness, Jesus modeled the private and the public aspects of faith. Even as he spent time in private prayer and reflection, Jesus spoke and acted in a public way— teaching, healing, etc. While Christians may disagree and may come to different conclusions regarding even Jesus’s most familiar teachings, and politicians may find that they must act in ways that are contrary to the Gospel, Christians— especially Christian leaders— must be allowed to speak and to speak up for the Gospel. That is our role— on the big, global stage as well as on the small, community level. Ours is the voice that lifts up the marginalized, the vulnerable, the oppressed. That some find this uncomfortable, only proves the point of the significance of speaking up for the Gospel.

While it is (sadly) not universally honored, many clergypeople— perhaps most— take very seriously the role that we have in guiding those in our care, encouraging all along the journey of faith. Our role sometimes involves offering comfort. Other times, our role is to provide challenge. It is with a great deal of humility that clergy, generally speaking, take on the role to speak up for and to guide people to live in the way of the Gospel, the good news— privately and publicly.

In a country in which so many people, including those who are very much in the political realm and in positions of power, like to display their Christian faith on their person, there is a remarkable lack of understanding of the role of clergy, that clergy speak for the Gospel first before any government. This lack of understanding didn’t just show up this past week. It’s been around for a long time. The role of Christian clergy is to speak up for the Gospel. If that makes the powerful squirm (or even the decidedly not so powerful), they ought to take less time bashing the one who caused the disturbance and more time in reflection, considering carefully and thoughtfully the whys of the anger and frustration, the moral dimensions of life and living. Otherwise, the Christian faith becomes devoid of its value, drained of its purpose to encourage, to shape, to animate, to transform from the way of death to the way of life.

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Nearing the End of a Long Journey, and the Start of a New One

Posted on March 27, 2026 by smaxreisert

Come to him, a living stone, though rejected by mortals yet chosen and precious in God’s sight, and like living stones let yourselves be built into a spiritual house, to be a holy priesthood, to offer spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ.  1 Peter 2:4-5

The story of the Granite Church of Hallowell, Maine began in the frigid, early morning hours of December 1, 1878. On a Sunday morning at 3:00am, the city night watchman, Mr. Henderson, opened the outer door of the meeting house and was engulfed in smoke. He seized the bell rope in the lower vestibule and sounded the alarm to the people that their beloved house of worship was in flames. Eventually, the entire structure became a mass of flames and burned to the ground. After the fire, a meeting was called to make plans for rebuilding the church. One decision was made immediately: it would be built of Hallowell granite. Not only did the people want a new church that would serve generations to come, they wanted the city of Hallowell to have a building made from the local granite that was prized around the world.

It took four long years to raise the money and to build the new church. And during that time, or at least part of it, there was no minister, no deacons, and no money. It was a time of despair and often those who worked the hardest for Old South must have felt forsaken by God and by their community.*

And now these many years later, after two and a half years with a “for sale” sign out front, countless viewings, and a couple of offers that went nowhere, Old South Church is very close to a sale, a transfer of its large granite building to another owner, who will not be using it for religious or spiritual purposes.

This past Sunday, the congregation of Old South took leave of the sanctuary building. We’ve been worshipping in the Parish House, across the street from the sanctuary building, since the Sunday after Christmas, so it was a little strange to be in the sanctuary space, especially after quite a few things had already been removed in anticipation of the closing just after Easter. In taking leave of the building, we took a moment to feel the weight of the feelings and experiences that are so caught up in the imposing building of stone.

Over the years, I’ve heard countless stories that have featured the sanctuary and the building in which it resides. Remember when you had to arrive more than an hour ahead of time just to get a seat for the Christmas Eve service? Remember when that former organist would make the organ really sing, for those in the church as well as those in the neighborhood? Remember those memorial services when we had people lined up along the back wall and even filling the vestry?

Remember when we started to realize that we simply couldn’t afford the building anymore— the maintenance too demanding (in terms of human and financial resources) and the utilities much too expensive?

As we engaged in the leave taking of the sanctuary, I’m sure it felt at least to a few that something critical was being cut off from our experience and our communal lives of faith. But, I also know that, for most of the people who gathered on Sunday, as the snow came down on the first Sunday of spring (typical Maine), grief was only a small part of what they were feeling. While the sanctuary has been a beautiful building in which to gather and worship, the congregation, as a whole, is much more aware that it is the congregation that is the church, and not the building in which we gather.

Our ancestors knew, as well, of this truth. After all, they called the building a “meeting house,” a place where the church met. The building was, and is, not the church.

In the midst of all of the emotions on display during Sunday’s worship— grief, confusion, relief, and dare I say, even excitement— there was a new awareness that the stones that form the walls and the tall steeple are not only not the church, they are not the witness. They do not speak for or help anyone understand the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

While we are grateful that the faithful were able to gather in that beautiful building for such a long period of time, with all of their hopes and dreams, the important life events that took place, for the faith that grew and developed, along with all of the challenges and struggles, what has made the emotions so strong is not the large blocks of granite. It is the love, comfort, assurance, and joy, the presence of Christ is our midst, in our gatherings large and small.

The remarkable and courageous act of faith that is now moving to fulfillment will allow the congregation to continue to be a church well into the future, unburdened by the heavy, and distracting, demands of that lovely structure of granite. The church now has an opportunity, in a new way, to reclaim themselves as living stones built into a spiritual house, a holy priesthood, in order that we “may proclaim the excellence of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light.” (1 Peter 2:9)

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*Many thanks to Lois Ware Thurston’s historical pamphlet, “Hallowell’s Granite Church.”

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The Great Big Terrible Awful Slide

Posted on February 28, 2026 by smaxreisert

Olga Tocarczuk’s novel, The Empusium,”a health resort horror story,” is set in the early twentieth century, in Poland, at a “guesthouse for gentlemen” suffering from tuberculosis. On the surface, the novel possesses qualities of a thriller: mysterious deaths, tension, and a sinister vibe. There’s also a hallucinogenic liquor made with mushrooms that the men enjoy in the evenings. The real horror of the story, though, is the deep misogyny that is so casually bandied about as the men engage in all manner of conversation throughout the novel. In the midst of chatter about politics, money, social status, religion, etc, the deeply embedded assumption regarding the inferiority of females is slowly, consistently, revealed. The misogyny is always there, undergirded by theories and theologies, modern and ancient. A horror story indeed.

The horror of misogyny is now becoming more and more re-embedded in our own society, as we witness the erosion of the hard-won battles of women, to dispel the notion that males are the pinnacle of the created order and that women their subordinates. Misogyny is everywhere, especially throughout the federal government. Let’s just consider a few recent examples: the praise loaded onto the US men’s Olympic hockey team while the women, also gold medal winners, were left to praise themselves; the efforts of Pete Hegseth to remove women from combat roles in the military; Pete Hegseth’s removal of women from high-ranking military positions; new attention given to Christian nationalist and Reformed pastor Doug Wilson (including a recent invitation to lead a prayer service at the Pentagon), who thinks that women (especially married women) should not have the right to vote; and, of course, the myriad disrespectful and derogatory comments made by the current President toward women who do not bow down and tell him how great he is.

In all of this, Christianity plays an animating, reinforcing, and sometimes, a defining role— as it has been doing for a very long time. But, is Christianity— its scriptures, stories, theologies and history— a complete and unwavering playbook for the maintenance of women in a secondary role in society?

Christian leaders, over the centuries, have certainly done their best to twist scripture and story into a system that supports the notion that maleness captures God’s finest effort in the creation of human beings, casting femaleness in a lesser role, as dependent “helper.” Yet, there are all sorts of problems with the insistence that maleness is the epitome of God’s creation and that females ought to fall in line and recognize their inferiority. Since many Christian leaders like to go back to the very beginning to assert and frame God’s supposed order of things on earth, let’s consider a few issues from the beginning, from Genesis:

  • In the first (of two) creation stories in Genesis 1, the humans, male and female, are created at the same time, not one after the other: “So God created humans in his image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them.” (Genesis 1:27, NRSV)
  • In the second creation story, the creation of the “help meet” for Adam (in Genesis 2) is, in Hebrew, the creation of a partner of equal status.
  • When considering the creation stories as a whole, there is a sense that God’s creation isn’t completely thought out ahead of time, that God perfects the creation in the creating process. In this way, the female is actually God’s crowning creation achievement.

Christian leaders and thinkers have, of course, moved beyond the Creation stories and have found many ways of asserting male dominance. There’s the issue that Jesus chose only males as his twelve disciples, although there’s little attention to the fact that Jesus chose only Jews to serve in this role. While Peter holds a place of significance as the “rock” upon which the Church will be built, Peter’s “confession” claiming that Jesus is Messiah is held up as a critical moment of clarity and purpose. Yet, in the Gospel According to John, the confession of Jesus as Messiah doesn’t belong to Peter. It belongs to Martha. And, then there’s the grievous horror in diminishing Mary of Magdala’s role. The risen Christ trusted her to share the good news of resurrection. Mary’s role is shared by all four canonical Gospels. Presumably, the risen Christ could have chosen anyone with whom to first share the amazing news. He could have appeared to that trusty Peter, who was locked away, fearing that he might be next in line for Roman crucifixion. Instead, the risen Christ trusted Mary of Magdala, one of his closest friends, a female.

That males in positions of power manage to warp and contort their own sense of themselves into a belief that they are at the top of the heap, that their gifts and skills are above all, that their form and attributes are the height of the created order is a horror. Males and females are different, but what gives males the right to claim dominance? For Christians who supposedly worship Christ and consider the Bible, and especially the New Testament, to be their guide in organizing themselves and understanding the relationship between males and females, we must name the treachery involved in misreading and misinterpreting the Holy Bible.

The long, slow, excruciating slog to begin to see some significant changes in the perceptions of and attitudes toward females in the holy book took shape in the latter half of the twentieth century. Ever so slowly, some Christian communities, denominations, and scholars began to wrestle with the history of the faith, the treatment of females, along with translation, interpretation and contextual issues. Progress was made— to live more faithfully in relationship with our holy scriptures and with our triune God. Critics often refer to “political correctness” in response to these changes, when much of what occurred was significantly appropriate. There were errors in translations and interpretations of texts that needed to be fixed.

Now, the awful slide back is in place, a slide that strives to cast females as “less than,” as subordinate. It may feel like it’s a return to a more “wholesome” time when gender roles were more neatly defined and the divide between the masculine and the feminine was clearer. But, the more neatly defined and the clearer were not nearly as aligned with Biblical teachings as its proponents would like to think. To ignore this dynamic and allow the normalizing of the misogyny is misguided and detrimental to all. It’s also unfaithful.

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