Today is the thirtieth anniversary of my ordination. The big day happened after a long ordination process (I think everyone had a long process in the Metropolitan Boston Association of the then Massachusetts Conference of the United Church of Christ; the Association was notorious for putting candidates for ordination through the ringer), at First Parish Congregational Church, United Church of Christ, in Wakefield, Massachusetts (a church that is no longer connected to the United Church of Christ). It was the church where I had gown up and had spent countless hours, especially when I was a teenager— teaching Sunday School, serving on the Christian Education Committee, and participating in the youth group.

Reflecting on these thirty years involves the sorting through of a lot of memories, of course. It also involves a lot of wondering: How much longer will I serve as an active pastor? What highlights can I remember? What occasions would I prefer to forget? Am I adequately prepared for what is yet to come?

On that big day in that big church on May 13, 1995, there are a few things that I still hold in my memory: a couple of my Sunday School teachers proudly flitting about; a few old youth group buddies serving as ushers; my cranky grandmother loudly declaring, during the service, that she was not so impressed with the soloist whom everyone in the family had raved about (“What’s so great about her? She only had to sing one word!”)¹; my parents, husband and still fairly new in-laws (who were also very new to anything outside of Roman Catholicism) all supportive and encouraging; a raft of Div School friends who took part in the ceremony; the beaming former pastor, who insisted on giving the “Charge to the Pastor,” and went on to talk mostly about himself (no surprise); and the current pastor of the church, at that time, with something of a smile pasted on his face (he was not a fan of women being ordained). I also remember the gravity of the laying on of hands and the stoles that were presented to me. It was a very full day.

I’m sure that on that day, I also had a few big visions floating in my head, working with congregations (maybe not huge, but big enough) of people searching for meaning and purpose, endeavoring to make the world a better place. I also knew at the time that I was well-prepared for the not-so-dreamy side of church life, in the bickering and ugliness that can be part of any gathered community (First Parish had plenty of that; I felt like I had learned from the best, or the worst, depending on your perspective on that sort of thing). I was full of heady notions as well as an accumulation of knowledge (theology, scripture, church history, etc.) along with a grounding in experience (a field education assignment with homeless and poor women and then an assignment at a small Cambridge church that had led to a bigger role).

Over the years, I’ve been made aware of the value of my education, as well as its deficiencies. Educational programs for pastors really ought to include such things as plumbing and basic electricity, for instance.

Certainly among the biggest surprises of my career is the great diminishment of Mainline churches and denominations. Although the church that I was serving at the time of my ordination was small, there were plenty of much bigger churches in the area. And, the community of clergy, in the United Church of Christ and beyond, was robust and active. I remember attending two clergy events each month (a UCC “sector” breakfast for the MBA clergy in and around Cambridge, Somerville, Medford, etc. and an ecumenical lunch for Harvard and Porter Square clergy in Cambridge). Local UCC association meetings were large events that drew from the eighty to ninety churches in the Metropolitan Boston Association alone.

Thirty years later, and now with my standing in a UCC association about three hours north of Boston, I no longer attend monthly clergy gatherings in and around Hallowell, Maine, as clergy do not have time for such things, or do not have the inclination. Most, if not all, of the Mainline churches in Central Maine are small to tiny. Some churches have no clergy at all. Several churches have closed altogether. A few others have sold their buildings (or are trying to sell) and have moved into other churches or other locations.

For the challenges that Old South faces, as we make our way from a well-known church, integral part of the fabric of community life in a small Maine city to a tiny congregation, of mostly people who do not live in Hallowell, in a too-large campus that we can no longer afford and maintain, I am aware that I’ve traveled a long way from the images that swirled through my head on May 13, 1995 and I’m not sure I’m prepared for what’s necessary now, and into the near future. I never took a class on how to make the sorts of choices and decisions that we now must make, or how to shepherd a congregation through a change that requires such a basic re-ordering and re-assessment of its identity.

Beyond the local church that I serve, the great diminishment of Christian churches and denominations in the United States has been a bewildering experience to witness— from the inside. While there are plenty of very good reasons for people to have left the Church in response to the terrible abuses and scandals that have been on display over the course of the last several decades, there are other good reasons for people to have stayed attached. As I listen to people reflect on their lack of connection, their sense of isolation, the sense of spiritual emptiness, the loss of community, that I’ve heard and read mostly through news media, I can’t help but look at the Old South community and wonder why the sense of community and connection that is an essential aspect of church life is not perceived by those outside— how else can we wave our arms to offer welcome?

As Old South continues to try to sell its sanctuary building, it’s been interesting to hear from a few potential buyers who wish to make the building into some sort of “community center or resource,” as if that’s not what it already is. Over thirty years, this is probably one of the most demoralizing elements of the journey, this realization that the local church is not valued or even recognized any longer as a vital component of society. We are all poorer for it, in so many ways.

1. The soloist sang “Alleluia” from “Exsultate Jubilate” by W.A. Mozart. ↩︎