Screaming My Way Through Lent

Posted on March 19, 2022 by smaxreisert

At Old South this Lent, we are focusing on the women around Jesus. We are exploring stories about the women who worked with and were friends with Jesus. We are also considering stories of women, like the Samaritan Woman at the Well (John 4), who shared the good news and invited others to experience the love of God in a new way. Through these stories, we are also asking questions about why most of the world’s Christians gather in churches that continue to deny pastoral leadership to women. And, we are expressing our own grief that as our church shrinks, and others like ours, we wonder about what the Christian church will look like down the road. What will happen to the pastoral leadership of women in the Church?

As we consider woman after woman— from Mary, the mother of Jesus, to Mary Magdalene, Martha, Mary of Bethany, etc.— I find myself wanting to scream. These are not obscure characters, found only in small corners of the Gospels or in the stories that didn’t make the canon. The women around Jesus are a powerful group of women who did remarkable work and ministry. And, they are right there in full view. Except that they have been, somehow, ignored and/or belittled. I just want to scream.

I spend at least part of each Saturday reviewing sermon material, precisely so I won’t spend a major part of my sermon screaming. I can’t scream at the people who come to worship at Old South, especially since they clearly believe that women should be in pastoral leadership. I can’t scream at them. But, I still want to scream.

Take, for example, Martha. During a recent Bible study class, I asked the participants about their view on Martha. What did they know about Martha? What had they learned, over their years of church participation, about who Martha was and her place among the friends that Jesus gathered around himself? The participants in the Bible study either admitted to not really knowing anything about Martha, or they shared the story from Luke where Martha is in the kitchen, cooking for the crowd of people who suddenly showed up in her house. When she goes out to ask for help from her sister, Mary, Jesus gently scolds her and tells her that Mary, by taking her place at his feet to learn and to contemplate, had made the better choice.

No one in Bible study talked about the story from John 11, in which Jesus eventually arrives in Bethany and discovers that his friend Lazarus, Martha’s brother, had died and had been placed in a tomb. While much attention (for obvious reasons) is placed on the dramatic and miraculous raising of Lazarus from the dead, there is in the dialogue between Martha and Jesus, a statement of remarkable consequence: Martha’s “confession”/affirmation that Jesus is the Christ.

In the other Gospels– Matthew, Mark and Luke— the “confession” is on the lips of Peter. It is Peter’s confession that helps to solidify his place of leadership and authority in the early church. So, why not Martha? Why is Peter’s confession so significant, whereas Martha’s appears to hold no special meaning?

It’s not that this hasn’t come up in the past. I’m no newcomer to the problematic treatment of biblical women and then, by extension, the women in the Church as a whole over the Church’s long history. In fact, I’ve preached on many occasions about the dubious ways through which New Testament women have been so casually sidelined and belittled. But, through my decision to place so many Gospel women in this one season of Lent, I’m now constantly reminded of the scandalous nature of the Church’s approach to women. And, I just want to scream about it.

It is maddening, to be sure, but I’ve also found myself considering, once again, the quality of unfaithfulness in the Church universal when it comes to women. While the early Church may have had good reason to sideline women, in its minority and vulnerable status, there is no good reason— and hasn’t been since the Church became the Church of the Empire— to continue to deny pastoral leadership and authority to women.

Jesus trusted Mary Magdalene with the Good News of resurrection, of new life, on that first Easter morning. I’m sure Jesus could have found a way to put that news on the lips of a man, if he wanted to. Jesus also trusted other women to be about his holy work. It’s beyond time for the institution that claims to worship him to follow his example when it comes to the treatment of women in the Church and its leadership.

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A Different Lent

Posted on March 2, 2022 by smaxreisert

For Christians, Lent is the season in which we remember the forty days Jesus spent fasting in the wilderness while dealing with the temptations of the devil. Some Christians give something up for Lent, something that will require tests of willpower that will bring us a small sense of the experience that Jesus had and through that, perhaps a more meaningful experience of faith. Other Christians will add something to their lives, attempting to live a more faithful life of giving. Many Christians will mark the start of the season by having ashes imposed upon their foreheads, a reminder of their mortality and the need for reconciliation with God. Although Lent is an important season for the Church and its members, there’s a significant dimension of Lent that is personal and focused on an individual’s relationship with God and the journey of faith, especially lifting up the ways through which one has faltered in faith.

This year, I’m taking on a different approach to Lent, and encouraging Old South to join me in reflecting in a more corporate way and to consider one of the particular ways through which the Church universal has stumbled and failed, where it has, in many of its expressions, refused to live up to the lessons of Jesus Christ.

For this Lent, I will be spending time—and bringing Old South with me—reflecting on the treatment of women in the Church.

Every weekend, as Christians gather for worship in churches around the globe, most adherents to the faith gather in church’s that do not allow women to be ordained or to be in pastoral leadership. This is not only a problem. It is wrong. The Gospels contain myriad accounts of the witness and ministry of women— Martha of Bethany and her sister Mary; the Samaritan woman at the well; and Mary, the mother of Jesus. These are just a few examples. And, then there’s Mary Magdalene. Without her, we might not have any Christianity at all, as she was the first to the empty tomb on that first Easter morning. She was the first to share the Good News.

I’ve been thinking quite a lot lately about the women of the Gospels as I’ve been thinking about the status of women in the Church. I’ve been thinking about the churches and the denominations that allow women to pursue ordination and pastoral leadership. These are the churches—for the most part— that are in steady decline. These are among the churches that are struggling and even closing.

It is hard enough to contemplate the decline of the Church, and its churches— and the tradition that has been my spiritual home for my entire life. But, now I wonder about the witness that is eroding, as those churches and denominations that welcome the ministry of women continue to shrink. What happens when the dominant expression of the faith is made up of denominations and churches that deny the full participation of women in pastoral leadership?

At Old South, we will spend our Lent learning more about the women around Jesus. Of course, we have learned about some of these women, in bits and pieces, in occasional passages here and there in the lectionary— where the lectionary committee is willing to highlight biblical passages that include stories of women. For this season, we will leave the Revised Common Lectionary and will consider the women and only the women, and will focus on the relationships that Jesus had with many women. We will center ourselves on the relationships where Jesus trusted, taught, worked with, and enabled women to be about the holy work of ministry. We will learn more about: Mary, the mother of Jesus; Mary of Magdala; the Samaritan woman at the well; Martha; Mary of Bethany; and an unnamed woman or two.

There are others we could consider, for the Gospels contain many accounts of women engaged in important and significant work. But Lent is only so long.

I’ve always been grateful that I was able to pursue my call to ministry, and did so quite a long time ago (back in the last century!). I’m also grateful that I had good women who helped to pave that path before me. The Holy Bible that was presented to me when I was in third grade (in 1972), for instance, was signed by then Minister of Christian Education, the Rev. Jacqueline D. Mills. As a young adult, I encountered several ordained women in the United Church of Christ and the United Methodist Church. Except for the Roman Catholic Church (and who knew what their problem was], it never really occurred to me that women would be excluded from pastoral leadership.

For Lent, those of us who gather at Old South in Hallowell, Maine, will take a bit less time reflecting in a personal way on the personal journey of faith. Instead, we’ll consider the women around Jesus and wonder, perhaps, about the possibility that it is in the failure to include women fully in all expressions of the faith that has landed Christianity in the precarious place in which it finds itself. After all, it isn’t just the old Mainline Protestants that are struggling with decline.

In the 14th chapter of Mark, when Jesus knew that his earthly life was in danger, he gathered with his friends. An unnamed woman came along and anointed his head. The men were indignant. But Jesus told them to leave her alone, for she was showing the way of the events that were unfolding. Then Jesus declared, “Truly I tell you, wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.” (Mark 14:9)

So shall we observe this holy season of Lent.

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I Can See You

Posted on February 17, 2022 by smaxreisert

A very good friend of mine writes fairly regularly for a major newspaper. In a recent column, she included a brief reference to a trip to a museum and made note of an exhibit that she saw with her wife. Not included in the column was the fact that there was a third person there— me. I’m sure there were lots of good reasons not to include me in what was a minor part of a lengthy column, including word count and the needless complication of explaining the weird friend who was also present. Still, it felt odd, and disconcerting, to discover that I had been completely left out— as if I hadn’t been there at all.

I was probably sensitive to this point because I’ve been thinking quite a lot about what it means to be seen, particularly in a church/faith setting. It’s one of the things that small churches are usually able to do well. Since there are not a lot of people, it’s much easier to see everyone, and to pay attention to each one in the group. Yet, this is a component of the life of the small church that is generally not fully appreciated— in the community itself and beyond.

During a conversation with one of our newer members at Old South, she shared a troubling experience at her former church. While Central Maine is not exactly home to anything that can be described a “mega” church, the area has one or two churches that are considerably larger than the others. This newer member had been actively involved in one of these large churches. One Sunday, standing in the lobby of the church, she watched several people walk past her, one after another. Not one of them spoke to her. Not one of them seemed even to notice her, even in a small way. In her move to Old South, one of the most significant aspects of her early visits was that she was seen by others, and acknowledged.

In accounts of the earthly ministry of Jesus, the Gospel writers include many occasions where Jesus saw people. And, he didn’t just notice them casually. He saw them in ways that were meaningful and compelling. Consider the Samaritan woman at the well, the woman who had suffered with hemorrhages for twelve years, and the man who asked about eternal life, In all of these stories (and others), Jesus saw people, and into people, in ways that offered hope and healing, if the person chose to open themselves to Jesus, his teaching and his presence.

Acknowledging individuals and being attentive to each one was something that marked the earthly ministry of Jesus. It must also mark the ministry of communities of faith who claim to follow him.

In a small church— whether we do it in an intentional way or not— we see people. We notice them and, more than that, show our care for them. Sometimes there’s a fine line between being attentive and being nosy, but I think the folks at Old South manage that line well.

This is not simply a nice thing that we do, but a foundational piece of our ministry of presence as we seek to be the Body of Christ, where not even one should feel invisible.

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Under the Cover of Covid

Posted on February 2, 2022 by smaxreisert

Old South, like many churches, has been on something of a Covid-induced roller coaster ride. First, we learned Zoom and how to make it work for the church as a whole. Then, we learned hybrid, which has been more complicated than we expected. For most of this new year so far, we’ve slid back to a (mostly) Zoom-only existence, as Omicron cases have ravaged the local health care system and we’d like to do all we can to keep our people out of the hospital.

There’s been much to learn and new tricks to consider in our common church practice and imagination. Where next on this journey? How can we make the most of being the church in this new technologically driven age? Can we be the church we have been called to be, if we are split between an in-person group and a Zoom group? What do we do about our buildings, in which we now rarely gather?

The beginning of our pandemic journey was full of surprises, as many people who probably never thought they could learn how to deal with Zoom have done so and have done well. When we were considering a temporary return to Zoom for this January, as Covid numbers started to make their alarming climb, it was not a hard decision, even though it meant that we would have another Zoom-only annual meeting. It was simply another section of the ride we have been on for almost two years.

But, now that we have been on this unexpected journey of ups and downs, twists and turns, for such a long time, I’ve found myself looking back and thinking ahead: what does the future hold for our small church?

Among the troubling items on my reflection list is worship attendance. While we have maintained a consistent attendance, whether we are Zoom-only or hybrid, numbers have been low and have remained lower than before the start of the pandemic. While we can point to a few obvious sources of lower attendance— like death and relocation— there is another source that feels like one that no one wants to acknowledge or discuss. And, that is that we have a few people who have simply slipped away from the active worship life of our faith community, if not almost entirely from all aspects of our life together as a church.

We have people who are increasingly involved in taking care of family members, or are being taken care of by family, that somehow requires that worship be skipped on Sunday mornings. We have other people who have slipped away, I suspect, because they feel the pressure of living in a part of the world where Christianity is clearly losing ground— and they don’t want to be in any way associated with the dominant expressions of the faith in this area that tend to be more evangelically inclined. Over the years, I’ve had a few conversations on this topic.

It may be that we have a few people who have found, in the midst of pandemic and disruption, an opportunity to surreptitiously withdraw from regular worship attendance as well as active participation in the Old South community. We have others who still participate in the life of the church, but rarely attend worship.

This is a problem, and a potentially serious one. It’s a problem that requires a careful and thoughtful approach. We shouldn’t put people on the defensive, but it would be helpful to know more about what’s happening with those people we do not regularly see at worship— and to know from them directly. Is it Zoom fatigue or the demands of life? Or, are people experiencing a more problematic church fatigue, finding that worship is no longer something that they want or need in their life?

Worship is not simply a part of Christian faith practice; it is an essential component. That we are experiencing noticeable absences from worship is something that ought not be ignored, or explained away with assumptions. I’m not sure how I feel about what answers we may find, but the shadows left by those who no longer regularly attend worship are looming. And into those dark and difficult corners, we need to cast some light.

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WWJD? Covid Vaccine Edition

Posted on January 19, 2022 by smaxreisert

French President Emmanuel Macron recently made headlines for suggesting— using a vulgar French term— a new strategy for “encouraging” the unvaccinated to get the jab. Essentially, he called for making the lives of the unvaccinated so miserable that they would change their minds about the vaccine, stating that he could no longer put up with the unvaccinated infringing on the freedoms of others. When he experienced pushback in response to the use of vulgar language, he defended his choice: “When some make from their freedom … a motto, not only do they put others’ lives at risk, but they are also curtailing others’ freedom. That I cannot accept. When you are a citizen you must agree to do your civic duty.” [Associated Press, January 7, 2022]

I completely agree. With all of it.

In a recent conversation with one of my parishioners, the topic of one of his adult children came up— not for the first time. She is unvaccinated, despite the advice and counsel of her parents, the CDC, etc. Her spouse is also not vaccinated. And, all of their friends are not vaccinated and, I was told, most of the large church community of which they are part. Covid has run rampant in this group, but they are all young adults and no one has become seriously ill. But, they continue to refuse vaccination and use the contracting of the illness as a sort of vaccine equivalent— instead of understanding that they are now part of a very big problem, as they actively contribute to mutations of the virus, providing willing hosts, allowing the virus to run rampant.

Freedom over responsibility to community. What would Jesus do? What would Jesus say?

When “What Would Jesus Do,” or WWJD, was a “thing”— when was that?— I didn’t get caught up in asking that question at every juncture of life. Yet, somehow, it’s a question that I now find often in my mind when I think of the unvaccinated, especially those unvaccinated who are connected to Christian churches. What would Jesus do? What would Jesus say to them?

There’s a big part of me that thinks (hopes?) Jesus would say something along the lines of the French President. Perhaps he wouldn’t used a vulgar French term, but the Jesus I know would not be sympathetic to those who continue to refuse to participate in something that will so clearly benefit the community at large, including their own church subset of the larger community. I can’t help but hear Jesus offering chastising words, declaring the science of vaccination as a wonderful gift to humanity. In the face of so much human devastation, why would anyone reject it?

Jesus is generally understood as a nice guy— compassionate, gentle, loving. But, Jesus had his angry moments:

John 9:39: Jesus said, “I came into this world for judgment so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind.”

Matthew 18:2-6: He called a child, whom he put among them, and said, “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever becomes humble like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me. “If any of you put a stumbling block before one of these little ones who believe in me, it would be better for you if a great millstone were fastened around your neck and you were drowned in the depth of the sea.

Luke 13:15, after he was criticized for healing a woman on the Sabbath: But the Lord answered him and said, “You hypocrites! Does not each of you on the sabbath untie his ox or his donkey from the manger, and lead it away to give it water?”

That we are experiencing a lurching back into earlier days of the pandemic, hunkering down, limiting contact, wearing masks everywhere, I just want to scream at those who have chosen not to vaccinate, those who have chosen to practice “freedom” over responsibility to community. And, I find myself especially angry at those who, like the daughter of my parishioner, are part of Christian communities that refuse to recognize the damage they are causing to the wider community.

How in the world have we come to this place where large groups of people who claim to worship Christ, are actually worshiping something that is not Christ-like at all? What sort of mental gymnastics are required to think that Christ, in the midst of pandemic, would teach individual freedom over the health and well-being of the community— the church community and the community in which that church exists?

Old South is a largely vaccinated community (we have a couple of people who have not been vaccinated because of age or health complications). In our conversations about how we should worship and gather, there is a strong commitment to each other, to the community of which we are part, and the community beyond. Many of our conversations include discussions concerning our sense of responsibility to loved ones as well as a call to do whatever we can to lessen the demands on our local healthcare system. There is an acute awareness of relationship, connectedness and responsibility. And, in that awareness is the kernel of truth found in the Greatest Commandment and its companion:

 “Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?”  He said to him, “‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the greatest and first commandment.  And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’  On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.” (Matthew 22:36-40)

Whether my anger at the unvaccinated is righteous or not, I think it’s clear enough that many Christians are not actually practicing the teachings of the religion to which they cling. I would like to think that Jesus would not only encourage vaccination, but pointing out the misery that the unvaccinated have so recklessly and foolishly brought to so many, He would teach that it is mandated by the Greatest Commandment,

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What’s There to See

Posted on December 31, 2021 by smaxreisert

At Old South’s 2021 Christmas Eve service, the featured speaking part was “The Shepherd” from Frederick Buechner’s The Magnificent Defeat. As the Shepherd reflects on his life, realizing that he’s the kind of guy who will eat muddy bread when hungry, he also discovers that he’s able to open his perceptions just enough to engage with the remarkable event of the birth of the Savior:

That’s how it was this night, anyway. Like finally coming to—not things coming out of nowhere that had never been there before, but things just coming into focus that had been there always. And such things! The air wasn’t just emptiness anymore. It was alive. Brightness everywhere, dipping and wheeling like a Hock of birds. And what you always thought was silence stopped being silent and turned into the beating of wings, thousands and thousands of them. Only not just wings, as you came to more, but voices—high, wild, like trumpets.

Opening my own ears a bit, listening to this story that I’ve heard so many times over the years (because it is a favorite), I wondered about I’ve been perceiving in these days. As the pandemic rages on and the congregation of Old South gets smaller, I find myself thinking quite a lot about what I’m seeing and experiencing. And, I wonder about making sense of what’s right in front of me. How are we being called as church? How am I being called as pastor?

Those questions lingered and were present again on Christmas morning, when I considered them, in a new way, near the end of my morning “news round up.” My early Christmas morning routine resembled most every other morning, now that my children are adults and aren’t itching to the get to the tree at some ridiculously early hour. After waking up enough to feel that I was ready to head downstairs, if not exactly take on the day, I made an espresso, picked up my laptop, and began the usual rounds of checking news and playing games. My last stop was the Washington Post.

I hadn’t scrolled down far at all when a headline grabbed my attention: “The first Christmas as a layperson: Burned out by the pandemic, many clergy quit in the past year.” The article explored the “exodus of clergy who have left ministry in the past couple years because of a powerful combination of pandemic demands and political stress. Amid fights about masks and vaccine mandates, to how far religious leaders can go in expressing political views that might alienate some of their followers, to whether Zoom creates or stifles spiritual community, pastoral burnout has been high.” [full article is here]

Reading the experiences of the clergy highlighted in the article, I felt fortunate that the stress I’ve experienced is not nearly as bad as it could be. One poor guy was at the start of his ministry when the pandemic hit. He found himself dealing with a whole group of people who refused to wear masks and a whole lot of pushback when he voiced concerns about President Trump before the 2020 election. He’s no longer serving in parish ministry.

I have not experienced, thank goodness, major mask issues or a whole lot of pushback because of my political views. But, this time has not been lacking in stressors. There are plenty of them. It’s stressful to provide consistent and adequate leadership in a time that feels both challenging and alien. It’s stressful to be the cheerleader for church as we struggle with new demands and requirements brought about by Covid and the continued unwelcome decline in membership and active participation. It’s stressful to feel like I need to be in possession of just the right sort of advice and counsel, for all occasions. It’s stressful to stay on top of how to work new technology and to encourage the flock to follow me on this new path of discovery. It’s stressful to be both a learner and an enthusiastic proponent of the new hybrid world that we are in the midst of creating. And, it’s particularly stressful in the congregational environment that I serve, where I have little actual authority. Leadership requires a more collective approach, as if I am trying to push a herd of elephants by coaxing and cajoling.

A lot of the stress is in the myriad small details of ministry in this new age. With masks covering most of our faces when we gather for worship in person, communication mishaps are more common and, on occasion, leave trails of anger that are difficult to resolve. And, while technology offers new and wondrous paths of connection, it also provides lots of sources of frustration— like when the internet connection vanishes or the monitor in the sanctuary sports an unfamiliar screen, with unfamiliar options, after months and months of use.

Given that ministry involves a lot of interaction with imperfect human beings, ministry is a stressful occupation. But, the seemingly constant barrage of new things and new challenges leads to an overall sense that pastoral ministry has become an even more complicated minefield than it already was.

The language of our faith tells us to “not be afraid” and one of the major messages of Christmas is that God comes to us in very unexpected ways. Yet, there’s not much in the way of the joy or wonder of the Shepherd in Buechner’s story, in perceiving and encountering something new and awe-inspiring. What exactly is coming into focus in this time?

In the midst of the frustrations, the worry, and the stress, it can be hard to find a moment to consider what I’m seeing and perceiving. But, when I do, I can’t help but feel like there’s both a lot and not much right in front of me. Is the air around me alive, or full of meaningless annoyances? Are we, as a church, just feeling the growing pains that are leading us to a new awareness of God’s presence with us? Or, are we allowing ourselves to get so caught up in the moment, busying ourselves enough not to notice that there’s not much there?

After the Christmas Eve service, I was the last one to leave the church. I took a moment to look around the sanctuary, in the quiet and in the dimness of the evening. There was comfort, to be sure, in the familiar, lovely sanctuary with all of its beautiful space. There was a moment when I could simply be in the sanctuary and know that I could be there without something stressful happening. But, as I stood there, I likely heaved a heavy sigh as I gazed upon the reminders of the changes we have experienced, in the cluster of new equipment at the front of the sanctuary. I couldn’t escape at least one of the truths coming into focus: a lot of effort was put into a service that was attended by the lowest Christmas Eve “crowd” ever.

On my drive home, I stopped the car at the top of the hill of our long, dark private road. I got out and looked up at the blanket of dark indigo with its twinkling stars, feeling the cold, sharp air all around me. And, I listened to the music on the radio. I’m not sure what wisdom it had to offer, but I was grateful for the stillness and lovely words of hope and promise: “Hail, the heaven-born Prince of peace! Hail the Sun of righteousness! Light and life to all he brings, Risen with healing in his wings. Mild he lays his glory by, Born that man no more may die, Born to raise the sons of earth, Born to give them second birth. Hark! the herald angels sing, “Glory to the newborn King!”

In the midst of this holy season, in the midst of the stress and the questions, my hope is that there will be a bit more light and life. And more focus on what’s right there, in front of us.

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Advent Lessons: Companionship

Posted on December 16, 2021 by smaxreisert

This coming Sunday’s Revised Common Lectionary selections include Luke 1:39-45[46-56], where Mary offers her song of praise, aka The Magnificat. The relatively short passage (even with the additional verses) provides a treasure trove of preaching options. It’s a passage focused on the experience of a woman, and involves s a deeply theological statement, with a strong prophetic angle. This is hardly the demure Mary depicted in so many artist renderings. Instead, her voice is sure and strong, declaring the power of the “Mighty One”: “He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.” (Luke 1:51-53)

These, and related topics, would serve as a fine basis for a sermon, and I may try to touch on at least one on Sunday. What will very likely serve as the foundation for my sermon on Sunday, though, is the relationship between Mary and Elizabeth, something that is often overlooked in the dynamic quality of Mary’s song. Both women are pregnant, each one with a very significant person growing inside. The very last verse in the passage suggests that the women not only visited with each other, but lived in the same household for three months. It’s a fascinating concept to consider.

When I was pregnant with my second child, my best friend at the time was also pregnant with her second child. Each of us gave birth in the spring, just a couple of weeks apart. During our time of pregnancy, we spent a considerable amount of time together, although we did not share the same household. Experiencing the joys and challenges of pregnancy so closely with another person was a gift and an opportunity that I think about often, especially at this time of year.

Carol and I marveled at our changing bodies and fretted about whether or not we would ever get back to our pre-pregnancy body (no, for me). We shared complaints about the intrusive questions complete strangers would ask, the exhaustion that invaded each day, and the indignities that are part of every pregnant woman’s journey. We spent time pondering what meaning we might glean from the kicks, proddings and pokings as each infant began to make themselves known. We wondered about the relationship the new child would have with the older one, and vice versa. Through those many months, we supported and encouraged each other.

I’d like to think that what I experienced was a little glimpse into what Mary and Elizabeth might have experienced, as they shared that expectant time together. I’d also like to think that Mary and Elizabeth serve as a model for companionship on the journey of faith. At this time of year, we are in a particularly “expectant” place. It may feel like we’ve lived through countless Advent and Christmas seasons. Yet, each one offers a fresh opportunity to wonder at our own expectation of who and what this Jesus, this Christ, is in our lives.

While there are important aspects of faith that are concerned with our individual devotion, Mary and Elizabeth lead us to consider deeply how we can be more present with and to each other as we wait and watch, as we anticipate, and as we experience the small proddings of new life, a new awareness of how Christ enters our lives, leading us and sometimes pushing us in ways that are uncomfortable and unsettling.

In this expectant time, how might we turn to our companions in the faith to offer encouragement and support? How can we create a place, a space, where we might share our experiences of wonder and awe, of challenge and discomfort? How can we appreciate more fully this season as expectant time, and to do so with our companions in the faith?

It’s too bad that this holy season, so full of meaningful elements, is bogged down in busyness of various kinds. I would hope, that as we head into the last week of Advent, that we will take a moment to share a moment with our companions in the faith, to support and encourage, and to be about the significant work of being expectant— together.

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When Patience Isn’t Enough

Posted on December 1, 2021 by smaxreisert

I’ve started to notice, here and there, in little remarks or responses, the revealing of the idea that patience is the key to how we, as a church, will get through the pandemic. And, in that idea, the exposure of a little kernel that we will, at some point, get back to “normal.” All we need to do now is to be patient.

It’s not an agenda item at meetings, nor is it articulated in a clear way. It’s just there, lingering on the edge of conversations or observations. Although our patience has been sorely tested through the pandemic, we just need to hang in there for just a bit longer. And, back to “normal” we will be.

I usually notice an inkling of this concept when we are talking about technology, especially when I suggest that we need to work on improvements in how we use technology. While the congregation of Old South has been, for the most part, extremely thankful for Zoom (especially when we were not able to meet in person) and remarkably eager to embrace this new thing, we are not where we could be, or should be. It’s as if learning how to join a Zoom meeting seems like plenty in the “learning new things” department.

After attending an online workshop on hybrid worship, I introduced the concept of an online worship greeter, someone who would do the same job as the in person greeter, only on Zoom. The “job” of the online greeter is to sign in early and greet each person who joins the worship service via Zoom, verbally or through the “chat” function. I thought this was a great idea and added to the list of Sunday tasks. No one has signed up.

Trying to expand the number of volunteers who handle the “tech” side of worship has been stubbornly problematic. A few have expressed interest, but the follow up for training has been lacking. And, then there are a couple of people who express a deep conviction that they simply are not capable of handling the tech side of worship, as if their brains aren’t wired correctly, In the background, there’s a lingering sense of why. Why do we need to continue to learn new stuff, when we will, at some point, be back to how things were before the pandemic?

Life in a small congregation like Old South has completely and utterly changed. The hard and clear truth is that we will not be sliding back into what we once were. The world has changed. We have changed. Like it or not.

Who and what we are now, and who and what we’ll be in the future, isn’t just about waiting out the pandemic, ready to return to how we once lived out our church existence. We will never go back there. There is no “back to normal” awaiting us.

The sooner we can embrace not only the new normal, but the fact that we are still very much in the midst of change, the more fulfilling our lives of faith will be.

In this season of Advent, we ought not be waiting and watching for when and how we will get back to what we were in early 2020. We ought not don patience as if it will protect us from the unpleasant new things that call to us. Instead, we ought to be alert for the new ways that God comes to us and in the new ways we are called to be God’s faithful, worshiping people.

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In a Quiet Moment

Posted on November 11, 2021 by smaxreisert

I’ve always been fascinated by certain moments of quiet, like during a worship service in a sanctuary with a bunch of people in it and everything becomes so hushed, as if a veil of silence has descended. It’s not just that it’s quiet. It’s a noticeable, palpable moment of time that feels pregnant with mystery and possibility.

Such a moment happened last Sunday during worship at Old South. The sanctuary wasn’t anywhere near full, but we had more people in person for a Sunday morning service than we’ve had since March 2020, including a couple of children (a total of about twenty-one people). Even with a much smaller group, the sanctuary is rarely quiet during worship. There is always some sort of noise, whether it’s the noise of talking, singing, sniffling, coughing, shuffling through something like a purse, or the noise that comes in from the outside. The sanctuary is not, most of the time, a place that conveys silence, unless it is empty.

Last Sunday was a communion Sunday. It was also Remembering Sunday (when we remember those who passed away during the last year). And, it was Story Sunday, a practice that I started a couple of years ago, where I occasionally share a children’s story during the homily slot, a story that connects nicely with the scripture passage of the day.

Sunday’s focus scripture from the Narrative Lectionary (which we are following this fall) was 1 Kings 19:1-18. In the passage, Elijah heads to the wilderness and encounters, in verse 12, God’s—depending on the translation—”sound of sheer silence” (NRSV) or “still, small voice” (KJV). To accompany this passage, I read The Quiet Book by Deborah Underwood, illustrated by Renata Liwska (thanks to https://storypath.upsem.edu for the suggestion). The book highlights the “many kinds of quiet” in a child’s life (and, by extension, the life of most adults), like “pretending you’re invisible quiet,” “swimming underwater quiet,” and “before the concert begins quiet.”

In the midst of sharing this book, and its illustrations, the sanctuary became more and more hushed, until it became completely and utterly silent between the sounds of my voice reading each page. The silence was so captivating that I began to slow down my reading, and the spaces between pages. I didn’t want to read the last page at all, as if I could keep the quiet and make it last.

Since I was facing the congregation and looking at them as I shared the illustrations, I knew full well that the quiet was not the result of sleeping parishioners. In fact, everyone looked fully engaged and connected.

And silent.

It was one of those moments that I wanted to capture in some way. I also wanted to pause and ask if everyone was perceiving what I was perceiving and what they thought about it. What was in that silence, for each of us and all of us together? Was this one of those “thin places” that is described in the 1 Kings passage as a “still small voice” or the “sound of sheer silence” in and through which God speaks? And, if so, what was God saying to us?

I don’t know what was said in the quiet that descended upon worship last Sunday. But I know to be grateful for it and to recognize it for what it was: holy.

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To Keep the Weariness at Bay

Posted on October 25, 2021 by smaxreisert

During the first years of my marriage and when my children were young, part of our annual family vacation involved a trip to the Outer Banks in North Carolina to spend time with extended family.  Over the course of our visit, we usually attended a Saturday mass, as my husband’s family is Roman Catholic.  At that time, the local church was not far from the beach, a bit of a ramshackle building, as it was really only used in the summer months when loads of Roman Catholics vacationed in the area.  Clergy were usually visiting, retired priests.  It was unclear how they got there, whether they were assigned or they were lured there with the promise of the proximity of the lovely, vast beach of the Outer Banks.

I don’t remember any of the priests I encountered when I attended mass, except one.  This particular priest led one mass during one of our vacations, sometime in the 1990s.  I don’t remember what he said exactly, but I what I remember with clarity is that he spoke and behaved in a way that exuded a clear weariness of the world, of humanity, and of his own journey as a clergyperson.  He was a man in the throes of despair.  At or near the end of a long career in ministry, he found himself with not a hint of joy or even contentment.  It was clear that he was bereft of any sense of having done well as a shepherd amid the flock.

I remember feeling, at first, pity for him.  Something had gone terribly awry with his relationship with his own ministry.  And, then I started to think about my own self, near the beginning of my ministry and hoping that I would not find myself in my later years full of misery, despair and weariness, similarly bereft of the sense of a job well, if imperfectly, done.

After about thirty years in ministry, the last sixteen at Old South, I wouldn’t say that I’m feeling fully in the throes of despair.  But, I can feel the weariness creeping in.

At Old South, we have been dealing with, on a variety of levels, the reality that faces many mainline Protestant churches in these days.  Attendance is lower.  The average age is higher.  With a smaller group, it’s much more challenging to sustain and maintain the buildings in which we gather.  These issues and problems are not new, nor are they unique to us.  In fact, several churches in our area have been forced to close.  Churches very much like our church.

The weariness begins to make its presence known whenever we have a focused conversation at governing board meetings on what we should do and how we should respond to the serious, unwelcome, issues we face.  Conversation after conversation includes largely the same conversation, despite the fact that we’ve been at this for years.  Several of those who are willing to speak at these meetings say the same thing, time after time.  And, there are a couple of people who say nothing at all, never contributing their thoughts, feelings, or concerns.  It’s as if we are a group of people who cannot listen to each other.  And have closed ourselves off from the movement of the Spirit in our midst.

It’s not that it’s completely terrible.  Having the conversation is certainly better than not, and there have been small glimmers of progress.   But, over time I’ve begun to feel that the group has developed an unspoken attitude that a willingness to discuss is enough, that they can avoid action if they can just keep the conversation going.  And, they keep the conversation going through a variety of methods.  There’s yet a crucial piece of information we should gather.  There’s an idea we haven’t adequately explored.  Etc. Etc.  There’s always a reason to push off any decision to move the conversation into action, or at least a plan toward action.

The issues we face are just as unwelcome for me, but it’s crystal clear to me that Old South must act, and move forward.  Otherwise, the church will find itself spending more and more of its resources to maintain its buildings, especially the very demanding building in which the sanctuary is located.  It is a lovely place in which to worship, but it is much too large for the current congregation.  The requirements of attention and funds of the sanctuary building will drain the church of resources that could be used more wisely and more faithfully elsewhere.

All of this leads me to feel sadness and frustration, not simply about the inability to listen, perceive, trust and act.  I also find myself wondering about my role as pastor.  Herding the flock can be an awful lot like herding cats, but I’ve waded through other perilous times with more of a sense of fulfillment, that the work, though hard, was good and meaningful.

Now, it feels much more precarious.  Or, maybe it’s just because I’m older and feeling a loss in the patience department.  Perhaps.  But, it also feels like there’s a fraying connection to what it means, deeply and powerfully, to be a community of faith, a people of God—now and into the future.  Is our common witness and identity focused more on what the church once was or how we wish it to be, rather than how we share God’s love, care and hope as we are, and how we are called to be?

That we appear to have such difficulty in maintaining a communal sense of who we are as the body of Christ is an enervating prospect. I may now have a better sense of what and how that weary visiting clergyperson on the Outer Banks was feeling and thinking. Though I didn’t express it at the time, I am grateful for that priest and for the memory I have of him. It keeps me from slipping off into the oblivion of despair, where one cannot minister effectively. The work is hard, yet I also know that I have a companion who offers to lighten the load and ease the burden.

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