It’s Time to Self-Isolate . . . from the New York Times

Posted on March 23, 2020 by smaxreisert

Like a lot of people, my usual morning follows a routine.  First, coffee. Second, make toast.  Third, drink coffee.  Fourth, say good morning to others who may be in the kitchen at the same time.  Fifth, open computer, review the headlines and visit the puzzle page of The New York Times.  Sixth, scan Boston.com (I’ve lived in Maine for almost twenty-five years, but I can’t quite shake that connection to Boston).  And, then, finally, I’m usually ready to settle down and read below the headlines in the New York Times.

In the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic, I think it may be time to limit my attachment to the New York Times.  While it’s been the primary source to gather news and perspective, in regard to the U.S. and the world, I’ve become seriously annoyed at its coverage of the latest crisis.  Here are just a few recent headlines that have grabbed my attention:  “The Epic Failure of Testing in America”; “Stop Saying That Everything is Under Control.  It Isn’t.”; “Can’t Get Tested?  Maybe You’re in the Wrong Country”; “A New York Doctor’s Coronavirus Warning:  The Sky Is Falling”; “U.S. Is Plunged Into Deeper Disruption and Paralysis”; “The World We Once Lived In Has Vanished.”

The COVID-19 Pandemic is certainly very, very serious.  The news coverage, though, in the New York Times is aggressively disconcerting and unsettling.  Everything seems poised to draw me into panic, rather than offer information and balanced perspective  It feels like the headlines have been ramped up, to become something more akin to “click bait” on much less reputable sites.

As a clergyperson, I think it’s especially important to refrain from panic and to maintain, instead, the mantra that Jesus so often spoke:  “Fear not.”  How many times did Jesus utter such words?  I don’t know.  But, it was a lot.

In the first century, there was plenty to fear.  There was plenty to fear among those who gathered with Jesus as well as among those who gathered long after the crucifixion, in the communities that organized throughout the latter half of the first century (when the Gospel accounts were written).  The words “fear not” or “do not fear” were likely significant touchstones for those who actually knew Jesus when he was walking around, as well as for those who gathered in his name, in the early days of the church.

Do not fear.  Fear not.  These are the words to which we must cling, whether or not we find ourselves in the midst of crisis and/or a global pandemic.

This doesn’t at all mean that we should act recklessly, ignoring the advice of experts and public health officials.  But, it does mean that we resist panic, and we recognize that we may need to do so in a conscientious way.

Therefore, it’s time to practice a little social distancing when it comes to the Times.

Take a breath.  Remember who you are and to whom you belong.   And, speak again and again the words of Jesus.  They are just as important and just as vital as they were in the first century:  Fear not.

And, share your witness of hope and love, of not fearing in the midst of crisis, with everyone you can.

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Can This Old Dog Learn New Tricks?

Posted on March 18, 2020 by smaxreisert

Ministry in the Age of COVID-19

My twenty-year-old son blames his twenty-three-year-old sister for everything that is happening in the world, in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic.  For Christmas, Margaret gave her brother a t-shirt from Venice, Italy (where she had lived in the fall).  It was a shirt that she had purchased at the 2019 Venice Biennale, with the theme blazoned on the front, “May You Live in Interesting Times.”  Here’s a photo of the theme, juxtaposed with a damaged vaporetto during November’s acqua alta:

8A7F44F4-4773-4576-8792-118DC7875FE5

These are indeed interesting times.

I could use a little less interesting, actually.

Since there’s not any choice about it, we have in the midst of this crisis, opportunity (of course).  The question is, for an old, traditional, mainline church like the one I serve:  what sort of community can we be, will we be, in the midst of this new, ever changing and rapidly evolving (and scary) landscape in which we now find ourselves?

And, the even bigger question is this:  how well will I/we adapt?  How well will I be able to deliver meaningful guidance, leadership, and general faith connection, when I have I have to learn a whole bunch of new things?

Ministry in this new environment is no small thing.  For those of us in small, older churches, where there are still people who don’t even have email, let alone a decent computer or a smart phone, it’s simply overwhelming to begin to consider how in the world we are going to offer anything reasonable in terms of worship, meetings and gatherings for our church community.

Sure, I can try to learn how to provide online content.  I’ve subscribed to Zoom and I’ve created a YouTube channel.  I’ll start to update our webpage later today, and start working with the Music Director on what we can do about providing something that resembles worship for Sunday mornings for at least the next few weeks– for those who can access content online.

Can this old dog learn some new tricks?  And, even more than that: can I learn to deliver content effectively?

While there are some things that I think I can do without venturing too far from my comfort zone, I can’t help but worry about my ability to deliver good content.  Let’s take sermons, for one thing.  I know that I rely heavily on the in-person experience of delivering a sermon.  If those in the sanctuary start fidgeting early on, I know I need to just get to the point already. Or, if the sanctuary gets amazingly quiet, and I know that those present are all completely focused on what is coming out of my mouth, I may slow down, alter my voice, and extend for a bit, or simply provide a moment to take in that holy moment of quiet convergence, as if we can actually feel the Spirit tiptoeing through the sanctuary, drawing us in.

I rely a lot on the in-person dynamics of gathering, reading body language and facial expressions, and listening to comments and other sorts of utterances.  I’ve been at Old South a long time.  There’s an intimacy that’s been created over my many years with this congregation.  An intimacy that, as I reflect on it, makes me very nervous about our new life as a primarily online community– even if this time is relatively short-lived.

It’s not so much about the “tricks” of our twenty-first century world.  I use email and other social media platforms.  I can create online meetings, as well as worship.  But, will I be able to provide something meaningful and worthy in this very new way of being?  Will I ever feel the tiptoe of the Holy Spirit when we gather over Zoom?

I’ll admit my doubts.  But, I also need to admit that I know I must trust, trust that the Spirit will continue to make her/himself known.  When only two or three of us are gathered in Christ’s name, surely Christ is there as well.  Even through Zoom?

These are interesting times, that’s for sure.  But, may they be not only interesting, but holy and faithful.

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A Sad Day

Posted on March 4, 2020 by smaxreisert

When I was a younger woman, I felt confident that at some point during my lifetime, the United States would elect a president who happened to be a woman—or perhaps because she was a woman (women generally possessing many excellent qualities lacking in the average man).  Now that I’m well into my fifties, I’m starting to seriously doubt that confidence that I felt so long ago.  In fact, I’m feeling quite the opposite—that I won’t see a woman president in the course of my lifetime.

After the 2016 election, I became sure of a deep and abiding sexism that simply is part of the fabric of American life, so ingrained and integrated that we don’t really even notice or acknowledge it.  I know lots of people felt that Hillary Clinton had “issues” (she wasn’t exactly my first choice for president either), but were those issues really so much worse than Donald Trump’s????

And, now four years later, it’s clear that no woman will be elected as president in November.  As I perused some of my favorite online news spots this morning, I clicked on the “What We Learned from Elizabeth Warren’s Third Place Finish in Massachusetts” on Boston.com.  I really didn’t need to read the piece.  I knew what it would say—that Elizabeth Warren did well only among the most educated white women, especially those in the nicer suburbs of Cambridge, despite being one of the senators from Massachusetts.

Sure, Elizabeth Warren has her “issues,” and her wonkiness turned off a lot of people, but are her “issues” worse than those attached to Joe Biden or Bernie Sanders?  Really??

This is really so overwhelmingly depressing for me.  But, why am I writing about it here, in this blog on faith?

I have felt for a long time that Christianity has a lot to do with the ingrained and integrated nature of sexism in this country, and other countries as well.  Even with the decline of Christianity, its influence is still very much present.  The two largest Christian denominations in the U.S., according to the Pew Research Center, are Roman Catholicism and the Southern Baptist Convention and they have held onto that status for quite some time, despite their declining numbers.

Roman Catholicism and the Southern Baptist Convention are denominations that do not allow the ordination of women.  Most Christians, then, who attend worship regularly attend churches where women are kept from leadership.  According to the Pew Research Center, as of 2015, only 11% of congregations in the U.S. had women as leaders.

This is an outrage.

And it’s not Biblical.

Jesus spent a great deal of time in the company of women, offering a place of significance to several of those women with whom he was especially close.  In fact, without the witness of the women on that first Easter morning, we might not have Christianity at all.  Mary of Magdala was the first to announce the good news of the resurrection.

That Christianity continues its sexist ways is a huge problem—and not just for the Church.  For everyone’s benefit, the sexism that is a part of the fabric of our community life must be acknowledged and addressed.  Wouldn’t it be great if the Church took the lead on this?

It’s a sad day, to be sure.  Yet I will cling to whatever small thread of hope I can find, that the Church will finally come to a reckoning of its sexist attitudes in its theology and practice.  And, women will be treated with the same sort of dignity and respect that Jesus showed for them.  It’s way past time.

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A Lenten Discipline 2020

Posted on February 27, 2020 by smaxreisert

I tell you, on the day of judgement you will have to give an account for every careless word you utter; for by your words you will be justified, and by your words you will be condemned.  Matthew 12:36-37

Lent has begun.

Since Lent holds a confessional element, I’ll begin in that vein:  It’s been at least a few years since I’ve followed a Lenten discipline.  When I was younger, I did things like giving up chocolate, which was really hard.  As I got older, I got onboard with the not so much deprivation angle of Lent, but with the “doing of good deeds” opportunity of Lent.  One year, not all that long ago, I kept a gratitude journal for every day of Lent.  Well, in all honesty, I kept it for about two-thirds of Lent.

Around me people talk about giving things up (mostly things that, along with deprivation, offer a health benefit).   I’ve also heard a few people talk about the doing of good deeds for Lent.

In recent years, I’ve discovered that though these two approaches are laudable, they are just not quite so meaningful to me—in the way of feeling closer to the holiness of Lent.  While giving up chocolate might benefit my waistline, as well as my connection to the sufferings of Jesus, it has too much of a “been there, done that” quality.  The doing of good deeds, well, yes I should be about that business to be sure, but, I’d like to think that I try to do that year-round.  Paying closer attention to it through Lent, then, is less than satisfying.

This year, instead of doing my best to ignore the whole business, I decided to go in search of something new that I might actually do, or not do, in terms of a Lenten discipline.  And, somewhere along the way, I discovered just the thing, something to give up that may not benefit my waistline, and will likely not help me connect more deeply with the sufferings of Christ, but will still provide a way of meaning, grounded in biblical lesson and story, that will pose a challenge as well.

For Lent 2020, I’m giving up:  gossip.  Or, at least I’m going to try.

I discovered the idea on a website a week or two ago and it stuck with me as a good one.  And, then, a few days ago, I received an email from an old colleague who now lives in another state, asking for “the story” behind the recent resignation of a Maine Conference UCC staff member.  I thought to myself:  yup, giving up gossip is just the thing.

Maine may be a large state geographically.  But, it’s a small state in many ways, especially when it comes to people and how they interact.  There’s about one and a half degrees of separation, if you’re lucky, between complete strangers.  People know each other, and we know each other’s stories.  And, we like to tell and be told.

It’s not hard at all to fall over the edge from sharing news to engaging in gossip.  In fact, it can be very difficult to recognize the difference, and even more so to act and speak accordingly.  It’s one thing for someone to ask about another person’s health and well-being, for instance.  It’s quite another to ask for the “story,” the material where facts, opinion, supposition and outright guesses and assumptions are melded and molded—and given life.

Among clergy in Maine, at least in my experience in the Maine Conference United Church of Christ, there is considerable gossip.  It often begins with a simple sharing of information, but it doesn’t take long before what we are dealing with is actually gossip, careless words shared person to person—without hardly anyone even seeming to notice that there’s no longer any connection to fact.  It’s just how we talk ‘round here.

It really shouldn’t be so.  And, the evidence is clear enough, as we discover half-truths, partial truths and no truths to be the common currency of chatter.  How hurtful it can all be, as well as dangerous.  It seems a good Lenten discipline, then, to endeavor to refrain from gossip and to be mindful, in this holy season, of the significance and consequence of words.

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Getting My Non On

Posted on February 15, 2020 by smaxreisert

At some point during this year’s annual meeting at Old South, I experienced a moment—an instance that I can only describe as almost terrifying.  I was looking out at the assembled group of good, dedicated church folk and realizing that the church had experienced a momentous shift from last year’s annual meeting—and it felt decidedly ominous.

One person who probably hasn’t missed an annual meeting since he was an infant was not present.  He wasn’t feeling well enough to attend.  Several people have experienced significant health issues over the last year and appeared frail and diminished.  One person is about to move, and another is talking about moving.   A few others weren’t present because they can’t easily get to church anymore, because of their health.  And, a couple of others weren’t there because they had passed away over the course of the last year.

I felt a moment where I could have easily fallen over the edge into panic.  What are we going to do?  And how in the world are we going to make the difficult decisions we need to make in the near future?

After the meeting was over and the cleanup completed, and I was alone in the parish house with just a few of the church’s leadership, I said something about my concerns about the change from last year’s annual meeting to this year’s.  And, we chatted for a few minutes.

As I was driving home, though, I realized that I had made a mistake.  I need to be careful about how I express my concerns.  While the panic may be on the high side inside, my outside must not show that fear and alarm.

Here’s where I must put on my non-anxious armor, a be the non-anxious presence that is required if we are to get through what we must in the next year or two.  While everyone else can feel and even show panic, I know that I cannot.  It’s not a good thing for the pastor to be as panicked and anxious as the parishioners.  It won’t work—for anyone.

So, it’s time to get my “non” on, and to find a way fully into a place where I can lead with faith and clarity as a non-anxious presence.  How many times did Jesus declare, “Do not be afraid”? A lot.  And, that must be my mantra.

Yet, it is a challenge.  It’s not exactly a surprise that the church finds itself in such a precarious place.  We have known for a long time that this day would come, and I have talked often over many years about the church’s status and what lies ahead.  Somehow, though, that we are now at a time for decision-making, I’m finding that it’s a lot harder than I thought it would be.  And, it feels a whole lot more uncomfortable and upsetting.

In the midst of my close-to-panic state at annual meeting, there was also the reality that Old South is a wonderful church.  People listen to each other.  They work together.  They engage in good mission.  They care deeply for and about each other, as well as extended families and friends outside of the church community.  During our annual meeting, as well as the lunch and the worship that preceded it, there was laughter, grace, blessing and joy—mingled amidst the grief that attends the knowledge that the church is in serious decline.

That so many in the wider community not only find no value in church, but seem so casually to dismiss our old-fashioned, strange ways of worshiping a deity (Hallowell is a very secular place, as is much of Maine), is an especially difficult piece of knowledge.  The church, while far from perfect, offers a place of care and comfort, of blessing and hope, of grace and community.  Its passing will not simply be sad.  Its passing will leave a chasm in the community, the loss of a place of significance where very different people gathered to live out an attachment to a weird thing called love, and more than that, a love beyond what we can actually know or understand, a love that offers both respite from and strength for this world in which we live.

It’s time to get the non on, to tackle some very difficult issues, but to know as well that I don’t do it alone.  Not at all.

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Identity Crisis

Posted on January 31, 2020 by smaxreisert

Last Sunday’s sermon was on unity, focusing on the lectionary passage from the beginning of First Corinthians. The title of my sermon was “Give Me a U.” The plan was to talk about Paul’s encouragement regarding unity, to remind us all to reflect on how we seek unity in our own local church, but also to offer a confession regarding unity on a larger level. Most of the world’s Christians gather in churches that belong to denominations that do not ordain people like me:  a woman. I’m not exactly all that eager to pursue unity in that regard, I’ll admit.

In the time before the service started, as people began arriving and the choir got settled in, I noticed a few people perusing the bulletin and then I heard a few comments regarding the sermon title. “U?” someone asked, “is that for Unitarian?”

My heart sank. Over the course of the last six months or so, several people who are part of the Old South community have admitted to me that they don’t really feel tied to Christianity. Instead, they feel more Unitarian.

This isn’t exactly new to my experience at Old South. I remember a couple who had started attending the church about ten years ago. They openly identified as Unitarian-Universalist, but they didn’t really like the local UU church. They knew a few people who belonged to Old South, so they started to come to worship and to get involved in the church. Occasionally, they would make a comment regarding my “too Christian” approach, suggesting that perhaps I could try talking about Jesus not quite so often. It was hard to know how to respond to them, except to find ways of saying that the church was a Christian church, and was when they started attending.

I am a Christian and I was called to serve a Christian church. Yet, I’m aware that the church that I serve is not universally connected to the One who is supposed to serve as our center, our focus, our “Head.” And, it feels like this is more and more of an issue as the church gets smaller.

I remember when I was in Divinity School that there was a common joking thread that UCC stood for “Unitarians Considering Christ” rather than “United Church of Christ.” The churches that I’ve served and the church I grew up in have all, until Old South, unabashedly identified as Christian. During my first months at Old South, almost fifteen years ago, one of my predecessors warned me that the church was not strongly connected to “the Gospel.”

Over the years, I’ve experienced small reminders of that warning. But, it’s only recently that it has started to feel like an issue. I particularly worry about the church’s sense of identity.  Perhaps among a larger group of people, a few stragglers may not be all that big of a deal.  But, as the church shrinks, it feels more troublesome for the community to be only partially connected to a common sense of purpose, a reason for being.

At Old South, we are blessed with a group of people who do not spend considerable time quarreling with each other.  It’s a fairly unified group.  As it shrinks, though, things are likely to become a more complicated, especially around important decisions that we’ll need to make.  Will our unity hold?  And, how will it hold if we are not all connected to the same sense of purpose, if we cannot agree on who we are and to whom we belong?

I pray, then, that we’ll find our way to a higher sense of unity, and of purpose, that we’ll find our way, together, to embrace and renew our link to our Head.  I’ll take a U, please, for unity:  unity in Christ.

 

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Don’t Sit There!

Posted on January 11, 2020 by smaxreisert

And you may ask yourself, well
How did I get here?
—Talking Heads, Once in a Lifetime

During my homily last Sunday, on our first winter worship service of the season in Old South’s parish house (where worship is a little more informal than in the sanctuary), I was talking about stars and signs. It was Epiphany Sunday.   What sorts of signs do we perceive? Do we welcome them and pursue them, as the magi did? Or do we see them as threats, as Herod did?

At some point, I made a reference to our most recent Christmas Eve service. It was a beautiful and meaningful service, but attendance was at an all-time low. Attendance for that service has been, in fact, on a slow, steady decline since the 1980s. What sort of sign is that for us? Is it something to welcome or something to fear? Shall we pursue it or treat it as a threat?

As I was talking about the Christmas Eve service I saw one woman in the small congregation fall neatly and thoroughly into a state of sentimental nostalgia. I could see it. At one point, she uttered in a voice of deep longing, “It used to be that you had to get here so early just to get a good seat.” I could see her slipping into a state tantamount to sinking into to a comfy couch or recliner, ready to settle in for a good long trip down memory lane. I remember thinking that I should yell out, “Don’t sit there!”

But I didn’t.

Nostalgia and sentimentality. They threaten the life and wellbeing of the small, struggling church. It’s not that memories themselves are bad or even the occasional short stroll into wistful reminiscence. But, when memories turn into an intense yearning for a condition that only the past can deliver, that nostalgia may feel like a big comfy recliner, soft and reassuring. But it’s really a cancer. That sort of settling into a longing for the past (that very likely wasn’t even as great as all that) feeds upon itself, like abnormal cells that grow uncontrollably in the body, forming a tumor.

So, don’t sit there! Don’t sit in that seat that looks so alluring, so comfortable, so familiar. Because it’s really the place where nostalgia suffocates what’s happening now, and how the church, and its members, are being guided for the future. That seat stifles the movement of and our connection to the Holy Spirit.

Don’t sit there. That’s a difficult thing to say, though, and even more difficult thing to do. For when we are looking at stars and signs, the ones that are so clearly present can feel threatening and ominous. Lower attendance and an aging congregation full of people who would like so desperately to hand over the reigns of leadership to the next generation who are now simply not present: these signs feel threatening. Who can blame the church member who retreats to the comfy recliner of memory and nostalgia, when church was what and how it was meant to be, or how they think church was what and how it was meant to be? Christendom. The glory days.

Yet, there are signs and stars that offer hope. At Old South, we maintain a strong commitment to mission. We have a wonderful and talented, though small, choir. Ministry is more widely shared. It’s wondrous to behold someone serving communion for the first time in their life, well into older age. It’s wondrous when someone who is normally so shy and reserved volunteers to lead the beginning of worship. It’s wondrous to behold a Worship Team meeting where we talk about and sing new hymns and work together to strengthen our weekly worship service.

These signs and stars do not point to a larger congregation, nor to they point to a church that will exist well into the future. But, they do point to the abiding presence of the Spirit in our midst. Along with all of the things that seem and feel ominous, there is new life, faithfulness, love and hope—a living out of our trust in the presence of Christ among us.

While it is tempting to sink into that comfy chair of nostalgia and sentimentality, to try to surround oneself with golden memories of the past, we must find the courage to open our hearts and minds to the Spirit and the grace to do as the Spirit beckons: “Don’t sit there!”

I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.

Isaiah 43:19

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The Heartbreak of Christmas 2019

Posted on December 27, 2019 by smaxreisert

At Old South, Christmas Eve has become the most unwelcome and dire of bellwethers. When I began my ministry with Old South, in 2005, I heard quite a lot about the annual Christmas Eve service. The bell choir would play several pieces. The choir would sing even more pieces. The choir’s best voice would sing “O Holy Night.” There would be candlelight. There would be carols and scripture. The pastor was something of an emcee for the evening—no sermon or homily permitted, thank you very much (although I’ve found various ways over the years of inserting messages through readings and poems).

And, it used to be that people arrived an hour in advance in order to secure a seat.

Not anymore. Not by a longshot.

Between 1986 and 2018, attendance at the annual Christmas Eve service declined by 65%. This year, it took another significant dip. Where 225 – 250 people attended in the early to mid 1980s, Christmas Eve 2019 had 65 people in attendance, including all of the music makers and the several children who fell asleep almost as soon as the service started.

For those who rehearse so hard, who attend the weekly meetings of the choir and bell choirs (and especially those who participate in both), the diminishing crowd for the Christmas Eve service is particularly depressing. While the singers and ringers may appreciate that they are not entirely playing for the audience, that it is a worship service and even if only 2 or 3 are present, Christ is still in our midst, it is still painful to look out at all of the empty spaces in the sanctuary after weeks of preparation.

Over the past five or six years, as the attendance has steadily declined, the smaller numbers have generally been explained away—snow or other frozen precipitation; icy cold temperatures; or, a power outage (yes, one year, we lost power for most of Christmas Eve day, with the electricity returning a mere hour or two before the start of the service). For Christmas Eve 2019, though, the conditions were close to perfect. Not too cold, but not unseasonably warm either. Though not extensive, we had a bit of the white stuff on the ground. And, the skies were completely clear. Just about perfect.

And the lowest attendance, by a noticeable amount, ever at a Christmas Eve service.

Even for those who regularly attend worship at Old South, the numbers were alarmingly low. I was aware that there were a few people traveling, another couple of people had too many family members visiting to try to herd them all to church for a 7:00 service, and a few others don’t drive after dark, and are not especially interested in getting a ride (if we could find one).

The most obvious absences, though, were:
1. Those who are no longer with us, who have either moved away or passed away, and,
2. The CEOs (Christmas and Easter Only). They have been coming less and less to Easter. And now even less to Christmas Eve.

The second obvious absence is what feels especially dire to me, as if the very last tie to the religious significance of the holiday has evaporated.

As we arrived at the end of our Christmas Eve service this year, as the lights were dimmed and candlelight spread throughout the sanctuary, and those assembled sang “Silent Night,” I found myself close to tears, the edges of my eyes filling with excess moisture. On the one hand, the service had been a beautiful one, full of praise and wonder, with lovely and moving music and words. And, on the other, it felt as if this religious and spiritual practice that is so meaningful for me, is simply not worth the effort for most of the people who live where I live. In the midst of the wonder and awe that I feel at Christmas, this year I also felt a great deal of sadness and heartbreak at the stark decline of Christian tradition and practice.

The statistics certainly underscore the new reality we are experiencing. Maine has been especially hard-hit, with some surveys suggesting that Maine is the least religious state in the country. Somehow, though, the blatant demonstration of that new reality in the decline in the significance of one of our holiest of days is much harder to absorb, appreciate, acknowledge, and accept. Up until not all that long ago, it felt like, even though weekly worship attendance was declining, Christmas Eve still held some religious significance in the community.

Now, it is yet another indicator of how sharply the tide has turned and I can’t help but wonder where I’ll observe Christmas Eve ten or twenty years from now—just at home with my family? With a small group in someone’s living room?

For this Christmas, in the midst of the great joy, there is heartbreak. Along with the joy of new life, there is the dread of the steady decline, and eventual death. As I consider the birth narratives of Matthew and Luke yet again, I pray for the strength to walk the path that looms ahead, a path that is not the path I would choose. Yet, I’m also aware of what is at the root of this holiday, that a remarkably strange and mysterious event offered a profound sign of God’s remarkable love for people. That sign got its start in the smallness and vulnerability of a child. Perhaps there is reason to be hopeful.

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Do I Need to Write About This?

Posted on December 21, 2019 by smaxreisert

Do I Need to Write About This? That was the first thought that entered my fuzzy head when I woke up to the news that the President had been impeached. I don’t want to write about this. It’s Christmas; I’ve got a lot going on.

But, to not write . . . To ignore it all. What would that mean?

I don’t like the President. Never have. Should he be impeached? Probably. For his attitude toward and treatment of women—that would be a good idea. Then, of course, there are the myriad other issues—the border, climate change, white nationalists, abuse of power and obstruction of Congress . . .   the list goes on and on. Or how about that signature? That must be a crime of some kind.

Yet, I find myself in this strange limbo, not quite sure how I feel about the impeachment of the current President. For the most part, I really don’t want to think about him at all. It’s Christmas. But, I’m aware that my silence is not as satisfying as I would like it to be. While there’s a part of me that would like to ignore the whole wretched mess, I can hear a small voice from the back of my head chiding me for my cowardice.

The church that I serve, Old South (UCC) in Hallowell, Maine, may be a very small faith community, but it has a lot of people who pay attention to the world in which we live and of which we are part. Many Old South folk watch the news, read several newspapers each day, and engage in conversation about current events. Several people watched quite a lot of the hearings. On a recent Sunday, as I was blithely focusing on Advent and not saying anything about politics, one of Old South’s long-time members raised a hand during joys and concerns—“I think we should pray for our country and the leaders of this country and everything that’s going on right now.”

I felt like I had been brought up short. I hadn’t said anything about what’s been going on in the country—not because I hadn’t been paying any attention. But, simply because I didn’t want to. I just didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to pray about it.

On the one hand, I am completely disgusted with the President, and what I’ve seen of the tone at rallies that the President has attended and the numerous tweets he is so fond of sending out. The level of sheer meanness and animosity is deeply distressing. The President (and many of his supporters) could use a visit from the ghosts of A Christmas Carol, in an attempt to remold his hard, cold, ungracious soul. But, then there are those with whom I generally agree when it comes to political issues. I’ve noticed there, too, what feels like a hardening in the rhetoric regarding the “other side.” In my book group, for instance, one person mercilessly rails against her work colleagues—many of whom voted for and like the current President—calling them uninformed and stupid.

It’s Christmas, the season where darkness and anxiety meet birth and vulnerability and light, where awe and wonder squeeze their way into a crusty, hardened landscape. But, that’s not how it feels this year. Instead, it feels like so many are simply going through the motions of the season, saying the appropriate words and doing what is done at this time of year, without any sense that there’s an important invitation here. The untransformed Scrooges and Grinches rule the day, greedy for the assurance of their own righteousness.

I’m not sure how I feel about what is happening in the country, nor what exactly to include in my praying. But, I’ll do my best to trust in that small light that struggles to find its way into hearts and minds, and trust that it will find a small bit of fertile ground to take root and grow, to be pondered and treasured.

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The Neighborhood that Wasn’t Allowed in My House

Posted on December 3, 2019 by smaxreisert

We are in the throes of a renewed consideration, examination and all-around reminiscence of (and perhaps yearning for) Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, the children’s show that ran on PBS from 1968 to 2001. Last year, there was a documentary on the show and now we have a feature film starring Tom Hanks as Fred Rogers. I won’t be surprised if everyone will soon be wearing zippered cardigans and indoor sneakers. And, wouldn’t it be lovely if more people adopted the habit of speaking gently yet persuasively to our fellow human beings, especially children?

How nice it is that Mr. Rogers is having a moment. We could use a little (actually a lot) of Fred Rogers these days, with his caring manner, his clear ability to listen and his open desire to learn, about the world and other people.

Born in 1964, I was at just about the right age for Mr. Rogers. Yet, I wasn’t able to watch Mr. Rogers in my house. I watched at the neighbor’s house across the street where my best friend lived. My mother didn’t like Mr. Rogers. I clearly remember a derogatory word that my mother used to refer to Mr. Rogers and what she thought of him.

As a young child, I couldn’t understand at all why anyone would not like Mr. Rogers. He spoke so calmly and so nicely. And, he had all of those great puppets and that wonderful place called the Land of Make Believe. I can’t say that I was a huge fan of Mr. Rogers when I was a child (I was drawn more to the faster pace of Sesame Street), but I remember watching that show, with my best friend across the street, and liking it. The tone of voice, the caring attitude, the sense that Mr. Rogers clearly loved children and seemed to want to reach out and actually sit with us in our living room—well, my friend’s living room—was all very appealing. Why was that neighborhood of Mr. Rogers not welcome in my house?

This question is particularly challenging as my parents were observant Christians, active in our local Congregational church. Mr. Rogers seemed to fit neatly into a Christian home, yet he was banished from mine.   Our television was much more likely tuned to The Three Stooges, the slapstick comedy show that had nothing to do with thoughtfulness, gentleness or the consideration of complicated feelings.

As I look back, I’m aware that I grew up in a household where there was a suspicion directed at those who demonstrated not simply an obvious kindness, but more than that: an engaging openness to neighbors, strangers and the world. In more recent years, this suspicion has morphed into forwarded e-mails from one of my parents that praise the current President and his hostility to almost everyone who doesn’t look or act as he does.

I find myself wondering a great deal about this quagmire in which we find ourselves, on the local and national level, and the part of it where so many observant, church-going Christians seem so effortlessly to reject the many Gospel stories of Jesus demonstrating and highlighting the humanity of the marginalized, the stranger, the other. Instead of kindness and openness, there is caution, doubt and even hostility. How do/how should the faithful look upon the world, upon their own neighborhoods? Do the faithful allow their view to be shaped by their faith, or is their faith shaped by their view?

Mr. Rogers offered a vision, a path, and a direction, all deeply rooted in his Christian faith: “Love is at the root of everything—all learning, all relationships—love, or the lack of it.” Exactly. In this moment of reconsideration, amid the cardigans and sneakers, we—especially those of us who claim ourselves “Christian”—ought to spend time reflecting on love, or the lack of it, and how the love of Christ seeks to shape who we are, how we think and how we act, in this great big neighborhood in which we live.

 

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