The Heisman Approach to Christian Theology

Posted on February 8, 2018 by smaxreisert

Many years ago, when I was in graduate school, there was a saying that became part of the language of my group of friends: “the Heisman.” You may be familiar with the Heisman Trophy, awarded each year to the most outstanding college athlete in the United States. Among my friends, the use of the phrase “The Heisman” had nothing to do with football. It had to do with what the trophy looks like, in that it looks like the figure is pushing away from someone or something:

heisman_trophy

In my group of friends, “The Heisman” was how we referred to a romantic connection gone bad, as in:  Did your girlfriend give you The Heisman? which meant, Did your girlfriend break up with you?

And, sometimes asking the question involved actually assuming the Heisman stance.

In recent weeks, I’ve been thinking about this sort of “Heisman” stance in relationship to Christian theology. At Old South, I’ve long been aware of at least some discomfort in relationship to certain traditional aspects of Christian theology—incarnation; atonement; the promise of eternal life; resurrection; etc. I’ll even admit that I share an attitude of distance toward certain pieces of traditional Christian theology—like Original Sin. I really don’t like that one, for a whole bunch of reasons.

I’m also becoming increasingly aware of the Heisman approach to Christian theology well beyond my little congregation.

At a recent gathering of United Church of Christ clergy, as well as a few lay people, one of the younger people in our midst, a graduate of a respected divinity school, suggested that the theology he had learned was really not at all part of the work that he did, work that he claims to be inherently ministerial (in a chaplain-type setting). The theology that he had learned remained in books lined up on a dusty shelf in his office.

In response to this, I asked him if he really left that theology on the shelf. Is it really not in any way part of the work that you do? I asked. His answer was that it is indeed not any part of the work that he does.  No matter, though, for the rest of my clergy colleagues.  They approved him for ordination.

When I shared a concern about this exchange at another gathering, attended mostly by other United Church of Christ clergy, the only response I got was a couple of shoulder shrugs.

And at yet another meeting, this one involving the Maine Conference UCC summer camp, the out-going camp director reflected on his long tenure at the camp. When he began, all he had to do to entice people to attend camp was to put a photo prominently on the brochure of the camp’s outdoor chapel cross with a sunset in the background. The cross, though, is now a liability. It not only doesn’t entice people as it once did, it repels them.  He, at least, expressed sadness at the change he has witnessed.

There’s certainly plenty of reason for people to be suspicious when it comes to Christian groups and denominations. The other day, I came home to find my 18-year-old son watching the film Spotlight, the Oscar winning film about The Boston Globe team that uncovered the vast conspiracy in the Roman Catholic Church to shield priests who had sexually abused children.   It’s just one profoundly sobering example of how very un-Christian Christians can be.

Still, for those of us who remain within the Church, trying to live in the midst of and endeavoring to live out of what we find to be good about Christianity, I find it unsettling to think that so many seem prepared to “throw the baby out with the bathwater,” giving much of Christian theology “the Heisman.”

 

I can’t say that I’m often an eager theologian.  And, while I don’t usually quote important theologians in my sermons, I can’t imagine doing this work without the theology.  After all, how can we even engage with our sacred texts without the theological lens?  The Gospel writers, for instance, weren’t historians or biographers.  They were really theologians, telling a story about Jesus the Christ, who and why he was and is.

What are we, who are we, without the theology, without an interest in active engagement with the study of God and God’s relationship with us and creation?  I’m not sure, but I don’t think it’s what I want to be, or where I want to go.  It’s one thing to grapple with traditional elements of Christian theology, considering and re-considering their meaning in a modern context.  It’s quite another to heave it all out the window, pushing it far away.

The Heisman approach to Christian theology may seem and feel a lot more comfortable and palatable to some, but it leaves us unmoored and drifting from the very thing that gives us life and sustains our faith in a deep and abiding way.   To heave our theology also diminishes the love and hope we claim to want to share.

 

 

 

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Where the Epiphanies Have No Name

Posted on January 28, 2018 by smaxreisert

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At the start of Epiphany season this year, I innocently asked (at least I thought it was an innocent question) for those who had assembled for worship that Sunday to think about epiphanies that they had experienced. The empty looks on the faces staring back at me caught me off guard. I told them that I wasn’t expecting anyone to share their epiphanies, unless they wanted to, but just curious about their experiences. Still, a sea of blank faces.

So, when I reframed the question, I asked if anyone had ever had an epiphany.

Only one woman raised her hand.

She went on to share a lovely experience of a sudden awareness of God as Creator.  Even that, didn’t inspire any additional raising of hands.

I was at a loss, not only at the unexpected notion that I was part of a congregation full of people who had never experienced something that they could classify as an epiphany, but also because my interactive sermon that day got, in that moment, a lot more complicated. I was planning on talking about epiphanies, in a group of people where most of the people knew what I was talking about.

I’ve been Pastor and Teacher at Old South for over a dozen years. How could I not know that the people of this congregation—except for one—had never had an epiphany? I couldn’t help the sudden flood of conversations that I’ve had with people over the years regarding epiphanies. But, as the flood became clearer, with each individual taking shape in my memory, it occurred to me that many of those conversations were old ones, that predated my call to Old South, and except for one or two, were among other clergy types or people about my age or younger.

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been thinking about this and wondering. What does it mean to be in the midst of so many good and well-meaning church folk, but people who are not able to define a moment of epiphany?

For Christians, there is the big E Epiphany, on January 6, when we remember the visit of the Magi to the infant Jesus, marking their realization of the Incarnation of God, and there are the little “e” epiphanies, moments of sudden, and unexpected, insight and awareness—spiritual “aha” moments, if you will.

When I asked my little congregation about their own experiences of such moments, I wasn’t at all expecting to encounter blankness. I had simply assumed, based on conversations that I’ve had over the years, that almost everyone who attends church on a regular basis has had some sort of epiphany, that it’s the random epiphany or two in life that compels continued participation in a community of faith.

I’m not sure now what to do with this new knowledge—it’s own strange, unwelcome sort of epiphany. There is the hopeful side of me that wants to believe that it’s not so much the absence of the experience of epiphany, but simply that it’s never been called such a thing. But, then there’s the not so hopeful side that wonders about the actual lack of epiphanies, whether they are called such things or not.

This isn’t really the first of these sorts of moments, when I’m confronted by the sense that for most of those who call Old South home, the life of faith is not defined, nor informed, nor dependent on spiritual “aha” moments, when one is blessed with that sudden, wondrous, awareness in one’s soul.  Instead, for the good church folk who gather at Old South, the life of faith is about gathering among a certain group of people in a certain building in the midst of a certain routine of worship, tradition and the liturgical year.  Faith is not so much about  that resonating “still small voice” (or occasional yell), but about habit and routine, friendships and community.

 

This isn’t to say that one way is good and the other bad, or that one way is correct and the other incorrect.  Instead, it is another witness of the changing shape of life and faith.  The congregation that I lead is essentially an active, practicing community of what was, of what church used to be.

They are not a community of what will be.

In this, some sadness exists, that even some of the language that I speak is not a common language in my congregation.  Yet, I’m also aware of how important it is to not only meet them where they are, but respect them for who and what they are.  The ways of Old South may no longer be what a great many people want (or think they want), but for those who gather in community at Old South, they endeavor to live their faith, actively and fervently.  They are church and a people of faith, a witness to the love of God and the hope of making the world a better place through the sharing of that love.

 

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The Common Good

Posted on January 13, 2018 by smaxreisert

“You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid.  No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house.  In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”

Matthew 5:14-16(NRSV)

Last week, as I was preparing my communion Sunday homily, I stumbled upon a column in the New York Times written by David Brooks, “How Would Jesus Drive?” Brooks began that column with this paragraph:

Over the past several years we have done an outstanding job of putting total sleazoids at the top of our society: Trump, Bannon, Ailes, Weinstein, Cosby, etc. So it was good to get a reminder, from Pope Francis in his New Year’s Eve homily, that the people who have the most influence on society are actually the normal folks, through their normal, everyday gestures being kind in public places, attentive to the elderly. The pope called such people, in a beautiful phrase, “the artisans of the common good.”

I agree with Brooks on the Pope’s phrase being a beautiful one. And useful.

Although I mostly take for granted the ways of my little congregation in Hallowell, Maine, it’s a good thing, from time to time, to step back and take a different sort of look at what we do, just being who we are. In our gathering, we don’t need to say much about being attentive to the common good. It’s something that we do. Sure, there’s always room for improvement, but we are artisans of the common good—and not just in terms of our gestures of kindness.

Old South may be an older church and predominantly white, but in one area we are not homogenous: politics. We are a mixed bag in terms of how we vote, and why. We have Democrats and Republicans. We also have people who are rather stridently Independent. And, we likely have a few Libertarians. And, perhaps still more of which I am unaware.

We don’t exactly have regular political debates, but most people who attend Old South know that not everyone in the congregation votes the same way. Occasionally, someone will express a bit of consternation that we cannot speak clearly as one voice in matters of a political nature. But, the folks who make up the Old South community generally find it a more significant value to be respectful of our political diversity. We remain a mixed group, yet one that is able to worship and work together. An increasingly rare thing.

For myself, I’m a Democrat, married to a Republican. Years ago, this wasn’t such a big deal, but now I get the sense that it’s not only a bigger deal, but even alarming to some people. My daughter, a junior at a college in New York, has told me that she has learned to be careful about letting people know that she comes from a politically mixed family. Some friends have not only expressed some surprise at her upbringing in such a household, but a sense of disbelief (and even outrage) that such a thing is even possible.

In so many aspects of our public life, people now gather only with those with whom they agree. At Old South, what we do, and who we are, is increasingly rare. In this way, it is even more important that we don’t just keep our “lamp under a bushel basket,” only for ourselves.  We are artisans of the common good, attentive to what lies beyond our differences: our common humanity.

We are called to cast our artisan ways out and beyond, with a sort of stealthy, reckless abandon, furtively interrupting the efforts to keep people apart, and mistrustful of those who are different.  May our artisan light so shine, that it may offer light and hope to others.

 

 

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Big Questions the New Year Brings

Posted on December 30, 2017 by smaxreisert

The end of December, after Christmas has settled down, usually brings with it reflections of various kinds—looking back at the year about to end, and looking forward to what is to come, or may come, in the new year.

For me, the new year will bring a lot of the bittersweet, as my son enters into his last months at the local high school. For my daughter, we observed many of her “lasts”—the last strings concert, the last big swim meet, etc.—before she graduated from high school. For my son, the “lasts” will not only be for him, but for me and my husband as well. Since there is no third child, John’s “lasts” will be our lasts as well. It’s a strange feeling.

At Old South, the turn of the year feels strange in its own way. It feels especially odd, I think, because things seem fairly calm and quiet. No major budget battle looms. No great argument over bylaws or governance is on the horizon. Even our move to hold worship in the parish house for the harshest of the winter months—after several years of doing so—has lost (mostly) its feeling of controversy.

We will very likely have some tricky budget decisions to make, and trying to find a new treasurer (our current Treasurer has served that role for about a decade and is eager to retire) will be difficult, perhaps even impossible. In looking back, we’ve lost people who are important to us. In looking forward, though we have a few newer people, we are a smaller congregation than we were a year ago.

The elephant in the room, the issue that no one wants to discuss, is our more distant future, which is a lot nearer than we would like to think. As a church, we continue to act as if both of our buildings—the building that holds our sanctuary and our parish house, where the offices and Sunday school classrooms are—can be sustained and maintained, without any significant impediments.

In addition to some harsh financial realities, we also face some difficult spiritual realities. While Old South has done a great deal to expand its mission and outreach, mostly in the form of raising funds for good causes, both near and far, its sense of itself, I fear, is on shaky ground. I know very well that there are active members of our congregation who bristle at the notion that they attend a “Christian” church. Others appear to have difficulty in articulating why they attend Old South, apart from the fact that its part of a routine and that they have friends there.

Although it has been very good to witness the renewed focus on outreach and mission to those in need—and it is a truly wonderful thing—it sometimes feels like all of that mission and outreach is a way of distracting ourselves from the larger, deeper questions. As a church, we are increasingly comfortable with providing aid and assistance, sometimes with several projects going at the same time. But, it’s less clear why we do so, other than churches are supposed to do that sort of thing.

I’ve been long aware that the congregation holds quite a few people who struggle with basic tenets of the Christian faith. I’ve encouraged the asking of those questions, as it seems better to have them out in the open. But, I sense that many in the congregation are moving beyond questions. They have found answers and those answers involve an estrangement from traditional elements of the faith.

I’ve heard people talk about how the sacraments don’t really mean all that much to them anymore. I’ve also heard people talk about their wish, when they die, to have a “celebration of life,” rather than a funeral, an opportunity for their loved ones to share stories, rather than a minister talk about the promises of eternal life. It’s not that they feel unsure. It’s more that they are sure, and that certainty holds a distance from traditional Christian theology, even in a liberal/progressive setting.

So, as I look back on the past year, and consider what might be next, I wonder about my role as “pastor and teacher” to this small congregation. We have realities to face. We have some soul searching to do. It’s not likely to be easy, or welcome. I think I might rather deal with a big budget battle . . .

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My Christmas (Carol) Blues

Posted on December 22, 2017 by smaxreisert

I love Advent. Christmas, not so much. Right now, I’m wishing I could fast forward to Tuesday, and have Christmas behind me.

It’s not Christmas itself that gets on my nerves. It’s mostly Christmas Eve and the annual Christmas Eve service. I should be more content this year. I’m writing on Thursday (December 21) and both services for December 24—one in the morning and one in the evening—are done, with bulletins printed off and ready to go. This is a wondrous thing that I don’t think has ever happened before.

Yet, I am not content. The complaints have been rolling in for the last week or so. It’s like this every year. The complaints mostly center on the hymns we are going to sing at the Christmas Eve service, the Christmas carols to be precise—and from what hymnal we will sing them.

Christmas Eve is, for so many, like a large, warm security blanket. And, that blanket is made up of certain things—including particular words of Christmas carols. For those who have been going to church for all of their lives, there’s something comforting about the same old words to the same old hymns. And, who can blame those who are looking for just that feeling? Especially in Maine, where it is cold and the sun sets around 4:00 in the afternoon.

Like other United Church of Christ churches in this part of the world, we have two hymnals in our pews—The Pilgrim Hymnal (from the 1950s) and the New Century Hymnal (from the mid-1990s). On most Sundays, in our three-hymn format, we sing one from one of the hymnals, and two from the other. And, there’s little complaining.

At Christmas, though, there is a small, but very vocal, group who would prefer to heave the New Century Hymnal, and all of its “new” language out into the closest snow bank.

It is true that not all of the decisions regarding the updating of Christmas carol language were good decisions. Still, there are some carols, I would argue, that benefitted from the updating. Yet, I have already heard, and will continue to hear mutterings around “those stupid words” and “why do we have to sing that”?

I don’t even choose many from the New Century. Out of the seven or eight carols that we’ll sing for the Christmas Eve service, only two or three of them are from the NCH. A few years ago, I tried allowing the congregation to sing from whatever hymnal they wanted, listing the numbers from both. One person told me that I might as well have scraped my fingernails across a blackboard for the whole service. It was that grating an experience for her.

So, now only one number is listed for each carol, and most of the carols are from the Pilgrim. Yet, the airing of grievances has commenced, and will continue until Christmas Eve is over.

But, it gets to me, this lack of openness to the possibility that some of the new words might actually be better words, and have a lot more connection to the sort of people of faith that we are now. Take the refrain from “The First Nowell.” In the Pilgrim, it goes “Nowell, nowell, nowell, nowell, Born is the King of Israel.” In the New Century, it’s been changed to, “Nowell, etc., born in a stable Emmanuel.” Or, the start of “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.” In the Pilgrim: “Hark! the herald angels sing, ‘Glory to the newborn King.’” In the NCH: “Hark! the herald angels sing, ‘Glory to the Christ-child bring.’”

I think that we ought to be not only more comfortable with, but more welcoming of, the reworking of those monarchy words—as well as those words that that are all about “men” and “mankind,” etc. Like the start of the second verse of “Joy to the World” where “Joy to the earth, the Savior reigns: Let men their songs employ” has been altered to “Joy to the earth, the Savior reigns. Let all their songs employ.” Especially appropriate in a church that is made up mostly of women.

Yes, the words are different. And, they may feel strange on our tongues. And, they require that we pick up a hymnal and follow words, when we are used to singing without the book.

But, I think it’s worth it. Christmas, as a holy-day, cannot be simply a safe refuge in a difficult and cold world. Christmas, if it is to be a true refuge, should inspire some openness to something new. After all, we are visiting and considering a remarkable thing: the coming of God in the small, vulnerable package of a child. We can’t (or shouldn’t) escape the newness. A nice gift this Christmas, to the worn and tired pastor: a little less grumbling. So that we may all find in this season a renewal of wonder and awe, a renewal of our faith.

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I Could Use a Little Hope

Posted on December 9, 2017 by smaxreisert

When I discovered that I was pregnant with my first child, my immediate sense of happiness was quickly pushed aside by consternation at my lack of forethought. If the pregnancy went as expected, I would be giving birth in December—perhaps even on Christmas. For someone who is a “planner,” this seemed a remarkable lapse in my skills. That time of year is not exactly a great time for a clergyperson to be having a child.

Having a child in December was not the only concern at the time. My husband was near the finish line for his Ph.D. and on the job market for a tenure-track academic position—with prospects that could be best described as “skimpy.” I might have expected an easier time in securing a position, but clergy positions came with compensation packages that also might be described as skimpy.

We could squeeze another year out of our resident tutor status at Harvard, so we were not in dire straits, with unemployment and homelessness looming. The small voice of concern and worry in my head was easily suppressed by the larger voice in my head that assured me that everything would be just fine.

I wish that I could conjure that feeling now.

I begin this season of Advent yearning for a little hope.

The news feels so unrelentingly grim. While I force myself every morning to keep to my usual routine of checking the same sources of news in the same order—New York Times, Boston.com, and finally the local Morning Sentinel—I’ve found my scanning of headlines to be about as much as I can handle most days. And, even that can be too much.

There’s the President, of course. I am particularly angry and depressed at his continual attitude of bullying, pettiness, and meanness. If he were a student at the local high school, where my son goes to school, he would likely have been suspended by now. Or certainly disciplined and punished.

The barrage of stories about sexual harassment and misconduct is also terribly unsettling, although it is a good thing that this wretched problem is getting some much-needed attention. The “apologies,” though—for anyone who “might have been hurt”—push me further away from anything resembling hope.

On the world stage, the news is difficult, with warfare, chaos, the targeting of ethnic and religious minorities, etc, etc, etc.

And, then there is church, the church I serve, Old South in Hallowell, Maine. It’s budget season and while we may get through this season without too much in the way of dramatic change, change is on the horizon—clear as day. And, also clear: a reluctance to talk about what we are going to do. We have two buildings, each of which is significant to the life of the church community. But with our church community getting smaller, we will not be able to maintain both buildings into the indefinite future. Yet, there’s a sense that we won’t be “Old South” without the buildings, and a very real concern (for me, anyway) that the church may decide to cut away at everything else, including staffing, before allowing any talk about selling a building.

At the start of Advent, I find myself bereft of that thing that usually defines the start of Advent: hope.

Last Sunday, my homily probably spoke to me as much as, or more so, than the congregation. The stark language of the lectionary passage from Mark (13:24-37), calling us to “beware,” “keep alert,” and “keep awake,” is not spoken in the spirit that many Christians would prefer. That is, that many Christians have the tendency to believe that God acts, “God will provide,” and that all we need to do is to sit back— waiting, watching, receiving.

But, I don’t think that’s what’s going on in the passage.

Instead, I think the passage reminds us that we are a part of how God acts in the world. We are not simply beneficiaries of God’s work. We are part of it, offering our hands, feet, hearts and minds to what God is up to in our midst.

Hope, then, isn’t a passive thing, something for which we wait and watch until God decides (or not) to offer it to us. Hope is a choice. It is an invitation.

Back when my husband and I were actively trying to figure out what was next, we discovered that we had to open ourselves to possibilities that were not what we had in mind—or we would surely end up in a hopeless place. Moving to Maine was not exactly on my list for where I wanted to settle down. In fact, I didn’t even look at the clergy openings available in the state before we moved here.

While our move to Maine (twenty years ago) hasn’t been perfect (nothing is, after all), it has offered almost everything we could possibly want—good jobs; a great place to raise a family; wonderful friends; good community; and, meaningful faith communities.

Part of the waiting and watching is to know that God’s hope is often found in places where we prefer not to go, places that feel uncomfortable and alien. Yet, we are called to follow, and in the knowing that God is with us, there is hope. Yes, there is hope.

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The Ways of Men, and Women, Politics, Power and Morality

Posted on November 25, 2017 by smaxreisert

The explosion of stories regarding sexual harassment and misconduct is unsettling, while it is also a sort of relief. Finally, this issue is getting some important attention.

We find ourselves in not really new territory. But, we are certainly in a strange place. Whose misbehavior is deemed vile and worthy of reproach? Whose misbehavior is loathed, yet without any real evidence to support claims of misconduct? Is it okay to ignore misbehavior if the accused simply sticks to denial? And, what about words and actions caught on tape, yet successfully classified as “boys will be boys”?

I very much hope that the current disturbing landscape will lead to meaningful conversation—making it clear to men and boys what is okay, and what isn’t, and for women and girls to know how to deal with harassment and misconduct, instead of suffering in silence, in confusion, or thinking that this is just how things are.

Part of what makes the current situation especially problematic is that we have a long-standing tradition of looking the other way, especially when men of power misbehave, and more than that, when we’ve too often been selective in our outrage. We’ve been distracted by inconsistent notions of what is “personal” and what is “public.” In the recent accusations toward more conservative men, for instance, there’s been an outcry that goes back to Bill Clinton’s misbehavior and misconduct. That’s a fair criticism.

I remember well when we were in the midst of that time. I remember well the strange conversations in which I found myself, where smart, thoughtful and reasonable people bought all that twisted business that Clinton’s dalliances were “private” and none of our business. I couldn’t disagree more—then or now. A white house intern. The oval office. It wasn’t private. Nor were the accusations of groping, sexual advances and even rape (that had even more evidence than some of the current crop of accusations). I was baffled that Bill Clinton somehow managed a “rescue” when no one else would be granted such treatment. How could good Democratic women—feminists—be so blind to the accusations of Clinton’s predatory behavior?

And, now we are in a sad and frustrating time with men in all sorts of positions of power, and all sorts of political persuasions, being accused of misconduct. Does this have anything to do with Bill Clinton not ever being forced to take responsibility for his misdeeds? Clinton was certainly not the first man with considerable power to take advantage of his place to satisfy his carnal lusts. But, Clinton signaled a shift in our culture and how our lives are lived.   There were new ways of communicating and new expectations for feeding a public hungry for scandal.

Yet, there was, and still remains, the sense of a call for a reckoning. It may be too late for Bill Clinton to be held responsible for his disgusting, and likely illegal, behavior. But, women, and especially feminists, must take stock and must be willing to take an honest look not only at the current landscape, but the paths that have led us to this place, and the errors that have been made in supporting certain men, while vilifying others—usually based on political affiliation.

Morality may seem an old fashioned concept, but it’s one that could be useful at this time. If we could get past the notion that morality is simply a set of rules that are meant to interfere with our ability to have fun, we may discover that morals and morality possess, at their foundation, important concepts of the dignity of individuals and how we human beings should treat each other. You know, Golden Rule stuff. Love God and treat others as you would have them treat you.

Religious traditions and institutions are not without their own issues when it comes to the problematic treatment of women. This would be a good time for widespread and wide-ranging reflections on women and the treatment of women—by women and men, and women and men together.

The complex and difficult mess in which we now find ourselves demonstrates that a conversation regarding morality is not just for those who are prone to treat women as objects for their sexual fancies or for their need to express their power and influence. A conversation regarding morality is for all of us, including those who have an influence of their own and sometimes deem politics to be more important than the victims of misconduct.

We can do better, and we must. This opportunity must not be allowed to pass, with the notion that our work is done when at least some of the careers of perpetrators are in tatters. The problem is bigger than that.   And, we must be bigger too, bravely examining the lessons of the past and the present, and seeking to pave a new path forward.

 

 

 

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Guns, Violence and Church

Posted on November 11, 2017 by smaxreisert

Last Sunday, on a gloomy and gray afternoon, we gathered from a wide swath of Maine, representing various United Church of Christ congregations along the Kennbec Valley and the northwestern part of the state, up to the Canadian border. We came from places like Hallowell and Wilton, Waterville and Farmington, Winthrop and Jackman, New Sharon and Benton Falls. We spent the afternoon at the Farmington church getting to know each other, as we are still a relatively new merger of two Maine Conference Associations. I didn’t count how many people were in attendance, but my guess is around thirty.

Most of us could be dead right now.

Just as our meeting was breaking up, just after we had smiled and giggled our way through “Getting to Know You” (not exactly what we usually sing at church gatherings, but it felt appropriate to what we had been up to all afternoon), someone announced that there had been another mass shooting. This time in a church.

A wave of silence took over the room, along with an almost palpable sense of shock and dismay. Another horrible incident. Another horrible day. And, the unspoken veil of futility hung over us: nothing will change.

The slaughter of country music fans in Las Vegas, or a bunch of young children in an elementary school on an ordinary December day in Connecticut, and now a group of caring and faithful people at worship at a quiet church in Texas—somehow none of them count enough to motivate a serious, wide-ranging discussion about guns and violence in our communities.

This week, we have heard the rhetoric of the extreme, and vocal, end of the NRA, calling for more guns and for armed security in places like churches. We are hearing the dangerous adage that the only way to stop a bad person with a gun is a good person with a gun—as if bad people go around with large “I’m a bad person” hats on their heads, just so we are clear about everything.

Tuesday’s New York Times included, related to its coverage of the church shooting on Sunday, an article, “What Explains U.S. Mass Shootings? International Comparisons Suggest an Answer.” And, in that article, the statement: “The only variable that can explain the high rate of mass shootings in America is its astronomical number of guns.”

The question, then, is why. Why so many guns?

Is this really about the NRA stuffing down our throats a narrative about freedom and protection of self through gun ownership? Or, is there more to it?

From my little perch in this corner of the country, I find myself wondering about our violent tendencies, as well as the fraying of ties that hold us together as community. I find it curious that, in a country in which so many claim some sort of tie to Judeo-Christian traditions, there seems to be a remarkably tenuous relationship with basic tenets of those traditions, like “do not kill,” and “love your neighbor as yourself.” While there are many who cling to “do not kill” when it comes to abortion, that commandment doesn’t get much attention when living individuals are attacked so wantonly and viciously.

Why can we not truly talk about what is happening? Why can we not dig deep and to let go, for a moment, of our long-held opinions and positions, in recognition of the agonizing loss of life, to engage in meaningful conversation about what is happening in our country? As the bodies mount—not only through mass shootings, but also in the acts of violence that get little or no attention—how can we simply slide into our usual responses and only for a short time until the incident recedes in our consciousness?

Isn’t it time that we find the courage to honor those whose lives have been cut short, and to talk about violence and guns? Not to shout at each other, or to assume we know where other people stand on these issues. And, put aside “talking points” and the narratives of lobbyists. And talk. Talk about violence. Talk about the willful neglect of God’s commandments. Talk about the Golden Rule and what it means, and how it should influence how we treat each other—how we should take more seriously mental health, and loneliness, and domestic violence, etc.

Those who have been so brutally killed, and their loved ones who mourn, deserve more than our “thoughts and prayers.”

We must do better.

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The Reformation at 500: Are We Reformers or Protesters?

Posted on October 28, 2017 by smaxreisert

For its 500th anniversary, the Reformation has been receiving a lot of attention—in the media (even The New Yorker, see “The Hammer” in the current, October 30, 2017 edition); in denominations; and, in local churches. Of course, the moment 500 years ago when Martin Luther nailed or, more likely sent, his 95 theses, was not the only major shift in the life of the Christian Church. The Church has always been about the process of altering and changing.

At Old South, we’ve been focusing on the Reformation in a variety of ways. We’ve been learning about some of the important theological concepts associated with the Reformation (indulgences, predestination and everyone’s favorite, especially John Calvin’s, total depravity). And, we’ve been learning about the people—those who helped pave the road for the Reformation (like Jan Hus and John Wycliffe) and those who helped propel the ideas of the Reformation (Martin Luther obviously, along with John Calvin and Ulrich Zwingli too, among others).

In November, we’ll begin to talk about how we, in the twenty-first century, are still involved in reforming the Church. In fact, many years from now, this very time of change may be viewed as a time similar to the Reformation in the sixteenth century.

A church not far from my house has a large sign on its front lawn: “Put the Protest back in Protestantism.” Along with that, an invitation to a worship service involving other area Protestant churches.

I see that sign at least once a day, but usually several times a day. And, I find myself wondering about it, and wrestling with its words and invitation.

Are we about the work of “reforming” or “protesting”? Should we be involved with one more than the other?  And, what should “reform” and/or “protest” look like in churches like the one I serve? Is the best part of Protestantism really the “protesting” part?

Here’s the thing that troubles me. Reform seems to me to be the sort of work that includes rather than divides, where the work of altering and improving involves a variety of people. Protest seems to be the work of telling other people that they are doing something wrong. The one who is protesting asserts knowledge of what is right, against something else that is wrong. The “other” must change, but necessarily the one who is protesting.

Please don’t misunderstand me. There are times for protest. And, there are times when people of faith should protest.

But, is the current moment, as we celebrate the Reformation at 500, will we decide that it’s the “protest” part of “Protestantism” that matters most?

I hope not.

In our weekly Bible study at Old South, a group that includes people from a variety of area churches, we have been discussing and arguing our way through “A Study Guide for the 500th Anniversary of the Reformation,” written by the Stillspeaking Writers’ Group of the United Church of Christ. This past week, when we focused on the third session, we were confronted by “Hot Button” issues, like “Total Depravity.”

In his presentation of the topic, leading up to discussion questions, Anthony B. Robinson offered the following:

“Total Depravity,” a Reformation teaching particularly associated with John Calvin, does not mean every single one of us is really a Hannibal Lecter. . . . It means that the power of sin and self-centerness are real, and have a way of insinuating themselves into everything.

Sin’s power and self-deception insinuate themselves—and here’s where this doctrine gets really useful—even into our attempts to do good. And you can take this a step further, when we are inclined to feel very confident that we are “the good and the just,” this doctrine would urge special caution. We are never so dangerous, observed theologian Reinhold Neibuhr, as when we are absolutely convinced of our own virtue.

I couldn’t agree more.

There’s a place—an important one, no doubt (as we are experiencing in no uncertain terms in this time)—for protest.

But, perhaps, we ought to keep a focused eye on reform even more—when we are not so much pointing the finger of accusation, but inviting a more constructive, thoughtful, and inclusive path forward. Protest will do some good, but making the sorts of changes necessary for a more just world will take a lot more.  As Anthony B. Robinson asserts, “Only by honestly knowing the depth of our need, can we also know the height and breadth of God’s capacity to find, to heal, to save.”  Amen.

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Me Too, and the Church

Posted on October 19, 2017 by smaxreisert

In the wake of the allegations against Harvey Weinstein—yet another powerful man accused of sexual harassment and/or assault—women have lit up social media with their “me too” stories. When I first heard about Me Too, I couldn’t help but wonder that maybe it should have, instead, been a campaign to get women who haven’t been sexually harassed or assaulted to speak up. I’m guessing that that sort of campaign would involve mostly silence—deep, wide, profound, silence. What woman hasn’t been the victim of sexual misconduct?

Sure, most of the stories in the media center around the sexual harassment and sexual assault of men in positions of power, but in the “me too” torrent, we are clearly, but really not surprisingly, discovering that sexual harassment and assault is not limited to the powerful. It’s a component of the life experiences of many, if not most, women. If the current movement is to be the “watershed” moment that some think it might be, we need to acknowledge that this is not just about very powerful men. It’s also about regular, ordinary men, some of whom probably have no clue that what they are doing is offensive.

And, we need to consider the elements that lie at the root of this problem—one of those elements being the Christian Church.

I could write my own stories, but it would take awhile. In my personal life, I’ve experienced both harassment and assault. I’ve been more fortunate in my professional life, where I’ve experienced no assault and not a lot of harassment. I remember one incident that took place when I was a student minister at a church in Cambridge, Mass. As a student minister, I wasn’t comfortable wearing a robe. I had wanted to wait until I was ordained. But one Sunday, after many months of serving that church, an older man who rarely missed worship, came up to me after a Sunday worship service. He unabashedly looked me over from head to foot, and then in a tone dripping with lewd suggestion said, “I like your dress.” I started wearing a robe the very next Sunday.

Professionally, I’ve been lucky. I’m sure there are plenty of women with very different experiences, women who have been sexually harassed and/or assaulted by those in positions of authority in the Church, or not—with no one who will take these stories, and their consequences, seriously. Let’s hope that Me Too begins the incredibly important work of making sexual misconduct much less common.

While it’s good to have these stories more out in the open, I wonder about what this movement of outrage and storytelling will bring. It’s not as if we haven’t heard such stories in public in the past. The collective response as been less than inspiring— “boys will boys”; questions about what the victim was wearing; accusations of women changing their minds after the fact; etc. All very disheartening.

Part of the root of these attitudes belongs to the Church, and the Church must face this reality. It’s not enough to show compassion toward these women, or even disgust at the perpetrators. The Church must be willing to take a good look in the mirror and recognize its part in the problem.

Attitudes toward women have been problematic in the Christian Church for a very, very long time, despite the fact that such attitudes have a shaky foundation in the scriptures we declare to be holy. For example, although women are often blamed for the “fall,” when, in the second creation story in the Bible, the woman is said to have eaten fruit she was forbidden to eat, little attention is paid to the fact that the man, too, ate willingly and then was quick to point at her when they were caught—chivalry not yet a concept, I guess, nor sharing the blame for a shared act of rebellion. And, why don’t we chastise the man for tattling?

In the New Testament, there are plenty of stories that teach clear lessons regarding the significance and equality of women. Jesus taught women. Jesus upheld women. Jesus included women in his ministry. And, Paul too, despite a rogue verse or two about women being silent (which may not have been written by Paul at all, but altered at a later date) worked with women in his missionary work (the material contained in the “pastoral epistles” where women are told to be submissive is also widely believed to be later work, not written by Paul).

Not only is there no reason at all for the Church to engage in demeaning women, there is plenty of reason for the Church to be the champion of women.

The Church, and its various denominations, ought to take very seriously the stories of Me Too, and to seek not only to alter the perspectives and behaviors of powerful men, but also to dig deep and to alter the dangerous and problematic perspectives of ordinary men as well. Me Too, if it is to be the watershed moment that we as a society so desperately need, cannot just be about telling stories or sharing outrage. We must be willing to engage in a transformative moment that will lead to the telling of very different stories, stories that do much more to demonstrate and uphold the equality and dignity of woman, grounded in our holy texts.   This equality and dignity should be assertively, enthusiastically, and frequently taught. And, it should be expressed through living example in our communities of faith.

 

 

 

 

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