This Is It

Posted on January 20, 2017 by smaxreisert

When my daughter was young, she had a pet betta fish. Like most betta fish, it didn’t live very long. But, when it died, Margaret was distraught. To help her deal with her considerable grief, I suggested that she organize a service for her little departed pet.

In good, organized Margaret fashion, she gathered some of the neighborhood children for the service. As the traditional church-goer that she was, Margaret wrote out a program for the service, with a drawing of the fish, and above that drawing a title, summing up her sentiments of the occasion, “This Is It.”

Well, that’s about how I’m feeling as I contemplate the swearing in of the new president. This is it. And, it isn’t good. In fact, I’m starting to feel at least a little distraught myself—though I hide it well under a veil of manhattans.

In the past, I certainly haven’t been excited about the swearing in of other Republican presidents. But, this is different, very, very different. In the past, I haven’t felt nearly so demoralized or despairing.

This time, it feels like “this is it.” And, it’s not exactly because I think the world is actually going to come to an end, at least I hope not. I just have never been able to get past Donald Trump’s treatment of women. We all know that there have been plenty of other presidents not even so long ago who’ve had problematic views of and relationships with women—presidents who have been unfaithful to their wives, who have used the power of the office for sexual conquests, etc. Trump is different, though. With him, it’s not just about infidelity or sexual conquests. The whole grabbing of women in the you know where, the unsettling stalking of contestants at his beauty pageant, and all the vile things that he has said about women, all on full and complete display—in his own words, undisputed. And, people—including lots of women—voted for him. The Creepmander-in-Chief. Yuck.

I’ve been having a hard time listening to or watching the news—even NPR and the New York Times. The Times recently ran an article on the women who voted for Trump, in their own words. The headline read, “You Focus on the Good.”

What good?

It just feels so horrible. And, somewhere in the midst of the moments when I find myself dwelling on this wretched situation, I admit that my thoughts wander to that place where I wonder about the part my own beloved religious tradition has played in creating this most unfortunate situation. Christianity, after all, hasn’t had a particularly stellar record in its treatment of women.

Scripturally, there’s little support, especially in the New Testament, for the objectification or oppression of women. Certainly one important example of the significance of women to the faith—among many—is the witness of Mary Magdalene on that first Easter morning. It should be further noted that though Mary Magdalene is regularly referred to in some way as a prostitute, there is no actual scriptural evidence for such a claim.

Christian scriptures may honor and recognize the significance of women, but the practice of the faith has not exactly followed along. It was the practice of the faith after all, and not the scriptures, that made Mary Magdalene into a prostitute. And still today, we struggle with the place of women. Even women have a hard time supporting other women— in our communities, in the church, and clearly in the highest elected office in the country.

Today, a creepy stalker becomes President of the United States.

Tomorrow, I’ll be at the rally in Augusta, the local “sister” event to the Women’s March in Washington, standing with a group from the Maine Conference United Church of Christ, with our “Be the Church” banner:

I’ll hope that something will come of tomorrow, that it will serve as a starting point for new awareness and new commitment. I don’t hold out much hope that the new creepmander-in-chief will take much notice, or even understand why we stand against him.

Mr. Trump did not win the popular vote, and there’s a bit of comfort in that, but there’s lots of work to do. And that includes work that must be done in the church and in the Church. It’s a different kind of “this is it” moment. We’ve had time to grieve, now it’s time to move forward and do the work that we are so clearly called to do.

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Dividing Lines

Posted on January 14, 2017 by smaxreisert

Just before Christmas, the New York Times ran a column by Nick Kristof in which Mr. Kristof asked the question, “Am I a Christian, Pastor Timothy Keller?” The column offered a conversation between Mr. Kristof and the Rev. Timothy Keller, pastor of Redeemer Presbyterian Church in New York City, a large “new start” church founded in 1989.

In the conversation between the two men, Kristof asked questions regarding how one defines “Christian,” wondering particularly about how doubt fits into the Christian faith. One question was spelled out as, “So where does that leave people like me? Am I a Christian? A Jesus follower? A secular Christian? Can I be a Christian while doubting the Resurrection?”

Rev. Keller’s response was, “I wouldn’t draw any conclusion about an individual without talking to him or her at length. But, in general, if you don’t accept the Resurrection or other foundational beliefs as defined by the Apostles’ Creed, I’d say you are on the outside of the boundary.”

While this attempt at defining boundaries around who is, and who is not, a Christian is probably as old as Christianity itself, I found this recent attempt at definitions interesting. Rev. Keller is the pastor of a large, thriving church, so perhaps his point of view bears more weight. As the pastor of a small, struggling church, I have come to view definitions and boundaries differently.

In the more than a decade of serving Old South, I’ve learned that definitions are not only unhelpful, they can be damaging to the congregation and the individuals that are part of the congregation. We require a more expansive view, and a more inclusive attitude, or we would likely be not only smaller in number, but smaller in spirit as well.

While I don’t stray from preaching about the divinity of Jesus, or the Resurrection, I have become much less concerned with outlining definitions. Definitions create, in my humble opinion, problematic views regarding who’s “in” and who’s “out,” instead of inviting people into a community where we all—each of us and all of us together—engage in what it means to follow Christ.

At Old South, we are not so much a community that can provide neat definitions, even for those who feel quite comfortable in accepting “foundational” beliefs as Rev. Keller suggests. Instead, we are a community that views itself as part of the continually unfolding story of God and God’s people. And we offer invitation to others who wish to join us on the journey.

In the community that is Old South, we have those with doubts and questions. We have a couple of people who, when pressed, would label themselves “Unitarian.” We have still others with a clear sense of traditional Christian faith and belief. What holds us together as a church, as a “Christian” church, is the notion that we find the story of Jesus, and the concept of Jesus as Christ, compelling. We wish to walk this path, to engage in this journey, because there’s something about this story that is meaningful to us, and captures our imaginations. It is not so much about what we believe, but what draws us into something that is as much about certainty as it is about mystery.

We don’t define. Instead, we invite.

We may be small. We may be struggling. But, we are connected to each other, and to God, and to the unfolding story, a story in which we participate.

So, Mr. Kristof, and others like him who question and doubt, you are welcome at Old South. You are welcome if you find something compelling and/or meaningful in the story, if you feel drawn into the story not simply about Jesus, but about Christ. It is not about how we define the boundaries, but how we are willing to be defined by that compelling story and the One who joins along the way and beckons us ever forward.

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When Hope Is a Problem

Posted on January 7, 2017 by smaxreisert

An area church similar to Old South recently came to the end of a long journey through which the church seriously considered its future. Part of the process focused on the building in which the church meets. The church, decreasing in number as most, if not all, Mainline churches in this part of the world, examined a number of choices regarding its relationship with its building and the possibilities of leaving, or sharing, its building.

In the end, the congregation received a remarkable offer. If they donated their organ to a local college, the college would allow the congregation to worship in its chapel, free of charge, for ten years. An offer too good to refuse?

But, the church did refuse it. When it came time for the congregation to make a decision, it voted to remain in its own (large) building. The vote was relatively close, but the decision to stay was certain. The number of people who gathered for the meeting numbered, in total, just over sixty.

As the clergyperson for a similar congregation not far away, I worry a great deal about what will become of the church I lead. While I don’t know everything that happened at the area church that rejected what seemed like an offer dropped from heaven itself, I know that buildings mean a lot to mainline church congregations.

And, perhaps even more than that, is the problem of the “hope springs eternal” mentality.

Lots of good, faithful church folk cannot free themselves from the notion that things will change, that the tide will turn, that all they need to do is hang on and something will happen that will propel people back into these churches. Hope springs eternal.

Hope may be just the thing that will kill us for good.

Despite the evidence to the contrary, despite the best efforts that have come to nothing (or not much), despite the avalanche of studies, good church folk have a very hard time letting go of the hope that the forces of nature and human behavior will somehow miraculously alter, and that the old mainline will be alive again, with lots of young, intact families and people who love to participate and attend meetings, and worshippers who crave traditional worship with a burgeoning organ carrying the tunes of hymns heavenward.

Hope is a problem.

In a place like Central Maine where secularism reigns and where most church-attending Christians prefer the arena platform with ministers in jeans and a Christian rock band, it’s a real problem that lots of Mainline church folk can’t seem to understand the basics of human behavior, and physics. While there’s a slim possibility that the tide might turn, the tide isn’t likely to change. While there’s a shred of possibility that human beings may begin to behave differently, it’s exceedingly remote.

For churches like Old South, the challenge will be to let go of that “hope springs eternal” mentality and to learn to be the best church we can be, for the time we have left to be church. In so many ways, in its worship and in its mission and outreach, Old South lives out its faith in meaningful, strong, and wondrous ways. Old South is a vital church. But, it’s small and getting smaller and likely to get smaller still.

When Old South folk look around, it’s hard not to feel small and insignificant, especially surrounded by such a large building. It’s also hard to escape the word “failing”—despite the various ways that the small group lives out its faith. Still, there is the unmistakable undercurrent of hope, the almost tangible belief that something will happen to make the congregation grow.

Hope may be just the thing that will kill us.

And, that will be a terrible thing. For churches in decline, old Mainline churches with our old-fashioned worship, the challenge will be to allow a different calculus to be our guide. After all, there’s nothing scriptural about churches needing to be big. Churches and the Christians that are part of them are to be faithful—sharing the love of God with reckless abandon. Faithfulness is how we measure who we are and what we do. Faithfulness is what matters to God.

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The March of Time

Posted on December 31, 2016 by smaxreisert

The end of the year has brought a lot of the usual—visits with family and friends, trying to figure out New Year’s Eve plans, recovering from the busyness of Christmas (and pre-Christmas), and contemplating what might be in store as the year turns. This year, the end of the year has also involved the actual end of a life.

One of my parishioners passed away yesterday, after a very long, slow (occasionally excruciatingly slow) decline. Yesterday wasn’t the first time that I had been called to her deathbed. The other times, she rebounded. When I entered her room yesterday, filled with her family, everyone quiet, all listening to her labored breathing, it seemed quite clear that she would not rebound this time. And, in many ways, that was a blessing.

I greeted the family members one by one, all of them I remembered from when the woman’s husband died several years ago. We talked about what was happening. Then, I read a couple of psalms and we gathered around the bedside to pray, each of us laying a hand on the woman in the bed. During the next hour or so, we shared stories and comforted one another. We cried and we laughed.

It remains a wonder and a privilege to be invited and welcomed with family to a deathbed, though I must admit that it’s becoming a more difficult experience.

When I first became involved in ministry, in my twenties, I found end of life, and even death, oddly satisfying. It was an opportunity to be truly helpful, as I guided families and friends through the usually unfamiliar processes and language of grief. I remember the gratifying experience of spending time in a hospital or nursing home, praying and reading scripture as one person in the room was breathing their last breaths. Although what I do in such a circumstance is not rocket science, there is something to it that I know seems completely unfathomable to many.

As I get older myself, this whole business has become more fraught. While it remains an opportunity to be uniquely helpful, it has also become much more complicated—as my own mortality comes into clearer focus.

Yesterday, in the midst of the prayers and the stories, the tears and the laughter, I couldn’t escape wondering about my own mortality. Will my death be a long, drawn out affair or will it be short? Will it be expected or a surprise? Will family and friends surround me or will I be alone?

It’s not easy to contemplate one’s demise, but as I drove home from the nursing home yesterday, I became mindful, as I have in the past, that the days that one lives are significant—and that our days are made up of an awful lot of seemingly small, unimportant moments that feel like nothing. Yet, they are not nothing. While we talked yesterday of some of the regrets that the dying woman likely had, we also talked about the wonderful life she had lived, devoted to family, friends and faith. She hadn’t lived a perfect life, but she had lived the gift of life well. She lived with love, for her family and friends, and for the church.

As the new year dawns, and resolutions are considered, it might be a good idea to think not so much of the grand or essentially superficial resolution (yes, I would like to lose a few pounds), but to think of the small moments of life and to live them, most of them anyway, well—not perfectly, but thoughtfully. This coming year, that just might make all the difference.

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The Work of Christmas

Posted on December 23, 2016 by smaxreisert

By the time Christmas rolls around, most of us have probably had quite enough of Christmas. With Christmas music surrounding us in shops since well before Thanksgiving, the abundance of Christmas decorations, and our own sense of busyness of the season, many of us likely reach a Christmas saturation point somewhere right around Christmas Day. We are ready to move on.

All around us, that’s exactly what happens. Neighbors toss their sad, naked Christmas trees out onto the curb, starting the day after Christmas. The Christmas music suddenly vanishes. Some of the decorations remain, but the festiveness of the season swiftly fades away.

In such an atmosphere, it’s important for Christians to realize that Christmas Day is actually the beginning of the Christmas season, not the end. You know the Twelve Days of Christmas? Those begin on Christmas, not before Christmas.

The secular environment in which we live doesn’t do much, if anything at all, to recognize that the season that precedes Christmas is actually Advent, a season with its own themes and colors. Sometime in the fall the switch to Christmas begins, Advent carelessly left behind.

For Christians, though, Christmas marks the beginning of a very important time—and that time is not about golden rings, drummers drumming, ladies dancing, maids a’milking or a partridge in a pear tree. The Christmas season is a time to rediscover one of the most significant mysteries of our faith—the incarnation—and to take some time to ponder and wonder about what it means for us to worship God in this way, and what it means to follow this One who came to us as an infant.

For the last few years, at the end of Old South’s annual Christmas Eve service, I’ve used as a benediction a poem written by Howard Thurman:

When the song of the angels is stilled
When the star in the sky is gone
When the kings and princes are home
When the shepherds are back with the flocks,
Then the work of Christmas begins:
to find the lost
to heal those broken in spirit
to feed the hungry
to release the oppressed
to rebuild the nations
to bring peace among all peoples
to make a little music with the heart…
And to radiate the Light of Christ every day, in every way, in all that we do and in all that we say,
Then the work of Christmas begins.

In this holy season, Christians ought to resist the temptation to move on so quickly from Christmas, and instead, to recognize and to take seriously and prayerfully, the season of Christmas that begins on Christmas Day. How does the work of Christmas begin anew for you, for us?

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An Expectant People

Posted on December 16, 2016 by smaxreisert

One of my favorite parts of Advent is the annual visit with the two pregnant women, Mary and Elizabeth. Although the lectionary often curtails that section of Luke, reducing it to Mary’s Song of Praise, I always include the section just before the Magnificat, when Mary travels to Elizabeth and the two women greet each other, both very much aware of each other’s state of being “with child.”

When I was pregnant with my second child, my best friend at the time was also pregnant. Her daughter was born just a few weeks before my son. The shared experience of pregnancy was powerful. Although I knew plenty of people who could empathize with me during my first pregnancy, it was a completely different experience to be walking the same road at the same time with a close friend.

While we shared our hopes and dreams for our children not yet born, we also spent a great deal of time supporting each other through those less poetic aspects of pregnancy—morning sickness, an increasingly unfamiliar body, the barrage of strange tests, the invasions into one’s personal space, and all of the other indignities of pregnancy.

I’d like to think that Mary and Elizabeth did at least some of the same. I’d like to think that Mary and Elizabeth supported and encouraged each other, that they formed a little community unto themselves that carried them through those few months that they spent together.

Christianity’s patriarchal, male-dominated history (and present) has unfortunately missed the rich and meaningful story of the expectant women about whom the Gospel writer Luke wrote. It is remarkable that, as we visit the Christmas story year after year, Christians tend to glide quickly and carelessly over Mary and Elizabeth. And, to the extent that we visit them at all, we focus almost entirely on Mary’s Song of Praise. Certainly, the Song of Praise is deserving of attention. But, there’s lots more, and so much of it valuable material for considering our faith.

As Christians, our faith is constantly in a state of expectancy. Even as we meet Christ, our understanding is only partial. We are called to travel the path of faith, seeing bit by bit, always expecting, always anticipating—as a pregnant woman.

Something is always in the process of being born. God’s purposes are always making themselves known. And, we are people who participate in that—in that birthing process, in that revealing process. We are the ones who are called to notice the small signs of new life and new hope, and to be about the business of allowing God to lead us in ways that help bring that new life to its fulfillment.

Mary was not simply a delivery system for the Son of God, but the person who nurtured that new life, the first one to wonder about what this was all about, the one who first got a sense of who this Jesus was going to be, through his movement and life in her womb. And, for some part of that journey, she traveled with Elizabeth, also pregnant, and they were together—encouraging and supporting each, wondering and hoping with each other, focused on bringing new life into a chaotic and violent world.

Mary and Elizabeth provide a model for us as God’s people, that we too are to be with each other. We hope and dream together. We support and encourage each other. And, we ought always to be attentive to new life—in its wonder as well as in the discomfort and strangeness it brings. And, we ought also to be in community, an expectant people.

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Remembering—For Christians

Posted on December 9, 2016 by smaxreisert

This week, as I perused the various newspapers and news sources I typically look at every morning, I wasn’t surprised to find several pleas regarding the significance of “remembering.” More specifically, we were called to “remember” Pearl Harbor Day, December 7. There are, of course, other tragic days for which we are asked to remember—September 11, November 22, etc.

I can’t help but wonder: what are we remembering and why? Shall we remember those who died, the families torn apart? Shall we remember the sense of community that follows national tragedy? Shall we remember the sense of vengeance that also tends to follow, especially in cases where our country has been attacked?

I wonder about remembering, and I wonder about wondering about remembering. The calls to remember seem often to include a companion piece to the remembering, and that is “never again.” Yet, tragedies continue, big ones as well as small ones, the ones we choose to hold up for mass memorial as well as the ones that happen unnoticed, unacknowledged, unremembered.

As Christians, we also do a lot of remembering. We “remember” the birth of Jesus, even though we don’t really know when it happened, or exactly its circumstances (as difficult as it may be for some Christians, Matthew and Luke differ on the details; Mark and John are completely silent). We “remember” the important last days of Jesus—his entry into Jerusalem, his last supper with his closest friends, his trial and execution, his burial in a tomb, and then the mysterious (and terrifying) third day when the tomb was found empty. Jesus had become for us Jesus Christ, the Messiah, the Risen One.

We do a lot of “remembering.” Our remembering, though, is not simply meant to remind us of something important. Our remembering is meant to invite us in, to make us a part of the story, to understand the transformative nature of Christ as Christ continues to live and breathe among us, as we declare ourselves to be Christ’s followers.

But, we Christians too, can get caught in the problematic ways of remembering, as if the simple act of remembering, of observing, of engaging in the ritual of holy-days, is what we are called to do as people of faith. Especially around Christmas (and Easter too), I notice the pull of tradition—favorite hymns (sung with traditional words), well-known bible passages (read from traditional translations), etc.

Remembering through favorite hymns and familiar Bible passages is not in and of itself a problem. The problem emerges when the familiar and traditional become simple acts of a sort of spectator sport. When we sing familiar words just because we know them by heart, when we fall into the rhythm of familiar scripture story, and allow that to be enough, to be all of our observance, then remembering is nothing more than empty ceremony.

Holy-days, Christmas certainly among them, must be more than that.

It’s not that we should remove all that is comfortable and familiar. We should instead be willing to invite not only an element or two that is new and different, but also to allow our hearts and minds to be open to new awareness even in the most familiar of the season, to allow wonder and awe to be actively part of who we are and what we do.

In a busy season, it’s not easy to invite something new, to engage with the unfamiliar. In fact, it can be precisely in that busyness of the season that causes us to crave the comfort of our traditional observances—when our sanctuaries become in significant ways, actual sanctuary from the hustle and bustle of the world around us.

But, we are indeed called—again and again—to accept the invitation into the story. We are not to gaze from afar into that manger scene, but to see who we are in the story, and to consider the different sorts of roles we play over the years of lives of faith.

For our faith to be truly meaningful, we must be willing to open ourselves to the new—for the very point of our gathering is to be drawn in by the vulnerable infant, God incarnate, born in a stable (or wherever), but most importantly, born in our hearts, even if for the hundredth time.

The Christian faith is not just about remembering, about memorializing, capturing something special from the past. Our remembering is something very different. It is about living and entering into new life, day after day, holy day after holy day, welcoming the surprises of our living, still speaking God. The coming into our lives as an infant is just the beginning.

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The First Word of Advent: Hope

Posted on December 2, 2016 by smaxreisert

Old South’s worship last Sunday, the Sunday after Thanksgiving, included quite a few visitors. One visitor was a young man who came to worship by himself. He stayed for coffee and fellowship, so I had a chance to chat with him a bit. He readily admitted that he doesn’t know much about church and wasn’t raised in a church. When I asked him why he had joined us, he paused and considered and then said something like, “Well, because of what you talked about today.”

This young man was not alone. I have lots of people who are worried about the future, disappointed and even despairing over the recent presidential election. I’ve heard comment after comment reflecting pain and sadness, even to the point of hopelessness. In turn, my sermons have sought to address at least some of what I’m hearing.

For those who are long-time churchgoers, Advent is a season of familiar words—hope, peace, joy and love. The familiar words, though, now have taken on something new. What does it mean to hope when everything feels so terrible?

This past Sunday, my sermon offered some thoughts based on a recent experience at a YMCA swim meet (my son is a swimmer). I couldn’t help but notice the array of children and youth, as well as their families, at the meet. Maine is a very pale place, among the whitest of states in the entire country. At the swim meet, though, there was a noticeable diversity of skin color, hair texture, shape of face and eye. Sure, most of the people there were white. But, not all.

And, there they were, this array of children and youth, talking, laughing and goofing off with each other, competing against each other in a friendly way, encouraging each other and cheering each other on.

My first reaction to this tableau was worry and concern. What kind of world awaits these children and young people, as we learn about the “alt right” and the newly energized white supremacists and nationalists? The president-elect may choose to distance himself from these groups, but the lead up to the election has given some very dangerous people, usually on the far fringes of society, a new energy and sense of purpose.

Although there was plenty of discord before the election, the post-election landscape offers a deeper, and more treacherous, feeling of division. Yet, there are moments deserving of hope. In looking upon the young people I saw in action at the swim meet, I was reminded that scene didn’t just happen by itself. It didn’t just materialize out of magic. It came to be not just because of policies and laws either.

It came to be because of a lot of invisible actions of normal, everyday, good and decent people—like those who attend Old South.

When we look for hope and signs of hope, we so often cast about for what’s “out there,” something that will bring hope to us.

Advent and Christmas remind us, in very direct and significant ways, that faith is not a spectator sport. Faith depends on participation, and that includes our first word of Advent: hope.

Hope isn’t just “out there,” something for which we wait patiently in a detached sort of way, like a gift waiting to be opened. Hope is in each of us, and in all of us together as church, as a community of faith, as a community of followers of Christ.

When we are feeling a little bereft of hope, it’s a good time to take a good look around and take a look in the mirror as well. In the small actions and moments of our lives we have the opportunity, the calling, to live out of hope, to live out the vision of being in community even with those who seem so different—the wolf and the lamb, the leopard and the kid, the cow and the bear.

Hope doesn’t just happen, as if by magic. It’s takes effort, a conscious effort, an effort that many have already been about.

Do you remember at the end of the Wizard of Oz, after the curtain was pulled away and the wizard became not the great and powerful, but a regular man, and Dorothy’s companions thought that all of their efforts to do as the Wizard had commanded, that that was the only way to get their true heart’s desire, that all of that had come to nothing, because here was this sad, regular man and not the powerful wizard before whom they had cowered? But, still it was the wizard who showed them that what they sought, they possessed all along—a brain, a heart, some courage. It had all been there. They just couldn’t see it.

It seems to me that we are at a time when we shouldn’t be spending much time looking for hope “out there,” waiting for the magic to happen. Part of the anticipation of Advent is the coming to that knowledge that what we long for, we already have—that to be among God’s people, to have faith in Christ, to follow in the Way, is to be renewed in knowing that God doesn’t bestow these things as if they will fall from the sky one day in a big box topped with a large bow. We have already been given us the pieces we need. It is up to us to discover them, to rediscover them, and to let them capture us, and to recapture us.

Advent seems different this year—and the familiar words, too. It feels like we are not just trotting out the comfortable ritual in the preparation for Christmas. Instead, we have the opportunity to reconnect with some of the most vital aspects of faith. The first word is hope. It’s not an empty word, nor is it an easy word. We people of faith know this. Yet, we hope and we live as a hopeful people—because we know that there’s reason to hope. It is fragile and vulnerable, just as an infant, but real and present.

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Clergy Get Over Yourselves!

Posted on November 26, 2016 by smaxreisert

“Do you read the sermons ahead of time?” was one of the first questions that was asked. It was a surprising, unexpected question. It was asked almost tentatively, cautiously, but directly at me.

I was sitting at the front of a classroom, with one Old South parishioner on my left and two at my right. We were leading a panel on lay leadership of worship during the workshop section of the Maine Conference United Church of Christ Annual Meeting in October.

The questioner was sincere and serious in her asking, wondering if I—as the clergy person at Old South—made an effort to review and approve sermons given by the lay people of my congregation when I’m away.

The questioner, it turned out, was not alone. There were others who listened in almost awestruck silence to our tales not only of lay leadership of worship, but increased lay participation, in the worship life of Old South. Several people chimed in after that first questioner, wondering how we did it, and even more shockingly, how the lay people managed to get their pastor—me—to back off from trying to control everything.

I was a bit taken aback by the tone that erupted from some of these questions, from lay people who seemed eager to participate more in worship, but felt held back by the control issues of their own pastor. I should freely admit that I’ve had my own control and authority issues in the past, and still struggle with them from time to time. But, I have learned that through giving up some of that control and inviting more participation, I have/we have gained in important and significant ways.

Clergy, get over yourselves!

As we witness and live out the changes in our churches and in our culture, it is certainly time to learn how to share, and to learn to let go. By maintaining control, clergy risk strangling new life and crushing the movement of the Holy Spirit.

At the end of our workshop, a long-time Maine pastor came up to me to voice her concerns. She was especially troubled that Old South has an open sign up for serving communion. “Don’t you teach them anything before you allow them to serve communion?” she asked bluntly. “Don’t you think they need to know what they are doing?” she continued, shocked and disturbed by our unorthodox approach.

No, I told her. While I always provide context and story at the start of every communion service for everyone in the sanctuary, I no longer endeavor to control what people “know” or should know. People learn by participating, sharing, taking part. Communion is a sacrament. I’ve learned to let it be so.

I’m sure there are people who help in the serving communion who have very different ideas about what’s going on. I’m sure there are lay sermons I would not like. But, the church is not about me. As “pastor and teacher,” I have a vital role in guiding and leading, but I also recognize the significance and integrity of each person’s journey, as well as the journey we take as a congregation. I may be the “captain,” but that doesn’t mean I can, or should, be a sort of spiritual dictator.

We are church in a time of dramatic change. Clergy must learn to lead in new ways, and to encourage shared ministry. As we have learned at Old South, more participation brings more vitality. Vitality is not measured solely in the numbers of “butts in pews,” but in the sense of connection and commitment to faithfulness of the Gospel. At Old South, we are smaller in number, but larger in spirit.

The clergy role is to support, to encourage, to guide, to teach and to share—and actively and faithfully invite the Spirit.

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As Maine Goes? Heaven Help Us

Posted on November 14, 2016 by smaxreisert

Be angry but do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger.
Ephesians 4:26
A fool gives full vent to anger, but the wise quietly holds it back.
Proverbs 29:11
But now you must get rid of all such things—anger, wrath, malice, slander, and abusive language from your mouth. . . . As God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience. Bear with one another and, if anyone has a complaint against another, forgive each other; just as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive. Above all, clothe yourselves with love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony.
Colossians 3:8, 12-14

“As Maine Goes, So Goes the Nation,” was a phrase from awhile back that described Maine’s uncanny ability to serve as a bellwether for presidential elections. This time around, Hillary Clinton won 48% of the vote in Maine, to Donald Trump’s 45%. Still, Maine may turn out to be a different sort of bellwether and, in that regard, let us hope and pray that that turns out not to be true.

Maine has a governor who likes to “speak his mind” and “tell it like it is.” He governs mostly through bullying, blustering and throwing tantrums. He has offered many statements and pronouncements that indicate that he’s a sexist, racist, homophobe, xenophobe, Islamophobe—you get the picture. He also limits access of the press. Sound familiar?

Despite the fact that Maine’s Governor is in his second term, the situation is no better for the poor, the vulnerable, the unskilled, etc. and is probably worse in most instances. The situation might be a little better for the wealthy, as they have benefited from the tax cuts that have been “paid for” through cuts in services and revenue sharing.

Yet, the angry seem to love Governor LePage. Anger, though, it turns out, doesn’t get things done and it doesn’t actually make the lives of the angry any better.

Governor LePage tends to speak before he listens. He declares before thinking. He relies on unproven assumptions. Many of his opinions are based in old stereotypes that are not true, and probably never were. He’s suspicious of those “from away” (and that means anyone not from Maine) and closes himself off from anyone who might pull him away from his tidy, comfortable nest made up of the sticks and stones he likes to throw at people who dare to disagree with him.

Yet, the angry of the state seem to love the Governor, and are drawn to his “telling it like it is” and “speaking his mind.”

Maine offers an important object lesson: anger doesn’t translate into good or effective governing. Let us hope that Mr. Trump chooses a different path for governing and doesn’t follow his new friend Paul LePage.

The Bible offers many verses that remind us of the corrosive nature of anger and the foolishness of allowing anger to be one’s guide. There are things that happen in life that can lead to anger, sometimes even a completely appropriate righteous anger. The problem seems to be when people get settled in their anger, when anger itself becomes the soothing balm, instead of understanding anger as a first step on a path to solve problems that includes the one who is angry.

Though Mr. Trump doesn’t seem to know much about the Bible, perhaps some of those who do who voted for him will find the wherewithal to begin to consider the role of anger in our country. And now that we have a whole new segment of angry people, in those whose candidate did not win the White House despite winning a significant percentage of the popular vote, we ought to take heed of the ancient advice offered in scripture and to reflect on the anger that has gained a significant foothold.

The way forward is likely not going to be easy. There will be anger. And some of that anger will be justified. But, anger cannot be the end or the goal. Anger cannot become the place of comfort, our refuge in times of trouble. The Bible holds significant and serious cautions in regard to anger. May we take heed before anger gets the best of us.

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