When the Bible Gets in the Way

Posted on August 9, 2016 by smaxreisert

During a recent trip to the grocery store, I bumped into a former parishioner from a former church. I had not seen the man in many years, but I had heard long ago that he, along with his family, had left that other church not long after I did, and had started attending an evangelical church. I wasn’t surprised to hear the news, as he and his wife had always bristled at the more liberal theological bent of the United Church of Christ.

When this former parishioner spotted me, he made something of a beeline for me. Something about the sparkle in his eye made me think that this was not going to be just a social visit. He asked me about my kids, who were quite young the last time he saw them. Now my daughter is in college. I asked about his family, and his growing list of grandchildren.

Then, he asked if I was still involved in church life, and I informed him that I am serving as pastor to a Congregational/United Church of Christ church about a half hour away. That’s when the tone of our friendly conversation took a turn.

He told me that he had changed churches and, after much prayer and study, had become aware of the waywardness of the UCC. And, now he wanted to help me see the error of my ways.

He was very blunt. In fact, he shared his deep concern that, if I didn’t change the direction of my faith, then the consequences would be dire. On the last day, he informed me, “When it’s your turn to stand before Jesus, he’s going to say to you that you’ve done some good things, but that ‘you did not know me, so go away.’”

Yikes.

I responded by telling him that, while I was glad that he had found a faith community that was meaningful to him, I was unlikely ever going to agree with his approach. Yet he persisted, calmly but determinedly quoting Bible verse after Bible verse and insisting, though there are some places where Christians may disagree, there are certain other places where there can be no debate—and he was very clear on the difference. There are “basics” that must be professed, otherwise one ought not consider oneself a Christian, and should be prepared for a dreadful eternity.

I did my best to remain respectful, but I offered to him that, though it appeared that he had scripture on his side, it seemed problematic for any Christian to be making some of the judgments he—and presumably his church—was making. To worship God, I told him, is to know that I am not God and therefore, I cannot know all of the dimensions in and through which the Divine operates.

He nodded and paused. And, then started in on scripture again, especially the part about correcting error (2 Timothy 3:16). I, in turn, said something about the problems in treating the Bible so literally, especially since it was not written in English and that the languages of the Bible are so different from English.

I wasn’t surprised that he remained doggedly attached to his approach (clearly, he had found something truly compelling), yet I was still taken aback by his perseverance. He seemed unwilling to end the conversation without some sense that he at least planted a seed that might eventually turn me from my waywardness.

Although I could have walked away at any time, I continued with the conversation. I stayed not only to be polite, but because I had liked this guy when we were at the same church together. I had been especially drawn to his gift of music. I had known even then that he struggled with a looser interpretation of the Bible. He was clearly someone who liked definition, but yet he was a good man with a powerful gift.

And, that was how we finally got to an end. Somehow, I managed to turn the conversation to that gift of music, and how I still remembered a few times when his music especially touched me.

The conversation ended respectfully, although I am sure he was disappointed that he had not made much headway in my stubbornly non-literal approach to the Bible and had not done much to keep me from an unpleasant eternity. It was certainly not the first time I had found myself in the midst of such a conversation, yet this one seemed particularly sad.

What is that they say about the relationship between Americans and the British? Two peoples divided by a common language. And, Christians have something similar. We are various peoples divided by a common book. It’s sad that we cannot find some common ground, or at least some path out of thinking that our way is right and all others are wrong. Or, if we believe others to be wrong (as I think of this man, and his church, after all), that we do so without making the leap to believing that they are damned for all eternity. There’s an important difference there. One that all Christians ought to ponder in more meaningful ways.

Posted in Other Denominations/Christians | Leave a comment

The Significance of Saying Good-bye

Posted on August 1, 2016 by smaxreisert

At Old South, we seem to say good-bye a lot. Occasionally, it’s in the form of a funeral. But, more often, it’s because a person (or a couple or a family) is moving. Most people are nice enough to inform me (and others in the church) of their departure, although there have been a few who waited until they had moved before informing me.

I know, good-byes are hard.

For those who share the news regarding their impending departure, I usually suggest that we observe the departure in some way during worship, recognizing their place in the church community and wishing them well for the journey ahead. The person usually cringes a little and asks something about the necessity of such an occasion. When I inform them that it’s really not for them, but for those they are leaving behind, they usually go along with it—albeit grudgingly.

I know, good-byes are hard. And no one wants to be in the spotlight like that.

For those not going away, saying good-bye can be especially painful and difficult, especially in a small church where everyone knows each other. That’s precisely why I insist—when the opportunity presents itself—that those who are leaving allow time for saying good-bye and to do it, if at all possible, during worship. I usually say something during “joys and concerns” and include in the pastoral prayer a blessing for that person or persons who are leaving us. There is in that moment grief as well as gratitude. My hope is that it means something for those who are leaving, and that it means something for those left behind, recognizing the loss while also turning to each other and to God for comfort and assurance.

Good-byes are hard. They are hard because our relationships hold significance, and those who choose to gather with us in our small church are each a vital piece of who we are, how we see and understand ourselves as the body of Christ.

And, that is why I try not to allow people to dodge the good-bye, although I have noticed that there have been a couple of occasions (and one that is upcoming) when a person seems to specifically choose their departure to coincide with my vacation. This sort of departure may be easier, but it isn’t better.

Good-byes are hard, but they are important. Saying good-bye allows the one who is leaving as well as those staying behind to experience a moment of grace, a time when sadness and thankfulness, as well as good wishes and peace, may be offered and experienced.

And, in the midst of the sadness and the anticipation of a new journey, there is blessing.

Posted in My Life as Pastor | Leave a comment

The Dismay of Convention Season—2016

Posted on July 23, 2016 by smaxreisert

Perhaps because I am part of a fairly well-known (locally) dual political party couple, I occasionally receive the odd, whispered confession. Usually it is from a woman, who wants (or needs?) to share with someone that she’s not a Republican, as her husband, but a Democrat. The confession usually involves the further revelation that she’s not sure that her husband is aware that she does not share his political views.

Although I don’t receive a lot of these confessions, I hear them from time to time. This year, I’ve heard several—and they feel different. In the past, the “confession” is usually offered in an off-hand sort of way, in a way that almost feels that the gap between the pair is not very distant, or serious.

This year, though, the feeling is much more grave, full of deeper concern and anxiety.

The political landscape is different. It’s not just that the two main parties are lining up their candidates, talking about, and championing, their differences. It’s one thing to disagree with the other side, to believe that one party’s solutions are better than the other’s. It’s quite another to feel that one is expected to loathe the other side. For dual political party couples—even when one is relatively silent—this new dynamic feels especially problematic.

In the past, it’s been relatively easy to consider the opposing political views of one’s partner as based on upbringing or different priorities or just simply misguided. The cancelling of each other’s votes at the voting booth seemed not so big of a deal, rarely forming any sort of marital rift. Basically, the differences were things that couples could live with—not all that far from the other imperfections of one’s partner.

This year, it all seems changed, more charged. Each political camp—and both do this (although one is doing it a little more flagrantly at the moment)—assesses the opposing camp not simply as stupid, wrong, or misguided. Instead, the language is of hatred, implying that those aligned with the opposing political party hate the United States, or hate certain people who live in the United States, or hate the Constitution, etc.

For dual political party couples, the landscape is fraught with tension and disquiet. How does one listen to the language of national politicians and then look upon—and go on living in the same household with— one’s spouse?

And, this is where the confession comes in. The spouse who speaks to me is worried, anxious. It’s not that she (mostly, it’s a she) thinks that her spouse will suddenly hate her because of her political views. Instead, there’s the feeling of betrayal, well beyond marriage. It’s as if these marriages reflect a national betrayal. These couples have lived together for years, just as the people of the United States have managed to live together with their differing political views. Somehow, we’ve known, deep down, that hammering out compromises is how things are done. We’ve done so in our marriages. So, too, as a country.

No more, though. The language of compromise is now the language of weakness, shallowness of character. Instead, our politicians—and upheld by their base of staunch followers—insist on maintaining the purity of the single-minded, in order to show strength. And, part of that is to cast the “other” as evil, loathsome, repugnant.

For dual political party couples, it’s an awfully strange and sad predicament. The ways of our households are no longer the ways of our country. And, more than that, the ways of our country now seem alien, uncomfortable, and distressing. Just as we cannot hate our spouses, we wonder about the language of hatred on the national level.

We dual political party couples, though often quiet and perhaps even unsuspecting (especially when one does not share one’s views fully with one’s spouse), are no longer part of the national fabric of our democracy. Instead, we are a weird liability. It’s dismaying, to be sure, and certainly a very sad commentary. We seem “united” only by the smallness of our thinking, and our desire to hate the other into submission or oblivion.

We can’t do that at home. We’ll surely discover that can’t live that way as a country either.

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Lessons on Race at Divinity Hall

Posted on July 13, 2016 by smaxreisert

“First of all,” he said, “if you can learn a simple trick, Scout, you’ll get along a lot better with all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view […] until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.”

Atticus Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird

When I was a first year grad student at Harvard Divinity School in the fall of 1989, I lived in the hallowed Divinity Hall on Divinity Avenue. The rooms in Div Hall each had little brass plates with the engraved names of former residents, like Ralph Waldo Emerson. Emerson gave his famous Divinity School Address in the chapel of Div Hall, which was just next door to the room in which I lived.

Div Hall was an amazingly diverse place, especially for someone like myself, reared in a homogeneous environment in the Boston suburbs and then educated at a small Maine college. Although Harvard Divinity School is known as a bastion of liberalism, that was not quite my experience in Div Hall. On the day I moved in, one of my new neighbors welcomed me to “Jesus Boulevard.” It turned out that I lived close to several Pentecostal students. I became friends with someone whose church affiliation was the Nazarene Church (and shared with me fascinating stories of being scared into good behavior as a child by films about the Rapture). Another friend was a Missouri Synod Lutheran. Not exactly what anyone would describe as “liberal.”

The students in Div Hall shared a large common kitchen in the basement. In that basement, many interesting conversations took place—from mundane gossip to philosophical and theological debates to the sharing of various kinds of information. The kitchen was also a great place to learn about different cultures. A group of us shared cultural experiences through a weekly dinner group. The group included a Buddhist monk (from Vietnam, I think) and my roommate, a woman from China who almost didn’t get to the Div School after what had happened in and around Tiananmen Square the previous spring.

I also learned a great deal about race, and the realities of life for those who looked different from me. I was naïve enough to think that there couldn’t be much in the way of racial problems in the late twentieth century in Cambridge, Mass, stuffed as it was with students from around the globe. But, I heard story after story, especially from the young black men who lived in Divinity Hall.

One of the stories they told was about how difficult it was for them simply to go shopping at places in Harvard Square, like the Harvard Coop, the department and book store in the middle of the Square. They couldn’t go in there without being followed by security. Often, they were also harassed in some way as well.

This, I decided, I could try to see for myself. Whenever I found myself in the Coop, I watched. I especially looked for small groups of black men. Sure enough, if there were two or three black men together, a security guard was never far away. The black men were watched, followed. Once I saw this for myself, I also realized how obvious it was. I just had never noticed.

In late October of that fall, in 1989, a man named Charles Stuart shot (and killed) his pregnant wife in the Mission Hill section of Boston, and then shot himself in the stomach. He blamed the incident on a black man. His story was widely believed.  A massive hunt ensued for the black assailant.  In the kitchen of Div Hall, though, the black students—especially the black men—were immediately suspicious.

Things got tense in that basement kitchen. And, when it turned out that there had been no black assailant, and that Charles Stuart had been the one to shoot and kill his wife and unborn child, one young black man who had been a warm, friendly presence in Div Hall, made the decision to no longer speak to any white people. He came into the kitchen, made his meal, spoke to other black students and then went on his way—no longer warm and friendly, but troubled and serious instead.

In the years since, and certainly now as I contemplate what’s going on in the United States, I’ve been thinking a lot about the shared common kitchen in the basement of Divinity Hall and wondering about the lessons I learned there—and the lessons that we all ought to take more seriously.

One lesson certainly has to do with stepping into another’s skin and walking around, learning a bit about what it means to be and to live as another person does. Considering the perspective of a black man, knowing what it means to live so often under suspicion, feared. Considering the perspective of a police officer, knowing that each day holds danger. Considering the perspective of a parent of an unarmed teen or adult who’s been shot by the police during a traffic stop, grieving deeply for the profound loss.

We live in country with “united” in its title, and yet recent events have shown that we are not united at all. We gather in our groups, with others of similar mind, experience, perspective, assuming that our own perspective, and that of those around us, is universal. We have a hard time with notions of understanding, of even attempting to appreciate the ways of life from another’s perspective.

In this time of unease, distrust, and worry (and the strange, unhelpful manifestations of these responses), we could use a little of Atticus Finch’s advice, and truly and honestly consider another’s perspective, accepting that other people have experiences that are different, and to open ourselves to learning about those other experiences. It’s not always easy to do so, and sometimes it requires a real change in how one looks at the world—including a willingness to see things one doesn’t really want to see—but it’s the only that we can move our way out of the current morass and to discover something hopeful on the other side. It’s not just about taking a little peek in another’s experience, but stepping into their skin, walking around in it, and allowing that new perspective to be a light on the path to understanding.   As the advice goes, we’ll get along a lot better “with all kinds of folks.”  Sounds like something worth the effort.

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Weddings and Church Buildings

Posted on July 7, 2016 by smaxreisert

Those who know me well know that I’m not a big fan of weddings, especially when I’m the one presiding over the event. I find that there’s usually too much emphasis on the “show,” and not so much on the meaning of the ceremony. More care is often shown to the photos than to what’s going on in the photos.

Over my eleven years at Old South, the number of weddings at which I preside has declined significantly—and I don’t think it’s because word is out that I don’t like them. Even for those connected to Old South, if I’m asked to officiate, the wedding is more often off-site at an “event venue,” where the wedding ceremony can be outside. No one seems to get married in a church building anymore—unless it’s raining outside.

I can understand the desire to have one’s wedding ceremony outside. I like the outdoors too, especially in the summer. Maine summers are beautiful indeed. I can also understand the desire to have the whole extravaganza in one location—ceremony and reception. I bet it makes things a whole lot easier for everyone.

But, I’m also aware that something is missing in these sorts of weddings. And, that something is something very important, yet often overlooked.

This past Saturday, I participated in a wedding at Old South that was truly lovely. It was a rare wedding for me, when the couple talked quite a lot about creating a meaningful ceremony. The service wasn’t very long, but it included a spectacular soloist who sang two pieces, one for the prelude, in order to “set the tone,” the couple informed me and the tone was certainly set, with praise, awe and reverence.  The service also included lengthy vows, through which the couple made promises to each other, while also acknowledging their reliance not just on the power of the love they have for each other, but the power of the love they know that is beyond themselves.

I think it would have been difficult not to notice the sense that in our gathering last Saturday morning, there was an awareness of, and inclusion of, “other.” Call it holy, or sacred, or God, there was something beyond just the human beings who gathered in that space.

It’s not that a church building is required to gain that sense of the holy, that sense of the presence of God, but it certainly helps. Outdoor weddings can sometimes draw in the “sacredness” of nature, but that’s not what I’m talking about. The beauty of nature isn’t going to be there as a source of strength and blessing when marriage gets difficult—and it will get difficult.

A church wedding certainly doesn’t guarantee that a marriage will survive, but I think it helps to begin the marriage in a stronger way. When a couple feels grounded in something beyond themselves, when there is acknowledgement of the holy and a connection to our Creator God, a wedding is not just a simple ceremony, an exchange of rings, a private exchange of promises. Instead, a wedding is worship, a place for praise and thanksgiving, an opportunity for reverence. And reverence is just what is needed to begin a good marriage.

A church building isn’t required, but it certainly helps.

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Labels

Posted on June 28, 2016 by smaxreisert

During my annual visit to the doctor’s office not long ago, I was asked if I had any interest in getting connected with their new online “patient portal.” Sure, I told them.

When I finally went to check it out, I noticed that under my name and a few other pieces of personal information, there was a box that somehow seemed to summarize the practice’s view of me and my current status: overweight.

Sure, I could lose a few pounds. I could consume fewer cookies or lower my intake of wine (especially in the summer). But, it’s not like I don’t exercise or take care of myself—because I do. I exercise vigorously 3-4 times each week. I eat my veggies and I limit my consumption of red meat, etc. I don’t smoke (cigarettes or other substances) nor do I eat a pint of ice cream every day.

Yet, as far as the medical practice is concerned, there’s just one word that sums me up: overweight.

What puzzled me even more was that my visit with the nurse practitioner didn’t even mention weight. We talked mostly about my inability to get a good, full night’s sleep, my symptoms and some possible plans of action. We also talked about some of the normal issues around aging—creaky joints and so forth.

I get the sense that, somehow, with all of the things that the nurse and nurse practitioner typed into the medical chart program that the practices uses, the program, in all of its computerly wisdom, decided that the best word to sum up my medical status was: overweight.

We live in a world of labels. It’s as if our embracing of technology has stripped us of the wealth of descriptors that are actually available in the English language. Nuance seems gone as well.

Perhaps this is part of the reason why, even though it’s not very popular in this part of the world, I stick with church. I have a renewed appreciation for the church’s ability to resist the temptation to do things like reduce people to simple (and not helpful), one-word labels. At Old South, I can be myself without worrying that everyone is trying to sum me up in one word.

It’s not that there aren’t words that are used to describe me, or that I don’t use certain “describing words” (a popular phrase in our house, since the kids went to Montessori school) to talk about others. But, I can’t think of any time, in my career as a pastor, when we’ve actively engaged in efforts to reduce people to one or two words.

Because people are just more complicated than that.

At Old South, I can think of several people who might easily be described in one or two words, mostly because of difficulties they have faced in life. But, I’ve noticed that, without ever needing to remind people, that we simply don’t do that. Instead, there’s a lot reaching out, a lot of accepting, a lot of not worrying too much about personal foibles. People are accepted for who they are—the good and the not so good.

It is through the acceptance of the whole of the person, with a whole assortment of “describing” words, that each of us trusts that we ourselves will be accepted in that way as well. And, more than that, that through such acceptance, we all become—each of us and all of us together—more, and more, like the people of God.

Posted in Misc, My Life as Pastor | Leave a comment

After Orlando

Posted on June 18, 2016 by smaxreisert

I’ve been experiencing a sort of numbness this past week—a weariness, lurking around the edges of despair. When I heard about the shootings in Orlando last Sunday, and then the number of people killed, I felt outrage and horror. Before too long, though, the numbness and the weariness set in.

Locally and nationally, the typical sorts of things popped up in response to what happened in Orlando, another in a long parade of similar horrors—vigils, moments of silence, petitions, words of action, words of defiance. We will not give in to fear, and all of that. Instead of joining in some way, to act or to speak or simply to stand in public in solidarity, I just feel numb, weary, drained.

Despite the rising up of those sentiments of defiance, I feel sure that not a damn thing of substance will happen in the wake of this latest mass shooting. I don’t wish to show any disrespect to the families who have now joined those who live in the midst of such unutterable grief in the violent loss of family and friends, but I feel complete assurance that their lives mean little to nothing to those who could make meaningful change.

I feel sure of that. Ever since Sandy Hook.

The lives of those who were killed in Orlando mean something. They are important. But, when all those very young children were shot and killed in that elementary school in Newtown, Connecticut, and not a damn thing of substance happened in response, I became certain that nothing will stop the flood of guns, that nothing will stop the violence, that nothing will put an end to the brazen acceptance that massive expressions of violence are tolerable consequences of modern life.

I’ve attended no vigils, nor have I observed much in the way of silence. For me, right now, they seem pointless. While I can understand those who wish to do something, to feel a sense of action, taking a defiant stand against such horrific violence and the circumstances that allow such wanton killing to take place, I just can’t.

I am not, completely, anti-gun. I live in a place where I know hunters. I know that people have certain rights, and privileges.

But, I also know that people should not be able to own semi-automatic rifles, the sort weapons that the gun industry has labeled “modern sporting rifles,” as if they are all about fun and games. These are the weapons of choice, though, that have been used in recent mass shootings. These “modern sporting rifles” are killing machines, initially intended as military weapons for modern warfare. They are meant to kill quickly and efficiently, with a remarkable number of rounds shot in a remarkably short period of time.

So we add another forty-nine to the ever-growing list of those who have been hunted and killed—people, young and not so young, who loved and were loved, friends, family, lives cut short because of our national lust for access to powerful weaponry, and our twisted understanding of the rights and privileges (though not so much on responsibilities) of individuals.

The NRA likes to say that “guns don’t kill people, people kill people.” In the long catalog of mass shootings, it’s clear that guns do kill people. It is way too easy to get one’s hands on very powerful weapons, and much, much too easy to assemble an arsenal of one’s own for one’s own purposes.

From the lengthy cast of shooters, it seems clear enough that we cannot control the shooters. It’s time that we did more to control their chosen method of killing—the killing machines, the “modern sporting rifles” that are not at all sporting.

But, we won’t. There will be much talk and show, but nothing will come of it.

It’s a certainty that I would prefer to live without.

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Agenda for the Last Day

Posted on June 11, 2016 by smaxreisert

It’s almost impossible these days to ignore the undercurrent of worry and concern at Old South, especially on Sunday mornings as we wonder how many people will join us for worship. The numbers keep going down. After a couple of waves of departures and deaths over the last few years, with only a trickle of new people coming in, we are a smaller congregation—and older. The consequences are significant.

Not only is worship attendance lower, the choir is smaller than it’s been in the over ten years of my ministry with the church. There are fewer people who are able to take up the normal work of congregational life—assisting in getting the sanctuary ready for worship, providing hospitality after worship, etc. And, we have fewer people who are comfortable driving after dark, to attend meetings or evening studies.

A couple of months ago, as the Oversight Committee was preparing for a visit from the man who oversees our endowment portfolio, I found myself in the midst of a few interesting conversations. The portfolio manager has made it clear, during previous visits, that our 5% annual draw on the endowment (of a three-year rolling average) is higher than current industry standards. If we maintain our spending habits, the endowment will slowly shrink.

We have one member, a former banker, who has taken up the cause and is preparing to make the big argument that we reduce our draw. We must preserve the endowment. “It’s our “lifeblood,” he has declared.

I have begun to ask the question of why. Why bother reducing our draw? While I don’t think we should begin to spend recklessly, I wonder why we should set as a goal the preservation of an endowment that will, very likely, outlive the church.

Clearly, not many want to deal with this question. In the few individual discussions I’ve had, through which I’ve tried to gauge where the congregation is on this issue (as well as other similar issues), I’ve noticed that there’s little interest in talking about anything beyond the simple math of what we should annually draw from our endowment. Should we stay at 5% or try to reduce, to 4.5% or even 4?

In one conversation, when I suggested that the church begin to talk about a “sunset clause” to be inserted into the bylaws, I was berated for my pessimism and told that no pastor should be as negative as I am being. When I went through my usual litany, including the challenges beyond the congregation (Maine is among the most secular states in the country, with a population in decline, that Old South is located in an area that is older and lacking in young people, and that our problems are not just our problems, but problems that are shared by other churches as well as the state government that is also concerned about Maine’s aging population and seeming inability to attract new people), I was told that if a day indeed arrives when we can no longer go on, then any important decisions should be left for that day—and not a day before that day. Talking about what to do with whatever is left in the endowment, what to do with the buildings and their contents and the church’s other assets, etc. should all take place on that last day.

If we follow this one person’s advice, and I’m concerned that his ideas may gain some traction, the agenda for our last day is going to be a long one—a very long one.

While I can understand the reluctance to look full on into the reality that Old South’s future is likely a short one, I feel sure that talking about our demise will be a good thing—and may very well provide significant opportunities to reflect meaningfully on why Old South is so important to us. These conversations will certainly bring much grief and sadness, but they may also bring signs of life. Why does this church matter to us? Why do we care?

Conversations about those “end of life” issues should bring us face-to-face with what our “lifeblood” truly is, for it is not our endowment. If, though, it turns out that our lifeblood is the endowment, we might as well schedule our last day as soon as possible, for there’s no point in preserving a wealth management club that just happens to meet on Sunday mornings. Personally, I think there’s more there, more that is part of this small group of older people. It’s time to find it, and embrace it, and figure out who we are and to whom we belong.

Posted in Buildings, Doomed, Studies, Demographics, Reality | Leave a comment

Nick Kristof Could Be Writing About the United Church of Christ

Posted on June 2, 2016 by smaxreisert

Over the last few weeks, Nick Kristof has written at least twice in the New York Times about the lack of ideological diversity on college and university campuses in the United States. Most colleges and universities seem to place diversity high on their list of values for the academy, but diversity seems only to involve race, class, ethnicity, some (but not all) religions, gender and sexuality. Ideological diversity is woefully lacking.

We know this all too well in our own household, as my husband is one of only a very small number of Republicans among the faculty at Colby College in Waterville, Maine, and may be the only one to be “out” as a Republican. I remember when we first moved to the Colby community. There were a few people who were obviously standoffish with me, and with Joe. And, then after we had lived here for a little while and word got out that I did not share my husband’s political views, most of those people warmed up to me immediately, although they admitted that they couldn’t understand how any good Democrat could be married to a Republican. The situation has remained largely the same over the years.

In the United Church of Christ, there’s a similar situation. The denomination talks a great deal about “welcome” and “diversity,” that these are significant values, sacred even. Dig a little deeper, though, and it’s all too clear that welcome and diversity have limits. A visit to the UCC webpage offers a line-up of liberal (sometimes extremely liberal) causes and calls to action.

In and of itself, the UCC’s consistent liberal stance is not necessarily a problem. Churches and denominations are involved in all sorts of issues that pertain to the human condition—the good, the bad and the ugly (and in at least some instances, thank goodness for that).  And, many denominations and churches are, more or less, consistent in how their theology shapes their approach to situations and circumstances of how we humans live, govern ourselves, etc.

The problem for the United Church of Christ is its hypocrisy in upholding consistently liberal leanings, while also claiming to be a denomination of “extravagant welcome” to all. In many a UCC church (as well as on the denomination webpage) you’ll see and/or hear the refrain “no matter who you are, or where you are on life’s journey, you are welcome here.”

At the national level, though, that welcome actually goes only so far. More conservative voices are clearly missing.  As Nick Kristof has shared, diversity of ideology is important. When people surround themselves only with others with whom they agree, their gatherings become echo chambers. And, more than that, there is a tendency to stray to an unacknowledged liberal arrogance, where one side is considered “right,” and the other side not just wrong, but stupid.

In the United Church of Christ, a denomination with strictly congregational polity (local churches may follow, or not follow, the lead of the national body, as they themselves feel the call of the Spirit), diversity can be found at the local church level—at least, in the churches I’ve served. It’s certainly true at Old South. We have staunch Democrats, a few staunch Republicans, and an array of strong (and not so strong) independents (in Maine, there’s a value in independence). Somehow, we are all able to share this one church. And more than that, many find the diversity of ideology an attractive quality of the congregation. They like the exchange of ideas and have found ways of having thoughtful and respectful, if animated and heated at times, conversations with people with whom they disagree. Everyone benefits. The community is strengthened.

As I’ve found in my own house, diversity of ideology can be difficult and frustrating, but it also offers an opportunity for reflection and development of ideas. I can’t just take a side on an issue without knowing why I’m doing so. The same is true for my husband, and our children.

The national setting of United Church of Christ would do well to follow the lead of some of these local churches where ideological diversity is lived out. While it means that there are places where no strong “call to action” may be discerned and employed, I suspect that we may find a newer and deeper sense of what it means to be God’s people in the world. There’s more to witnessing than taking a political side, after all.  There’s more to welcoming than trying to force people to adopt certain views, or to marginalize those who don’t tow the ideological line.

To be truly welcoming is to appreciate all sorts of diversity, not just the kinds of diversity that make us feel good.   If God is still speaking, as the UCC slogan goes, then God is probably not solely speaking in support of liberal causes.  God may very well be speaking in ways that are hard to hear, and understand.  Leaders of the denomination should recognize this and should live, and work, more conscientiously by it.

Extravagant welcome should mean what it says.

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The Strength in Small Numbers

Posted on May 26, 2016 by smaxreisert

Every year, during commencement weekend at Colby College (where my husband is a professor), there’s a dinner to celebrate those receiving honorary degrees from the College. Faculty and administrators gather for this festive evening, during which each degree recipient has an opportunity to share a few thoughts with the audience.

This year, one of the honorary degree awards went to Edison Liu, President and CEO of Jackson Laboratory, a biomedical research institution in Bar Harbor, Maine. During his remarks, Dr. Liu shared his thoughts on the strength of small—small places, small groups, small communities, small companies. Small can change the world, he reminded us.

I was thinking about small as I cleaned up after our Sunday worship service, on the morning after the honorary degree dinner. Old South is not only small as a congregation, but we also have a small Sunday School—3 boys, the oldest one in kindergarten. Plus, one toddler girl who desperately wants to join in the fun.

Sunday was Children’s Sunday. With our focus on our almost microscopic Sunday School, we were feeling particularly small in number. We weren’t quite sure what was going to happen. This spring, the Sunday School had offered lessons on the “Fruits of the Spirit” (love, kindness, generosity, etc.), but no one knew if the boys would really be wiling to show even the tiniest bit of something they had learned.

In the end, though, it was a wonderful, worship-ful service. One of the boys insisted on sitting up in the chancel with me for most of the service. Another boy wanted to help me with the benediction.

Yes, the group is very small, but there is an unmistakable strength. In this small group, I know those boys—not very well, but I know them. And, they know me. When Timothy decided, sometime near the beginning of the service, to sit with me in the chancel, it was no big deal. When James wanted to help out with the benediction (also not planned in advance), holding out his own arms in blessing, we could do that together. I knew how to talk to James so that he would follow my lead and would know what to do. And, no one in the congregation shook their heads in disapproval.

In such a small congregation, which is getting smaller, it sometimes takes a little something to remind us that there’s strength, and significance, in our small numbers. Our shrinking numbers often bring worry and concern, and sometimes something like an apology for the low attendance. We often allow ourselves to see only the negative aspects of our small gathering. Certainly, there are problematic dimensions to our smallness. But, not everything is bad.

It seems an awfully big task to think that we might be able to change the world, but in our own way, that’s exactly what we do. It’s not big or grand, but it’s there in the ways that we share the love of God, in how we reach out to each other, in the places where we reach out to the community and the world in which we live. We won’t likely change much of anything on a large scale, but in our small gathering, we may just change the lives of a few people. As we seek to live out our experience of God’s love and as we live out the “fruits of the Spirit” in our everyday lives, we do the work of God. It’s not big, but it’s a wonderful thing.

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