Seeing Through Stars

Posted on May 17, 2016 by smaxreisert

I attended the GLAAD Media Awards this past Saturday evening in New York City with my very good friends Jenny and Deedie Finney Boylan. It wasn’t hard for me, as a person who lives life mostly as a country bumpkin in Central Maine, to get a little star struck. From my seat in the ballroom, I could just about reach out and tap Diane Sawyer on the shoulder (though I didn’t).  She was sitting next to Caitlyn Jenner (that’s Diane Sawyer’s hair on the right side of the photo):

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I was comforted by the fact that I wasn’t the only clergyperson goggling at celebrities, but I’ll let my clergy colleague—who asked me to take more than one photo of her with a celebrity at the gala—remain unidentified.

I also had a great view of the back of Mariah Carey’s head

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and a view of Robert De Niro (unfortunately, he was a little too far away for a good photo).

Earlier in the day, I had the opportunity to hang out in Caitlyn Jenner’s suite at the Waldorf. She was in a bathrobe getting her hair and makeup done. I didn’t think it fair to take a photo of that, since I wouldn’t want anyone to do that to me.  But here’s a photo of Deedie and me, after getting some professional treatment in the “green room”:

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It wasn’t hard to get a little star struck at the event, but now that the show is over and I’m heading back to my country bumpkin life, I’ve been reflecting a bit on the spectacle and realizing that the real stars of the evening were not the celebrities whose names everyone knew and who barely got a moment of peace between people approaching to speak to them and to take photos.

The real stars of the evening were the Maines family, who were introduced at the gala by Tamron Hall. The father of the family, Wayne,  spoke lovingly and thoughtfully about being the father of a transgender child (now a young adult). He spoke of his journey, and of the transition that he had to make, letting go of certain hopes and dreams for his identical twin boys, facing his fears and opening his heart to a new set of hopes and dreams, involving identical twins who are actually a boy and a girl. It was clear that, while he is in a good place now, he’s been on a painful and often difficult journey which has involved loving, supporting and encouraging both children in ways that he had never anticipated.

I can’t say that I have much in common with Mr. Maines, except that I’m a parent myself.  Perhaps that’s why I was so drawn to his remarks.  But, I am not the parent of a transgender child and there are no—identified—transgender people in my family. I have some relationship, though, with the transgender world, as the friend of a transgender person and her family. I’ve been thinking about that journey as well.

At Saturday’s GLAAD gala, there was a lot of talk about allies and friends, as that was highlighted in the awards given to Mariah Carey and Robert De Niro. But, it seems clear to me that there are other truly significant allies and friends, and family, and those are the people who, in the course of their very ordinary lives, live out the notion that we should strive for acceptance and good relationship, that we should love others as we want to be loved ourselves. We should be more willing to recognize and face our own fears when we don’t understand, seeking knowledge before judgment.

While celebrities might be able to point the way, the work is done in a lot of smaller, seemingly inconsequential, moments.  Each of us has the ability to light that path, showing kindness, loving and respecting people for who they are—in the ordinary corners, families and communities in which we live. It’s not very glamorous, but it’s what truly counts.

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People and Places

Posted on May 12, 2016 by smaxreisert

During a recent visit to New York City, I visited the September 11 Memorial for the first time.  Like most adults, I remember exactly what I was doing and where I was when I learned of the attacks on that bright, sunny Tuesday morning in 2001. Still, the memorial, while moving and haunting, seemed surreal and distant to me. Until about a decade ago, I had visited New York City only a handful of times, so I’ve never felt a particularly strong connection.

By contrast, the bombings in London, in July 2005, felt much closer, and personal. Although I was a long way away at the time of the attack on London, my family and I had lived in London for a short time in 2004. I remember one particular afternoon, when my children and I were taking a long walk, we came across Tavistock Square (where the bus bomb was detonated) and spent some time wandering around the little park in the middle of the Square, a park dedicated to peace. There’s a statue of Mathatma Ghandi and trees planted in remembrance of Hiroshima and Nagasaki (more information here:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tavistock_Square). When I heard of the London attack, and learned about where the bombs went off, I felt a deep sense of loss and outrage. Those were places I knew, where I had not only spent time, but meaningful time.

It’s not uncommon for people to develop a sense of connection to certain geographical locations. Sometimes these connections are strong ones. Places come to mean something to us—they spark strong memory or emotion, perhaps both; they evoke a sense of belonging, of kinship, of community; they offer a compelling, physical tie to something both a part of us and beyond us.

When it comes to the Christian faith, though, we are encouraged to resist that strong sense of place or connection, in terms of geography and the physical nature of human life. I’ve always found it interesting that Christ chose to show himself on that first Easter morning in small, intimate ways, rather than in the large and dramatic. There’s not much about the surroundings, except that they are outside an empty tomb. One gets the sense that it’s not so much about place, but about relationship. And, even more so when Christ warns Mary not to touch him. We are drawn in through our connection with Christ, rather than a connection to a certain physical place.

Yet, many Christians cannot help but get caught up in attaching themselves to places, especially church buildings. For quite a few of those who attend Old South, for example, the building in which we worship is a vital piece of the connection to the God we worship. When we worship in the Parish House in the winter (across the street from the church building), a couple of people stay away altogether and a few others attend only grudgingly.

The first winter that we tried worship in the Parish House (it’s an easier and cheaper building to heat, plus it’s closer to the parking area so not as challenging to get into when it’s snowy and icy), it was interesting to find that quite a few people found themselves truly drawn to the experience. Although it was at first seen as something born out of necessity, it became something meaningful and valuable. For many, the new surroundings offered a better path to better relationship. In the Parish House, people sit closer to each other. The space feels more intimate, friendlier. For some, the Parish House was more akin to “church” than the church building with its beautiful sanctuary.  I felt closer to community.

Although not everyone got “on board,” it offered a glimmer of hope for the future.

Christians—whether forced to by shrinking congregations or not—must discover ways of living out the faith that are not so bound to physical locations. This is painful for many, to be sure, and an especially unwelcome dimension for those who are older and perhaps weary of change. Our Christian faith, though, speaks to us to resist attachment to physical things.  Instead, we must reclaim and rekindle our connection to the One who is not contained in any earthly, physical place or location, but is found when we gather together in Christ’s name.

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What Else Can I Buy at Target?

Posted on May 4, 2016 by smaxreisert

In the strange debates that can pop up between liberals and conservatives, I often find myself, while not in agreement with conservatives, at least able to see how the point they are making may have come to be or why it might be so important to them. I am married to a conservative, after all. Over the years, I’ve learned a thing or two.

In the current ridiculousness around bathrooms, trangender people, and the fear and suspicion that predators will eagerly take advantage of laws and policies that allow people to use bathrooms that correspond with their gender identity (which may not be the gender of their birth), dressing up as women to prey on “little girls” in public restrooms, I cannot for the life of me understand how we got here, or wrap my head around the mindset of those who are eager to pass, or support, such bathroom laws and policies.

And, now one of the players in the drama is Target, as Target has decided that employees and customers should be able to use the bathroom that corresponds with their gender identity. Conservatives have gone into full protest mode, with conservative groups encouraging a boycott of Target.

I’m with Target. And there I will shop.

This whole bathroom insanity is truly mind-boggling to me. Are these people actually using their brains at all? How exactly are they going to protect the public restrooms of women and “young girls” (Ted Cruz seems especially eager to protect “young girls,” especially since he has a couple of them, who seem to be wandering on a regular basis into public restrooms without their mother or another adult friend or family member) anyway? Shall we “brand” people on the forehead at birth with their gender just so there’s no confusion? Will stores and highway rest areas need to hire security to sit outside rest rooms in order to check ID?

It seems especially ludicrous to dwell on the fears that predators using transgender sensitive policies when there’s absolutely no evidence that such a thing has happened. Where is the fear coming from and why is gaining traction? Hasn’t it occurred to these deeply fearful people that, with or without transgender sensitive bathroom policies, predators can dress up as women and enter public women’s restrooms any time they want?

Ted Cruz likes to refer to “common sense” when he states that we shouldn’t allow adult men to dress up as women in order to prey on little girls in rest rooms. I wonder about his definition of “common sense.” Doesn’t he have even the remotest clue that his precious little girls are actually in way more danger around family, friends and neighbors? According to the US Department of Justice, 90% of child sexual abuse victims know the perpetrator in some way. 68% are abused by a family member. Is it “common sense” to ignore reality?

The so-called Christian American Family Association—that called for the Target boycott—has unleashed a wave of unpleasantness, nonsense and rage. How can these “Christians” opt for fear instead of humanity, hatred instead of love, suspicion instead of knowledge? They seem all too eager to live out of anger and hatred of “others”—before taking even a moment to think.

Thinking is crucial, though, especially in this increasingly complicated and uncertain world. Fear and hatred will not bring back “simpler” times. We must be thoughtful and willing to consider why certain things tap into our fear, knowing that fear can be one of the most dangerous dimensions of our human life. Perhaps that’s why Jesus was always telling those around him not to fear. Sure, it’s easier said than done. But, these days, it seems there lots of “Christians” who refuse even to try, to try not to fear, not to fear that which seems different.  And, that’s harmful for everyone.

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Politicians, Christians and Bathrooms

Posted on April 25, 2016 by smaxreisert

It’s hard to know how to make sense of the recent brouhaha around bathrooms that has taken hold in a number of state legislatures and on the presidential primary trail. During a rally in Maryland, Ted Cruz asked if we had gone “stark-raving nuts” in response to Donald Trump’s defense of transgender rights. Cruz went on to say later, during an interview with Glenn Beck, “When you deal with people who are repulsive perverts and criminals — there are some bad people in the world and we shouldn’t be facilitating putting little girls alone in a bathroom with grown, adult men. That is just a bad, bad, bad idea.”

What?

My first response is to wonder what’s going on in Ted Cruz’s head. Should I be concerned about what he’s thinking about when he enters a public restroom? My second response is to wonder who he’s thinking about when he shows concern for “little girls alone in a bathroom”? Who lets their little girl go into any public restroom by herself—regardless of whether or not there might be transgender folks in there?

If there’s anyone in these scenarios who causes me concern, it’s Ted Cruz—as well as all of those other politicians and legislators who point to transgender people as the problem or, that predators will hide behind transgender sensitivity to prey on young children, especially girls. Are the minds of these politicians filled with dreams of dressing up as women themselves in order to visit the fantasyland that is the public women’s restroom?

Allow me to let you in on a little secret: the average public women’s restroom is not the paradise you might have in your mind. We don’t go prancing around in our underwear or sit in chaise lounges sipping tea. Aside from washing our hands and adjusting our makeup, the truth is that most of what we do in there is done alone in a stall behind a closed door.

What’s going on in Ted Cruz’s mind, as well as all of those other legislators, is deeply troubling. It is even more so when these very same politicians claim the Christian faith as their own. Even a cursory reading of the Holy Bible shows us that Jesus held a special affinity for those on the margins of society, those who were a little different than the ordinary, those who were easily misunderstood and cast as scapegoats for all of society’s ills. Jesus hung out with these people. They were his friends and followers.

Ted Cruz, as well as those other politicians, should show their faith by embracing instead of scapegoating, accepting instead of hating, and, at the very least—learning rather than assuming. It’s all too easy—and therefore disgraceful and not in any way Christian—to shame those who are transgender or to point to them as people undeserving of respect or care simply because they are a small group (and actually the people who are truly at risk in the face of these bathroom laws and policies).

Instead of pointing, these politicians should examine what lives in their own hearts and minds. Perhaps the real enemy lives within.

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For Prince

Posted on April 22, 2016 by smaxreisert

There are certain artist/celebrity deaths that make certain people feel especially sad—not to mention mortal. This can be particularly acute when the celebrity is one’s age, or thereabouts, and/or when the work of the celebrity is associated with special memories.

For me, one of those is Prince. I never met him, or even attended a concert. But, I have clear memories of Prince’s music, with distinct images popping into my head when I hear particular songs.

When I learned of his death yesterday, I immediately remembered that relatively short time in my life when I was in college when I ran for exercise. At that time, I had several friends who were runners. So, I ended up a runner too (though it didn’t last long after college).

Several times a week, in the late afternoon, I set out for what was known as the “three-mile-loop.” I had my Walkman (it was the 1980s) and the cassette of choice was Purple Rain. I ran to that album countless times, its music forming an indelible mark in my head and in my memory.

I almost always ran alone, mostly because I was slow, but also because I enjoyed the solitude. A college campus can be a hard place to find quiet places to be all alone (the library was usually quiet, but one was hardly ever alone). For my three mile run, with the music of Purple Rain ringing in my ears, I could escape for a short time.

After a traumatic experience in the fall of my senior year, I didn’t run for a little while—mostly because I was afraid of being alone. When I was ready to don my running shoes again and my Walkman and run the three-mile-loop, Prince was the one who came with me.

I remember it like it was, well not quite yesterday, but like it was not all that long ago. Yet it happened a long time ago, like thirty years ago (my thirtieth reunion is coming up in June).

And, now Prince is gone, and not much older than I am.

Dearly beloved
We are gathered here today
To get through this thing called life
Electric word life
It means forever and that’s a mighty long time
But I’m here to tell you
There’s something else
The after world
A world of never ending happiness
You can always see the sun, day or night
So when you call up that shrink in Beverly Hills
You know the one, Dr. Everything’ll Be Alright
Instead of asking him how much of your time is left
Ask him how much of your mind, baby
‘Cause in this life
Things are much harder than in the after world
In this life
You’re on your own
(Lyrics from “Let’s Go Crazy” from Purple Rain)

Well, not really. We’re not really on our own. And, I’m thankful for that.

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A Church Story

Posted on April 17, 2016 by smaxreisert

Last Sunday, I attended the retirement celebration for the minister with whom I worked when I was a student minister while in divinity school, and then after I graduated, when I became the church’s assistant minister. My friend, and former colleague, will be retiring soon, after more than thirty years with the same congregation.

The celebration involved regular Sunday worship and then a nice lunch. In order to get there to share worship with that congregation which was the first congregation where I served as pastor, I had to use my phone for navigation help, since I had been there only once before, and that was several years ago.

Sound like a strange riddle?

Several years after I left that congregation, which was already a merged congregation of two churches in Cambridge, Mass., the church merged again, with a small church in Medford, Mass. The church building in Medford became the church’s home.

When I was successfully delivered to the church building and got inside, I was immediately thrust into a world that was both strange and familiar. Although the building was new to me, and different (and it took a moment to figure out where important things like the rest rooms were), I was a bit overwhelmed to find myself face-to-face with so many familiar people. It was great to see so many people I knew so well—a few I hadn’t seen since I left the church in 1997.

I’ll admit to feeling like the rug had been snatched from under my feet at the sight of one particular man holding a baby and realizing that the man was once in the youth group I led.

While it was strange to be with my old friends, companions in the faith, in what was for me an alien environment, I also felt like I was right at home. The building was different. The sanctuary, very different. Yet, it was familiar. It was the church I remembered.

There were plenty of new faces, too, among the familiar ones, as well as familiar faces belonging to people who are no longer part of that church community. It was especially fascinating to meet and chat with the person who now fills the shoes that I once wore, and in much the same way, beginning as student and then moving into a larger role after graduating from divinity school.

I was struck with many thoughts during my extended visit, but I was especially drawn to thoughts of the resiliency of the church and people of faith. North Prospect Union Church not only survived, but has thrived through thoughtful and faithful practice. It’s not an easy thing to be open to the changes that the church has faced (though it’s a little easier in a place where real estate is so valuable and church buildings and land are relatively easily sold—which is a very different situation than where I now serve). Still, the church continues. It is new and familiar at the same time.

It’s a reminder of what church ought to be, and should certainly should strive to be—even if the church building hasn’t moved at all: always new, always familiar, always seeking to be.

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The Meaning and Value of Church Community

Posted on April 12, 2016 by smaxreisert

One of the more memorable family anthems for our family originally came to us somewhere along the New Jersey Turnpike, as we made the long journey from Maine to North Carolina in the summer of 2009. Our then young teenage daughter was likely giving us some kind of grief (who can remember them all?), and as if by magic, Kelly Clarkson’s “My Life Would Suck Without You” came on the radio. My husband and I immediately gravitated to the line of lyric that went, “I know that I’ve got issues, but you’re pretty messed up too.”

A family anthem was born. Still today, when our now almost-not-a-teenager-anymore daughter, or her brother, gives us a certain kind of grief, the lyrics offer a comforting refrain, “I know that I’ve got issues, but you’re pretty messed up too.”

Although many a church member would blanch at the uttering of the title of this song, “My Life Would Suck Without You” in worship, the part of that song that has become one of our family’s favorite refrains would make a very nice church refrain as well.

One of the aspects of church life that I continue to find fascinating, and meaningful, is the varied, yet cohesive, collection of people who gather in church. At Old South, as it has been in other churches of which I’ve been part over my life, the people who gather wouldn’t likely gather in any other way, or in any other place. A few of them live in the same neighborhood. Some share a common interest or hobby. But, on an average Sunday morning, even when attendance is low, a rather unusual assemblage of people is there in the pews—gathered in a way that is unique. We have an assortment of class, life experience, education level, culture, political leanings and a bit of diversity in terms of age and race.

Before and after worship, it is common to see these varied people reaching out to each other in encouragement or comfort, or just to share a pleasant greeting. I see them engaged in deep conversation, sharing stories, providing a space for solace or joy, sometimes both at the same time. Somewhere in there they live out the notion “I know that I’ve got issues, but you’re pretty messed up too.” There’s a shared sense of brokenness, as well as hope and reconciliation, that our faith leads us to recognize not only the imperfections of others, but our own as well. And, we come to at least a partial knowledge that God’s love allows us to accept these imperfections, but not to be bound, nor completely defined, by them.

In these days of anger, hostility and suspicion of the “other” displayed in the public square, and at many political rallies, the basic understanding that imperfections and brokenness are part of each and every human being—that it’s not just the “other” that’s messed up, it’s me too—seems a distant and alien idea.

We could use a little more of what happens at places like Old South, where we gather in the midst of our “issues,” but somehow manage, through the love of God, to transcend them—at least to some extent. It doesn’t always work, but it comes pretty close most of the time. Somehow in that shared sense of shortcomings, we are able to live out kindness and compassion, respect and care—knowing that “my life would suck without you.”

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Getting a Grip on the Numbers

Posted on April 2, 2016 by smaxreisert

Just before Easter, the website realclearreligion.org included a link to a blog post from the Institute on Religion and Democracy entitled, “Financial Crunch Hits the United Church of Christ” (written by Jeffrey Walton). The post described the crisis in the United Church of Christ, especially at the national level, where staff cuts are, and have been, taking place.

The blog post went on to unleash disturbing trends at the local level as well:
“Last summer, UCC Center for Analytics, Research and Data (CARD) studies were released that confirmed dire forecasts. The first, Futuring the United Church of Christ: 30-Year Projections, showed that over the next three decades, the number of UCC congregations will decline from over 5,100 churches today to approximately 3,600 churches. During the same time period, the number of UCC members will drop precipitously, from 1.1 million to just under 200,000 adherents.”

During a gloomy Holy Week (for all of the usual difficult stories and themes, as well as a local mini recurrence of winter that caused our Maundy Thursday service to be cancelled), the story about the continued decline of the United Church of Christ seemed a little more than I wanted to consider. After all, there’s nothing in there that hints at anything that might turn Easter-like.

The comments section accompanying the blog is full of all of the usual “suspects,” when it comes to blame for what is happening in the United Church of Christ. It’s stuff I’ve heard many, many times before—support of same-sex marriage (and the LBGTQ community in general), adhering to left-leaning politics (especially support of same-sex marriage), etc. If our decline is indeed tied to support of marriage equality, then perhaps I’m a little more prepared to go down with the ship.

At this time of year, during the pre- and post-Easter season, I often find myself thinking about the meaning of numbers. When Jesus was crucified, only a small number of his friends—most, if not all, women—were there to witness his suffering and death. The men had gone off to hide, probably worried that they might be next. On Easter morning, the Gospels tell that, again, the numbers were small. Only a few showed up at the empty tomb. Only a few were there to begin to share the news.

At its most foundational “event,” the numbers were small, intimate. The news was amazing, shocking, confusing, life-changing—but centered around a very small group. Presumably, Christ could have chosen to do something much more grand. Christ could have chosen to involve a lot more people. Instead, there were only a few.

The United Church of Christ may well be in decline and may be in precipitous decline. But, in this Easter season, I find hope in small numbers. I don’t calculate our “success” by the standards of the world, but by the small voice that began near an empty tomb. Churches (and denominations) ought not calculate their closeness to Christ through membership numbers or cars in parking lots.

Sure, numbers are important to the business of being Church, but numbers don’t necessarily say anything about faithfulness to the work of Christ. There’s a critical difference. The Gospels are quite clear that Jesus never seemed especially interested in winning popularity contests. We should, therefore, be a little more careful about asserting some sort of divine message of disfavor when denominations, and local churches, find themselves in decline (or, divine approval when the numbers are surging). The small group may have something very significant to share, and though not attracting large groups, may be doing important Godly work.

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Happy Fear and Terror Day!

Posted on March 27, 2016 by smaxreisert

At Old South, we are following the Narrative Lectionary, rather than the Revised Common Lectionary, which means that we’ve been marching our way through the Gospel According to Mark for quite some time. We wrap up Mark today, Easter, with Mark 16:1-8. Some say this is the original ending, and that what follows in most Bibles is an ending that was added later.

No wonder, really, that a different ending was tacked on later, because ending with verse 8 is a little tricky: “So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.*

It’s not exactly the stuff that leads neatly to choruses of “Alleluia! He is Risen!” or any of the other typical Easter excitement.

To focus on Mark’s version of the first Easter, if we believe that Mark intended to have his Gospel end with terror and fear, is to engage in something at least a little unexpected. But, that’s what we are going to do at Old South. I’m not sure what the response will be. Mark’s Gospel may be just what we need to hear, though. Although I can’t say that I feel much “terror,” I can say with certainty that there’s plenty of fear—fear of what’s to come, fear of the very real possibility that Old South will close in the not so distant future, fear that the church will continue to struggle and slip into complete irrelevance. Fear is a common aspect of our life together as a church.

It was the same for those first disciples, those first followers of Jesus.

At the sight of the empty tomb, their response was terror, amazement and fear, and perhaps most troubling “they said nothing to anyone.”

On that very first Easter, those first disciples had a number of choices, among them:
1. They could declare that they had done their best, but they couldn’t keep the crucifixion from happening and they had no idea what to do with the empty tomb. The easiest thing was just to move on.
2. They could pretend that nothing actually happened and return to their pre-Jesus lives.
3. They could fool themselves into thinking that Jesus was just away for a bit or maybe if they waited long enough that Jesus would find a way to fix everything and take care of things for them, like magic.
4. They could decide that others would figure it out for themselves, that Jesus was someone special and worth paying attention to. The followers might start meeting quietly on Sunday mornings in a special place, with a small “welcome” sign out front.
5. They could face the fear and the terror, and though their initial reaction was to adopt the “cone of silence,” they decide that Jesus was too important not to say and do something, and so they begin living in the midst of assurance as well as mystery, and begin to gather themselves, and then others as well, welcoming, inviting, actively sharing the love and hope of God through Jesus Christ and the continuing presence of the Holy Spirit.

Followers in churches like Old South face similar choices. We can decide that we’ve done our best and allow what seems inevitable to happen. We can trick ourselves into thinking that someone else will do the work for us, and our problems magically will be solved. We can wait for those “out there” to figure it out for themselves that they are missing out on something meaningful. We can continue to meet and post our small “welcome” sign and await the masses. One of these days, they will surely come. Won’t they?

Or, we can face our fear and, at the same time, come to terms with what this church and faith stuff means to us. And if it means enough, then we’ll figure out how to share the news, the good news.  There’s a fancy word for that:  evangelism.

For the first followers, their immediate experience may well have been fear, terror and an amazement that rendered them silent—at first. But, at some point, they figured out that Jesus—not to mention the resurrected Christ—meant something important, life-changing, to them. And, so they began to share, and welcome, and invite. And, behold there was the Church.

We can do the same, if we allow the Easter story to truly capture our imagination and heart. Happy Easter.

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When Silence Is the Guide

Posted on March 20, 2016 by smaxreisert

I’ve been in the ministry long enough that I’m rarely truly surprised by something church-related. But, today was one of those rare days of blessed surprise—on one of the saddest days of the Christian year.

A few years ago, I gave up on my quest to increase attendance at special worship services during Holy Week. Those who came, came. Those who didn’t, didn’t—no matter what I said or how I cajoled. Instead, I changed our Palm Sunday observance to a Palm/Passion Sunday service. At the start of the service, we listen to Palm Sunday scripture and the choir sings something appropriate to the theme. After a pastoral prayer and an offering, we transition to the Passion.

We begin with a choral piece from the choir. Then, we read through the Passion from one of the Gospels, with passages interlaced with verses of the hymn, “My Song Is Love Unknown.”

At the end of the service we sing “O Sacred Head, Now Wounded” and then go through a lengthy benediction, making note of the difficult, and complicated, story of Holy Week. We acknowledge the ways in which the disciples, and we, fail Jesus. We ask for blessing as we begin the week, and reflect briefly on the grace and hope that is intimately part of the unfolding of the sacred story.

This year, we focused on the Passion according to Mark, as we have been following the Narrative Lectionary. I read sections of the story and we sang the verses of “My Song Is Love Unknown” separately, at breaks during the reading of the story.

After the benediction, I walked down the aisle. Since I was helping with hospitality, I walked out of the sanctuary and into the vestry, where I could still hear the postlude. After pouring some coffee, I went over to the large doors between the sanctuary and the vestry and opened them. When the postlude concluded, I realized that something was different.

There was silence.

Usually, at Old South, a round of applause follows the postlude. I don’t ever remember silence after the postlude—in more than a decade as pastor of Old South.

But, today there was silence. A beautiful, amazing, extraordinary silence.

In some churches, a good worship experience is affirmed through voices and noise. In good New England Congregational churches, a good worship experience is affirmed through silence. Over my years of ministry, I have come to appreciate and give thanks for those occasional experiences of silence. It means that something is happening. The Holy Spirit is afoot.

Today, there was silence. I had certainly been moved by the service. Though the story was familiar, as were the hymns, there is something remarkable in the telling of the story, out loud in a sanctuary. And, for me, “O Sacred Head” is a favorite hymn. But, I couldn’t tell if anyone else shared what I had experienced.

But, there was silence. And, after the silence, quite a few parishioners thanked me for the service, and affirmed that they had found it to be an especially meaningful service.

I must admit that there have been some frustrating days of late in my work with Old South. So, today felt strangely good. Though a difficult story to be sure, the shared sense of the sacred was inspiring.

For this, I offer an incomplete, but sincere: thank you.

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