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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There’s a Mountain Out There

Posted on March 12, 2016 by smaxreisert

The Pew Research Center has released a report, “How Religious Is Your State?” For anyone paying attention to the religious landscape, the report contains little in the way of surprise. Yet, it is still startling to see that I not only live in one of the least religious states in the country, but in a region, a cluster of states, that is decidedly secular. Take a look at the graphic and notice the very pale blue section of the country, there in the northeast corner:
http://www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2016/02/29/how-religious-is-your-state/

I found myself recently in a small group of people who attend Old South. They expressed concern about the church, and its future. It’s a conversation I’ve had countless times. The church in these days isn’t what they expected and they are looking around and trying to figure out what happened, what they missed. They are still going to church, after all, but what happened to everyone else?

In the small city in which Old South exists, changes in culture and habit are clear—if you dare look around. When I drive through Hallowell on my way to church on Sunday mornings, I can’t help but notice the people I see around town and what they are doing—walking their dogs, on a run for exercise, wandering up the hill from Water St. with the New York Times tucked under an arm, or wandering down the hill on the way to brunch or to the bakery. Sunday mornings are lazy mornings for a lot of people in Hallowell.

And, yet, there is still so much mystery and wondering among the members of Old South. What happened? Where did everyone go?

I feel like we are at the bottom of a very large mountain, and the mountain is so close that we cannot perceive how big it is. For me, the choices are clear: we face the mountain boldly and take it on (learning to invite people to church, learning to talk about our faith, changing how we do things, etc.); or we admit that we don’t want to climb the mountain, accepting that we are facing our sunset; or, we can bury our heads in the sand, pretending the problem doesn’t really exist, or that it’s someone else’s fault, or that if we wait long enough, the culture will change just by wishing it were so.

Central Maine, along with the entire Northeast, is a difficult place in which to be church and especially to be on the more moderate/liberal/progressive end of the Christian spectrum. According to the Pew Research Center, Maine’s religious profile is as follows: 34% say that religion is very important in their lives; 22% say they attend worship at least weekly; 35% pray daily; 48% believe in God with absolute certainty.

The reality is all too clear, and it isn’t new. Yet too many church folk seem determined to look away, or to engage in the same old ponderings about low Sunday worship attendance (Sunday morning sports practices, for example.). We can avert our eyes or pretend it isn’t there, but the mountain is all too real. I would prefer that we look at the mountain and admit that we just don’t have the energy to climb it and prayerfully acknowledge that we are near the end. That seems a lot more honest, not to mention faithful, than sticking our heads in the sand and thinking that all those secular people will magically, entirely on their own, decide to come to church. The state of denial seems so undignified and hollow.

In his letter to the Romans, Paul may not have been talking about 21st century churches, but I still think his words are helpful, “If we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord; so then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s. For to this end Christ died and lived again, so that he might be Lord of both the dead and the living.” (Romans 14:8-9)

There’s nothing in there about those who live in the world of wishful thinking. I can’t help but think that Christ would rather we be engaged in one or the other, life or death, faithful to the Gospel, sharing God’s love, living in mission, whether we live or die. Just not the horrible middle, where we wonder about things, while resisting the answers that are right in front of us.

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What We Do with What Remains

Posted on March 1, 2016 by smaxreisert

Old South held its annual meeting at the end of January. As has become our tradition, the meeting was well attended, informative, and thank goodness, free from controversy. We elected a new moderator and made adjustments to our new governance model. We also discussed and passed a budget for the year.

The budget conversation was the longest and fullest part of the meeting. After the Treasurer’s presentation, one of the older, and longer-term, members of the congregation stood up to share a few thoughts. While he was planning to vote in favor of the budget as presented, he wanted to encourage the congregation to think about we use our endowment.

Old South has a sizeable endowment. About 15 years ago, after quite a few years of dipping into the endowment without much thought for its preservation, a small group of church members came up with a better strategy. Their proposal suggested an annual draw, to support the budget, of 5% of a three-year rolling average.

This plan has been in place for over a decade. At our most recent annual meeting, the concerned church member stated that our 5% draw is too high, no longer in line with industry standards. Instead, we should seek to lower the draw to closer to 4%. With our already very lean budget, this is a proposal of some consequence.

The concerned church member went on to talk about the significance of preserving the endowment for the future of the church, and for future generations.

Here’s where I bit my tongue, and kept my teeth on my tongue for some time. We needed to get through annual meeting and it was not the right time to engage in a conversation about the future of our endowment or the church. That’s work for another day.

Old South, to be brutally honest, is a church without much of a future. The average age in worship is probably around 70. Except for a few young children (brought by their grandparents), we have no active members under the age of forty. None. And only a handful between the ages of forty and sixty.

A conversation about our endowment, and the use of it, is a serious, not to mention complicated, issue. It’s long been on my mind that such a conversation will need to take place, and likely soon. But, opening such a conversation must be done carefully and thoughtfully. Among the questions: Do we reduce our draw to “preserve” the endowment for future generations, ignoring the reality that the congregation likely has only a short future instead of a long one? Will the endowment be the “last thing standing” when the church does not have enough members to keep going? Do we actually draw more from the endowment, as membership dwindles—to pay utilities and the pastor’s salary—allowing the endowment to shrink with the congregation? Should we consider the possibility of the endowment serving another church, perhaps in a place where there’s more fertile ground for church growth?

These are critical questions that Old South will need to begin to talk about and wrestle with—and soon. These are also profound questions—about who we are, our relationship with our Creator, and how we, faithfully and prayerfully, enter into those vast theological concepts of hope, trust, grace, death and resurrection.

Not long ago, I was talking to an Old South parishioner about these questions. She immediately latched onto those last words and asked, “Where is the resurrection? Where is our resurrection?” I reminded her that our primary guide to resurrection teaches that the concept does not offer a neat and tidy return to life before death. Resurrection is different, significantly and profoundly.

We may die as a single, local congregation. But, it is very clear that we are called to be a people of faith, of hope and of resurrection. What will that look like for us? Can we see faithfulness even as we die? And will we have the strength to be faithful with that pile of money that has provided for us and to think about it in radically different ways?

Will we find the blessing to see beyond our disappointment and heartbreak to see God at work in our moving forward, even if that moving forward is toward closure? What will we do with what remains beyond us?  Will we have the courage to embrace the notion that the endowment is not “ours,” but God’s and for God’s church?  May it be so, by God’s grace.

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The Peril of Politics and Particular Providence

Posted on February 22, 2016 by smaxreisert

Glenn Beck seems to think that God is so concerned about the United States that He decided to break one of his own “Big Ten” and killed Antonin Scalia, so that Americans would realize “how important their freedom is so that they vote for Ted Cruz to pick Scalia’s replacement.” (Huffington Post, 2/18/16)

This isn’t the first time that a person with a big voice, and a tie to the Christian community, has suggested that God has done something in order to support a traditionally conservative agenda. One doesn’t even need to dig too deep to recall similar claims, regarding God’s use of hurricanes, disease, and so forth, in an attempt to guide people to what “He” wants, which just happens also to be part of the agenda of the one who’s speaking.

It’s interesting to me that none of these big voices, these prophets of doom upon others, seems at all interested in reflecting on the notion that perhaps God is trying to get their attention. Has Glenn Beck considered the possibility that God chose to end Antonin Scalia’s life at this moment because God was concerned about how Scalia was going to vote in the upcoming Supreme Court abortion case, that perhaps God is interested in preserving a woman’s right to choice? Or, that God chose this moment so that President Obama could choose his replacement before he leaves office?

I should probably state clearly and unequivocally here that I am not a “particular providence” kind of person or theologian. I don’t believe that God visits particular disasters, or blessings, upon particular people for particular purposes. I don’t believe that God assists certain people in winning the lottery nor does God cause disease or tragedy to occur for others. And, I certainly don’t think that God wreaks havoc intentionally to get the attention of Americans so that they will vote for conservative politicians.

Although it’s not my theological cup of tea, I can understand the desire to see God working in this very “hands on” sort of way. The Bible, after all, does seem to suggest that God, at least on occasion, has been involved in the affairs of humans through the use of those things that are, presumably, at God’s disposal—the natural world as well as the imperfections of the human body. It must be of some comfort to see the Divine at work in such detail.

Those who are eager to see God at work in this way, however, ought to understand that God’s interventions cannot possibly only work to benefit their own prejudices, values, and politics. Shouldn’t God’s omniscience and omnipotence be understood in ways that suggest that one’s own leanings are not always in tune with God’s?

Bible stories that point to the possibility of God’s particular providence also suggest that even the most faithful are sometimes surprised by the lessons that our Creator offers, especially through Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit. Paul, for example, experienced a rather dramatic realignment to what he had previously understood as God’s work in his life.

Glenn Beck, and others of his ilk, should be more reflective, prayerful and humble about what God might be up to, as well as their own ability to understand the Divine. It can’t always be that God is working on Glenn Beck’s behalf, or that Glenn Beck seems mysteriously to understand so completely the mind of the Creator.

Heaven help us.

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That Thing About Assumptions

Posted on February 12, 2016 by smaxreisert

Things get tense in my house every four years, around this time. As the presidential primaries and caucuses begin, my husband and I must renew the strange little political dance that gets us through these seasons, with our marriage intact.

We’ve known, since before we married over twenty years ago, that we play for opposing political teams. That knowledge informs our way through these dangerous partisan procedures. While there are moments in our house of intense and animated dialogue that are fueled by our opposing views (which makes our son run and hide), we are mostly able to wade through presidential primary season without any significant damage done to body or spirit.

Given my long history of relationship with “the other side,” I am sensitive to how people talk and engage with political issues, especially in reference to those with whom they disagree. Over my ten years of ministry at Old South in Hallowell, Maine, I’ve noticed that there’s an awareness—mostly unspoken—that there are differences in political leanings among the individuals who gather in that church. People are wary, then, of engaging in discussions that are clearly political, lest a disagreement lead to a disruption in congenial relationship. But when a political discussion does take place, it is—at least what I’ve witnessed—respectful and thoughtful.

Beyond home and Old South, though, I notice no such respect, or wariness. For example, in a local Bible study group that includes people from several area churches, including Old South, there are a couple of people (not from Old South) who speak clearly from their Democratic Party viewpoint, as if everyone in the group is in agreement. They’ve even gone so far as to imply, on occasion, that Democrats are right and Republicans are stupid.

There are a couple of problems with this: 1. I don’t think everyone in that Bible study is a Democrat and it’s problematic to make such assumptions, and, 2. I don’t think it’s okay for Christians, any Christians, to engage in political discussions that cast one side as in possession of truth and the other side full of danger and folly, that there’s one side that works for the common good and the other only for the good of a few.

We may choose a political side as the best path that represents the values we hold dear, but that doesn’t mean that we favor a political party that is in full possession of truth and justice. And, we ought to take more care in the assumptions that we make, around friends and neighbors, around meeting tables and Bible studies.

My husband and I are able to get through this season by taking some care in how we discuss what is going on and by recognizing that there are limits to the practice of virtue in any political party. While I know that his side is often misguided, there is significance in recognizing that my side is often misguided as well (though perhaps not as often as his!).

In the angry and hostile political rhetoric that is heating up in this season, we don’t need more people contributing to the animosity. Instead, we need more people who are thoughtful enough to recognize that we get little actually accomplished by seeing our own side as inherently good while the other side is inherently, and irredeemably, bad. We need more people who take the Golden Rule seriously, that we are to love God with all that we are and to love our neighbor as ourselves—even when they don’t share our politics.

Let’s put our assumptions aside and open the door to more meaningful dialogue. It’s crystal clear that such dialogue is woefully lacking and desperately needed.

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The Light of Spotlight

Posted on February 6, 2016 by smaxreisert

I recently went with a friend to see Spotlight, the film that focuses on the Boston Globe’s uncovering of clergy abuse of children. I wanted to see the film for several reasons—to see how the story would be portrayed on the big screen, to see how the cast would handle the fascinating way in which Bostonians tend to speak the English language, and to see Boston itself on the big screen. For better or worse, I’m from the Greater Boston area. My daughter was actually born within the city limits.

When a film receives many glowing reviews, as Spotlight has, I can’t help but think that it probably won’t be as good as all that. In the case of this particular film, I found it to be even better. The cast was exceptional, and the story drawn in heartbreaking, but sensitive, detail.

In recent years, I’ve seen a variety of church/clergy films that I have found deeply affecting—Calvary and Philomena, especially, come to mind. These films, with Spotlight now as well, have taken up a sort of residence in my soul, sending me off to think unsettling thoughts about Christianity, the Church, and the role of clergy.

It can be all too easy to watch these films and then to sit back and think that they have little to do with me in a close way. Each of these films involves the Roman Catholic Church. I am not a Roman Catholic. I am not a priest. I am not part of a denomination that has such a complicated and deeply institutional authority structure.

Yet, I know clergy who have strayed past important boundaries. I know clergy who have taken advantage of the pastor-parishioner relationship. I know clergy who have been fool enough to think that a moment of vulnerability with a parishioner signals a different kind of relationship.

What is different, though, as I think about the story that Spotlight tells is the role of children. Of the clergy that I know, directly or indirectly, who have crossed boundaries that should not be crossed, all of those cases involve adults. Spotlight shines a light on clergy abuse of children, and the terrible ways the institution of the Church sought to protect clergy, rather than children.

In the film, the ex-priest expert who is consulted by the Spotlight team points to celibacy has a significant part of the problem. The film also suggests that at least some abusing priests were abused themselves as children—broken person passing along that brokenness to others. It’s a sickening and horrific thought, especially as we see the Church actively contributing to the problem, rather than seeking a solution.

During the course of the story that Spotlight unfolds, one of the reporters discovers that he lives just around the corner from a “rehab” house for abusing priests. He tells his own children to stay away from that house and desperately wants to tell all of the children in the neighborhood to stay away, but he can’t do that immediately. I found myself wondering: if priests were allowed to marry and to have families of their own, would they participate in a system that essentially cast a blind eye on the abuse of children? If priests had children of their own, would they be like most other parents, desperate to protect not only their own, but other children as well?

I’m no expert on pedophilia, but I suspect that there are plenty of pedophiles who have children of their own. Would the institution, though, behave differently if children were not just part of the wider sense of family, but were actually family?

I’m not sure, but I’m left with yet a renewed sense of the failure of the Church, and though not a part of the Church to which I feel directly related, still part of my faith tradition. I am deeply distressed at the behavior of the Church that so completely lost sight of what is truly important, truly at the heart of the mission of the Church, in looking out for and caring for those who are powerless, and the failures of actual individuals who believed themselves to be people of faith. As a person of faith, this is an issue that must be held in the forefront—how are we living out our faith, how well are we keeping our eye on the mission, and how well are we holding ourselves and each other accountable?

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