As They Die, So Do We

Posted on January 16, 2016 by smaxreisert

I attended a funeral recently at a United Church of Christ Church in Central Maine, not far from the church I serve. While the service included a couple of prayers from the Book of Worship at the beginning and the end, and a tiny “reflection” from the pastor based on the ever-familiar passage from Ecclesiastes through which the congregation was reminded that on that particular day we were experiencing “a time to mourn,” the bulk of the service was devoted to “open mic” time. Family and friends were encouraged to share stories about the person who had died, a popular man who had lived in that town, and attended that church, all of his life.

Well into “open mic” time, after several family members had offered stories, a woman went to the front of the sanctuary. She allowed that most people in the congregation probably didn’t know her. She was the wife of one of the deceased’s cousins. She told us that she and her husband had visited the man who had died just a few days before his death and then she went on, “And I need to tell you that he was a man of faith.”

Hooray! I exclaimed in my head. Until this moment, and except for the small nods toward religion in the prayer at the beginning, the service I was attending could have been taking place in any gathering spot. No one had said anything about faith or faithfulness. Even the minister’s ties to religion seemed only related to prayers copied from the worship book, and the readings from scripture could have been any readings from any kind of book. Religion, faith, Christianity were all woefully lacking.

In just about any mainline church in this area, especially those that are declining in numbers, you’ll hear a litany of reasons regarding shrinking attendance numbers—sports practices on Sunday mornings, shopping on Sunday mornings, wanting to sleep late on Sunday mornings. All of those reasons have something to do with what’s happening outside the church.

We should be spending more time thinking and reflecting on what’s happening inside the church, especially when it come to our own expression of faith and why we attend church.

It seems clear enough to me that many mainline church members have lost the language of faith. In particular, they have lost the public expression of faith and their attachment to a church, aside from the friendships they have formed and a private devotion to God. The funeral that I attended recently was not the first in this area where I noticed the absence of “faith talk.” I’ve especially noticed the decline in sermons or homilies, at such important times as death, providing substantive remarks on basic notions of the Christian faith.

If those of us within the church have no language to claim our faith, we shouldn’t even begin to hope that others will ever want to join us. We should make plans for our closing.

In this blog, I have written in the past about not always “blaming the victim” when it comes to church decline. There are indeed forces beyond our control, in changing values, priorities, and, in places like central Maine, the sad reality that the population as a whole is in decline. But, we must also look at our own selves and be willing to consider our own contribution to shrinking churches.

When we cannot speak of why we attend, when we cannot meaningfully reflect on suffering, death, resurrection, and the purpose of our lives, we feed our own decline. Funerals, in a special way, offer crucial opportunities to speak of what it means to be people of faith. It’s sad, then, that even in a church, “funerals” have given way to “celebrations of life,” where we focus almost entirely on the life that has ended, ignoring the mysteries of the promises of Christ, and the cross, and what happens when death itself is passed.

The question is: are we are people of faith, of the Christian faith, or are we simply mourners at a “celebration of life” for the church that has itself passed away?

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Perspective

Posted on January 9, 2016 by smaxreisert

The little boy—at least I think it was a boy—was throwing a tantrum, standing by the bank of elevators to the parking garage. Such an amazing loud noise came out of this tiny person, so tiny that it was hard to see how he could be old enough to be standing on his own, yet he was. His mother tried to shush and comfort him. He was having none of it. His howls only seemed to get louder. Why was this small person making such a noise? Did it have something to do with that tube in his nose? Could it be related to the lack of even a wisp of hair anywhere on his head?

Then there was the older man, with a younger woman who was probably his daughter. The man held a stack of colorful files, probably ten-inches deep. She was trying to keep him from rummaging through the files, yet he continued. Occasionally, he pulled a random piece of paper from a file, looked at it until she took it from him and put it back in the file and closed it.

And, finally, there was the woman in a wheelchair. Her make-up was carefully and completely done, though a little brighter than women tend to wear now. It reminded me of how my friends and I made up our faces in the 1980s. She was surrounded by a small group, maybe family, maybe friends, maybe some of both. A bright pink hat on her head, she was smiling contentedly as they pushed her from the hall to the elevator.

These were the people, amid hundreds, who stood out for me while visiting the Dana Farber Cancer Institute. I was there accompanying a friend for an appointment.

I had not been inside Dana Farber for many years, probably not since my Clinical Pastoral Education experience at the neighboring Brigham and Women’s Hospital in the summer of 1991. On this recent visit to Dana Farber, the place was buzzing, a hive of activity. People made up tidy lines to check in or to wait to for the initial clinical visit. Then, there was all the activity by the elevators, and the various places where patients—along with their equipment and their people—needed to go. And wandering around, one could see a few blue-smocked people with “May I Help You?” printed on the back.

Dana Farber is a cancer treatment and research center in Boston. The patients there are looking for answers, for a path out of cancer, as are the people who accompany them. The woman with the bright make-up, the man with the stack of files, that tiny, howling boy with the tube in his nose, as well as my friend—each one very likely with a cancer diagnosis, one that is serious, or mysterious, or both.

As I left the building, while I thought of my friend, I also thought of those three people who had stood out among so many—the woman with the bright, colorful face, the man with his files, and the small boy. And, I thought to myself that I should keep them all in mind, especially when something insignificant gets the best of me, when I allow something small to gain more meaning than it deserves.

In my life in the church, there are lots of insignificant things that get the best of me. It happens to the people in my congregation as well. While insignificant things gaining too great a foothold is all too common in life in general, it shouldn’t be so—so often anyway—in the church. Perspective must be kept, maintained, considered, held up in prayer.

It’s all too easy to get caught up in our own little dramas, allowing all manner of issues to seem just as important as any other. But, some things are more important than others.

I don’t know how well I’ll do, but I begin this year with a renewed sense of the significance of perspective—hoping that, through God’s grace, I will have the wherewithal to take a moment, on a regular basis, to ensure that I am keeping an eye on what is truly important, and what is not.

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At the End and In the Beginning

Posted on December 31, 2015 by smaxreisert

The end of the year brings the opportunity for reflection, and I have certainly found myself thinking about the year that is about to end. For my family, the big event of the year was my daughter’s graduation from high school in June (she just finished her first semester of college). For me personally, the event that looms large in my brain is focused in my role as a member of the local school board. In November, the Board voted to support the superintendent’s recommendation to dismiss the high school principal. I was the lone dissenting vote, 6-1. I can honestly say that the experience was among the worst of my life, and continues to live with me in a whole host of painful ways.

In my work with Old South Church, it was a good year overall, with good worship, strong and thoughtful leadership, a new organist and choir director, local and global outreach. During my short sabbatical last summer, we had no trouble covering worship leadership “in house,” with lay people and a retired clergyperson eagerly leading worship in my absence.

Unfortunately, though, we end the year with significant questions and some unwelcome prospects. Among our worries: attendance; how we govern ourselves; and, a mini-exodus.

Attendance numbers have been steadily declining in disheartening ways. Most of those who are now missing from worship are some of our newer people. I’ve heard directly from or about some of those who are no longer attending Old South. The reasons are simple and mostly have something to do with a relative or friend drawing them to a different church. They don’t have negative feelings about Old South, but have found that the church of that relative or friend has its own positive element.

Old South is near the end of a two-year governance experiment. Much of what we’ve tried over these last two years has worked well. But, not everything. The worrying aspect of this is that only a small group seems comfortable in discussing how we continue our “congregationlist” ways with a smaller, older congregation. There is a feeling among some that their preference is to skip over the formulation process. Just give us the sausage, so to speak. Can we skip the making of it part? For stalwart congregationalists, this seems not the healthiest way of moving forward.

Finally, among our bigger worries is a mini-exodus that we know will occur in the new year. The church moderator has recently resigned and is in the process of moving to another state. He has fallen in love and is moving to be closer to his new special someone (he can more easily transfer his job than she can). A married couple (both sing in the choir) has also announced plans to move away. And, yet another person has told me that she is actively looking for new employment—away from Maine.

These are all very significant departures. All are people who have been active in the life of the church, and active leaders in the congregation. It’s hard to think about the church without them. We’ve reached that place where the departure of leaders is clearly noticeable—and emotionally draining.

Old South has faced difficulties in the past, and has weathered them—and, in many ways, it is a stronger community. But, the storms are starting to take their toll. There’s one particular person who can’t begin talking about these issues without weeping.

We begin the year on a precipice of sorts. We are not only worried about the changes of which we are aware, but also the changes that have not announced themselves in advance. Whether we are aware or not, what emotions will these changes stir? Will we feel embraced and nurtured, or abandoned and alone? Where will we find God in the midst of unwelcome changes?

The start of the new year is a new beginning, but is it also the beginning of the end?

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What Should Christmas Feel Like?

Posted on December 24, 2015 by smaxreisert

Maine is experiencing one of its warmest Decembers ever, perhaps the warmest ever. When we gather for our annual Old South Christmas Eve service at 7:00, the temperature will be hovering around 50. For this part of the world at this time of year, that’s warm, practically balmy.

Last year’s Christmas was also on the warmer side as well, but we had had a snowy (very snowy) Thanksgiving. And, then after Christmas, “snowmagaddon” came upon us and we completely forgot about the warmer than usual Christmas.

This year’s extended fall, with warmer temperatures, has made the Christmas season in Central Maine certainly feel less “Christmasy.” There’s hardly been a flake of snow and the grass has a strange green quality to it, not like it’s normal December brown (when it’s not covered with the white stuff).

It has occurred to me, though, that this is a great way to encounter Christmas—a little, if not a lot, off-kilter. Christmas should be surprising. It should be strange, unusual.

Christmas really should never “feel” like Christmas.

Even for those of us who’ve never missed a Christmas Eve service, we ought to refrain from allowing Christmas to become simply a sentimental, nostalgic trip to a seemingly well-known, well-worn story—“In those days . . . .”

In this season when we hear the familiar words of the old story of God coming to be in our midst, to share in our common lot, to live among us, to be one of us, we should open our hearts and our minds for the continuing surprising presence of our Creator. To peer into the manger once again, should not just fill us with warmth of memory. It should capture the heart, the mind, the spirit, and the imagination.

The old, familiar story is a new story as well.

We have an opportunity to experience Christmas in a new way, not simply because we can dress a little lighter and can leave behind those heavy winter boots. Christmas should always be new, always starting, always full of wonder, and always just beyond the capacity to understand. Just what does it mean to worship this One, Messiah, Savior, born of a young mother, perhaps in a stable surrounded by animals, with visitors that ranged from poor shepherds to the worldly and wise?

And, where do we fit into this story, this ever-unfolding story of God’s presence among God’s people?

Merry Christmas.

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Now Is the Season of My Discontent

Posted on December 17, 2015 by smaxreisert

There’s a lot I love about this season, about Advent and Christmas, in the preparation, and waiting, and some of the most interesting and provocative dimensions of faith and the biblical narrative. It’s not easy being a clergyperson at this busy time of year, especially when I also have a flurry of family December birthdays, but Advent and Christmas draw me in, offering an exhilarating mix of comfort and wonder, of fond memories and deep, unanswerable questions.

Yet, each year it seems that this season because more fraught for me, and increasingly a season of anger and frustration. I am dismayed by what’s happened to Christmas. On the one hand, there’s the secular takeover of one of Christianity’s most important of holy days, where Christmas seems only about Santa, gifts, and decorations without the “Christ” part of it anywhere. And, on the other hand, the almost militant “Merry Christmas” shoved down the throat, with the refrain of the “War on Christmas.” I am uncomfortable with the silly ways that Fox News has exploited this concept. Who cares that the cups I get at Starbucks during this season are red and lacking in the actual words, “Merry Christmas”?

About a month ago, the local newspaper included a story about a local group’s preparations for its “Magical Christmas” show that was to take place in Hallowell, where the church I serve, Old South, is located. The “Magical Christmas” show featured giant hanging snowflakes, holiday lights, and . . . female impersonators. Where’s Christmas in that?

I have no problem whatsoever with men dressing up as women, or giant hanging snowflakes, but the “Magical Christmas” show appeared to have nothing to do with actual Christmas, the day on which we Christians observe the birth of our Savior.

I have grown weary of what’s happened to Christmas. Where Fox News wants to force everyone to say “Merry Christmas,” I’ve found that I prefer NOT to hear “Merry Christmas” unless the person who’s saying it actually means it or knows that it means something to me. I’d prefer Christmas be left for Christians. The rest can celebrate the winter solstice or perhaps a happy Santa day, or something like that.

Let Christians have Christmas. And, Christians: stop forcing the Merry Christmases. I think you’re only making it worse.

Christmas is indeed one of the holiest of days, and it should be kept that way, focused on the belief that God came close, came to share in our humanity, came in such a way as to need the care and nurture of human parents, and offered wonder and hope to lowly shepherds as well as strange wise people from afar who presented extravagant gifts.

I have no idea if the components of the ancient story (stories, really) actually happened, but the story still lifts up a Savior who certainly made a point of turning expectations inside out, and upside down. There’s a lot to ponder and contemplate, even for those of us who know this story so well—or think we do. It would be nice, then, not to be distracted by “Christmas” events that have nothing to do with Christmas or by the superficial and ridiculous “war” that seems to think that “Merry Christmas” is all that we need to acknowledge Christ. Christmas deserves more respect than that, from Christians and non-Christians alike.

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What Would Mary Want?

Posted on December 11, 2015 by smaxreisert

Confession: On Sunday afternoons, when I finally have a chance to look through the Sunday New York Times, the first place I go is the “Style” section. It’s not that I’m into style, or fashion. I go there for the “Social Q’s” column, an advice column where people ask about socially awkward situations. Not only is it something of a guilty pleasure (on a day that’s a busy workday for me), but it’s also a nice bit of writing. The questions are interesting, and the responses are witty, thoughtful and occasionally snarky (my favorite combination).

This past Sunday, on my way to the “Social Q’s” column, I stumbled upon a headline that caught my eye, “Here’s Your Baby . . . Where’s My Present?” (New York Times, 12/6/15) The piece focused on “push presents,” especially Kim Kardashian’s sought after “push present.” After giving birth to her second child (or “pushing” her child out of the womb), Ms. Kardashian is expecting a Lorraine Schwartz diamond choker (whatever the hell that is) valued at somewhere around $1 million.

In this season of Advent, when some of us are preparing to revisit one of the most well-known births of all time, I couldn’t help but wonder what Mary might have wanted for her “push present.”

Sure, some strange men from the East (so we are told by the Gospel writer Matthew) showed up bearing gifts. But, those gifts were really for the newborn babe, though they were more symbolic gifts than practical ones. The Magi brought gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. Matthew fails to tell us why the Magi brought those gifts in particular, but Christians have come to understand that each gift signaled an important aspect of the child: gold for kingship; frankincense for deity or priestliness; and myrrh as a symbol for death.

But, what about Mary? What would Mary have wanted for giving birth to the Son of God? What would Mary have sought as a “push present”?

Would Mary have been satisfied to know that she would become the Blessed Virgin Mother, revered, prayed to, sought after for care and assistance by countless followers of that child? Or, did she long for something a little more worldly—like a subscription to a good diaper service, or babysitting so she and Joseph could go out once in while, or perhaps just a decent ride out of Bethlehem on something other than a donkey?

In the other biblical birth narrative, in the Gospel of Luke, a band of shepherds seek out the new family and, upon finding them, share the story of what had propelled them to leave their flocks: an angel, followed by a multitude of the heavenly host. The angel had told the shepherds about the good news, the coming of the Savior. Upon hearing this, Mary “treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.”

Perhaps that was enough: the gift of simple, eloquent words, words deep with meaning as well as mystery: “’Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.’ And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth goodwill among people.’”

The perfect present.

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The Capacity for Peace

Posted on December 2, 2015 by smaxreisert

We—my husband, children and I—spent Thanksgiving in New York City, with my husband’s family. This is the second time we converged on the big city for the holiday weekend. It’s a convenient (and fun) gathering spot for the family, coming from the north and the south, and the east (not so much the west).

On Thanksgiving Day, between the Macy’s parade and our late afternoon restaurant reservation, my husband and I walked the entire length of Central Park, from where we were staying on Central Park South to just north of the Park, to visit some friends who recently moved into a new apartment.

It was a beautiful day in New York City, warm with the sun shining. No surprise then, that Central Park was full of people enjoying a bonus early fall day just before winter is about to set in. Forget the Macy’s parade, the more impressive parade was in the Park.

As we moved briskly through Central Park (trying to work off the feast before we ate it), it was impossible not to notice the remarkable array of humanity also enjoying the unseasonably warm day—the young, old and in between; the well-dressed and the not so well-dressed; seemingly all of the hues of skin color; and an extraordinary variety of spoken language.

Such an amazing display of human beings, all sharing space in the middle of one of the world’s largest cities. We were not necessarily interacting with each other, but yet there was a sense of peace, of safety, of the enjoyment of a beautiful day with family and friends.

In a world that seems all too often to be teetering on the edge of chaos, violence and war, I realized on Thanksgiving Day that we shouldn’t take for granted moments of peace, of shared space, of a collective sense of the dignity of human beings. It was nice to be in the midst of so much diversity yet no sense of strife, but I couldn’t help but feel that someone should have stood on the highest ground in the Park and yelled something about what was happening, in the peaceful array of humanity.

For most, Thanksgiving Day in Central Park was not so strange—except, perhaps, that it was so warm. But, it also seemed to me to be a moment to remember and value. It may be easy to despair at the violence and the suspicion that can spring up among people of different races, nationalities, religions, but we should find ways of celebrating, or at least taking notice of, the myriad ways in which and through which we experience peace even in the midst of obvious differences.

This isn’t to say that we should ignore the significant places where there is hatred and brutality—places that require important work to be done. We ought to be more mindful, though, of our capacity for peace and for peacefulness. And to find ways of shining a light on that peacefulness, lifting it up for the ray of hope that it is.

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What’s the Appeal of Inerrancy?

Posted on November 19, 2015 by smaxreisert

Outreach Magazine recently published a list of the “Fastest Growing Churches: 2015.” A link to the list can be found here:  http://www.outreachmagazine.com/outreach-100-fastest-growing-churches-2015.html

The list intrigued me, so I began taking a look at these fast growing churches. I didn’t have time to do an exhaustive search of the list, but I was curious. So, I visited the webpage of each of the top ten churches.

Of the Top Ten Fastest Growing Churches, according to Outreach magazine, all but one contain strong language on their approach to the Bible. I noticed words such as “inerrant,” “infallible,” “without error.” One church went so far as to offer this statement: “God Himself chose every word of Scripture.”

It’s not a new question for me, but one that certainly got sparked again when I went looking at these top ten churches: what is the allure of the Bible as the inerrant, infallible word of God, without error or blemish of any kind?

I remember when I was first exposed to this bold claim. I was a young adult, a fresh college graduate, returned home without decent employment. I started attending the church I had attended as a child, a church that had changed considerably with new pastoral leadership. I remember a conversation I had with a new church member, who let me know in no uncertain terms, that it was important to understand the Bible as the inerrant word of God. But, I replied, the Bible wasn’t even written in English and there is no “original.” The new church member responded, “The King James Version—that’s the one God inspired.”

My jaw probably dropped (I don’t remember exactly; it was a long time ago). I had taken a yearlong Bible course in college and knew that I knew at least a thing or two about the Bible. It never had occurred to me to approach the Bible with such a strong sense that, though written by humans, it had somehow dodged human inadequacies.

There began a quest, of sorts (not one that consumes a lot of my time, I’ll admit), to understand the allure of the Bible as the inerrant word of God. Why and how? Even if we consider the Bible in English as the inerrant word (which seems so completely far-fetched to me, and a clear sign of the folly of this whole enterprise; how can we possibly believe that English is God’s preferred language??), what about those places that contradict each other? What about the stories that are in tension with each other (the birth stories of Jesus, for instance)?

And, more than that, what about the notion of the enormity, mystery and wonder of God? How can the wonder of God be contained in the limits of human language?

If we comprehend God to be both close as well as far, to be understandable but also beyond our understanding, to be the architect of this universe but also interested in the affairs of people (and so many of them) on this earth, how can we think of the Holy Bible in such a literal, inerrant, without error sort of way?

If we believe the Bible to be written by human beings, then it seems impossible that, even though inspired, that those human beings could possibly be able to write something without error. If God had wanted the books of the Bible (written over a considerable amount of time by different people) to be believed as inerrant and without blemish, wouldn’t God have chosen a different format for conveying the Holy Book to the people?

Why is the inerrancy of the Bible seemingly so important? Is this claim part of the path to fast growth for churches? Why do churches, and their leaders, feel the need to possess such control on the Holy Scriptures?

It is a question for me, to be sure, and I can’t help but think that the quest for infallibility is simply a quest for human control of the God we worship, when it really ought to be the other way around. It seems a sad business, then, that these are the churches that appear to be growing so quickly. Perhaps inerrancy is not the hallmark of their work, mission and identity (I have not visited any of these churches), but it is clearly cast as part of the foundation for most, if not all of these churches. The bold claims of inerrancy, I wonder: do they fulfill the wishes of a wondrous, amazing God, or do they fulfill the needs of people, who may desire certainty and answers over questions and ambiguity?

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This Writing Life

Posted on November 8, 2015 by smaxreisert

I spent last week at a clergy writing workshop, along with eleven other participants and a leader. It was an amazing gift to spend considerable time away from the usual routine of work and family and to engage in all aspects of the writing process, with others who are also writers—and pastors too. And, to do so in a beautiful location (with the bonus of great weather), at a conference center that provided excellent food and drink.

The week offered an opportunity to reflect on my writing, especially this blog. As a group, we explored new and different forms of writing, like flash fiction and Twitterature.  We shared fiction, blog posts, memoir, poetry, prayers, and liturgy.  We wrote from the familiar and comfortable, as well as reaching out into the strange and new.

I spent time reflecting on why I post to this blog almost every week:  to say things I don’t quite have the courage to say in a church gathering; to wrestle with issues that don’t easily fit into clergy-type gatherings; to put “on paper” my hopes and deep concerns for the church, as well as my pastoral leadership in the parish and beyond; and to wonder about the church and its particular local setting in the 21st century.

During the week, I stepped back as well as forward, reviewing what I have done and pondering what might be next. The group spoke deeply and creatively about writing and the process of writing. Each of us also took that bold step of handing over a piece of precious writing and asking for honest feedback—actual, honest feedback—in a gathering of the entire group. Each of us, after presenting a piece, sat in silence for a full ten minutes while the other members of the group offered positive comments and constructive criticisms. I wasn’t sure that I would get through my first experience at this exercise, but found it to be very helpful, and even enjoyable.

One of the most powerful gifts of the week was the reminder of the significance of writing, that it’s not something that one should tuck into those rare moments of “free time.” Writing is important and valuable to the work of the pastor, for those pastors who feel called to write.

A deep and abiding thank you to the writers with whom I worked, played, created, worshiped, and laughed. Thank you especially for your writing, your commitment to the wonder and power of words, and your willingness to be vulnerable, to share of yourselves and to be good listeners as well as talkers. The week was filled with beautiful words, inspiring grammar, surprisingly animated punctuation, and certainly, the presence of God. From the bottom of my heart, thank you to the writers: Heather, Jessica, Shelly, Amy, Geordie, Andrea, Cleo, Tim, Kelli, Betsy, Jane, and Maren.

A big thank you too to those who organized and financially supported the workshop:  the Massachusetts Conference of the United Church of Christ, the Lilly Endowment, and the Collegeville Institute for Ecumenical and Cultural Research.

p.s.  Look Jane, no exclamation points!

Posted in Misc, My Life as Pastor | 1 Comment

Do I Hear the Fat Lady Singing?

Posted on November 2, 2015 by smaxreisert

In my last post, I wrote about a sermon that I wished had been preached at the recent Maine Conference United Church of Christ Annual Meeting—but was not. The scripture was Sarah laughing at the prospect of having a child in her older age. At the time, I wished that the preacher had noticed the sea of gray hair in front of him and had offered some insight regarding the possibility of new life even in the midst of older people, perhaps even the older people who sat right in front of him. But, unfortunately, this reality failed to grab his attention.

So, I decided to preach that sermon myself on that very same weekend. For Sunday worship, I announced that I was not going to read or preach on Ruth, as the Narrative Lectionary suggested, but instead, I would focus on the Sarah laughing passage in Genesis (which had been part of the Narrative Lectionary in September, but on a Sunday when I was away).

The Maine Conference writ small, Old South is a congregation on the older side of things. On an average Sunday, there’s lots of gray hair, or heads with diminishing hair, and for at least a few of the heads with no gray hair, like mine, it is only because of the wonders of chemistry that the gray hair is hidden.

I preached my sermon on the possibility of new life in the midst of older age, and the promise that nothing is too amazing for God, and for those who trust God. I preached from what was, at best, notes. Mostly, I preached the sermon that had come to mind on the previous day, when the preacher didn’t go where I thought he should go. I felt like I was really on to something powerful, and significant.

The response I received was not what I had hoped. Not even close. I even think I spotted someone in the congregation scowling at me at one point during the sermon.

On that particular Sunday, the congregation included two grandmothers who spent at least part of the service trying to control their rambunctious toddler grandchildren. I used the situation to illustrate the reality of new life. New life is hard to control, manage. It doesn’t behave in the way we wish it or will it to behave. Yet, it is wondrous, amazing, and the promise of it exists even in the midst of our advancing years.

My handy sermon illustration probably didn’t help the situation.

One person came up to me after the service is said that if she learned that she was pregnant at this stage in her life, she wouldn’t laugh, or cry. She would do something else and then opened her mouth as if she were about to scream—or shout a string of expletives. Prophetic.

New life is hard to manage. New life has a habit of behaving in its own way. And, though we continue to say it’s what we want, we are, at the same time, making it plainly clear that it really isn’t what we want at all.

I had hoped that my sermon would inspire some head nods, a few faces lit up in acknowledgement. But, nothing like that happened. The silence was not the silence of thoughtful anticipation (which I have experienced from time to time), but instead, it was the silence of just hoping it would be over soon.

New life is possible in older age, when those older age folk grasp the notion that nothing is too wonderful for God when God is trusted. What does it mean for us to trust God, and to trust where God might be leading us? What does it mean for us to open ourselves to new life, even in the midst of our weary, older age?

I realize that the specter of rambunctious toddlers may give us pause when it comes to welcoming new life, but toddlers offer an valuable focal point for reflection—as they serve as an object lesson that leads us to consider the new life that God promises. We might laugh, or cry, at this reality. But, if instead we simply endure, or scream, we might as well admit that it’s over.

I’d like to think that I don’t hear the singing that signals the end, but the reality is that the singing is getting too loud to ignore. It’s decision time: change or embrace the sunset. It’s time to be honest—with ourselves, and with God.

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