We’re Doomed #3: No Joke

Posted on April 17, 2015 by smaxreisert

The Congregational Church, United Church of Christ, in Madison, Maine (about 40 miles north of Augusta) closed its doors at the end of last December. The building was then purchased and turned into event space. Last weekend, “Somerset Abbey” opened its doors for its first public event, a comedy show.

The venue itself provided fertile material for the comedians on the show. Although I was not there, the local paper provided coverage. The title of the piece on the front page of the Local section in The Morning Sentinel was called, “Laughing Their Praises.” One of the warm-up comedians quipped, “I think this is the first time there’s been this much excitement in church in a while.”

At some point, someone yelled out something that I might have yelled out if I had been there, “It’s not a church.” But, the comedian snapped back, “But it looks like a church. I don’t think anyone is driving by saying, ‘I think that’s a raised ranch.’”

This is a big problem for a lot of us who remain faithful and committed to a church community. It’s all too easy to equate “church” with “building”—for those outside the church community, as well as inside. For too many Christians, especially old mainliners in the United States, we think of our life of faith as inexorably linked to the building in which we worship. And, so the community at large thinks the same way.

As we’ve discovered in little Madison, Maine, it’s all too easy, then, to become the butt of the joke. If we have any hope for the future, this must change.

The early Christians made a mark for themselves, NOT by building large, imposing edifices in which to gather, but by being communities of love and care, by being communities that looked out for each other, and by feeding and caring for the poor and marginalized. The early Christians were distinctive by who they were, and how they were inspired, instead of where and how they gathered for worship.

Making the transition, though, from one way of thinking to another is very hard. At a church like Old South, where the average age of the worshipping community is somewhere around 70, many of those who worship are “builders.” The building is an essential piece to how they understand and express faith. The building is how they experience and connect with God.

So, we find ourselves in a precarious place—watch our worshiping community get smaller and smaller until we can’t pay the bills and then have to sell the building (for condo conversion, or “event space,” or for the making of hard apple cider) or we need to learn how to let of the very thing that holds such deep meaning for us.

This is another angle of what fuels my concern that we are doomed. When the building is so precious to us, we can’t possibly believe that our church will continue well into the future. It is clear as day that the wider community is not where we are, and even more than that, we have become at best a nostalgic token of something that is no longer.

It’s going to take real effort to make the kind of changes that are necessary. The problem is that it may be too late.

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We’re Doomed #2: The Problem No One Wants to Talk About

Posted on April 9, 2015 by smaxreisert

It’s post-Easter and perhaps not the best time to return to my take on our “doomed” problem. But, it’s something that I’m now thinking about almost all the time. In fact, I’ve lined up at least four weeks worth of “We’re Doomed” blog posts. They are not meant to be completely negative and depressing. Instead, I would hope that we can see what we do, and why we do it, in a more positive and “faithful to the Gospel” way, even if it means that our church won’t survive well into the future.

This week’s “doomed” topic actually goes back quite a few weeks. During Lent at Old South, we followed the Narrative Lectionary, which focused on the parables of Matthew. Not far into Lent, we encountered Matthew’s parable of the wedding feast. It’s an ugly, difficult parable.

In thinking about that parable, I found the perspective of David Lose to be particularly helpful and meaningful. You can find his column here:

Pentecost 18 A: Preaching an Ugly Parable

Lose essentially encourages his readers to refrain from a simple Christian-Jewish antagonistic reading and to see the harsh tone as more reflective of an internal family debate, that in the increasingly distant divide between Jews and Christians in the first century, there were not just two distinct communities, but communities in which and through which people knew each other and were even related to each other: “On the whole, Matthew’s version is darker, more violent, and pushes even the typical parable’s tolerance for absurdity to the edge. Why? Because at this point in the family conflict, he is willing to say that God not only rejects those cousins and kin of his that rejected Jesus but actually sent the Romans to destroy the Temple as punishment (a conclusion not uncommon to Matthew, but intensified in this parable).”

While we, in the 21st century, might not choose the kind of violent imagery that Matthew employs to level judgment against those “in the family” who chose a different path than our own, we can probably understand where such animosity might come from.

Mr. Lose, then, suggested that we bring the parable to our current day, and ask our parishioners to consider their own feelings in light of their own family members who have chosen not to attend church, or to attend a very different church or religious community. In this part of the world, there are lots of people whose family members do not attend church—not even on Christmas Eve or Easter.

On that particular Sunday at the beginning of March, I wondered about our feelings about this problem, a problem that we would rather never talk about. Our decreasing attendance numbers are not just about “out there” kinds of problems—sports practices, busy people looking for a one morning when they can sleep in, etc. Our decreasing numbers also involve our own family members who no longer attend church, our own family members who are no longer swayed by the Good News, who no longer feel bound by covenant as we do.

Some family members have moved away, but there are others who are still right here. And they don’t come to church.

We might not think about such notions as casting them into the outer darkness, but if we allow ourselves to go to that place of thinking about it, we may find ourselves with feelings of guilt, shame, loss, and regret.

As I come myself to the realization that my own daughter, now eighteen, has no meaningful tie to the church, I have my own complicated feelings. Did I do something wrong? Did the church?

These are issues that really ought to be in the forefront of our thinking about who we are and why we do what we do. If our own family members choose not to attend church, is it our fault or is it that we are finding in our own families the significant divide of religious and spiritual experience? If my daughter goes down a different spiritual path than mine, is it that I’ve done something wrong or that what feeds her spirit is different than what feeds mine?

There’s a lot to these question. It may be that we are doing something “wrong,” that we have not adequately shared our experience of the good news or the love of God. But, there’s also something to be said for recognizing that things change. How and why we practice the faith as we do may not be right or wrong, good or bad, but it might just be that we are finding that it doesn’t hold up well over time.

In a place like Central Maine, where there really are more older people than younger people, and many younger family members who choose to move away, it’s not even so easy as to suggest that we start practicing the faith differently. That still may not do much to ensure a future.

My feeling is that we should consider and explore what is meaningful and to be about sharing the love of God in reckless, wanton ways—even in our staid, private, old fashioned, New Englandish kind of way. Just let’s make sure that we remain bound to the Spirit, that we embrace that we are likely “doomed.” But, that we are taking that right to the cross, knowing that even in death there is life.

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To Take Up One’s [Chocolate] Cross

Posted on April 2, 2015 by smaxreisert

I’m taking a week off from the “We’re Doomed” series in order to spend a few moments to rant a bit over Holy Week and mass consumer culture. It’s bad enough at Christmas, when the holiday feels almost completely detached from its religious significance. With Easter, I’m increasingly concerned, and appalled, by the elimination of the religious significance of the holiday.

Can’t Christians keep Easter for themselves? Why can’t the mass consumer culture come up with something else through which people can be lured into the purchasing of things that they don’t need? What about May Day? Or Arbor Day? They would make great days for mass consumerism.

Sure, there’s lots about Easter that is not connected to Christianity. Those eggs, for instance. And, the bunnies. Not in scripture. So, making those things into something sweet and ready for buying, giving and eating isn’t all that bad. But, now much clearer Christian symbols have been making their way to product shelves:

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What does it mean to eat a chocolate cross?  What does it mean to give one?  Will children who find this item in their Easter basket have any idea of its meaning or significance?  I can’t help but all of those kids who encounter the Christmas manger scene and have no idea what it means or how it’s attached to the holiday.  Can one take up one’s cross and eat it too, without having any idea of what the cross signifies?

Easter has become the holiday of spring. Get a new colorful outfit. Buy some pastel colored treats. Give a basket filled with toys and gifts. Gather with friends and family and eat ham or lamb. But, why? Does anyone ask why everyone is gathering on a Sunday in early spring, on a date that changes year after year?

Christmas has been given a whole other secular storyline. There’s Santa and the gift-giving that is entirely separate from the religious significance of the holiday. Though I am loathe to admit it, one can celebrate Christmas now without anything having to do with religion. I don’t like it, but my complaining isn’t going to change anything.

But, Easter. Really? I know my complaining isn’t going to gain much traction here either, but this really bothers me. There really is no secular reason for celebrating Easter. While Easter has adopted symbols over the years that are pagan in origin, the holiday is religious. It is Christian.

Please don’t make the Easter Bunny into Santa. Easter ought to get some respect. On Easter, we celebrate and ponder one of the great mysteries of our faith.   PLEASE, let us Christians keep this for ourselves. I don’t want to share it with everyone, watering it down so that it has its own separate, secular storyline.

If you aren’t going to church on Easter, please don’t celebrate it. Please don’t. If you are yearning for a celebration of spring, take the vernal equinox or Patriots Day (for those in Massachusetts and Maine) or maybe Cinco de Mayo. Or, use your imagination and come up with something else.

Leave Easter alone.   And let it be religious. Let it be Christian.

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We’re Doomed, Part 1: Public vs Private

Posted on March 26, 2015 by smaxreisert

To title this week’s blog post as I have, and to suggest (accurately) that my intention is to title successive blog posts as such, is perhaps to sound as if I’ve completely caved in to despair.  But, I don’t think that’s the case.  I’d appreciate my readers to keep an open mind, and to try not to assume a negative judgment on the word “doomed.”  Given that we are in Lent, I’d prefer to think about my consideration of “doomed” akin to those sojourners on the road to Emmaus.  They thought the story was over, that the movement was “doomed,” and they were leaving town.  And, then Jesus joined them.  But let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves.

Over the course of the last few months, I’ve been talking to a variety of people who don’t attend Old South, or a church like it.  I’ve reached out to a few people who were once a part of Old South but are no longer, as well as a few people who haven’t been attached to any kind of church since childhood.  In the next few weeks, I’ll be spending some time thinking about some of the lessons I’ve learned through these conversations.  By no means have I engaged in any kind of scientific approach, but I think I’ve gained some valuable insights.

In this first assessment of how we, at Old South and churches like us, are “doomed,” I’m thinking a lot about my sense that we are dealing with a fundamental shift in perception and approach to faith.  Most of those who attend Old South, talk mostly about faith being a “private” thing.  Although we go to church, attend Bible Study, commit ourselves to the mission of the church through service to the church and donations to various mission projects, we primarily think of faith as a private matter.  Church devotion is a way of having one’s faith guided, as well as encouraged and supported.  Worship is a good place to get a “pat on the back,” to sing and to hear familiar music, and to spend some time apart from the world, in praise and in prayer.

But, perhaps surprisingly, it’s not so much a place to talk about one’s faith—at least not openly.  One may talk to the pastor, one-on-one, about one’s faith, especially the struggles of the life of faith.  One might enjoy hearing the pastor’s views on faith during weekly sermons and one may even look forward to the singing of certain hymns—and how hymns help us express our sense of God’s presence.  But, almost all of that is private.

I’ve spoken to a couple of people who no longer find this approach to faith meaningful.  One of them spoke to me in a very articulate way of her interest in public faith, being able to speak openly about faith as well as finding ways of expressing faith in public acts of mission and service.  She left Old South several years ago and now attends a different local church that is “bursting at the seams.”  Another person to whom I spoke is not quite so interested in public acts of faith, but has found that the staid New England approach to faith is dull and listless, that the sense of renewal that one can get at a place like Old South is just a little too similar to what one might gain from another kind of gathering of people.

The practice of faith at Old South is just too private, too inwardly directed.  There’s a very serious question, though, about whether or not to do anything about that.  Sure, we could try to institute a more public way of expressing faith, but would that just drive away the current members, leaving the church with no one?

Part of the question leads me to ask and wonder whether or not there’s a “right” and a “wrong” way to live out the faith.  Those churches in this area that offer a more public faith may have more people attending, but does that mean that they are doing it “right,” and that Old South is doing it “wrong”?  Or, could it be that there are many ways of living out the faith and that, even though Old South’s more private approach to faith may not speak to many at this point in history, that it’s a perfectly reasonable way of living out the faith, and should continue, even if that means that the church may need to close in the not so distant future?

This is one of those profoundly important questions to consider and pray over.  It would be one thing if we, at Old South, had a contingent of people who advocated for doing church differently, to invite and encourage a more public way of living our faith.  But, we don’t have that.  Instead, those who are newer to Old South seem comfortable with our more “private” approach.  Yet, we are not gaining the numbers of newer people that would help us to see the church’s life extend far into the future.

So, maybe we are “doomed,” but is that a bad thing?  Might we be living out our faith, being “good and faithful” servants, and that we shouldn’t concern ourselves with whether or not the church still exists twenty-five years from now, that the right thing to do is to live the faith as we experience it?

For me, the most important thing for us is to live out the faith, and to live it well, with love and enthusiasm, seeking to share the good news—to the extent that we can “share” our mostly private faith—and not to worry about what happens next or what the latest faith “fad” is.  We might just be doomed, but so long as we continue to live out the glory of God, we are doing it just right.

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Thoughts About Christians Far Away

Posted on March 19, 2015 by smaxreisert

For Lent this year at Old South, we are “Walking and Praying with Christians of the Middle East” through a study offered by Churches Together Britain and Ireland. A small group from Old South gathers for Bible Study on Tuesdays and then each Sunday, we include a different group in our prayers—Christians in Syria, Egypt, Iraq, etc.

Through this study, we are learning some challenging lessons. It is extremely difficult to understand what it means to live as a Christian in many areas in the Middle East, where being a Christian makes one a target for violence and murder. It’s almost impossible to appreciate the situation of living constantly in harm’s way or choosing to flee from one’s home, simply because of one’s professed faith. It’s hard to know how to respond to the targeting of Christian communities that go back to the earliest years of the Christian Church.

Many questions are being raised, yet few answers are clearly apparent. Where is God in the midst of such suffering? What would I do if I lived in a place where the Islamic State had taken control, or was close to doing so? What would I do if I felt threatened? In the face of violence, would I be able to profess my faith, or would I try to hide it? What can we meaningfully do, given that we live so many miles and miles away? Do the prayers we raise in support of threatened Christians make any difference?

For Christians in Central Maine, it’s mind-boggling to think about the lives that Christians lead on the other side of the world. As we gather on Sunday mornings under our tall steeples near the middle of towns and cities, we rarely think about the ease with which we practice our faith. In this season at Old South, though, we are increasingly aware of how much we take for granted.

As our eyes are opened, though, we are finding ourselves in an unsettled place. My hope is that, ultimately, this will be a good thing. Although it is extraordinarily unlikely that any of us will face any sort of threat of the kind of the Islamic State, we are becoming increasingly sensitive to our own minority status. Will our decreasing numbers cause us to weaken and dissolve under the weight of disillusionment, or will we become renewed and strengthened in our mission to share the love of God through Jesus Christ?

Through our Lenten study, we are learning meaningful stories of those who are, despite the threats, living the faith and sharing the love of God. We are inspired by the stories of those who are reaching out and caring for the poor as well as those who have been displaced by violence. We are encouraged by those who seek to love their neighbor, by those who remain grounded in hope, no matter what is happening around them.

And we pray that we will also be renewed and strengthened for the journey, that we will find meaning and hope in the prayers that we raise for our threatened sisters and brothers in the faith, and that we will try not to take for granted the comfort with which we practice our faith. We encourage other Christians to join us.

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The Flight From Church

Posted on March 11, 2015 by smaxreisert

I was having dinner with some friends recently. Part of the conversation over our Mexican entrees involved the tale of a visit of a distant cousin, with whom one of my friends had recently connected. During the reunion of these distant cousins, the conversation turned to religion. Years ago, the Irish-dominated family was strongly attached to the Roman Catholic Church. But now, to the extent that these two women could figure, sharing information about the various relatives that each knew, not one family member is still attached to the Church. Not one.

Over the last several years, I’ve found myself thinking a lot about the changing dynamics of the church, and what it means not only to find increasing numbers of adults who have left the church, but then to ponder the successive waves of generations, all increasingly disconnected from church and religion.

In this part of the world, the flight from church is clearly obvious. The Roman Catholic church building in Oakland, Maine has a large “for sale” sign out front. Just a little further north, in the town of Madison, the Congregational Church held its last worship service at the end of December (the building will become an “event” space for weddings, etc.).

I found myself thinking about the flight from church in a rather strange place not too long ago—at a local synagogue. I was at the bar mitzvah service for the son of a close friend. In this particular family, the mother grew up Christian and the father in a sort of culturally Jewish family. The family is not religious, although their older daughter flirted with Christianity for a while. But, the son decided, a couple of years ago, that he is Jewish, and that’s how his journey to become a bar mitzvah began—with a decision completely his own.

In the midst of the long Saturday morning service, I noticed that most of those in the congregation were guests of the family. Only a handful of the small, local Jewish population was present. The rabbi noted the significance of this young man’s decision, and the consequences of that decision—one of them being to support fully the tiny Jewish community in central Maine.

When children are raised in environments where they are “empowered” to follow their own path of spirituality, but the parents do not lead by example, how many of them actually end up connecting with organized religion? Though it was quite moving to witness the bar mitzvah of a young man who had made a clear choice—a decision all his own— it also seems clear that his story is nowhere near typical.

The flight from the Church is obvious, yet those of us still within the tradition are mostly still in a state of denial regarding our condition, and our future. We like to blame the culture of which we are part (Sunday morning sports practices, for example) or we convince ourselves that it’s someone else’s problem (like the pastor’s) or that all we need is the right program or slogan (a youth group, for instance). The movement away from the Church, though, is very real and very much a movement with energy and momentum. A certain pastor, or a certain program, is just not going to change the dynamic.

While I certainly don’t think that we should just give up (we are always a people of hope), we should be thinking and praying about what it will be like to be a sort of “remnant” community. How will we function—how can we function—if we are just a tiny group? Can we embrace the “consequences” of being the faithful few, supporting and encouraging each other in deep and abiding ways, even if all we have at worship is a handful of people? Will we find the courage to embrace our smallness and to find strength in our faith, regardless of how many are with us on the journey?

In places like Central Maine, where churches are not just struggling but closing, these are important questions. It’s time that we let go of those memories of full sanctuaries and, instead, embrace our faith, and learn to think about it in new ways—ways that just might lead to something completely unexpected. Like Easter.

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The Lasts

Posted on February 26, 2015 by smaxreisert

My daughter is a senior in high school. Now that she’s officially got herself into college (Vassar) and she, her father, her brother, and I know that she’ll be going away, we’ve begun the parade of “lasts”—her last home high school swim meet, her last high school state swim meet, her last home YMCA swim meet (notice a theme?), etc. Her last YMCA state swim meet is this weekend, and here’s a non-swim related “last”: her last “biggest/shortest” concert (a concert that involves all of the strings students in the Waterville school system) is next Wednesday.

The rest of the school year leading up to graduation will be full of “lasts,” some more significant than others. But, there will be plenty of them.

I’ve been thinking a lot about lasts. During a recent clergy breakfast, a colleague was wondering about lasts in relationship to the church that she serves. Is this the last few months that she will be with them? Is this the last year that they will be able to exist as a church?

At Old South, too, I’ve been thinking about lasts. Although our situation is not nearly as dire as my colleague’s, I do wonder, as we celebrate our 225th anniversary, if the church will be around for the next big anniversary. Does the church have another 25 years or is the 225th our last milestone anniversary?

Churches have a hard time with “lasts,” and that is understandable.   Especially for those of us who have some memory of full church sanctuaries, it is difficult to accept that our circumstances have changed so dramatically in a relatively short period of time, on our “watch,” so to speak. Talking to church members whose churches have closed, I am taken aback by the language of failure, with good church people talking about closure with words like, “Our church failed.”

But, as I think about my daughter’s “lasts,” many of which are bittersweet, I’m also increasingly aware of the life that is a part of them, that she is living a life, though connected to me, is not controlled or engineered by me (even if I wish it to be!). The “lasts” that she is experiencing, in and of themselves, don’t express success or failure; they are part of her journey of life. They reflect choices that, though selected by her parents initially (when she was nine, she didn’t sign up for the swim team herself, after all), are now hers. Even as her parent, I’m in not so much in “control” of the path and the journey of her life, as I am a participant, a loving guide, an encouraging presence. The life that she is living is hers, connected yet also significantly separate, moving in its own direction.

I’ve been thinking about this dynamic in relation to my connection to church. I am less in control of where and how the path of the church will unfold, and where it will end. My role is not so much to control, as to participate, love and encourage. My place is to be a part of a good church, a church that demonstrates and lives out God’s love and hope, even if that means that we are on our own series of “lasts.”

Even if Old South does not manage to make it to its 250th, I’d like to think that we will never think of our church as a “failure.” Instead, we will think of our good witness, and our efforts to live out the love, hope, peace and joy of God, through Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit. If we remain true to the Gospel, we and the church of which we are part, will never be a “failure.” Even if we come to a place where we close our doors and shut down.

Who knows what life may come next? It may be better and more exciting than we can imagine.

To believe is to trust and to trust is to know that God lives, and God lives in our midst, even if we are—consciously or unconsciously—living out a series of “lasts.” All I or we can do is to share the love of God with reckless abandon. We may not attract others, or enough others, to keep this church called Old South running into the indefinite future. But we are still church and our witness still matters.

As I am discovering with my daughter, some lasts are happy, some are sad, and some are both. But they are not bad and they certainly are not failures.  They are part of the journey of life. They are part of the journey of faith.

 

 

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The Builders

Posted on February 18, 2015 by smaxreisert

This month, we at Old South are celebrating the 225th anniversary of the gathering of Congregationalists in Hallowell, Maine. As we contend this month with another very snowy Maine winter, and the piles of snow that have just about completely covered the primary entry door of our sanctuary building (when we are able to have worship this winter, we are meeting in the parish house across the street),

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it’s almost overwhelming to think about the difficulties of starting a church in the midst of winter in Maine. At a recent Sunday worship service, someone quipped, “If there’s one time of year when you really need God, this is it.” That is certainly true. When the wind is howling, the snow is blowing, the cold is so biting and brutal and you can’t even remember the last time the temperature outside went above 30, the warmth of the Spirit and the warmth of the gathering of followers of Christ are especially meaningful.

We are taking special notice of our anniversary with “faith stories” offered during worship. In these faith stories, several long-time church members share their own history with Old South. While this month is certainly celebratory, there’s an element to our anniversary that taps into my “worrying place,” an element that has highlighted one of the greatest challenges to being the church in these days, and how to think about the church of the future—and not the far away kind, but the relatively near future.

In observing our anniversary, I’ve strongly encouraged those who are offering a faith story, to focus on faith and their connection to the church. I want to hear more about meaning than history lecture. What is that keeps them connected to this church, and what has it meant to them as they have weathered the storms, as well as the joys, of this earthly life?

Not surprisingly, perhaps, but in this church where the average age is probably around 70, to talk about church and God is to talk about the building, the bricks and mortar, the walls, the roof, etc. That is where the meaning is. It’s in the actual, physical structure of the church building. Faith can be found in the nurture and care of the building—in the repair of the leaky roof, in the painting of the walls, in the replacement of worn out furnaces, and so on.

The problem, of course, is this is not what makes sense to anyone younger than, say, forty. Even for myself, just a hair over the age of fifty and at the very tenuous edge of the baby boom generation, while church buildings are special to me, I don’t actually find in the building itself my connection to faith. A church sanctuary may inspire me to be in awe of the divine, but it doesn’t, in and of itself, fill me with a sense of belonging to my Creator.

So we find ourselves in a tricky place. Maine is the oldest state in the country. The “Builders” and the way they view and experience the world is very much a part of church life, as well as other facets of life. But, what kind of future is this “building-focused” faith ushering in? And, what kind of future should a church try to envision when the demographics suggest that the only growing age group is that of retirees?

While I am honestly deeply moved by the stories of long-time church members, their commitment and efforts to keep this church—including its building—up and running, I can’t help but worry about what these efforts have wrought. Will this church be able to broaden its understanding of faith, to make room for other expressions of faith and faithfulness?  Or, will we enjoy enough of a steady stream of retirees, that we won’t need to worry, at least for a while, about changing our ways?

In reading some of the history of this old, old church, I am reminded that the people of God have weathered many storms, and have managed not only to live through, but even to thrive in the coldest and snowiest of winters (and many of them without fleece!). The challenge seems always to have been, as it continues to be, to appreciate that this church is not simply about the walls that protect us from the cold, but about the gathering of the people inside, and the acknowledgement of and the engagement with the Holy Spirit who gathers with us and inspires us, always, to be more than we think we can be.

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In the Cold, Cold North

Posted on February 9, 2015 by smaxreisert

A few weeks ago, I came upon this humorous cartoon:

I was thinking about that cartoon yesterday afternoon, while I was snowshoeing near our house in Belgrade, Maine:

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There I am in front of our boat house. I’m standing on a pile of well-packed snow on top of Great Pond. Walking on water!  I’m not sure if this experience makes my faith any stronger, but life in church is a challenge at this time of year– this winter especially.

It feels like it snows just about every other day.  Our driveway feels like a tunnel, with its tall banks of snow on both sides.  And, it’s cold.  For the next week, the highest temperature is predicted to be on Tuesday, when it should reach a balmy high of 27!  We’ll be dreaming of 27 next Saturday, when the predicted high is 8.  Yes, 8 lonely degrees.

At church, the weather is getting to be a problem.  It begins to take a toll on people, on their bodies and spirits.  There are a few who end up staying away from worship, and other church activities.  It’s too cold, too slippery.  There’s snow everywhere.  Travel can be dangerous, as snow coats roads and snow banks pile up at every intersection.

For those who do make it to worship, it’s a cheery and warm environment, a celebration of the brave and hearty.  We share stories of our latest snow adventures, mostly having to do with snow removal and the occasional furnace failure.  Like other Maine mainline churches, Old South is a church mostly of older people.  Maine in general is a state of older people (Maine has the highest median age of any state in the U.S.).  So, it’s a challenge to be a church in winter, where many of our worshippers have a hard enough time getting around when there’s no snow at all.

In the cold of winter, walking on (frozen) water is not so impressive a feat, but living as people of faith in this harsh climate can seem something along the lines of impressive, though it seems odd to think in such ways.  It’s not just the weather that provides an inhospitable climate, but the cultural and community climate as well– and that’s not just a seasonal problem.

So despite our aging population and the declining number of Christians, we walk on our own walk of faith, bravely trying to follow where Christ is leading us, even when it’s a cold, lonely business.

Posted in Maine Cautionary Tales | Leave a comment

We Must Sing a New Song

Posted on January 29, 2015 by smaxreisert

The Maine Conference United Church of Christ is the midst of implementing a new governance and staffing structure. I recently attended a meeting of the new Mission Council, which is intended to serve as the leadership council of and for the Conference. This new 12-member Mission Council is full of thoughtful and devoted Maine United Church of Christ members, with lay and clergy people who know the conference and are committed to its future.

But, that doesn’t mean they (at least a few of them) don’t drive me crazy.

During our recent meeting, only the third meeting of this new group, we started to talk about the joys and challenges of being the church in the twenty-first century. No surprise, but the conversation turned quickly to just the “challenges,” and then from there, out came all of the same old story, the same old refrain, of what’s keeping people from our sanctuaries on Sunday mornings:
• Sunday sports practices and games
• the competition we face on Sunday mornings
• “It wasn’t like that when I was young.”
• “Why can’ they leave Sunday mornings alone?”

It takes a lot of effort for me not to scream when I hear the same old parade of “woe is me/us” scenarios. It’s one thing to hear such things at the local level, especially among the older members of an individual local congregation—who can really blame them for feeling that the world has completely changed? But to hear all of the same, sad, sorry, tired old refrain from leaders in the church, well that’s especially frustrating, and heartbreaking.

If we can’t figure out how to sing a new song, we are just continuing the death spiral. If we can’t figure out how to look at ourselves and listen to ourselves, honestly and deeply, this isn’t going anywhere. We might as well start the dirge and plan the funeral.

At meetings such as the one I attended, I wish I could record the litany of woes and then make them listen to themselves. One of the dimensions of this same old list of miseries, is the curious notion that these people somehow have failed to appreciate: If the only reason that people came to church in the 1950s and 60s is that they had nothing else better to do, what does that say about us? What does that say about our church?

No one is forcing or coercing people to take their kids to sports practices on Sunday mornings. There is no state law that people must go to brunch and read the New York Times instead of attending Sunday morning worship.

It is absolutely critical for us to understand that people, in their free time, do things that are meaningful to them. And, for lots and lots of people in the Northeast especially, meaning is no longer found in the church.

That’s about us, not them. We need to adopt a new song, and rediscover our reason for being, and then to spread the news—knowing full well, and accepting, that we exist in an environment where many things compete for attention. And, that’s good for us. It may not feel that way, but this is good for us.

We need to figure out why we have stayed connected to the Church, why it holds meaning for us, and then to find new ways of spreading the news—instead of relying on societal and cultural pressure to do the work for us. When we rely on society to help us out, we become lazy evangelists. And, more than that, we become disconnected from why we remain committed to the Church.

We need to stop singing the same old sad song, and learn a new one—a song of the love of God, the grace of Jesus Christ, and the abiding and trustworthy strength and guidance of the Holy Spirit. We need to find the courage to let go of the fifties and sixties, and the grace to say boldly, “Goodbye and good riddance.” We are on to something new, a new song.

Posted in My Life as Pastor, Studies, Demographics, Reality | Tagged | Leave a comment