What Are We Worshiping? Part Two

Posted on January 22, 2015 by smaxreisert

Good News to share this week.

Last week, I wrote about my concerns that good church folk may be worshiping their building more than their Savior.

At Old South this winter, we are worshiping in our parish house, located across the street from our church building. The plan to move worship was based on two factors. The first was an attempt to curb our demand on fuel. And, the second was in recognition that our building, tucked neatly into a steep hill, is not an easy building to get into (or out of) during the often snowy and icy months of January and February.

When the Oversight Committee announced the change last fall, a couple of people were—and I don’t think this is hyperbole—distraught at the prospect. Worship outside of the sanctuary would not be worship at all, they declared. I asked these folks just to try it. If, in fact, worship did not feel like worship, we could move back over to the church building. No problem. After all, it’s fair to say that the parish house is not the most “church-like” of buildings. It is utilitarian and useful, to be sure, but it’s not anything like Old South’s grand and lovely sanctuary.

We’ve had two weeks of worship in the parish house and already there’s talk about how to move this parish house worship experience into the sanctuary—when it’s time to move back. Even one of the more vocal doubters has indicated a clear liking of this new experience. Astonishing and wondrous. Good news, indeed.

What’s so great about worshiping in the parish house? The congregation must sit closer together—and it turns out, they like it! Some people have admitted to meeting people they’ve never met before—even though they’ve been sharing the same church experience for years—and they like it! The choir is now part of the congregation as well. And, that too, has been greeted with enthusiasm. Probably the most heartwarming of this new choir arrangement is a relationship between a grandmother and her grandson.

We have a young woman who attends Old South with her young son. The grandmother also attends Old South and sings in the choir. The grandmother and grandson usually only see each other on Sundays, and the grandson clearly loves being with, and physically close to, his grandmother. In the sanctuary, though, the choir and the congregation are far apart. The grandson often gets agitated and is unhappy when his grandmother is up in the choir loft. Last Sunday, in the parish house, the choir sat in the congregation. And that meant that the young grandson could sit right next to his grandmother all through the beginning of the service (until it was time for him to go to Sunday School). As his grandmother was singing the anthem, the look of wonder and pride on the grandson’s face was a wonder to behold.

For the first time ever in Old South’s experience, we are using words like “intimate” and “cozy” to talk about worship. We don’t ever do that in the sanctuary. And, somewhere in there is a sense of their renewed relationship with each other, and why they are there—to get closer, and to feel closer, to God. Although the large space in the sanctuary certainly helps us connect with the enormity of God, the parish house is helping us connect with the intimacy and closeness of God, of Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit.

Worship in the parish house has been more casual and informal, and it feels like there are more people staying for fellowship after worship is over. Sermons have allowed for a little more give and take, with people who would never speak up in the sanctuary, feeling more free to raise their voices in the parish house.

Next month, we will celebrate the 225th anniversary of the gathering of Congregationalists in Hallowell, Maine. I think it says something about us that our ancestors in faith gathered for the first time in one of the coldest and harshest months of the year. And we will celebrate that anniversary in our parish house, which was built just over fifty years ago. Someone commented that it was too bad that we were not going to celebrate the anniversary in the sanctuary. But, then they paused and reflected that those first Congregationalists didn’t gather in that sanctuary either.

The people of God aren’t confined or defined by a building. It’s a marvelous thing to realize that that is indeed true. Praise be to God!

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What Are We Worshiping?

Posted on January 14, 2015 by smaxreisert

A Congregational Church (United Church of Christ) not too far from where I live and work has closed. Its last worship service was held at the end of December. Everyone worried that the large, stately building in the middle of town would be left to languish, perhaps even torn down. But, then, rescuers showed up, purchasing the building with the intent of repurposing it, for weddings and events.

The few members that were left are happy that the church “will be preserved,” according to the local newspaper.

But, I’m wondering: What’s being “preserved,” exactly?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a big fan of church buildings, and sanctuaries in particular. I love the sense of space, the invitation for meditation and reflection. But, at the same time, I find myself worrying that there are good church people, especially those in the declining Mainline, who are a little too attached to the building, and forgetting the more important dimension of worship: God. What happens when God and the community of faith get replaced by a building?

At Old South, we are experimenting this winter, holding worship in the Parish House instead of the sanctuary. This experiment is driven by two factors: 1. The high cost of heating the sanctuary for worship and choir rehearsals during the coldest winter months (as I write, it’s -6 in Hallowell!), and 2. The problems of having a church building on a steep hill, with limited access for those with mobility problems. It gets icy and slippery at this time of year. Every winter it seems, at least one person slips and falls on their way into the church building. So, we are trying worship in the much more accessible, and easier to heat, Parish House.

When the Oversight Committee decided to make this change, a few people approached me to share their complaints and concerns. Most of the complaining involved the sense that to worship in the Parish House was not really to worship at all, that the sanctuary was essential to worship. It’s important to note that the complaints were brought by only a few, but worship attendance at our first worship service in the Parish House was down a bit. Are there people staying away because it’s not worship if it’s in the Parish House? I’m not sure, but it’s possible.

There’s an important problem when good church people find themselves so closely attached to a church building, feeling that there can be no worship without a sanctuary. While I understand the sense of disruption in moving from one space to another (believe me, I found it more disorienting than I imagined to lead worship in the Parish House than in the sanctuary), it’s also crucial that good church people take a moment to reflect and pray about what’s at the center of that discomfort. Is it that it’s just an unwelcome change or is that, all this time, they’ve actually been worshiping the building rather than God?

As we Mainliners witness and experience our own difficult and painful decline, and watch church closings not at all far away, we must find the grace and courage to take stock of our selves, our own community, our own church, and to ask deep questions about why we are in church, and what motivates and inspires our commitment. Is it our devotion to the building or to our Savior? Does the wondrous sense of space in our sanctuary inspire fidelity just to itself or to the One to whom it is dedicated?

Are we worshiping a building or God? This is a question that must not be left unanswered. When a church closes and the building “repurposed,” we must know that only the building is being “preserved,” and not the church.  There’s a difference.

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Snow Day

Posted on January 4, 2015 by smaxreisert

In the years I’ve been at Old South, we’ve only had a handful of “snow days,” days when the weather is bad enough to cancel worship. We live in Maine, where winter weather can be a challenge. But, it takes a lot to cancel worship—usually an active “winter weather warning” that includes ice of some kind.

Today is one of those days. It’s a snow day. I don’t like snow days.

It’s bad enough to get up early and to try to figure out if things are bad enough out there to cancel worship, or to make some adjustments to the usual routine. Given the realities of travel for myself and the organist, both of us commuting some distance, we must make a decision—the church moderator and I—many hours in advance. Can we trust that “Accuweather” forecast? Will it really be as bad as they say?

But, there’s more. It’s not just that I’m in the difficult position to make a difficult decision. The context in which I make that decision makes it even worse. That context is the early morning newscasts that contribute to the information gathering. I hate that those early morning news people, on the television and on the radio, all acting as if it’s no big deal that the weather isn’t good on a Sunday morning. There’s nothing important happening on a Sunday morning . . . Sunday is the best day for a storm. There’s nothing important happening on a Sunday morning . . . .

I don’t like it. While I’ll admit there’s something attractive about the occasional snow day, reminding me of those delightful days of my childhood when my school was listed on that magical list of school closings, I mostly don’t like it at all. It’s not that I think a missed worship service is something catastrophic. What I don’t like is that what we do seems to mean so little to everyone “out there.”

Despite the long list of canceled worship services scrolling at the bottom of the screen, Sunday morning news anchors, as well as the rest of the news and weather teams, seem to have no appreciation at all that all of those listings mean something, that there are people looking through those listings with probably some mix of excitement and sadness. Sure, the rare snow day has its exciting elements, a feeling of permission to “play hooky.” But, I suspect there are plenty of people who are feeling sadness or emptiness—for their friends that they may not see for another week, for that opportunity to share a pressing prayer concern, for that moment of feeling completely in the presence of God, loved and renewed.

In a state where only a minority of the population is attached to a church community, it’s no surprise that news reports fail to capture what’s missing when so many churches cancel worship. But, the fact that I’m not surprised doesn’t make me less angry about the whole thing.

I don’t like snow days.

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The Problem with Christmas

Posted on December 27, 2014 by smaxreisert

I have certain mixed feelings about Christmas. As a clergyperson, I find the holiday to be especially fraught. I not only have the usual craziness of the season—gifts to purchase for family and friends, holiday gatherings to attend and to plan, cards to send out (though that rarely happens these days), decorating the house, etc, etc. But, then there are the clergy-type responsibilities— special Advent observances, the annual Christmas pageant, the Christmas Eve service, etc. And, not one of them ever seems to be able to happen without some sort of drama.

At Old South this year, the planned Christmas Pageant had to be shelved when the writers (myself and a parishioner) discovered creative differences over the script. A new Pageant had to be found and planned in about a week’s time.

The Christmas Eve service (I know that I should be profoundly grateful that we have only one) has been in some disarray since September, when the music director was told by about half of the choir that they would be away for the holiday, and not available to sing for the big Christmas Eve service, which is usually the most attended service of the year. This unleashed a torrent of truly remarkable “solutions,” including the suggestion that Christmas Eve be “rescheduled.”

The solution that I offered set aside the usual “concert” format of the typical Christmas Eve service and put forth a lessons and carols kind of service. Somehow, this was not really considered seriously. Instead, we ended up with a “recital” night, with various individuals singing or playing instruments. We even had a community member, who had never set foot in the church before, singing a solo. Although I (as the pastor) have a lot of influence on the worship life at Old South, I’ve never had much say in the Christmas Eve service. It really belongs to the music program.

When it became clear to me that we were actually going to have more music, rather than less, what had to give to keep the service at a reasonable time frame? Of course, the spoken pieces. I cut the slot for an “alternative” piece (I love “The Innkeeper” and “The Shepherd” both found in Fred Buechner’s The Magnificent Defeat). I shaved a Bible passage or two.

I can’t help but be a bit agitated about the whole thing. Sure, music is indeed a very important part of the season, and a significant way of expressing and engaging our faith. But, there are times when I get the sense that music has become a handy way of keeping some distance from what’s really going on at Christmas.

In a part of the world that is so secular (Maine is one of the least church-going states in the country), I can appreciate the desire to keep one of the most central aspects of faith, yet certainly one of the most unbelievable—the incarnation of God in the form of a tiny infant born to a young woman who was not married at the time of the infant’s conception—at bay. It’s not easy to ponder deeply the meaning and mystery of Incarnation.

We don’t really know what happened at the first Christmas. The two Gospels that cover the event are decidedly different—yet each incorporates rich and fascinating, not to mention problematic, details that are well-worth exploring. The other two Gospels don’t even cover the birth of Jesus. This seems to me to be a profoundly important moment in which to consider our faith, and the basis of our faith.

Yet, it is lost in the “unenchanted forest of a  million trees” (see “The Innkeeper”). We may attend worship, but the services are actually distractions from the real story. We would rather the comfortable, safe, and manageable, instead of what comes when we begin to dig into this seemingly familiar, but actually unsettling, story of God being born to a young woman (in a stable? In a house? Who knows?) who conceived by the Holy Spirit—apparently voluntarily.

There’s a lot in this story that Christians ought to explore. Some of the story is certainly hard to believe. Some of the story is truly disconcerting. And at least parts of the story that seem to be based on “facts” are not backed up by historical documents (the census, for instance). So, what are we doing when we gather for worship on Christmas Eve and/or Christmas Day?

We ought to know—at least to some extent. We probably can’t come up with all of the answers, but faithful Christians—and certainly those of us who are a very small voice, and by that I mean progressive Christians living in a place where most people either don’t go to church or are conservative Christians—ought to know more about why they do what they do, and what they really think and feel about Christmas, about the Incarnation of God.

I realize this isn’t an easy thing, and that it is a lot easier to fall into the same old pattern of what we do, even when the components are a little different. But we are missing out on something incredibly important when we ignore or hold at a distance, this familiar story, which is actually not so familiar. We ought to have a little more courage, and follow Mary’s lead, and to ponder, to wonder, and to ask those questions that we think we shouldn’t ask. It’s what faith should be all about.

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The Problem with Pageants

Posted on December 13, 2014 by smaxreisert

I want to like them. I want to like the annual Christmas Pageant. Really, I do. But, every year when this tradition comes along, I can’t help but cringe—at least a little. It’s not that everything goes horribly wrong, like the great Christmas Pageant scene in the novel A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving. In my experience, almost everything turns out just about right.

But, still, there’s something about pageants that just doesn’t sit well with me. Some of it certainly has to do with the annual obsession with smooshing together two stories that don’t actually go together very well. The shepherds are in one (Luke) and not the other. The Magi are in the “other” (Matthew), but not in the one with the shepherds. One tells us about the manger (Luke). The other implies a house (Matthew). Only one contains the inn (Luke), and it actually doesn’t even refer to an “innkeeper,” just that “there was no room for them at the inn.” The big villain of the story isn’t even there, really.

Then there’s the whole children piece. Somehow, those of us who go to church on a regular basis, have grown strangely attached to the whole Christmas story played out by small children. Sure, Mary was on the young side (probably around sixteen), but she wasn’t in elementary school. The rest of the characters as well—the Magi and the shepherds, for instance, were not likely to be very young children.

Somehow, though, Christmas just isn’t Christmas without the parade of young children in costumes, moving in time with the well-worn story—“In those days . . . . “

Last year, I tried to approach the Christmas Pageant in a different way. I, along with one of my church members, wrote “The One Gospel Christmas Pageant.” The pageant’s main character was a clueless Christmas Pageant director who, short on time, decides to stick with just one story, the Gospel of Matthew. The pageant includes Mary, Joseph, the child, the Magi, and Herod (who has a pageant that includes Herod??). No shepherds, no innkeeper, and just one angel. And, there doesn’t seem to be a manger. The Magi enter “a house” (according to the story in Matthew).

When the pageant appears to be over, a protestor stands and declares that the pageant left out some of the best parts. That’s where we offer a little lesson on the fact that there are two, very distinct, stories—and neither of them is tied to anything with any kind of historical accuracy. We ought to be less focused on how it happened and more on why and what it means to us now. Christmas reminds us—whether we have Wise Men or Shepherds or both—that God comes to us in mysterious ways and sometimes in truly unexpected ways.

Last year, we rehearsed the “One Gospel Christmas Pageant” and we were ready to go. Then, there was an ice storm. Worship was cancelled. And there was no easy way to reschedule.

I assumed that we would try again this year, but as we approached Advent, there was the clear indication of “cold feet.” Didn’t the dialogue seem a little too snarky for church? What was the point, really? Why were we trying to ruin the traditional story, what everyone is used to and expecting? What about the parade of young children?

So “The One Gospel Christmas Pageant” is out. It’s a little late to do a truly traditional pageant, but we will do something that is close. It’s hard not to be disappointed.

I can’t help but be concerned that our more traditional pageant, with its focus on adorable young children, is really a clever way to avoid significant aspects of our faith. We would rather be sentimental, than theological. We would rather gaze adoringly, than engage in deep questions of wonder at the mystery of incarnation. We would rather be in the midst of the familiar, than consider the uncomfortable demands that Jesus makes of us. We would rather stand at a distance, rather than put our own selves in the middle of the story.

But, the story of the birth of Jesus—whether or not it happened anything like what Matthew and Luke have tried to convey—is something that really demands that we pay attention and consider deep and abiding questions of what it means to be a follower of Christ. Certainly, part of the story suggests that the life of the incarnated God depends on human beings, depends on our devotion and care in order to survive and thrive.

These days, for those of us in the old mainline, this is a message that really needs to be front and center, rather than shuffled off and replaced by the true, but tired.

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Advent Lessons from the Pregnant Women

Posted on December 3, 2014 by smaxreisert

Although it’s a crazy, busy time of year, I love Advent. I love it for all of its wondrous, yet not quite realized, images of anticipation, waiting, pregnancy and birth. Christianity has never fully embraced these concepts, probably because so much about them is grounded in the experience of women. Instead, Christianity has often found itself relying on starkly contrasting views of women—on the one hand, the perfect almost not quite human female, epitomized by Mary mother of Jesus, and on the other hand, the prostitute, like Mary of Magdala (although there’s no actual evidence that she was a prostitute).

Despite its best attempts to minimize the significance of women in the created order, Advent is chock-full of concepts that are very much a part of the experiences of many women. Although the Church has spent little time reflecting deeply and expansively on the images of pregnant women in scripture, such as Mary and Elizabeth, these stories offer meaningful and rewarding opportunities through which all Christians should consider their lives of faith.

As I suspect both Mary and Elizabeth experienced, pregnancy can be amazing and wondrous, but it can also be difficult, uncomfortable, and unpleasant. It’s difficult to describe what it’s like to have an actual human being growing inside one’s body. It’s miraculous and mind-boggling. But, pregnancy can also include lots of other experiences as well, among them: morning sickness (mine went on well beyond morning and lasted for many months); a body that feels increasingly unfamiliar; the middle of the night kicking of the growing child (why the middle of the night?); and, exhaustion.

Then, there’s the actual giving birth part. It’s fascinating to me how churches focus so heavily on the Christmas story, yet somehow manage to leave out the giving birth part. All of a sudden, that young pregnant woman, sent off to a foreign place, ends up in a manger (according to Luke) and then, in the blink of an eye, the baby has arrived! As if somehow because she’s given birth to the Son of God, Mary escaped all of the reality of the birth process. Not likely.

Giving birth, for most women, is truly remarkable. For so many, it’s a life experience that defies description. Yet, giving birth is also painful, difficult and messy. And, as every well-prepared woman can share, birth has a mind of its own. No matter how many of those “prepared childbirth” classes you attend, birth has a way of making sure you know that you cannot truly be fully prepared for all of it, nor can you be in complete control. Birth is unpredictable.

These are all important and significant dimensions, as well, of the Christian faith. Faith is wondrous, amazing, joyous, captivating, and emotional. Faith is also difficult, uncomfortable, exhausting, painful, messy and unpredictable.

Advent is a wondrous time for not only welcoming, once again, a seemingly well-known Savior, but also inviting and pondering those aspects of our faith that are little more complicated, and a little harder to define or articulate. The realities of pregnancy and giving birth are great resources in helping us understand what it means to be people of faith. In the rush of the season, take a moment or two to reflect on the range of the experience that is faith—joy and pain, wonder and discomfort, hope and messiness, love and unpredictability. And everything in between.

Those pregnant women have something important to teach us. New life is not generally the neat and orderly affair we would like it to be—and that’s an amazing, incredible gift. Happy Advent.

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A Few Thoughts on Ferguson

Posted on November 26, 2014 by smaxreisert

As I watched the “Breaking News” Monday night, and listened to the long introduction that offered increasingly obvious clues that the grand jury had voted not to indict the white police officer, Darren Wilson, in the shooting death of the young unarmed black man, Michael Brown, in Ferguson, Missouri, my thoughts turned to my first year at Harvard Divinity School, now many years ago—when I first became aware of all the things I hadn’t known about the day-to-day experiences of black people in the United States.

The unrest in Ferguson, after all, is not just about the tragic shooting death of a young unarmed black man by a white police officer. As horrible and appalling as that is, Ferguson is also about the regular injustices that are part of the lives of black people in the U.S. – that white people either cannot or will not recognize.

I entered the Div School in the fall of 1989. During my first year, I lived “on campus” in the hallowed hall of Divinity Hall, where major thinkers had walked the halls and had preached in its chapel, Ralph Waldo Emerson among them.

I shared that dorm with many other students, of different ages, genders, nationalities, religions and races. Div Hall had three floors of rooms, doubles and singles, and a large shared kitchen in the basement.

Many different kinds of conversations took place in the kitchen. Most of those conversations were not especially remarkable, as we talked about classes and field education experiences, and the latest gossip. Occasionally, though, conversations turned serious, thoughtful, provocative and even heated. It was in the kitchen in the basement of Divinity Hall that I learned my first lessons about what it meant to live as a black person, especially as a black male, in the United States and in Cambridge, Mass. No day seemed to go by without some indignity taking place. These graduate students—most of them in their twenties and thirties—couldn’t do much of anything without being noticed. They couldn’t walk around the Harvard Coop (the large department store in Harvard Square), for instance, without being followed by security. And, at times, they were asked to leave the Coop without any clear reason given.

At first, I found these stories hard to believe. I had grown up in a predominantly white suburb of Boston. I had gone to college in Maine, where I was surrounded mostly by other white students (a couple of black friends I had in college were South African; they had grown up under Apartheid, so a very different experience). To be blunt, I was naïve.
But, after regularly hearing stories in the Div Hall kitchen, I started paying attention. I started to notice that security guards did indeed hover close to black customers, especially black men, in shops in Harvard Square. I started to notice the suspicious looks of shopkeepers and restaurant personnel.

And, then one evening, I was the target of a racial epithet. I was walking down the street in Harvard Square on a warm weekend evening, with two black women. A white man, who was walking toward us, drew closer and closer to me and when he was next to me, he hurled an ugly phrase into my ear, commenting on my choice of company. I shouldn’t have been, but I was shocked.

Now, I’m living in Maine, the whitest state in the country (not exactly by choice; employment brought my husband and me here), but I’m not completely shielded from the small, regular acts of unfairness that black people experience. A few black friends regularly share stories of things that are said to them, or the regularity with which they are pulled over by the police.

We may have a black President, but racism is alive and well.

When I see the violence expressed and displayed in Missouri, I can’t help but feel deeply and frustratingly moved by the notion that many white people simply have no idea of the humiliating experiences that many black people endure—on a regular basis.

On college campuses and in other places, this is referred to as “white privilege,” but I’m not sure this is the best way to talk about this issue. Although it may be a problem itself, many white people do not consider themselves “privileged.” For those who are working class and lower middle class, that may indeed be true.

But story after story, and certainly shooting death after shooting death of “unarmed young black man,” should indicate to us that all is not well in how our society and culture is assembled. How to respond in meaningful ways, in order to develop more meaningful approaches to helping people understand the experiences of another is profoundly important, yet so very difficult too.

The old adage about “walking in someone else’s shoes” seems more important than ever. It’s simply not enough to assume that one’s own experience is universal, especially for most white people who can go into just about any store or restaurant without being followed, looked upon with suspicion, or harassed.

We must find ways of sharing experiences, and opening ourselves to the realities of others. We must all seek to understand, while also refraining from language and concepts that shut the conversation down before it even begins.

What is happening in Ferguson, Missouri belongs to all of us. Thoughtful people, especially thoughtful people of faith, ought to find new ways of responding, trying to build bridges of understanding, and doing so with renewed purpose. Let’s not allow Michael Brown’s death—nor any of the deaths of other young, unarmed black men whose names we do not know—pass us by without realizing that we have a problem, a large problem, that demands our attention.

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Letting Go of the Olive in Us

Posted on November 22, 2014 by smaxreisert

I reluctantly watched the HBO miniseries, Olive Kitteridge. The book on which the series is based is one of my favorite books. I have such a distinct image of Olive in my head, I didn’t know if I could deal with someone else’s perspective on Olive. But, I ended up liking the miniseries, although I felt like it should be called something like Olive “light” or “sort of” Olive since it covered—in my view anyway—just a narrow part of the Olive who was brought to life in the intertwining short stories by Elizabeth Strout.

One of the most poignant scenes in the book, which was not included in the television version, is in a story called “Basket of Trips.” In that story, Olive is at the house of a new widow, during the reception after the funeral for the woman’s husband. Near the end of the reception, the new widow asks Olive to go upstairs and to find the “basket of trips” and to throw it away. The basket in question is full of brochures that the woman and her husband had gathered to plan how they would celebrate his victory over illness, which never happened. Olive has the urge to reach out and touch this deeply grieving woman, but she cannot. That’s not who Olive is. That’s not what Olive does. She’s a crusty, hard-edged Maine woman, honed and shaped by her struggles with depression as well as the harsh Maine weather. Although she is capable of compassion, it is offered only occasionally.

As Olive shares the same space with this woman in deep grief, she just wants to reach out to touch her. Not embrace her or kiss her on the cheek or anything. Just touch her. But, she can’t. Because that’s not who Olive is. That’s not what Olive does.

She is stuck in a box. That box brings her a certain comfort of knowing who she is, and having those in her community know who she is. But, that box also constricts her and keeps her from trying even the smallest of new things.

I’ve been thinking of Olive Kitteridge a lot lately and not just because of the miniseries that bears her name.

At Old South, we are engaging in quite a few changes. We are in an experimental period in our governing structure. We are also experimenting with adding new and varying voices in worship. We are trying to break free of our “box,” of what is comfortable, familiar, safe, but can also be confining and suffocating.

These changes have, for the most part, been embraced and lived out in what can only be described as amazing ways. It’s truly been stunning, and perhaps more so, since we share that very same harsh climate—through weather and culture—as Olive Kitteridge. People are doing new things and trying new things.

One man, who earlier this year referred to himself as the “Moses” of Old South (okay with being a leader, but not okay with the public speaking aspect of being a leader) is now reading psalms during worship and leading the call to worship on a regular basis. Other people are also trying new things—leading the children’s story, offering the pastoral prayer, singing in the choir, or serving communion.

It’s not a completely life-altering thing—at least not yet—but there is now a discernable sense of new life in our midst. Worship, though not dramatically different than before, feels more Spirit-filled. More people are smiling. More people are staying after worship to enjoy fellowship. People are clearly feeling good about our gathering together, for worship and meetings.

Long-time mainliners are not exactly known for being excited about significant changes, and there are certainly a few at Old South who are not enthusiastic about the changes that are taking place. Change isn’t easy, but once it gets going, it’s hard to stop. There is a life to it that goes beyond the individuals who are embracing the changes and making them real—the movement of the Holy Spirit in our midst.

I’m not at all sure where this is all going to go, and I think that’s just about right. I’m increasingly finding that my place in this congregation is as a sort of guide, rather than leader. My job is to tap into what I’m seeing and feeling and experiencing and to help to guide us all into more meaningful ways of being together, as we seek to be a community of faith, as we seek to be transformed by the Gospel of Christ—sometimes even when we are drawn out of our familiar and comfortable roles. But, finding that, in church, we can try out those new things, can answer those new calls, and discover a new sense of security, safety grounded in faith rather than in old, familiar societal roles.

It’s too bad Olive didn’t have church, a place where she could practice living out small acts of kindness, stretching out beyond her well-defined role. It’s tough to live out one’s entire adulthood as one particular person. When church is working well, there’s a way of accepting that change is part of the experience. And, to find in those changes, new and wonderful gifts and talents—even the gift of reaching out to another, offering connection, compassion, love.

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What Does It Mean to Call a Church a Success?

Posted on November 18, 2014 by smaxreisert

In the Maine Conference United Church of Christ, I serve not only a local church, but I’ve also served at the regional and state levels. Over the years, I’ve been involved in and have witnessed some very interesting, and sometimes very troubling, conversations regarding church “success.” On the local level, good church people wish for their beloved church to be a “success.” Beyond the local level, as churches gather for regional meetings and as a Conference, good church people wonder how we can share “success stories” and a common path to “success” and how the Conference can help promote and assist with “successful” churches.

Almost every single one of these conversations equates church “success” with a full parking lot, and a full (or full-er) sanctuary.

I wonder about this. I wonder about it a lot. I wonder if this is the right way to think about and consider the best way of engaging in a “success” assessment in light of the Gospel.

In this part of the world, in this state that has one of the lowest rates of church attendance in the country, there are plenty of churches with full parking lots on a Sunday morning. There’s one church in Waterville that got so big that it renovated and moved into an old multiplex movie theater several years ago. There’s a Southern Baptist church in Augusta (though it doesn’t call itself that) that got so big that they purchased and renovated an old Roman Catholic church building to handle their burgeoning congregation.

By the metrics of the good church folk I know in the Maine Conference United Church of Christ, these churches that have moved into larger facilities and have full parking lots on a Sunday morning must, then, be “successes.”

I don’t see it that way. Many churches with full parking lots resist and obstruct the pastoral leadership of women; women are not allowed to preach, for instance. The gifts of women seemed confined to child rearing and nursery care. Many churches with full parking lots are not welcoming of gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgender people, or to the extent that they are welcome, they are only welcome if they are willing to change their ways.

This isn’t how I read the Bible, or how I experience the life-giving, life-affirming, radical nature of the love of Christ. Jesus demonstrated through personal example the ministry involves those on the margins of society. Jesus also recognized the gifts and talents of women. Paul referred often to the leadership and missionary work of women. On one occasion, he did suggest that women not speak in church, but that goes against many other aspects of his writing where he praises the work of his female colleagues in evangelism, who presumably were not just taking care of the babies in the nursery.

I’ve found it interesting, and frustrating, that certain churches are so willing to shut women up based on one little Bible verse, but seem completely unwilling to teach one of the other sections of the very same letter, where Paul suggests that marriage is actually not the best arrangement for followers, because marriage diminishes the focus on Christ (1 Corinthians).

What is the appropriate metric for gauging church success?

When I think about how to measure success, and how to determine faithfulness to the Gospel, I often think of two things:

1. The very few of Jesus’ followers who stayed long enough to witness the violence of the crucifixion and to be there, even in a very small way, for the end of Jesus’ earthly life. Long gone were the crowds that chanted “Hosanna!” just a few days earlier—only a small group was willing to be present at this profoundly painful moment.
2. The road to Emmaus story—when two of Jesus’ followers were joined by Jesus himself as they were walking away from Jerusalem, after the crucifixion, and failed to recognize the risen Christ until they gathered around a table over a meal at the end of the day.

The Bible offers important, crucial, cautionary stories about what it means to follow Christ. Sometimes, we will be very lonely. Sometimes, we will have a very hard time recognizing the presence of Christ—even when it’s right in front of us.

Following Christ is challenging, and often difficult—going against the grain of culture and society. Our “success” ought not be simply measured by the numbers we amass and our ability to fill our parking lots or sanctuaries, as if we are corporations with shareholders. Instead, our “success” ought to be considered by our willingness to live faithfully, with a good dose of humility, knowing that sometimes the faith will actually leave us only with a very small group of friends. And sometimes, we may actually have a hard time knowing what exactly Christ wants for us or from us.

It’s hard to think of “success” in such terms. It’s a lot easier to think of full parking lots and sanctuaries. I sometimes hear the remark, in reference to one of those full parking lot churches, “They must be doing something right.”

Are they? They might be doing something right for those who are gathered there, but it’s a whole other thing to think about whether or not they are doing something right for Christ.

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Leaning In, Church Style

Posted on November 8, 2014 by smaxreisert

A long time parishioner came by to visit me in my office a few days ago. He wanted to share some complaints with me and to let me know that, though he likes me personally, he is frustrated by some of the things that I am doing at Old South (Congregational Church, United Church of Christ, Hallowell, Maine). He described me as “more active” than previous pastors and struggled to find the right words to describe what he sees in what I do that he doesn’t like. If he hadn’t felt the strong urge to be so polite, he might have been compelled to use the “b” word. No, not that “b” word. The other “b” word: bossy.

Given what I know about many of my predecessors, I can’t imagine that I am so much more “active” in how I seek to lead the congregation. It’s just that all of my predecessors are men. I am the first woman to lead this particular congregation.

Providing pastoral leadership in a congregational church is tricky. I have very little actual power or authority. I am able to vote in only a very few contexts—in council meetings and full congregational meetings. Although I lead worship every Sunday and although I am called as “pastor and teacher,” my ability to get the congregation, and the individuals therein, to think in any particular way is limited at best.

But lead I must. I have the benefit of standing in front of the congregation every Sunday. I meet with almost all of the committees. And it’s my job to be in the office during the week and to be thinking about the church, where it’s at, and where it may be called by God to go. So, I must find a way to lead, without a whole lot of authority.

I can’t imagine that my predecessors were all passive and meek, just letting whatever happened happen without offering a guiding hand. I am sure that my male predecessors found ways of leading in this confounding context. After all, the congregation has experienced changes over the years, some of them significant changes. Those didn’t all just “happen.” I suspect that those male pastors were part of the movement of those changes.

But, that “leadership” is, to some extent, expected or assumed. The leadership of women, on the other hand, can be an annoyance or worse, misguided. Not in the eyes of everyone in the congregation, but to a few. Thankfully, this one parishioner had the courage to speak to me directly, and not just complain about me in the parking lot.

I suspect that there are quite a few in the congregation who perceive my leadership style as “bossy.” A few assume that when I usher in a change, that even in the process of “leading,” I am betraying congregational polity. In the changes of the past that male pastors have led, I suspect that they have had their critics, and those who accused them of not being properly congregational. But, I also suspect that those critics were primarily concerned with the content of the change, rather than the leadership of the pastor.

Like the men before me, in order to lead effectively, I must let go of the desire that people “like” me. But, one of the trickier dimensions of leading, especially in a small congregational church where most people know each other, is to try to maintain a focus on process and goals—and not on the pastor. Recently, I’ve had a different parishioner who has shared her criticism in a very public way. In response, a few church leaders have felt the need to come to my defense, like some sort of church-based offensive line. I remind them that I don’t need that kind of protection, that it’s more important that we stay focused on the work that we are doing (we are in the midst of a significant new experimental governance structure). But, it can be difficult for some not to defend the pastor’s “honor,” especially when the pastor is female.

Leadership in the church is a tricky thing and for women, leadership can be especially thorny and delicate. To that parishioner who showed up in my office to complain, I freely admitted that I am “active” in my role as pastor and teacher, and that I not only believe that my predecessors were “active” as well, but that the church requires an “active” clergy in these days (in addition to an active laity). In our declining numbers, church clearly does not just “happen.” It requires thoughtfulness, attentiveness, intelligence, and leadership. In linking ourselves, deeply and lovingly, with God, Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit, is to know that we don’t ever stand still. We are always moving, growing, changing. Some of that happens through the ideas and creativity of the laity, but much of it is guided by a leader, a teacher, a pastor—male or female (or somewhere in between).

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