The Impossible Job

Posted on November 1, 2014 by smaxreisert

I can’t say that I wasn’t warned. It shouldn’t surprise me that my job is starting to feel like an impossible job. I grew up with parents who were champion church complainers. There was hardly anything that the minister did or tried to do that they didn’t complain about. When a new minister came along just after I went to college, there was even more complaining—from them and from their friends. They were especially suspicious about anything the minister did that seemed to focus on newcomers and on what the “old guard” thought might be an attempt to gather up a “new guard,” so that in disputes the minister would be able to get “his way.”

I can’t say that I wasn’t warned. I shouldn’t be surprised when my job starts to feel like the impossible job. As I get older, however, I’ve discovered that I have less patience—especially for those aspects of my job that feel impossible, but shouldn’t be. There are aspects of my job that I expect to be difficult, even extremely difficult. But, there are other aspects of my job that are difficult, but really shouldn’t be—like when one person doesn’t like something and finds one other person who agrees with him/her, and then immediately the two of them make the leap to believing that they speak for a great many people. Even when there’s plenty of evidence to the contrary.

In one of my former churches, much earlier in my career, I managed to help the church wade through an especially nasty conflict. It took months and months, and in the end, came to a reasonable resolution. Though it may not have actually been completely true, I remember being much more patient with the process of moving through that conflict. Although many aspects of the conflict made me angry and frustrated, I don’t remember ever “losing my cool,” or letting the unpleasantness get under my skin.

In recent months, I’ve felt much closer, on several occasions, to “losing my cool.” I feel much less patient with the impossible aspects of my job as a parish pastor, especially those things that shouldn’t be so difficult.

I am audience to a dizzying array of perspectives, opinions, life experiences, hopes, dreams and aspirations—and some of the ideas in this array are in direct conflict with each other. Yet, there seems to be, among a vocal few, little respect for the validity of differing viewpoints. A few parishioners want and expect me to actively bring in newcomers, but they want me to do that in such a way that ensures that nothing ever changes. There are those in the church who want me to say something meaningful from the pulpit, but not anything that could be construed as controversial, or something with which they disagree. There are those who demand that I refrain from saying anything that might be political, but there are others who expect me to offer guidance on the linkage between faith and daily life. There are those want me just to pat them on the back, to keep telling them that they are doing a good job, while others actually want me to help them become better Christians. There are those want me to pat them on the back, while also challenging the problematic views of other members of the congregation. I’m supposed to be a good listener, and I should always know the right thing to say. I should know what’s on everyone’s mind and I should certainly know what is bothering people (before they tell me). And, for each brave soul who shares an opinion, perspective, or idea, I am expected to follow their advice, even when I tell them that there’s someone else in the congregation who actually wants the exact opposite.

I never expected my job to be easy. But, there are days when the impossible starts to get to me. Not long ago, a long-time member of the congregation basically told me that I should be more like the ministers the church had in the fifties and sixties, that my job is only about helping people feel comfortable with whatever vision of God they already have, and that I should just be supportive and encouraging. In addition to that, I shouldn’t ever try to usher in any changes, but that I should do whatever I can to ensure that the Old South continues to be Old South well into the future.

Sure. No problem.

When I told this particular church member that there are others in the congregation who actually have a perspective that is in direct opposition to his, he seemed baffled. To the extent that people in the congregation could have such different views, then those people must be “new” people, and somehow those views should be less influential than the views of those who have been around longer.

I can’t say I wasn’t warned. I basically grew up with people who were just like that guy. But, my diminishing well of patience, I think, has a lot to do with the sense that the stakes seem so much higher. The average age at the church I serve is probably in the high sixties or low seventies. Although average Sunday worship is up a bit in recent weeks, it’s lower than it was a decade or two ago. The “church going” climate in Maine is weak, at best.

The church has many challenges—for its present and for its future. To expend a great deal of energy on those aspects of our life together that are relatively insignificant, is to distract our attention from what we are called to do in living out the mission of the church, in sharing the Gospel of Jesus Christ. We can’t afford to get wrapped up in small, internal disputes, where small groups are set up in opposition to each other. Instead, we must be more attentive to respect for the variety of opinions and perspectives, for the new energy and ideas of newcomers, and the ways through which the Spirit moves in our midst. We must always be open to the unsteady balance of comfort, nurture, and change. If we are feeling off-kilter, that’s probably exactly when we are living our faith.

We are a people of hope, new life, and, dare I even suggest it, salvation. We ought to take that more seriously, and live it, breathe it, be it—to find the courage to be about the building up of the church, instead of the easier work of keeping it in our own neat little box. We need to be about the wonder of what is possible, for each of us and for all of us together.

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The Church of the Reluctant Evangelists

Posted on October 19, 2014 by smaxreisert

Visitors to worship at Old South will generally find a warm and friendly group of people. Most Old South folk are eager to greet new people, to invite them to coffee, and to talk to them about the church. There are a few people in the congregation who are attentive to newcomers during worship as well, making sure they have a bulletin, know which hymnal is which, and to deliver children’s materials to any kids. It’s nice to see.

If you manage to get into the building, you’ll find a nice welcome.

But, trying to get people to bring that friendliness and welcome a little further out, to engage in a little of the “e” word (evangelism) outside of the sanctuary, is a whole other thing.

This past Sunday, I handed out a small stack of sticky notes to each person in worship and asked them to find ways of using the notes to spread God’s love—to write messages like “God loves you” and “Rejoice!” and “Show Kindness” and then to stick them somewhere, anywhere. I suggested sticking one on a neighbor’s mailbox, or on a car parked next to them in a parking lot. They didn’t need to sign the note or let anyone know that they had done it. They could even go out under the cover of darkness, if that made them more comfortable.

It’s now a few days later, and I’ve found at least two sticky notes left for me on my office door. One of those who left a sticky seemed rather pleased with herself. “Did you find the note I left for you?” she asked. I told her that I had and then I handed it back to her and encouraged her to put it somewhere else, where a stranger might find it. She seemed not so happy.

It’s the Church of the Reluctant Evangelists.

I know evangelism can be hard, and full of all kinds of hazards. A few years ago, a church member told me that he had been “working on” one of his neighbors, encouraging his neighbor to come to church. Finally, the neighbor agreed to come. The man came with his family on Christmas Eve. The church member introduced us, very happy that his evangelism had finally paid off. The neighbor told me how much he enjoyed the service. He said that he would very likely come again . . . to next year’s Christmas Eve service. It was a heartbreaking moment.

Evangelism is hard, and it seems even harder around here, where so many people don’t go to church, where the tide has definitely turned, where church seems so counter-cultural, and out of the norm. It feels that there’s a general sense in the community that those who go to church are either Roman Catholic, and are compelled to attend (but really don’t want to) or are there for cultural reasons (lots of French Canadian descendants in this part of the world), or they are closed-minded “born agains.”

To say that one goes to church can be hard enough (such declarations can invite all sorts of responses), but to go the next step and actually invite someone to come to church is daunting. Yet, it’s the only way the church is going to survive in these parts—at least the kind of church like Old South, where people are welcomed just as they are.

While it’s a good start to feel comfortable in welcoming visitors who manage to get through the front doors, it’s simply not enough—if we believe that this kind of church is a good thing and should be given a decent chance of surviving into the future. Offering welcome to friends, acquaintances, neighbors, and even other family members who aren’t church-goers, is critical to the well-being of the body of Christ—in all sorts of ways.

In these days in this little part of the world, faithful church members must channel their first century counterparts, seeking not only to share the good news occasionally, but to think about the spreading of the gospel almost as a form of exercise—something that’s best done often. Faithful church members must find the grace not to be discouraged by experiences where the their evangelism is rejected, but to embody and live out Paul’s exhortation, “I can do all things through him who strengthens me.” (Philippians 4:13)

I can do all things through him who strengthens me. I can even share a little word of God’s love on a few sticky notes. It’s at least a start.

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To Be Among the Least

Posted on October 10, 2014 by smaxreisert

Maine isn’t good at a lot of things. We don’t go to church (according to the Association of Statisticians of American Religious Bodies, Maine has one of the lowest rates of church attendance). We aren’t business friendly (according to Forbes). We aren’t diverse (according to the Census Bureau, we are the whitest state). And now it turns out, we aren’t charitable either (according to The Chronicle of Philanthropy).

It doesn’t really surprise me that Maine is among the “least” in many categories. I certainly notice that lots and lots of people don’t go to church, for instance, and that Maine is indeed a very, very white place. And, that Mainers aren’t especially generous.

Among my own peers, I try not to think about generosity, because it just fills me with despair. Earlier this year, for my 50th birthday party, I invited a big group of friends to my birthday party. Instead of a gift, I asked them to give to a local charity that most of them know is very important to me. One or two couples gave generously. The rest did not. A few couples didn’t give anything at all. In other places and ways as well, I’ve noticed a decided lack of generosity among people I know and with whom I socialize. And, through my experience serving on boards of local charities, I’ve learned that lots of people who live in Central Maine are not especially generous.

In explaining the lack of generosity, the editor of The Chronicle of Philanthropy suggested that the low rankings for northern New England stemmed in part from “low rates of church attendance, but also from residents’ ‘independent streak’ and a tradition of self-reliance.”

That may be, but the culture of giving within churches, by those who go to church, is not especially strong either—at least in the churches I’ve been involved with. I’ve met people who haven’t altered their pledge in twenty or thirty years. I’ve met people who, though they are active members, refuse to pledge or to give much in a financial way. I’ve encountered people who boast to me about the significance of their giving to the church, suggesting that their level of giving should afford them more influence, while also denigrating the assumed level of giving of other church members. And, then I’ve discovered that the denigrated church members actually give considerably more to the church than the one who is boasting.

At Old South, giving is a private matter. Only the financial secretary knows how much people give (the only details I know are from what people tell me themselves). I’ve respected this practice, primarily because, knowing myself, I suspect that it would affect my ability to offer appropriate pastoral care to those who leave the impression that they give generously when they really don’t.

In church and out, Mainers are not charitable. The “independent” streak may have something to do with it. I can think of other reasons too. Mainers—as well as other northern New Englanders—tend to be thrifty and, well, cheap. They like a bargain (or, “bahgain,” as it is pronounced here). And, this tradition extends to people who aren’t even from here, but have moved here. Almost all of my friends who were invited to my birthday party, for instance, are not originally from Maine. Has living in Maine made them uncharitable, or were they that way to begin with? Is there something in the water up here?

It’s hard enough to be in the “whitest” state, and in the state with such low church attendance, but to live in the state that is just about at the bottom of the charitable list (only New Hampshire is less charitable than Maine) is truly unsettling. It’s hard to think about inspiring generosity when the work is so daunting, when the culture and tradition is so unambiguously uncharitable.

Inside the church, it’s especially frustrating to think about the feebleness of charity. The Bible does, after all, provide ample guidance on generosity, on caring for those on the margins, the widow and orphan. At the same time, the Bible is clearly lacking in verses and stories that support “self-reliance” and “independence.”

Maine isn’t good at a lot of things—church attendance, business-friendliness, diversity, charity, generosity. And, biblical literacy. It’s a sad commentary. Independence is one thing. Being a part of a strong community, where people seek to help each other, would be a lot better.

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What’s Your Status?

Posted on October 4, 2014 by smaxreisert

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the efforts that Old South—the church I serve in Central Maine—has engaged in order to support and encourage new members and friends. I’ve especially been thinking about the time I’ve spent with new and fledging members and visitors of Old South, in person and through email and other contact methods. I’ve visited with, met for coffee, opened my office to what feels like countless new people—some new to the area and others just new to church. A few haven’t even made it to worship. I’ve met with them, or communicated with them through email or Facebook, while they were considering a visit to worship. How many of these “newbies” show up on an average Sunday morning these days? A regrettable few.

Some have been kind enough to be honest early in the process. They like Old South, they like worship, but they just don’t really have the time to devote to church. Or, they find that they don’t really like Old South, or me. Or, they are really looking for a church that will give them those quick and easy answers to life that I just won’t do—and there just too many other options in the area, churches that are all too happy to provide those neat definitions of who’s “in” and who’s “out,” etc. For a few others, a job opportunity has lured them away from the area.

But, most do not share with me their reasons for their absence, even when I reach out and ask them about it, trying to make it clear that I would like them to be honest (so that I can learn about what we may not be doing well when it comes to new folks). They just disappear. They attend for a few weeks, or a few months, and then they don’t.

Over the last nine years or so, I’ve spent many hours on work that hasn’t amounted to much. Although there are some newcomers who have become active in the life of Old South, many, many more have not. Certainly, it’s not just my job to help visitors become acclimated and to feel that Old South is a good place for them. It’s also the job of the congregation. But, I’m a significant part of the process, and I wonder about it.

There are lots of things that I and we, as a church, could do better to help visitors and newcomers feel that they have a place at Old South. But, I can’t help but wonder a bit about those newcomers who come along, and welcome the time that I give, but may have really no intention of becoming actively involved at Old South. I’ve had a few conversations through the years that have included something of a suggestion that it’s my job to provide countless hours of outreach, of visiting, etc., without expecting anything in return.

I remember visiting with one couple who had attended Old South for quite a few months before becoming disenchanted when the church voted to become “Open and Affirming.” I asked to visit them at home and they welcomed me for several visits. During the last one, the wife observed that the husband really had no intention of returning to Old South and that he was wasting my time. His response was that it was my job to visit and that he didn’t need to be concerned about potentially wasting my time. He was, in fact, not planning to attend Old South again, but felt that taking as much time as I offered was completely reasonable.

I’ve had other encounters where people have been less obvious, but have hinted at the same attitude. What’s a small church, with a pastor who works less than full-time, to do? Can we adopt something of a “Facebook” philosophy when it comes to visitors, asking them to state their intentions up front? I’m thinking about categories like “not in a relationship with a church, but seriously looking,” or “not in a church relationship, and really confused about what I’m looking for,” or “not in a church relationship, and not intending to get into one, but interested in monopolizing as much of a pastor’s time as s/he is willing to give.”

Would it be unreasonable to ask that kind of question on the visitor information card? I might think about giving it a try. Then, at least we’ll know something useful at the start.

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The Church Without Its People

Posted on September 27, 2014 by smaxreisert

In worship last Sunday morning, we had 35 people—a little lower than average for this time of year, but about average for the past several weeks. In the afternoon, though, we had more than a couple of hundred people in the sanctuary. For a funeral.

At Old South, funerals have become the big services—even bigger than Easter and Christmas Eve. For Sunday’s memorial, we knew that there would be a lot of people. The woman who died had family and a lot of friends. She had been an active presence at Old South until a few months ago when disease finally took the upper hand. And she was only 73.

As I gazed out at the assembled crowd, I wasn’t surprised that I didn’t recognize a lot of people. Although I knew a few of Judy’s friends, there were many I had never met. I was surprised, though, by the number of people I did recognize. There were quite a few people who are on the membership list at Old South, but rarely, if ever, attend worship. I see them at funerals, or the occasional wedding.

If I had a little more courage, I’d like to ask each of those people about their expectations for their own funeral, and services for their loved ones. My guess is that they expect that their own service, and the services for loved ones, to take place at Old South. But, with an average of 35 in worship on a Sunday morning, Old South won’t be around into the distant future.

This isn’t just a money issue, it’s also a time and energy issue. For those who expect the church just to be there when they need it, it’s time to get involved—before the crisis sets in. Churches don’t exist by some kind magic, just because they are tied to the Divine. They exist because of the care and commitment of actual, real human beings.

A few years ago, there was a Roman Catholic church in Waterville, just up the interstate from Hallowell, that the diocese had closed, tried to sell (but couldn’t) and then decided to demolish. A group of people gathered to protest and to try to “save” the church. Many of them remembered the church from long ago, many of them had attended mass there as children, had been baptized there, perhaps married there. They had fond memories. But, they hadn’t set foot in that church, or in any other, for a long, long time—except for maybe a funeral or a wedding. Somehow, though, the church was supposed to just continue to exist, without their support, as a monument to important family memories and a time when almost everyone in Waterville was a practicing Catholic.

At the reception that followed Sunday’s memorial, I spoke to many of those who only rarely attend worship at Old South. I heard it then, as I’ve heard it before, these people feel that Old South is “their” church. They feel badly that they don’t come to worship much, and many of them no longer have a good reason to stay away (their children are grown and out of the house). The say that they miss worship, the music and sometimes even the sermons! Although I encourage them to come to worship and tell them how much I would love to see them, I know that I probably won’t.

I can’t help a moment of despair: if I can’t convince people who already like Old South to come to worship and to engage its life, how can I convince anyone else? If people who already know about the church, and feel good about it, don’t come, how can we expect others to come?

Some of those who show up for the occasional funeral send occasional checks to support the ministry of the church. While I am grateful for that, I know that it isn’t nearly enough. The body of Christ isn’t a pile of cash and an empty shell of a steepled building. It’s bunch of human beings, working together, committed to the Gospel and seeking to support and encourage one another on the journey.

There is no magic wand that can be waved to keep the church in operation—its building or its ministry. Those who feel a connection to the church, and deep down inside expect that their very last service will be held there, must understand that it’s time to step up and to make the church a priority in their lives. The generation they have been counting on to keep it all going is beginning to pass away.

Church buildings cannot simply exist as monuments to memories or as funeral “event centers.” For a church to be a church, it must have a life beyond its building—and that life relies on a collection of actual, real human beings who feel a connection to that church and to the faith. It’s called the Body of Christ.

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The Meaning In Meetings

Posted on September 19, 2014 by smaxreisert

I wish that I had had the foresight when I was young to have started a tally of church meetings that I attended—though I’m not sure if I would be impressed or depressed by the number. I started attending regular church meetings when I was in high school, when I was the youth group representative to the Christian Education Committee at First Parish Congregational Church in Wakefield, Mass. Through my life in the church, and my career as a parish minister, I’ve attended a vast number of meetings.

Here in Maine—at the local church and conference levels in the United Church of Christ—there’s a lot of talk about reducing church meetings. For many churches, like the one I serve, there are fewer people to fill committee slots. People seem busier than they once were and don’t have as much time to devote to committee work. And, any younger people around clamor for more “doing” of ministry, getting outside of the walls of the local church.

In the work that I do with my local church as well in the Conference, I hear the rally cry among the younger lay people and clergy for fewer meetings. At Old South Church in Hallowell, we have begun the process of reducing committee work. At the Conference level as well, we are working on a process to bring about a different way of being the wider church. For the Conference, the number of meetings probably won’t change much, but the meetings will be different. Especially at the governing level, a new proposal that will be voted on next month will reduce the number of people on the Council—from 25-30 to 12. The hope is that volunteer time can be better spent in other ways, in the “doing” of ministry.

The problem is, as I listen at the local and the conference levels, that some of the older folks who have remained faithful and active in church life seem perplexed at the notion that meetings should be reduced. At one particular conference meeting, I heard someone suggest that we should actually have more meetings, instead of fewer.

One of the more active members of Old South is someone who spends about half the year two hours north of the church—“at camp,” as we say in Maine. During those months away, he rarely if ever attends worship, but he does attend church meetings. When I first started serving the church, this habit of attending meetings, but not worship, bothered me a little.  How could meetings be so much more important than worship, that they were worth a two hour drive each way?

Over time, I’ve come to realize that for some in the church, especially those in the “older” segment of the population, the meeting is the doing. Meetings are where ministry happens. Through church meetings, people get to know each other. They work together to solve problems. They share fellowship and find purpose in their shared love and commitment to the church. There are some good church folk who, through church meetings, connect with their faith, with the holy, even with themselves. Good church folk don’t always bring their best selves to church meetings, but many of them—the ones I know—try.

In the nine years that I have served Old South, we have faced some significant challenges. Many of those challenges have been discussed, wrestled with, and solved, at church meetings. Just a few months ago, during a church council meeting, the treasurer shared her concerns about paying the church bills through the lean summer months. This year was feeling even leaner than usual. She was worried. The people around the table nodded their heads and expressed sympathy and support. Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as all that. Then, we moved on to the next agenda item and the next. But, then something remarkable happened. The church moderator stopped the meeting and said something like, “I’d like to go back. I think we need to try to do more to make the treasurer’s life easier.” And, so we did.

It’s not all glamorous, or fun. It’s not all exciting, or heady with spiritual fireworks. But, there are times when church meetings are important, meaningful experiences. There are moments when people are able to work together, in unexpected ways, to offer a little witness to God’s love and hope.

In a time when political partisanship runs so deep and so little gets done by our elected officials, perhaps we in the church should be doing more to raise our profile and to show our witness for how things can get done. There are churches—Old South is one of them— where very different people gather around tables in church basements and parish houses, and somehow manage to work together despite differing opinions and perspectives. There is a living out of loving one’s neighbor. Ministry is done.

While it is important that we church people get out more, reaching out to share God’s love with those outside our church walls, we ought not be quite so quick to dismiss the good, old church meeting, or to relegate it to a place where only “governance” and “business” happens. Ministry can be “done” anywhere—even around a table in a church basement.

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Time Gone?

Posted on September 11, 2014 by smaxreisert

Spoiler Alert! If you haven’t seen the film Calvary, and you are planning to, be aware of spoilers ahead.

In the opening scene in the film Calvary, the main character, a good priest played by Brendan Gleeson, is told while in the confessional booth, that he will be killed in one week’s time by a tortured soul in his parish who was abused by a priest (a different priest) as a child, from the age of seven through twelve. The tortured soul has decided that no one will care if a bad priest is killed. Besides, the abuser priest is already dead. A justice, of sorts, can only be achieved through killing a good priest, and the unseen man is targeting Father James.

This begins a horrible week for the “good” priest, Father James. Not only is his life threatened, but his church is burned to the ground and his beloved dog is killed. His adult daughter (he was married before he became a priest) has just arrived on a visit, after a failed suicide attempt.

It’s no wonder, then, that Father James finally ends up in the local pub, drinking a lot. By the time he ends up in the pub, we are aware of a drinking problem in his past. So, his “falling off the wagon,” is especially poignant. During a conversation with the bartender (who’s no fan of the priest, or of the Church in general), the bartender declares, “Your time is gone and you don’t even [expletive] realize it.” The good priest, with his world-weary voice responds, “My time will never be gone.”

I’ve been thinking about that little exchange a lot since I saw the film. What exactly is the bartender talking about? Whose time is gone? Father James? Priests in general? All clergy in general? Christianity?

Father James is quick in his response, “my time will never be gone.” I’m not so sure that mine would be so quick. I sometimes wonder if my “time”—as a clergyperson, as a Christian—is essentially “gone,” that the Church is hardly relevant any longer.

I haven’t cried at the end of a film in a long time, but by the time Calvary ended, I just wanted to sob—for a whole bunch of reasons. One of the most important of those reasons is that we—and by that, I mean the Christian Church—have only ourselves to blame for the irrelevance that we encounter. Jesus, I suspect, weeps often over the life of the Church, the followers who gather, supposedly, in his name.

The abuses of the Church, and the failures to respond in meaningful ways, are shocking and horrific. Although my own denomination, the United Church of Christ, is not known for its abuse of children, we are so often just lumped together with everyone else as Christians. Bad enough.

Even in Calvary, our “good” priest does not exactly display a clear compassion upon the tortured soul in the confessional booth. He does not apologize, on behalf of the church. He does not weep. Granted Father James has been threatened, but he doesn’t seek to reach out to the pained person just a few inches away, on the other side of a thin veil. That man has experienced some of the worst of what the human experience can offer, over a significant period of time. Though Father James suggests a formal complaint, he doesn’t really offer much help to someone so deeply and profoundly wounded.

More difficult still, is the response of the bishop, who seems only concerned with superficial motivations, that the man wants to be loved, admired, maybe feared.

I have faith that the Church is more than its clergy, that the Faith is more than its followers. But I worry about the credibility of the big “C” Christian church, its present and its future. I continue to be sickened and sorrowful about the harm not only of abusive, predatory clergy, but the continuing difficulty that churches and clergy have in trying to heal the wounds of the church. This is about those abused individuals as well as the Body of Christ.

I hope our time isn’t indeed “gone” and that we just haven’t found the courage to notice, but that our desire to be part of the healing will begin to show itself more fully and that we Christians will all find a renewed sense of purpose, and a renewed commitment to never let such abuses happen.

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Will Anyone Pay to Visit My Church?

Posted on September 2, 2014 by smaxreisert

This year’s summer vacation included a two-week trip to Europe. The family and I started in London, a familiar place where we lived for a few months about ten years ago. Then, we were off to Portugal for a week, where we met up with my husband’s family. The last few days were spent in Madrid. Both Portugal and Madrid were new, and exciting, places for us to visit.

Since we really only had two and a half days in London at the start of our trip, we had to be strategic. We couldn’t possibly see everything we wanted to see, so we prioritized and set up a plan. In the end, we managed to accomplish almost all of our top sites—the Tate Britain, the Tate Modern, the National Gallery, the Victoria and Albert Museum, and St. Paul’s Cathedral. We decided to visit St. Paul’s over Westminster Abbey since it was closer to some other sites we wanted to visit and it has a great tower to climb that leads to a commanding view of London.

It was also cheaper.

Both St. Paul’s and Westminster Abbey charge admission to visit. And, the price tag is, in this humble tourist’s opinion, quite steep. For a family of four, Westminster Abbey charges 44 GBP. St. Paul’s charges 40 GBP (about $66 USD). That’s a lot of cash.

I understand the theory behind the decision to charge admission—something that is broadcast loudly and clearly in the admission materials, and in the audio-guide that is available for “free,” once you’ve paid your admission fee. In the U.K., many important cultural and tourist destinations receive government support. The admission charge for such places as the National Gallery, the Victoria and Albert Museum, the Tate Britain and the Tate Modern is voluntary—because they are subsidized by the government. Churches like St. Paul’s, however, are not supported by the government.

Given that places like Westminster Abbey and St. Paul’s Cathedral are popular sites—and they are enormous, cash-sucking machines that need to be maintained and staffed, etc.—I can understand the need to charge admission. But, the high price is striking, nonetheless.

St. Paul’s offers a “free” audio-guide, as well as a guided tour, for visitors. Our family chose just to follow the audio-guide. The guide is a fascinating mix of history, theology and factual tidbits about the church. On the one hand, the church is committed to helping a diversity of people encounter the “transforming presence of God in Jesus Christ,” but on the other hand it is tied inexorably to the royal family, and other famous people (the audio-guide offers several examples). On the one hand, it places its baptism font at the entrance to the church, signaling baptism as the beginning of the journey for Christians (“promoting dignity and justice for everyone”), but on the other hand, that baptism font is an enormous piece made of rare, expensive Italian marble.

It’s like St. Paul’s wants you to know all about the “transforming love of God through Jesus Christ,” but to also feel fortunate that you are walking upon the same ground as the royal family, and other famous people. Yes, they strongly encourage visitors to take a seat in the ginormous sanctuary, and to reflect (whether or not you are a Christian—the guide is sensitively set up not to assume that the visitor knows anything about Christianity), and to wish you a renewed sense of peace and connection before you leave. But, don’t forget that even the royals turn to St. Paul’s.

I wonder if the royal family is chipping in for the cost of maintenance and upkeep? Are all of those “famous” people that the church likes to reference, are they contributing? Or, is it just the simple tourist like myself, who is somehow meant to be enchanted by the idea of sharing the same space—though not at the same time—as royalty? Is the royal family benefiting from the “transforming love of God through Jesus Christ”?

During my visit, I couldn’t help but wonder about other churches. What about those churches, perhaps even just a stone’s throw away from St. Paul’s, that are not connected to the royal family, that have held no weddings or funerals for famous people, and have no tower to climb, or cannot claim a famous architect for its own? I can’t imagine anyone paying admission to visit some no-name church. Does St. Paul’s share of its fame, distributing proceeds from admission with their more lowly friend and acquaintance churches?

And, finally, I couldn’t help but take a moment and wonder about my own church, and its buildings. Will Old South one day be just a sight on the Hallowell historical parade? Given that we haven’t hosted a wedding or funeral for anyone “famous,” will anyone even care about visiting? Would anyone pay admission?

I doubt it. But, maybe it’s better that way.

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A Short Trip to a Distant Place

Posted on August 9, 2014 by smaxreisert

I’m about to go on vacation for a couple of weeks and will take a break from blogging during that time.  Here are few thoughts from the first few days of my vacation this year.  Thanks for reading and enjoy the last weeks of summer!

My husband and I just returned from a few days with some friends who spend a week each summer on an island off the coast of Maine, not far from Acadia National Park.  The island is privately held and shared by a group of people, who divide up the summer so that only one family is on the island each week.

The island has no electricity and the only running water is rainwater that is collected in cisterns (and used only for washing dishes). Drinking water must be collected from wells—with buckets. There are several buildings on the island—an old farmhouse at almost the highest point on the island, an elderly “cottage” next to the farmhouse, and a not nearly so old cabin that sits on the water’s edge, close to the dock and across from the lighthouse on Swans Island. Perhaps you’ve guessed by now: there are no bathrooms; only outhouses (several to choose from).

It’s not all completely 19th century. There are gas-powered fridges in each of the buildings, along with a gas stove/oven. And, you can get at least some cell phone service—so long as your battery holds out.

I look forward to this trip every summer. It’s great to see old friends, whom we don’t see much, if at all, during the rest of the year. It’s great to get away and to be so close to the ocean.

But, it’s also great to be away—at least mostly away—from technology. Although I must admit that my smartphone (with back-up battery) makes the trip with me (mostly because one of our kids is at summer camp and the other was home alone this year), my computer stays home.

Life slows way down during our visits to Harbor Island. A meal is a more complicated and communal affair, and clean up is even more intensive (there’s no gas-powered dishwasher), but it’s all so worth it.

All of a sudden there’s time for games and a long, slow cocktail hour. There’s time for walks, and for sitting on rocks to watch the lobstermen doing their work. There’s time to read that book that’s been sitting on my bedside table and for writing in my journal. There’s time for helping with a little trail maintenance, or making sure there’s gas hooked up for the next visitors. There’s time to eat one’s lobster very slowly, a lobster perhaps caught that very day, delivered by the island’s caretaker.  There’s also the telling of stories.  What is it about candlelight that makes stories so much better?

This year, we tried our hand at identifying the island’s mushrooms. Armed with two identification books, we walked confidently into the woods. Although I had certainly noticed that the woods contained mushrooms, I had no idea how many different kinds there were, until I arranged our samples.  Here are just a few:

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Unfortunately, we discovered that identifying mushrooms is a lot more complicated than we had thought. We didn’t feel like we could, with any certainty, identify any of them. Alas.

My annual trip to the island reminds me of how important it is to slow down and pay attention to other things for a while. There’s a lot of this wondrous world, God’s amazing and mysterious creation, that we miss with our noses stuck in our laptops and our eyes fixed upon our smartphones. It seems not quite enough simply to try to slow down from time to time, but to make the effort to take that trip, even if it isn’t far, to a place where one is set apart from the normal routines of life.

Rocks, mushrooms, trees, thistles, butterflies and birds are remarkable things and should be considered from time to time. And, good friends too.

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Perhaps a Little Clue Into Lower Church Attendance

Posted on August 1, 2014 by smaxreisert

The beginning of this post will seem not at all about church life, but bear with me. I’ll get there.

My fifteen-year-old son goes to summer camp for seven weeks, and has done so for the last four or five years. When I tell friends and acquaintances, at the gym or around town, that my son is away at camp, and for such a long time, I very often hear the comment, “Well, I like having my kids home for the summer.”

As if I don’t?

I don’t send my son to camp to get him out of my hair. I send my son to camp because that’s what he wants.

We are a very fortunate family; we spend our summers on a lovely lake in Central Maine. When my son was very young, unbeknownst to me, John became enamored of camp life, by paying attention to the boys camp not far from our lake house. During the day, the boys from the camp can be seen sailing, canoeing and kayaking. At night, we can hear them chanting, joining together in one loud voice across the waters of Great Pond.

One day when my son was quite young, he raised his arm and pointed at the boys’ camp and asked, “When will I go there?” My first instinct was to say, “Never.” We lived on a Maine lake, why would I send him away to camp? But, John kept asking. When he turned nine, I sent him for a week at church camp and for a week at a 4-H camp. It wasn’t enough; not nearly enough.

When he was ten, I remember picking him up from a week of camp and in my conversation with him about his camp experience, I had a revelation. I was limiting his camp experience because of my needs. I wasn’t paying any attention to his needs.

I started investigating camps, and finally chose to send him to a wonderful camp in the western part of the state, Birch Rock Camp (the camp near our lake house seemed just too close). It’s now hard to imagine John’s life, or our family’s life, without Birch Rock. It has become an essential element in our lives, a place where John is not only kept busy in the summer, but where he’s also learning a lot about himself, in a supportive community of boys and men.

Sure, I’d love to have John home in the summer, but I’ve learned to put aside my own needs and to focus on his needs.

So, this has got me thinking. As I listen to my friends and acquaintances, especially in their responses to John being away for so long, I can’t help but notice how completely focused they are on their own needs, instead of the needs of their children.

I’m thinking about a variety of situations, and though my “sample” is small (this is not a well-populated part of the world), I cannot help but notice the needs of parents coming before needs of children. And, I wonder if this has something to do with what’s happening with church, and the reduced attendance and association with church community. It’s not about what the kids need. It’s about what the parents need and want.

And church just doesn’t fit. Church doesn’t fit in terms of timing and scheduling. But, perhaps even more important, church doesn’t fit in terms of what parents are hoping for and looking for—especially well-educated, intact, ambitious families. These good, conscientious parents are seeking certain experiences, for themselves as well as their children. It’s not just that the children like to be involved in sports, for instance, it’s also that parents like the glory that their children experience, as well as enjoying a sort of status and the sense of community on the sidelines.

When I mention that John goes to camp for so long, I hardly ever hear a comment about concerns about the expense, or possible homesickness. It’s almost always about what the parents want and need. And, I think that’s a little clue regarding the reduced association of these families with church, at least in this part of the world. Until the church becomes a place of glory and status—and that goes against everything we stand for—it may be that those good families will continue to stay away.

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