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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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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