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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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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