Don’t Just Blame the Victim

Posted on November 9, 2013 by smaxreisert

Recently, a friend passed along an article that was discussed at a small clergy gathering. The article was titled, “Autopsy of a Deceased Church: 11 Things I Learned.” It contained reflections from a church consultant’s relationship with one particular church that had, as the title suggests, closed. The article was meant to spark a conversation among clergy who serve churches that may be at risk for a similar fate.

The author of the article offered eleven areas that had led, he believed, to the demise of the church that had hired him as a consultant (although he clearly states that some members seemed not to want him there). The problematic areas are familiar ones—lack of clarity as to why the church existed; no community-focused ministries; no evangelistic emphases; members idolizing another era; etc. For churches in decline, many likely share these characteristics, along with the others on the list of eleven.

But, what’s missing is at least some attempt at understanding the community and area in which the church existed. When church consultants and church officials look at the problem of church decline, analysis is almost always located squarely within the “troubled” church—what it does wrong (or not well) and what it could do better. In a statistical profile published not long ago by the United Church of Christ, which outlined the changes in the denomination and among its churches in the last decade, all of the analysis was focused on the trends within the local church in the context of the national denomination.

Analyzing and reflecting on church decline, though, should take a much wider approach. It is simply unfair, and inappropriate, to incorporate such a narrow focus in examining struggling churches. The United Church of Christ, for instance, is heavily concentrated in the northeast. When one considers that population is in decline in general in the northeast, it should be no surprise that churches are experiencing decline as well.
When people at Old South bemoan the lack of young families involved in the church, I sometimes (jokingly) suggest that, if we want more young families, then we should move the church to North Carolina—a place where population, especially among young families, is increasing.

This is not to say that churches that exist in areas where population has declined should just blame geography and demographics, give up on evangelism, and get ready for closure. Churches do need to consider, honestly and prayerfully, who they are and what they do and why they do what they do. But, it is completely unhelpful to blame a lack of robustness within congregations as only their own fault. For lots of churches, in places like Maine and the rest of the northeast, the picture is much more complicated.

All churches, even those with full sanctuaries every Sunday, can do a better job at being faithful witnesses to the love of Jesus Christ. But, for some churches in certain areas, the obstacles to such a witness ought to be appreciated and understood—because those obstacles are considerable and significant. Self-blame and finger-pointing at all of those areas that could be done better, does not allow for a complete picture of the challenges that some churches face. In places where population is in decline and where secularism has a firm hold in the community, some churches could actually be doing everything just about right (energetic pastor, great choir, spirited programs) and still not be able to grow enough to sustain the financial end of the church. There is a critical question for some churches that goes something like this: What if we build it and they still don’t come?

Church consultants and denominational leaders must amass and share demographic data of the wider community, in order to help churches appreciate the situation they are in. Just like those crime scene autopsies in popular television shows, the autopsy of the deceased may lend some clues to the crime, but it doesn’t tell the whole story, nor does it usually lead to a tidy solution. Other evidence must be gathered in order to solve the crime.

The simple lesson is this: don’t just blame the victim. In the case of churches in decline, unlike television murder cases, there are almost always things that could be done better by the “victim.” But, we must be willing and able to look beyond the victim to understand the why’s and how’s of church decline, to gather clues that help us understand the larger issues at play. Through this fuller view, churches may find some liberation to be the church that their Savior has called, or is calling, them to be—whether they remain small, struggling with possible closure, or swell in numbers. After all, church life shouldn’t just be about full parking lots and financial stability.  Church life should be focused on faithful witness to the love of Jesus Christ.

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A Valuable Witness

Posted on November 2, 2013 by smaxreisert

At the end of a congregational meeting after worship last Sunday, an older member summed up the proceedings this way: “Well, we handled that a lot better than Washington.” Everyone chuckled and heads were seen nodding up and down.

What was especially poignant about the comment was that, even though the meeting was brief and resulted in a unanimous vote, the road to the vote was fraught with difficulties of various kinds. It gets like that in a congregational church. As the meeting broke up and people headed to the vestry for snacks, with a sense of good work done, I wondered about this potentially lost witness, as our membership declines and the congregation ages—this lost witness of working together, even in the midst of considerable differences in perspective and opinion.

The topic of the meeting was a plan to improve the accessibility of the church’s sanctuary. Old South, you see, has a sloping floor, with curved pews that use space so efficiently that space for walking around the sanctuary and up and down aisles is tight, even for those with no mobility problems. For anyone with a walker or in a wheelchair, or anyone with comprised balance, the sanctuary is a difficult, frustrating, and dangerous, place.

The process that brought us to last Sunday’s congregational meeting was a long one, with many components and a lot of conversation, some of it heated and ugly. There was one group that felt strongly that we should have had done this work long ago, outraged at the slow response to the obvious obstacles for anyone with mobility issues. There was another group that was deeply concerned about alterations that would damage the historical integrity of the sanctuary (the church building exists within an historic district).

For months, the Trustees of the church discussed several possible plans and finally agreed on one, which they presented to the church membership last Sunday. The plan passed unanimously after a short period of discussion.

On my ride home last Sunday, I reflected on the long, sometimes fraught, journey. This is not the only time during my tenure at Old South when the church has faced a difficult issue, where there were many perspectives and opinions, but has found its way to unanimity at voting time.

So, I’m wondering about a dimension of our witness that we don’t really talk about much: our ability to get things done even when there is a wide, and deeply held, diversity of perspectives and opinions. In the world of politics, Old South people hold a full range of viewpoints. We have Republicans, even some who lean to the Tea Party, and a fair number of Democrats, and a group of staunch Independents.

Politically and otherwise, Old South’s people approach issues and problems in many different ways. Yet, in the time that I’ve served Old South, we have made a conscientious effort to listen to each other, to be mindful that it is not our own will that must be done. This often means that certain things move very slowly through a process, but somehow we manage to get to a place where we all find agreement in compromise. That agreement comes from a willingness to be open, to listen, to reflect, and, importantly, to recognize the essential humanity even in those with whom one disagrees.

One of the most vocal members of the congregation, on the historic preservation side of Sunday’s issue, had long voiced grave concerns about damaging the sanctuary. He had been very clear in his opposition to any plan that made “dramatic” change, and almost every plan seemed to fall to the “dramatic” side. But, on Sunday, this particular man listened to the presentation, studied the plan on paper, and stood up to declare his support. He admitted that he had come to the meeting skeptical about any plan that included any alterations to the sanctuary, but this plan seemed about as good as it could get, and still achieve improvement for accessibility.

This may not seem all that big of a deal, but at a time when our national leaders seem not only unable to work together, but seem to have difficulty in recognizing an opponent’s humanity, and when we see some of that dynamic in other parts of our public lives as well, we find not only an erosion of the landscape of compromise, of getting things done to make the world better, but an erosion of that place in our lives where we acknowledge that thoughtful and intelligent people can disagree with one other, and that thoughtful people can also work together, to listen to one another, to find common ground.

As churches like Old South—where people value (even if they sometimes have a hard time admitting) differences of opinion and perspectives—decline in membership and influence, I wonder about the loss of this witness in the community. It is not simply that we are able to find common ground, but that process through which we learn important and vital aspects of each other—and ourselves. We are strengthened, individually and collectively, when we discover that in the common ground is a renewal of the notion that in creation, in humanity, there is goodness. This is sadly lacking on the national stage and may very well become increasingly lacking on the state and local level of well. And, that will be a significant loss indeed.

Posted in On the Hopeful Side | Leave a comment

Lessons from the Hilltop

Posted on October 26, 2013 by smaxreisert

If you’ve ever driven Route 1 in Massachusetts, north of Boston, you’ve very likely seen the Hilltop Steak House—the enormous restaurant with the giant cactus sign and the herd of large plastic cows on the very small front lawn. Perhaps you’ve even stopped there, eaten there. After many years of feeding countless steaks and lobster pies to people from all over the world, the Hilltop has closed.

Back in the 1980s, I worked as a waitress there for several summers while I was in college and then for about eight months after I graduated. Though the tips were not always generous, they came in great quantities. The Hilltop was not known for its high-end, refined dining. Customers were herded in, and herded out—quickly. But most didn’t complain. They got a huge plate with a huge slab of beef (or chicken or seafood) for a reasonable price.

The crowds were often outrageous, with people sometimes arriving, literally, by the busload. I especially remember the long lines that would develop ridiculously early on Friday mornings (the Friday specials included the famous lobster pie) when the restaurant opened at 10:30 am. It’s impossible for me to erase the memories of retirees ordering manhattans before lunch just after they were seated, at about 10:35 in the morning.

The money was good, but the work was hard. Walking trays piled high with steak on one shoulder down the long aisles into a dining room and then the empty (though still heavy) plates back to the dish room (no busboys), for long hours five to six days per week, sometimes on a double shift, probably has something to do with my occasional back problems that plague me now.

I had heard a couple of weeks ago about the Hilltop’s demise, and allowed myself a nostalgic moment—those horrible white uniforms with brown aprons, the line-up of waitresses in the ladies’ room smoking, as well as the friends that I made and the after-work trips to a local drinking hole for something that would help relax the muscles after a long night.

But, then, it really seemed like much bigger news when I saw the closing of the Hilltop covered by last Sunday’s New York Times. The most interesting aspect of the long article in the front section was the report of the large crowds that had started to gather once again at the Hilltop, once news had got out that it was about to close. The story suggested that those who flocked to the restaurant in its final moments did not do so to try to save it, but only to say good-bye, to make sure they cashed in a gift certificate, or to steal something that could be sold on Ebay.

Everyone seemed to recognize that the Hilltop’s time had come, and gone. It wasn’t worth saving. The company that bought it after the original owner died years ago, never kept up with Frank Giuffrida’s crazy insistence on large quantities of good food at low prices. The quality of the food had declined and, significantly, it had failed to keep pace with changing market expectations and appetites.

Sounds a little like the business I’m in. Many churches also have a hard time keeping up with changes in market expectations and appetites. Those who continue to be involved in church tend to like church just the way it is—that’s why they are there. Church is a familiar place in a seemingly constantly changing world. Plus, what changes should we enact in a part of the world where lots of people not only don’t go to church anymore, but appear to be perfectly content in not going?

The closure of the Hilltop Steak House has got me thinking about a struggle that is part of my everyday life—what it means to minister to the church of which I am part, on the one hand, and the church that will exist well into the future, on the other hand. It seems clear to me that these are not really the same thing.

In holding these two realities in my thoughts and prayers reminds me time and time again of what must be at the center of it all: to remain steadfast in our faithfulness to the Gospel. Changes ought not be made just to satisfy changing appetites, nor should we cling to comfortable patterns simply because they are part of our past. Our mission is what’s key.

We are not a business, like the Hilltop, and so we must be careful and thoughtful about how we do what we do, and how we define what it means to offer a “quality” experience. A full parking lot may indicate that our customers are content, and that business is good, but it doesn’t say anything about faithfulness to Christ. We must persevere in prayerfully living our mission, and in being attuned to where the Spirit leads. Whether we stay “in business” for a long time, or just a short time, we ought to be judged not by the standards of business in failure or success, but by faithfulness to the transformational love and hope of Jesus Christ.

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Channeling My Circus Self

Posted on October 19, 2013 by smaxreisert

As the pastor of a small church in central Maine, I often feel like a guy on the unicycle, trying to balance two things in my hands, while balancing myself on a bike with one wheel—back and forth, back and forth, trying to look forward, while also glancing at the ground, and trying desperately not to drop the items that are in my hands.

My life as a pastor is essentially about balancing two very different things— hope and reality—in a place where, though the foundation is sure and reliable, the environment is not easy to navigate.

Let’s start with the reality part. Old South is a slowly declining mainline congregation, with an average age of somewhere around seventy. We have only a handful of children and youth. It’s important to note, as I have in other blog posts, that not all of the decline is about our internal church dynamics. It’s also very much about geography, economics, and demographics.

Although the tiny city in which Old South exists has had a mostly stable population (around 2500) over the past thirty years, the larger area has experienced significant decline. The largest city in the area, the state capital of Augusta, which lies just to the north of Hallowell, declined in population to 18,560 (in 2010) from 19,136 (in 2000). In 1980, the population was 21,819. And, even more sobering, is the decline of families. Between 1980 and 2000, the population of people under the age of eighteen declined by 25% in Augusta. And, from 2000 to 2010, the population of school-age children and youth declined another 14%.

The truth of the matter is that Old South could have a great pastor, with great worship, a fabulous choir, and engaging programs, and it still may not be able to sustain—let alone grow—its numbers in order to maintain its current staffing and physical plant—simply because of where it exists.

In addition to the shrinking population, we must also wrestle with other aspects of these demographic changes, including the fact that Maine is the oldest state in the country and the most secular.

Yet we are, especially at the denominational level (United Church of Christ—national and state), seemingly hard-wired to see ourselves on the verge of new growth. A visit to http://www.ucc.org features a whole section called “Grow Your Church.” But there’s nothing on how to deal with the sunset or decline, or closing of one’s church. The same is true at the state level.

This brings us to reality. There is a reality that fuels that hopefulness, especially given that lots of people who live in Maine don’t go to church and don’t belong to any religious group. Convincing those who have come to enjoy their lazy Sundays to come to church instead is no easy task, but there is potential there—important, not to be ignored, reality of the unchurched who live right in the church’s neighborhood.

So there’s juggling. On the one hand, the reality that the demographics are against us. And, on the other hand, the hope that we may be able to share something meaningful with the many people in our community who don’t go to church.

Some churches in Maine are doing what’s necessary to bring in some new people, and that usually involves something that good church people don’t like: change.
But, without change, there is little to no hope. And, we don’t have to go far to see the consequences. Churches in Maine are closing. Instead of looking at them with pity for their loss, we ought to hold them up as examples of what might really be next for more of us.

It’s a juggling act, and more than that, it’s a difficult act for most good church folk to keep active and present in their minds and in their imaginations. It’s not easy to keep these two critical things in mind in most everything we do, especially when lots of those who come to church, come because church is perceived as a refuge, a familiar comfortable place, an antidote to the hectic, constantly changing world.

This is why I often feel like a circus act, like a juggling clown on a unicycle. But, the real trick is finding a way to hold onto those two things in my hand—hope and reality—AND move forward, feeling like those around me are coming with me and not just laughing at the spectacle.

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More Thoughts on Worship Illiteracy

Posted on October 12, 2013 by smaxreisert

I feel that it’s only fair to offer a few words on last Sunday’s attempt at another round of the “homework” that I mentioned last week. For the second week of “talking about worship to someone,” the response was dramatically and remarkably better, more complete, more thoughtful—from a range of worshippers who spoke to me during fellowship time (and during the week).

Last Sunday was World Communion Sunday. At the beginning of worship, I made a point of reminding people that, while Christians gather every Sunday around the world, we are especially mindful, on World Communion Sunday, of our place in a worldwide fellowship of followers of Jesus Christ. And, more than that, I reminded the congregation, not all Christians enjoy the kind of freedom to worship that we do. Not one of us who came to worship at Old South last Sunday gave any thought to our safety. We were not concerned about bombs or guns. Yet, these are the concerns of some Christians in the world, in places like North Korea, Pakistan, and Nigeria. We should not remain ignorant of the danger that some Christians are in simply by sharing the same faith.

During the sermon last Sunday, I spent time talking about communion—why we do what we do during communion. As Christians gathered on Sunday for World Communion Sunday, the actual practice of the sacrament is remarkably different church to church, denomination to denomination. When I was in high school, I remember the pastor of the church telling my confirmation class that if a stranger came to worship, s/he could learn almost everything they needed to know about our church through our practice of communion—engaging in the ancient story, ministering to one another as we pass the plates while seated in the pews, and the minister being served by the deacons.

Whenever I preached on communion, one of the most important lessons always turns out to be that the elements of the sacrament don’t actually become anything during the ritual. They are symbols that draw us into a story, but they do not become flesh or blood. I am amazed to hear from long-time church members a sense of relief. They are so glad to learn this lesson about the symbolism of the bread and cup. It’s interesting to me that the Roman Catholic approach to the sacrament is so dominant that it invades the thoughts of long-time, committed, Congregationalists.

After worship, and even through the beginning of the week, I heard from people on both of these aspects of worship. A few were almost caught off guard by the notion that there are Christians in the world who face persecution and violence simply by being Christian. The average person in the pew in Hallowell, Maine, doesn’t really think about this. Well, now at least a few are thinking about it.

For communion, at least a few more people have been disabused of the notion that the bread and the juice/wine become something during the ritual of the sacrament. And, there ‘s a renewed sense of how we minister to one another, how we demonstrate in a real way the priesthood of all believers, and how we enter into a sacred time to know and participate in the story of Jesus and his followers, not just in terms of memorializing an important story, but seeing our own selves sitting at a table with Jesus or the Risen Christ (at Old South, we use the story of the Last Supper as well as at least one of the stories of the Risen Christ eating with his followers).

As the church struggles with what it is and where it’s going, it’s important to re-engage the fundamentals of the faith. I am often surprised to learn that many people in the pews—people who come to church on a regular basis— either don’t really know the “basics” or they forget or they somehow adopt the “basics” of other traditions. We must re-visit these essential elements of our practice and our faith, and find new ways of speaking of them, articulating what they mean to us—and why they are so important to who we are. Perhaps, we’ll discover new dimensions of their meaning, and what it means to followers of Christ.

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Worship Illiteracy

Posted on October 5, 2013 by smaxreisert

There are some Sundays when my thirty-minute commute home after worship is a difficult, disheartening experience. Last Sunday was one of those days, a commute that included an internal debate on why I do this work, as a pastor of a small church in central Maine. And, more than that, does the work I am doing make any difference at all? Is this ministry in which I am engaged, or something else?

Yesterday involved an experiment that I’ve been thinking about trying at Old South for some time. It all started about six months ago when a pastor I know, but do not know well, visited Old South’s worship one Sunday. When he approached me after the service, he asked a few questions about my family and my plans for the day, but said nothing about worship. I wasn’t looking for a pat on the back for my sermon that day, but I found myself wanting to hear something from this pastor about the worship experience. The choir sounded great that day. Other parts of the worship were also meaningful—at least from my vantage point.

So, this got me to thinking: maybe we need to practice talking about worship and the worship experience. At a time when fewer people go to church and entire generations of people in our community have little or no church experience, shouldn’t we church people be able to talk about why we go to worship and what the worship experience is like?

Last Sunday, I announced at the beginning of worship that the congregation had a homework assignment. I asked them to pay attention to a time in worship that resonated with them, and then to tell someone about it after worship—their spouse or good friend sitting next to them in the pew, or a complete stranger, or maybe even me. But, something. I wanted them to talk about something that resonated with them, to explore ways of articulating that experience. Maybe after some practice they might be able to talk about worship in other contexts and places . . . but let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves.

I made my announcement, and then reminded them again just before the benediction. A couple of people decided that they wanted to report on their homework assignment directly to me. One was a first-time visitor who told me that he had found a piece of the responsive call to worship meaningful. It had made him think about the difference between how people perceive other people, and how God perceives people. It was a good, thoughtful comment.

And, then there was the other comment. This one was from a long-time member of the church who attends worship regularly. She made a beeline over to me after worship, eager to share her “homework” assignment. Her report? A complaint about an area nonprofit that I had briefly referenced in my sermon. One of her friends had had a bad volunteer experience at that particular agency. This long-time church member was full of anger at a nonprofit agency that was practically a footnote in my sermon that day. That was what had “resonated” with her. I couldn’t think of anything to say in response, but was completely taken aback by how far she was from what I had intended.

It’s not that I was looking just for positive comments, but I was hoping for a substantive comment or reflection about the worship experience. The first-time visitor was able to express something that had got him thinking theologically, a small part of worship that spoke to the spiritual dimension of his life. The comment of the long-time church member, in contrast, offered nothing substantive about worship or her spiritual life. Her comment was really nothing more than a piece of gossip.

I know. It’s just one person. But, really? Is that we are about? Does the average person attending worship on a regular basis really have nothing meaningful to say about the worship experience?

It’s not that I’ve completely fallen into the pit of despair. There are certainly Old South members who are able to speak about worship in meaningful ways and are even able to refer to aspects of worship—the sermon, the prayers, the anthem, etc.—days after the actual experience. My worry, though, is that the number of people who are able to talk thoughtfully about the worship experience is very low.

The experiment will continue through the next few weeks, including different ways of offering instructions for the homework. I’m not ready to give up, despite my sense that there are many people who attend worship regularly yet remain essentially illiterate when it comes to meaningful articulation of what happens during worship—and why they are there.

Even if I improve the worship literacy of only a few, it will be more than worth the effort. It’s important that those who regularly attend worship possess the capacity to speak meaningfully of the worship experience—certainly for the purposes of evangelism, but even more important than that, for their own relationship with their Creator.

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Faith and Country, Eggs and Ham

Posted on September 28, 2013 by smaxreisert

Last week, gun control, so why not health care this week?

Let me begin with one complaint that really doesn’t have anything to do with faith or Christianity: why is it that health insurance is treated differently than other forms of insurance in our lives? There’s a question that goes something like this, “Why should a healthy 20-something year-old shop for insurance coverage when s/he will actually be paying for care for an older, unhealthy person?”

Compare this to other forms of insurance, like homeowners insurance. I keep my house maintained, my furnace is “tuned up” and things like that, and my house is located in a place where it is not likely to fall off a cliff or be subject to other random acts of destruction, so why should I have homeowners insurance? Why should the money I throw into the system be used to pay insurance claims to those who live in far more precarious situations? And what about all of that money that I’ve contributed to the auto insurance industry when I’ve never had a speeding ticket or an accident?

Why is health insurance treated differently than other forms of insurance?

But, now on to the strange intersection of the health care debate and Christianity, and the uncomfortable mixture of Christian theology, the Bible, and social policy. Somewhere in his ridiculous 21-hour speech, Tea Party hero Ted Cruz offered an fascinating view on “What Would Jesus Do?” when it comes to health care:

“It is disheartening to know that the nation our forefathers built is no longer of importance to our president and his Democratic counterparts. Not only that, we are falling away from core Christian values. I don’t know about you, but I believe in the Jesus who died to save himself, not enable lazy followers to be dependent on him. He didn’t walk around all willy nilly just passing out free healthcare to those who were sick, or food to those who were hungry, or clothes to those in need. No, he said get up, brush yourself off, go into town and get a job, and as he hung on the cross he said, ‘I died so that I may live in eternity with my Father. If you want to join us you can die for yourself and your own sins. What do I look like, your savior or something’ That’s the Jesus I want to see brought back into our core values as a nation. That’s why we need to repeal Obamacare.”

Really? What Bible is Mr. Cruz reading exactly?

I don’t want to get too caught up in the mix of religion and social policy since I think that good, faithful and thoughtful people can come up with wildly different views and opinions. I do not believe the Bible provides a definitive Christian outline for what we should do in the 21st century regarding health care and health insurance for the United States.

But, I am troubled by the wanton disregard for the complexity of the Bible and how to treat the sayings of Jesus that people like Mr. Cruz display. Mr. Cruz doesn’t even remotely get close to one of the seven statements of Jesus on the cross, as offered in the various Gospel accounts (and not one of those individual accounts containing all seven statements). Mr. Cruz displays a recklessness in discussing Gospel accounts of how Jesus interacted with and talked about the poor and the destitute. Although Christians ought to be guided by biblical principles and the teachings of Jesus as we have them (written by human beings, many years after Jesus walked the earth), Christians should recognize the limits of biblical teaching, especially where lessons are difficult to understand and sometimes even contradictory.

In his own way, Mr. Cruz shows the emptiness, and callousness, of some forms of modern Christianity in the U.S., where faith is subsumed under patriotism. Christianity calls for the opposite to be true. Our faith—in all of its complexity—should be primary and our allegiance to Christ above love of country. Christ and the United States are not the same thing. Faithful Christians ought to be able to recognize this fact and to wrestle with it honestly, displaying the courage to live by a complicated faith that is difficult to follow.  Has Mr. Cruz, for instance, sold all of his belongings as Jesus instructed in Matthew 19:21? Perhaps the first to go should be his copy of Green Eggs and Ham.  Or whatever Bible it is that he is supposedly reading.

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Why Bother?

Posted on September 21, 2013 by smaxreisert

In the aftermath of the Washington Navy Yard mass killing, I heard one of the investigators talk about the thorough investigation that was in process—that law enforcement was committed to finding out everything it could about why Aaron Alexis chose to kill so many people, and how it was possible for him to do so. In my head, I was asking another “why.” Not about why he had done this horrible thing, but why should we bother to investigate every last detail. Will it matter? Will it finally motivate this country to think about guns differently? I doubt it.

Using the most recent CDC estimates for yearly deaths by guns in the United States, it is likely that as of 9/18/2013 roughly 24,680 people died from guns in the United States since the Newtown shootings (according to http://www.slate.com). That’s more people than live in the small city that Old South is located in, and the larger city, Augusta, just next door.

Is this an issue for people of faith? For the church? Sure it is. But, it’s hard to know where to begin, or what to do, when the problem appears so insurmountable. We are stunned by senseless acts of violence, but we seem incapable of moving our horror to any kind of action that is meaningful.

Jon Stewart, on The Daily Show, offered one of the most compelling, yet utterly and completely depressing, assessment of the situation we are in, where politicians will argue for the unwavering sanctity of the constitutional guarantee of gun ownership, yet look upon other provisions of the constitution (especially in regard to keeping the country supposedly safe from terrorists) as not quite so sacred. You can see The Daily Show piece here:
http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/wed-september-18-2013/depressingly-familiar-post-tragedy-analysis—a-homicide-pact

Unfortunately, I don’t have much of anything especially enlightening to share, but this is what I’ve been thinking about for the past several days, and praying over—that we’ll start to find our way to a more meaningful response to the violence that is part of our lives. I really don’t want to be so pessimistic, but it is simply overwhelming to me that so many horrific examples of gun violence—not to mention those cases of gun violence that are not horrific enough to make it to the news—cannot motivate meaningful conversation about reasonable gun control.

Silly me, I still believe there is such a thing as reasonable gun control.

Most of us—even Republicans it turns out—somehow are able to understand that there is such a thing as reasonable violations of privacy, in order to keep the country safe. I cling to the hope that we will get to that place where we can talk about and adopt reasonable gun control.  It’s clear, though, that we aren’t there yet. So, another group of people has fallen victim to our ornery ways. I pray for their families. And I pray too for the next group of victims, as well as investigators who will tell us why and how—until the whys and the hows really sink in and push us to act.

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Is It All About the Buildings?

Posted on September 14, 2013 by smaxreisert

Sacred Heart Church, the Roman Catholic church in Hallowell, just around the corner from Old South, is likely to close soon, probably at the end of next month. It’s really no surprise. Everyone in town seemed to be aware that the Diocese had promised to keep it open only as long as the church’s aging priest could serve the church. But Father George passed away last month.

And now, there’s a growing movement afoot for the people of the parish, and the small city of Hallowell, to organize themselves to try to save it—despite the fact that the number of active members is small and the campus is large. And, it’s only a couple of miles to the next closest Roman Catholic Church, in Augusta.

This story is not new in Central Maine, where the population is aging and most communities are not growing and the percentage of population that self-identifies as Christian is stunningly low. Churches close. And the people who love them try to save them—even those who don’t attend.

Since hearing about this most recent of likely church closures, I’ve been thinking a lot about church buildings, and my own attachment to the church buildings of my life. Maybe I’m just completely lacking the sentimental or church loyalty gene, but I just can’t imagine committing myself to trying to save a church that is destined to close.

Take the church of my childhood. The church that I grew up in, in suburban Boston, was large and I remember knowing every corner. As an extremely active church youth (youth group, committee member, Sunday School teacher), I spent part of several days of most weeks at my church. Especially in youth group, where our favorite game was Sardines, I came to know the church building intimately. I even remember the time when we convinced the youth group leader to let us into the church office, where all of the keys to the various parts of the church were kept. One of my friends knew exactly what he was looking for—the keys to the tower and the church belfry. We unlocked the door to the tower on that Sunday evening, and climbed up to the controls for the bell and managed to ring the bell before the youth group leader knew what was happening. We waited breathlessly for an angry visit from the church pastor, who surely must have heard the bell ringing when it should not have been ringing. But, alas, he never showed up.

Yet, these memories don’t translate into a feeling of devotion so strong that if I discovered that that church was slated for closure that I would set about trying to save it. In fact, spending some time thinking about this issue reminds me that what I loved about that church really wasn’t the building at all. Grand as it was, my warm memories are for the people who were that church for me. If that building were to disappear, my memories wouldn’t go away. And, more than that, the reality of that building doesn’t make my memories any more precious.

Sure, I would be sad, very sad, if I were told that the church of my childhood and youth had arrived at its sunset. But, I still can’t imagine experiencing the kind of feeling that would motivate me to try to alter its path.

Church people ought to reflect on their relationship with the building in which they gather, or once gathered. It is especially important that church people consider the degree to which they cast the building as an idol. If the church means anything to us at all, in a religious and spiritual way, we should know that we must not worship the building that has been erected for the practice of our faith. It’s not Christian.

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The Religion of Youth Sports

Posted on September 7, 2013 by smaxreisert

In the last couple of decades, it’s been an often heard complaint in churches in the United States that many children, young people, and parents have been lost to sports. Sunday morning sports practices, in particular, are pointed to as especially damaging to church attendance and Sunday School rolls.

Over the years, I’ve heard this complaint countless times. The problem though is that, in the church, people rarely move on from that complaint to wonder about why this dynamic is going on and why it has been so damaging. After all, sports are not—technically speaking—required of children and youth. Not the school department, nor the government, require any parent to register their child for the local youth soccer league—or little league, or peewee football, etc.

So, why is it that sports have become part of the bedrock of childhood in America?

I recently had a conversation with a good friend whose child is now attending the junior high school that my son attends. I mentioned that one of the highlights of my son’s experience (who does participate in sports, I should note) has been the junior high jazz band, which rehearses one day each week after school. This friend responded by saying that the jazz band just won’t fit into her child’s schedule. Without any hesitation at all, she declared, “Sports come first.”

Why is this? The reasons are many and complicated. But, one of the reasons that has become very clear to me, as I attend back to school open houses, as well as social gatherings at the homes of my friends who have school-age children, is that while sports may very well be a good experience for the children, the world of youth sports is also significant and important for the parents.

On the sidelines and in booster groups, parents meet each other, and make new friends. Also on the sidelines, parents do business. Parents who own businesses wear their business shirts, emblazoned with the business logo, or they sponsor the team’s t-shirts (sometimes in quite large and outlandish ways, with the name of the team smaller than the name of the sponsoring business), so that other parents will know where to go when they need something.

The sidelines of a youth sports game have become the modern equivalent of fellowship hour at the local church. In essence, the sidelines of a youth sports game are where community is created and nurtured.

In so many ways, youth sports have taken the place of the church. It’s where parents expect their children to learn certain values of teamwork, competition and that practice is important to competence—and in some cases, even the significance of prayer! It’s also where parents expect to find community and friendship for their children and for themselves. It’s where parents find that common ground to begin a new conversation with a stranger.

And, sports provide an easier language than religion. It’s one thing to go up to a stranger to talk about soccer or baseball. It’s quite another to go up to a stranger and ask a question about their faith.

I’m not sure what this means for the local church in these days, but when I’m surrounded by youth sports parents, I am aware that the local church is up against a lot—and certainly more than they realize.

It’s not enough just to complain about youth sports, and that youth sports leagues have “stolen” children and families from us. We, in the church, must grapple with the religious components of youth sports, to understand why families are drawn to sports, and what we may be able to offer as an alternative. Sports, after all, are not for everyone.

Church people must contend with the religion of youth sports, and the spiritual dynamic that parents find meaningful and satisfying in youth sports. If church people are serious about wanting to attract families, they must be find the courage to get beyond the complaining and to be open to learning about youth sports and then to find new ways of articulating and sharing the good news of their Christian faith.

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