The First Sunday after Epiphany January 13, 2008
Isaiah 42:1-9
Psalm 89:20-29
Acts 10:34-38
Matthew 3:13-17
This isn’t so much a sermon as it is some thoughts I’d like to share with you.
I’ve been thinking about something I’d like to call the “art of leaving well.”
Statistics show that nearly twenty percent of us move each year, some actually leaving the community. We have shorter tenure at our jobs and more temporary jobs than ever before. Robert Putnam, in his book, Bowling Alone, refers to American life as a nomadic existence. Our friendships are tethered to loss.
I find the process of leaving to be terribly awkward. When I announced my retirement last September, I shared with you that my strongest desire was to emulate the cowboys of the old west and just “ride off into the sunset.” But this is a feeling that doesn’t jibe well with rational thought. If one leaves after sharing something personal like a pastoral relationship, it takes awhile to leave properly: hence the desire artfully to leave well.
This past week I spent some time on the internet, looking for sermons, papers, observations about leaving well. I came across a piece by a woman named Theresa Latini, a professor at one seminary who was leaving for another. Her approach was rather academic which was appealing to me, so I would like to share some of her insights this morning.
She pointed out that although we expect the church to be a center of stability and even permanence that is the exception rather than the rule. For example pastors, on average, leave after 4 or 5 years of service and most congregations experience a ten to fifteen percent loss of membership annually. Effort has to be extended just to keep the same number of people attending, even though they will be different folks.
Some move away. Some leave because they are angry or unhappy or unsatisfied in some way or other: but most who leave a church community just “nibble themselves astray” like lost sheep. They just ‘kinda’ quit coming. They aren’t unhappy; they just find other things to do. They often think: I need to get back to church, but they seldom do.
I’ve been the exception about longevity. I came here in January of 1985 and just stayed. I wasn’t planning on staying, but that’s the way God wanted it and it has been an incredible blessing. So now I’m asking this specific question about the ‘art of leaving:’ How do I leave well?
I have this fear that I’m going to be like the house guest who comes for the weekend and stays for 7 months. A long, drawn out goodbye is anathema to me. But I do know that in so many ways we are intertwined with one another spiritually, emotionally and psychologically that it will take quite awhile to disentangle.
To make my point, I put some of my thoughts about this in my annual report, and I’d like to share some of them with you now.
I’ve been thinking about the two thousand or so Eucharists I’ve celebrated since I came here, and the thousand or so sermons, the hundreds of classes I’ve taught, the multiple-thousand Bible studies and small groups I’ve lead, and the million or so dollars we raised for all the building additions.
I’ve also been thinking about the number of times I’ve bumped into you making cotton candy and the wheel barrow loads of bark dust that have been spread at spring clean-ups.
Memories of Christmases, Ash Wednesday services, the Triduum of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday, and the glorious Easters have been welling up. I’ve lost count of the baptisms, weddings, funerals and confirmands I’ve presented to three different bishops.
And I’ve been remembering the deathbeds at which I have prayed and waited and cried and hugged.
Then there are joyous miracles of recovery, the even greater times of hugging and praising God from the very depths of our souls. I have counseled and I have had the great privilege of pronouncing God’s absolution.
And the music: sometimes profound, sometimes not, but always from the heart. And I remember all the work in making our transition from a mission to a parish; what a heady experience that was.
Mostly I have been thinking about you all. My heart is full as I prepare to spend these last few months with you. You touched me and tended my family. Thank you is too meager, but I am so grateful: To you and to God for the blessing to be your pastor this past quarter century. But thank you is the term we use to express deep appreciation.
This is what I mean by being intertwined.
This is where the paper written by Theresa Latini comes in handy. She makes some very good points.
First she says that “leaving well is not akin to cutting-off.” This has been the stickiest issue for me. The first church I served was in a rural community in north Idaho. The previous pastor had served there for a long time. He wouldn’t show up around the church, but he would go to peoples’ houses and spend a few days; he would do garden weddings that I wouldn’t find out about until quite awhile later, he collected financial support for his ministry from members of the parish, who obviously cut their support for the local church.
This guy was a royal pain in the neck. I vowed that I would never do that kind of thing to my successor. Also when I went to my cures, both at Albany and then here, people were preoccupied with my predecessors. Particularly here, my predecessor could either do no wrong in the eyes of some, or he was the worst scoundrel to ever wear clericals. Either way, I got terribly tired of hearing his name after about three months. I do not want to put that burden on my successor.
However, Latini’s observation is that a drastic disconnection actually keeps the congregation and pastor bound to each other rather than enabling them both to connect in new ways over time. Neither party grows but remains stuck in the past. She states that “continuing to relate to members of a congregation in detriangling manner after one has left can further facilitate the separation.” In other words, if we just cut it off, things will probably fester and not get healed. The art of leaving is not akin to cutting-off. We have to figure out ways of relating to one another appropriately.
Her next point is that the art of leaving accepts ambiguity and mystery. She says that even if our leaving creates a crisis of understanding, if others get lost in a spiraling stream of consciousness in which one unanswered question leads to another, then we are called to live with it, to continue ministry, and to trust God. Leaving well acknowledges ambiguity and mystery. Some stuff is just going to be flat out awkward. Live with it.
Her third point is that “Leaving well entails authentic lament.” We males in particular don’t grieve very well. I like to think of grief as a transition feeling. It moves us from the pain of loss, whether great or small, to a new understanding. Many times we want to get to the new understanding without going through the grief. For Deanna and me, it already hurts to know that we will be leaving. This kind of pain has to be acknowledged, embraced, and lived through, so we can ultimately get to the next stage.
Her final point is that “Leaving well calls us to turn our gaze toward the Triune God from whom all love flows.” This is seminary academic talk for acknowledging that the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit are the ultimate source of love. Current emphasis in theological reflection about the Trinity focuses on the love that binds the three persons of the Trinity together.
Latini’s point is that the love that binds the Trinity flows to us. She writes, “By allowing ourselves to mourn, we ironically open ourselves to overflowing gladness and gratitude. We experience, if but for a moment, the reality of …our union and communion with Christ and through Christ…with each other. This communion of saints, my friends, knows no bounds; it crosses all barriers of time and place. When we leave we know that ultimately we are not separated, but joined together for eternity. We leave anticipating the day when this union and communion will be consummated at a great feast of celebration”: The great heavenly banquet.
What she wrote was kind of heady, but it spoke to me.
Ultimately, things won’t be cut off between us, though I will need to be gone for a decent period of time and I will do all I can not to be the cause of difficulty for my successor.
There will be ambiguities and mysteries in this process. We will experience a lot of thoughts and feelings. They just have to be lived out.
There will be grieving. But let it be done as St. Paul says, “decently and in good order.”
Finally, we know that in and through and from God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, we affirm that we are eternally connected. It is part of being “In Christ.” It is part of being in the Communion of Saints.”
We are loved, and for that I give profound thanks.
Amen.
