First United Methodist Church
Birmingham, Michigan
Maundy Thursday - March 24, 2005
About a week ago, I received an inquiry from the person responsible for coordinating the clergy retirement ceremony at this year’s session of our denominational assembly. He didn’t say how many retirees there are….rumor puts the number at eleven or twelve….but he did say we would each be given four minutes (and not a second more) to speak. For me, that means one minute for every ten years of service. Although I can’t complain, since I have been given the opportunity to preach the Memorial Service at the Conference, later that evening.
Slip-sheeted into the list of instructions was a postcard which all of us retirees were told to fill out and send back. In order to aid our new bishop in introducing us, we are supposed to write (in one sentence): “How we would like to have our ministry remembered.” I suppose I could play ecclesiastical suck-up one last time and say:
I would like to be remembered as one who honored, obeyed and unconditionally loved each of the seven bishops under whom it was my privilege to serve.
(or)
I would like to be remembered as one who paid every dime of every apportionment, supported every asking, dug deep into the pockets of my parishioners to send millions to headquarters (and urge every one of you young pastors within the sound of my voice to do the same, given that my pension may be riding on it).
But instead, I have decided to keep it simple and relatively non-institutional. So, as I near the deadline, this is where it stands thus far.
I would like to be remembered as one who (in both faith and practice) built more bridges than he burned, opened more doors than he closed, and made more friends than enemies for Jesus.
In days to come, I may tweak it, but I don’t see myself scrapping it. Especially after one of you (whom I have long respected, but didn’t really know all that well) made an appointment to come by and thank me for the inclusivity of the gospel I have preached and the welcoming nature of the institution I have fostered. Clearly, I have tried to create a congregational culture known for its ease of entrée and its intentionality of hospitality. “Come,” I have said….on ever so many days, in ever so many ways. And folk have. Come, I mean. But here and there, folk have gone, too. And it is always harder to let them go than to take them in.
Hardest to let go are those who choose against us. They come for a while….stay for a while…. even join, work, serve and sing for a while. But then they say: “Nothing personal, but I’m not being fed. And I need to be fed. It’s not for lack of bread here. But it’s not as nourishing or tasty as the bread over there”….wherever “there” is. And while it is easy to bless them out the door with “different strokes for different folks” (or different loaves for different folks) accompanied by a chorus or two of “thanks for the memories,” their leaving still feels like rejection.
Then there are those who don’t so much choose against us, but move beyond us. Off to school they go. To new houses in new communities they go. To wherever the company sends them or opportunity lures them they go. Or to where the sun is and the snow isn’t they go. And while it is easy to share their joy, it is hard to say goodbye. Because it feels like abandonment.
And always there are those who, while they do not choose against us or move beyond us, soar above us (as a result of dying from us). And while, in many cases, we are ready for their dying….have made our peace with their dying….and have even voiced a prayer (like an intercessory legal brief filed with God) on behalf of their dying….we are more prepared for their dying than for their leaving. To the point that there is sometimes an anger smoldering under the veneer of grieving….an anger which says: “Damn you for departing.”
Whatever the circumstances of departure, it’s hard to be the one who hears the message about going, but doesn’t get to do the going. I’m talking about the one doing the staying. For all the pain associated with moving on, few ever talk of the pain of being left behind.
Psychologists have a name for what I am talking about. They call it “separation anxiety.” You say you don’t know what it is? Stand in the hallway the second week in September when three year olds are being dropped off at preschool for their first day of class. Or kiss your daughter goodbye after you’ve carried all her worldly possessions up four flights of stairs in a dormitory in North Carolina, and then find yourself unable to speak even one word to your wife during the first two hours of the twelve-hour ride home….because you know if you stop biting your lip, there’s no telling how long the faucets in your eyelids are going to run, and there’s not a plumber in the world who can solder that kind of seepage. Which happens even when you know that her leaving is exactly as it is programmed to be. You teach a child to walk. Then you teach a child to walk away. Love releases….that’s what love does….in a slow, unfolding symphony of goodbyes.
Six years ago….April 1, 1999 to be exact….I opened a similar door for you and then said:
You know where this is going, don’t you? Of course you do. That’s why I like preaching to you. Because, even in the dark, lights come on faster in your heads than almost anywhere else. Which means that you’re way ahead of me, here. You’ve already figured out that I’m taking you downtown (to old Jerusalem) and upstairs (to that borrowed second story dining room). And don’t you wish you knew how they managed to find a caterer….on short notice….at Passover….in a strange city? But I digress. Back to the table.
Where Jesus said to his friends: “I’m going away to a place where you can’t go. At least not yet.” When suddenly it hit them….what it all meant….all this talk about how “the Son of Man must suffer and die.” To which Peter had (earlier) said: “Lord, this will never happen to you….at least not while I’m around.” But now it was going to happen to him, in spite of the fact that Peter was around.
What it all boiled down to….up there….for them….was that Jesus was going to die his way out of their lives. And, at that point, they couldn’t have cared less about the reason, the purpose, or any potential benefit that might be derived from his passing. Whatever else the disciples may have said in the Upper Room, not one of them voiced an opinion on the Atonement….or stood up on a chair to demonstrate that he had memorized John 3:16.
No, they were scared stiff. They were frightened. “Let not your hearts be troubled,” he said….for which the proper translation is: “Let not your hearts tremble and shake.” Which he wouldn’t have said if they weren’t…..trembling and shaking, that is.
So what came out of their mouths in the midst of it all? If we believe John 14, they said a couple of quotable things like:
Thomas: “We don’t know the way. How can we know the way?”
Philip: “Just show us the Father and we shall be satisfied.”
But I think they said some less quotable things that weren’t written down, like:
Are you going out?
Are we staying home?
Where are you going?
Why can’t we go, too?
How long before you’ll be back?
Can we sleep in Bartholomew’s room until you get here?
Followed by the inevitable:
Who’s gonna stay with us?
How do I know that? Not because I was there. But because I have been there. And because Jesus answered that question head on. “I will not leave you (and here you can pick your own translation from the Greek) comfortless….desolate….orphaned.” The Spirit will come. And the Spirit will companion you, teach you, even advocate for you. But I wonder how much satisfaction the disciples derived from that promise, given that the Spirit was….and largely is…. intangible.
Monday night, in case you missed it, there was a wonderful father/son moment between Carl Gladstone and his dad, David. Dave the dad was our preacher. Carl the kid was his introducer. In his introduction, Carl made reference to his father and mother having to face up to (and make peace with) the empty nest syndrome, now that Carl and his sister Mary have moved on.
To which his dad said: “Empty nest syndrome? So when is it, Carl, that you plan to move all of your stuff out of our basement?” I memorized that line to ask Julie when she flies in on the red-eye from San Francisco, a mere ten hours from now.
Always there are bits and pieces that remain. Always there are bits and pieces that need to remain. Boxes and baggage. Pictures and letters. Scrapbooks and stories. Treasures and trinkets. Antiques and heirlooms. Songs and sayings. Bread and wine….especially bread and wine.
Jesus said: “Where I am going, you cannot follow….now.”
We sing: “Feast after feast thus comes and passes by,
And passing, points to that glad feast above.”
My grandmother counseled: “Eat a little something, Billy.
It’ll tide you over.”
