Sermon July 24, 2005

“Transitions”

There is an old John Lennon song I was thinking about as I considered this sermon. It’s called, “In my life,” and in the first verse it talks about places and people he has known and what they have meant to him.

The funny thing is, that as my thoughts move on to the second verse, which speaks of the one person who has meant most to him, my thoughts always turn to my daughter Anna.

I was still humming this song when I thought again about a conversation Anna and I had earlier in the day. We were talking about her and her fiancé helping out at my garage sale today, and I made a comment along the line of how he better help out. She defended him, saying that he was already organizing the move, and that was the a lot for him to do.

At first I thought she was simply defending him against what she perceived as criticism from me, but as I continued to hum along, I suddenly realized that her comment had a much more profound implication.

The song reminded me of how I have always seen Anna and I as a unit, a kind of circle of two. And I realized that my assumption that Sam had an obligation to help me out with the garage sale, was really based in the idea that Sam was joining this circle and that our family unit, one that has existed so long, was just expanding by one person.

But I also realized that behind Anna’s comment was a much different reality. That she was in fact leaving our circle, and she and Sam were forming a new one, one that I stood outside of.

Now this was something that I knew intellectually, but like most men, I’m a little dense. However, now I suddenly realized that what I always theorized about had become a reality.

For a split second, I felt very alone and a little sad. But then that sadness was almost immediately replaced by a kind of exhilaration, a sense of release. I felt that for the first time in thirteen years, I could look for someone for myself, that now I was free to love someone again.

There is an old saying, “When God closes a door, he opens in window.”

I’d like to think of it another way. I’d like to think that every loss we experience and every transition in our lives; carry with them a possibility, a seed that has the potential to grow into something new and wonderful.

We stand at such a point of transition today. And while it is appropriate to feel sadness at such a time (or joy, depending on whether you liked my sermons or not) we should not overlook the promise that change offers us.

I’m getting the chance to start my life over. And I’m sure that my new freedom to love again will be matched in North Carolina by some lonely heiress, sitting on her vast plantation, just waiting for someone like me. You’ll see when I send you pictures of me, lounging on the veranda in my white suit, a cigar in one hand and a gin and tonic in the other.

And you’re getting a chance too. A chance to decide what exactly you want this church to be, to shape it for the future.

It’s funny the habits we develop. I got so used to living for Anna, that I forgot to live for myself in some very important ways.

Churches have habits too. Some get in the habit of waiting for someone to lead them somewhere. If they like the direction the minister is taking them, good. If they don’t appreciate it, well, you can always wait the minister out. Chances are he or she will move on eventually anyway. If you really object to what’s going on, you leave.

But a minister doesn’t own the church. He or she works for you. And you get to decide what you want this church to be. It’s democratic, of course. No one individual gets to seize power or rule over everyone else. But this church is a democracy. And you have the chance now to really reflect about what you want this church to be, where you want it to go, what you want it to focus on.

Of course, the great drawback to democracy is that it’s messy. And the real danger of democracy is disunity. Churches are often torn apart by conflicting visions. The key is democracy tempered by love and acceptance; where you accept the fact that you don’t always get your own way and not everyone sees things the way you do.

And you have the opportunity, nay, the responsibility, to exercise your gifts. I know I keep droning on about this; but I’ll say it again, you are an incredible gifted group of people. And ministry is not about what a few people do for you. Ministry is about what you do for each other and for the community. And you can decide how and where to exercise these gifts.

Of course, many of these gifts you exercise already, and you exercise them wonderfully. But as I have talked with you and heard many of you share on different Sundays, I see the wealth of insight and experience you have to share, and sometimes hesitate to.

But I go on too much about that. Let me just reflect a few moments about the last year.

As I look back on this year, I find it hard to speak about accomplishments. How would I measure such things? And what kind of things would I measure? I performed my first wedding. And as far as I know they are still married. So that seemed to work. And we had some growth in attendance. But are these the kinds of things that are really important? The important things are hard to describe and impossible to measure. They are things of the Spirit.

So let me speak about something else; what I tried to do.

As your interim minister, I have endeavored to be a servant. I am hardly a perfect one, but I have tried, within my limitations, to serve you the best I could. I have tried to fulfill my vision of what ministry is.

I don’t think ministry is about the minister. It’s not a career, it’s a calling. It’s not about me getting what I want, or building my professional portfolio or receiving recognition. It’s about serving you.

Ministry is about trying to sense what you need, then working to provide it. Unfortunately, as a part time minister, it’s also about choosing, out of the many things I could do, the few things where I thought I could most benefit the church. That has not always been an easy choice. There are things I would have liked to been involved with, that I just couldn’t.

And ministry is servant-hood in a very practical sense. I have always tried to remember that I work for you. I’ve tried to function with the board as their employee, as someone who is answerable to them. And I’ve tried to respect the boundaries of my position. Let me add that I have been I’ve been blessed in my interaction with the board. You can count yourselves fortunate. Not all church boards are as good as yours.

At the same time, as your minister, I have tried to hear the promptings of the Spirit and be true to them. I can’t tell you how often I have started sermons and then thrown them away, because they just didn’t feel right. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve finished sermons, then thrown them away, because I felt that they didn’t say what I thought they should say on that particular Sunday.

I’m aware that I have not always been as sensitive to the Spirit as I should be. But thankfully, I can count the number of times I sat down from the pulpit and felt that I had failed to bring you what I was supposed to. You’re free to disagree with me on the number of times I missed the mark.

I confess too, that sensing what should and shouldn’t be said is the hardest part of doing a sermon.

I have also tried to work cooperatively with Libbie. This has been a joy. We talk often, sometimes daily. She has been a fountain of wisdom and become a true friend.

And you’ve benefited indirectly from her wisdom. I remember the time I was going to surprise you by painting the church lime green. “Let’s stop for a moment and think about this pastorally,” Libbie said.

And I have tried to grow as a minister. It’s funny, but it’s only been in the last few weeks that I have felt really comfortable in this role. It’s like I finally am starting to get the hang of it. It reminds me of the year I taught fourth grade at a poor inner-city Catholic School. I finally figured out how to teach the kids about a week before school ended.

I have to be honest. There have been some things that disappointed me this year. I didn’t get elected Pope, and there are a number of eternal truths I wanted to mess with. And I didn’t get nominated to the Supreme Court. I thought my resume was strong, but I guess not. I know a few ruling I like to hand down that would change this country.

...I think that’s about it for disappointments.

When I think back over my life I must admit that I feel lucky. I have a hard time remembering situations where I wasn’t surrounded by people I loved.

When I taught fourth grade, I loved the kids. They were absolutely uncontrollable and made me crazy, but there wasn’t one kid I didn’t like. And the sisters I taught with were warm, genuine, deeply spiritual people who gave everything for these kids.

In all my years of teaching college, I’ve only had one student I didn’t like; and he was a young man who had built such defenses around himself that you never felt like you ever touched the person who was hidden there, undoubtedly under a mass of scars. Aside from him, who I cared about, but didn’t like, I never had a student I didn’t genuinely think was a great person.

Even in the fundamentalist church, despite it’s many horrors, I loved the people. My fellow ministers, on the other hand, I could have beaten with a stick. But that’s because they didn’t care about anyone but themselves. But I loved the people.

It seems that my whole life I have found myself surrounded by really great people; people I grew to love. And it has been no different here. I’ve come to see you not as parishioners, nor as “objects of ministry”, but as friends; friends with whom I have been privileged to journey with for a time.

How lucky can a guy get?

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