Some changes we plan. Some come by chance. Some are a mixture of the two.
I retired a couple of weeks ago. I had seen this one coming for a while. The date had moved a couple of times, and there were days when I had thought it would have happened sooner than it did. I am not alone in that; the pandemic had lots of folks thinking about retiring. But I held on through those days, months, and years, that often felt longer.
I had thought about possibly retiring on my birthday at one point. That would have been right in the summer and a good time to make the change. I had thought that maybe I would retire in June, then head to Alaska in July on mission, and then maybe just hang out in the Great Land for a while before coming back. Sounded like a good plan—but it didn’t happen.
I had thought about retiring on September 22, which would have been my 33rd Ordiversary (a word I coined to combine Ordination and Anniversary). That would have been exactly half of my life in active ministry. That seemed fitting. Something about the symbolism of it was appealing to me. But it also raised an issue. In our church the General Presbyter typically preaches and leads worship the Sunday after a pastor leaves, and World Communion Sunday would have been the second week after my retirement. That would have left a gap in who would be present to preach and preside. Not the easiest for the congregation.
So September 29th would be the better timing for the church. So I focused on that. I decided that the 22nd would be my last sermon because I envisioned something different for the final service.
We don’t always do a good job of saying ‘farewell’ in the church. People will move on without any kind of acknowledgment of their presence. We allow folks to slip out the doors without expressing what they have meant to the community. We have a hard time dealing with the emotions of closure or change.
So I wanted to both have the chance to say farewell in an intentional way. I also wanted the congregation to get that chance. I suggested that we do a sort of ‘roast and toast’ time in which people would have a chance to express thoughts and feelings about our time together. I wasn’t sure how this would work, but I felt that given that opening there would be at least some with something to say. Good plan, right?
But there was still the chance aspect. What were the chances that on that weekend we’d be dealing with a hurricane in east Tennessee? What were the odds that we have a church building with no electricity, lights, or air conditioning? What was the chance that we’d be in the dark for this festive occasion? Many variables that we could not have foreseen.
So we gathered by candlelight and headlamps. I said that we looked like a bunch of miners in the church that day. I have to say that I love candlelight worship; I think worship at dusk or in the dark is special; the softer glow of lots of little fires gives a certain feel that does not happen with lots of lumens scattered about. That it shoud happen for me as I was retiring seemed providential. Certainly memorable.
We also opened the beautifull stained glass windows along the side of the sanctuary. The air was still moist from the storm. There was some birdsong that filtered in among the other sounds. The normal barrier between inside and outside had been altered.
No electricity meant no sound reinforcement. Everyone had to speak up to be heard. In essence, we all had to say it like we meant it! That, too, may have added to the power of the service. We had to video with just using someone’s phone as we had done at the beginning of the pandemic. It was another throwback.
The entire experience felt connected to an earlier, simpler time. None of that was planned for—it was the result of circumstances beyond our control. A freak storm had us scrambling to see when and where and how we could gather. Lots of people had already had their power restored, but not our one little corner of town. We were doing without the modern conveniences.
The sense of personal connection was also strong—at least it seemed so to me. Most folks just spoke from the heart or if they had written any notes, they had done so with a eye and ear to what was going to be happening. It sort of felt like a wake in all honesty.
We went longer than a regular service. That makes sense because this wasn’t ‘regular.’ It was a moment of change. It was a moment that had been planned for for years. It was also a moment that also happened by chance. Those elements made it even more memorable.
In the movies they sometimes use the phrase “over and out.” That’s not accurate. In radio communications “over” means one party has concluded a portion of the communication, but more is expected in return. “Out” was used to state that the conversation was finished and nothing more was coming. I feel that right now. Yes, this part of my life is “over” both in the sense of being wrapped up, but also with an eye and ear to what may come next. Yes, at the moment I am “out” and am going off-line for the time being without something else to say, at least occupationally.
Character in the Making 