One month ago today was my final worship service at Plymouth prior to retirement. I was surrounded by family and friends, and it was a powerful experience - the conclusion of 40 years of ministry. It’s only been a month but already it feels like another lifetime. This next chapter is only beginning to unfold, and I really have no idea what comes next, but so far it feels good and right and true. In the words of Meister Eckhart, “And suddenly you know: It's time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings.” And so I continue to remind myself that I am on a sacred journey, accompanied by the ongoing presence of Spirit. It will unfold in amazing ways, and all I need to do is show up and stay present in each moment. That should be enough to keep me busy.
My life has been in transition for a while now (retirement, a big birthday, moving, etc). But the truth is that we are always in transition, because life is never static.
As we slowly emerge from a year and a half of pandemic shut down and upheaval, I hear lots of talk about all the changes and all of the ways in which life will never be the same again. But then today I heard a discussion on NPR where the question was asked, “What if we used this time to explore the exciting new possibilities that are emerging in the wake of all this change?” Absolutely mourn the practices and traditions and experiences which have been lost. But also let us remember that there is always more which is yet to come.
The poet Denise Levertov spoke to this in her poem “Only Once”:
“All which, because it was
flame and song and granted us
joy, we thought we'd do, be, revisit,
turns out to have been what it was
that once, only; every invitation
did not begin
a series, a build-up: the marvelous
did happen in our lives, our stories
are not drab with its absence: but don't
expect to return for more. Whatever more
there will be will be
unique as those were unique. Try
to acknowledge the next
song in its body-halo of flames as utterly
present, as now or never.”
Every moment, every experience is unique. It not only won’t be repeated, it can’t be repeated. But just because we won’t ever again experience that wonderful moment doesn’t mean we will never again have wonderful moments. They will simply be new and unique.
So, let us celebrate all that has gone before, and then let us step boldly into the great mystery of what comes next, trusting that it will be something we cannot even imagine, because it has never before in the whole history of the world been experienced. And that, my friends, is worth celebrating.
At the edge of the mountain a mama deer and her triplet offspring have been hanging out for a couple of weeks. I’ve seen them several times on my morning hikes. Today I’m standing on a ridge watching them in the field below me. Mama is munching on the grass, the sound rising to meet my ears. Then, one by one, the triplets emerge from the trees. The first one makes its way to mama’s side, where it starts to feed while the maternal doe quietly lowers her head to nuzzle the fawn. Meanwhile, the other two bound across the open space, leaping and bouncing with utter abandon. This ordinary, extraordinary, magical scene unfolds, with me the only witness - a priceless gift that feeds my soul and leaves me smiling. In this one holy and sacred moment time stands still, and I remember that I am connected with the whole Universe. And then the moment has passed, but the lesson lingers. With a grateful nod to Mary Oliver (The Summer Day), this is what I plan to do with my one wild and precious life!
I think of it as my mountain, but the truth is that I do not own it. In fact, it doesn’t “belong” to me at all. For the past six years I’ve simply been blessed by the privilege of sharing it with the creatures who live here. Sauntering through this sacred place has nourished my soul.
This is Father’s Day, and I am a father, so today is officially a day for me to celebrate. My status as a father is not based in biology. None of the women with whom I am connected in a fatherly way are biologically related to me. And, at least as far as I’m concerned, that matters not at all. We are bound together by the power of love, and my life is made richer and fuller because they are in it. Each of them, in their own wonderfully unique ways, have chosen to share life with me, and that is a gift for which I will forever be grateful. There are simply not enough words to adequately express my love and affection for these remarkable young women. So, happy Father’s Day to all of you who are fathers – no matter how you acquired that status.
Grief is a funny thing! Not funny in a ha-ha sort of sense, but in a peculiar sort of sense. It gets talked about as if it's linear, with stages and progression and some semblance of order. Which is, of course, nothing like what actually happens. First of all, no two people's grief is the same. We each have our unique ways of dealing with loss. And second, no matter who you are, your grief will find it's own path, and it's seldom, if ever, straight. It twists and turns and doubles back on itself.
All of this comes up for me in this moment because I was peeling an orange. As I was separating the segments a memory came fluttering into my awareness. On road trips with Veronica, when I was driving she would sometimes peel an orange and then feed me segments. It was a very sweet experience, and the memory leaves me smiling. But that would not always have been the case. Ten years ago if that memory had shown up I would have been a weeping pile of emotional, grief-stricken goo on the floor. The loss would still have been fresh and the pain still lurking near the surface. Back in those days it didn't take much to bring on the tears. But time, when coupled with being intentional about paying attention to the inner workings of my life, has left me more grounded and more integrated. This evening's experience with the orange was, at least in my opinion, still a grief experience, but it now has a gentler, smoother quality. The loss is still there, and sometimes the tears still come. But now that loss exists within the larger context of a rich, full, and rewarding life. I can remember being fed orange slices and smile at the sweetness of that moment. And I can say thank you to the Universe for the truly amazing gift of sharing life and love with the one who fed those oranges to me. All while also being grateful that the love I experienced with Veronica helped to prepare me for the gift of sharing life and love with Susan. As I said, grief is a funny thing! And I am grateful.
the challenge is to stay present (which is, of course, always the challenge) - today what tempts me away from this worthy goal is the finish line, which is almost in sight - 80 days from now a new chapter begins - but that day is not today - on this day I am still Pastor Roger and there are still a few more sermons to preach (including the one for this morning) - so I'll remember to breathe and keep my feet firmly planted in the flow - in this moment I'll show up and be present to the NOW of my life
This week I informed my congregation that I intend to retire effective July 1, 2021. I am about to step into the next chapter of my life. I’m still working on wrapping my head around it, but I’m very excited. Here is the letter I sent to my congregation . . .
- - - -
Greetings!
I write to share an important decision. After a great deal of prayer and discernment, I have made the decision that it is time for me to retire. I turn 65 at the end of June and it is my intention to conclude my ministry at Plymouth effective July 1.
From the very beginning it was clear that Plymouth was a good fit for me, and after five and a half years I still believe that is true. I am grateful for the opportunity to be your pastor, and for the care and support you have offered me over the years. Even during this past year, when so much about church life was thrown into upheaval, we have managed to make the best of a challenging situation. My time with you has been rich and meaningful for me. And now there are other paths which are calling me.
I was ordained almost 40 years ago. When all is said and done it will have been 14,464 days since that hot August afternoon in 1981 in a tiny country church in Wilmer, Texas when a small group of folks gathered around me, laid hands on me, and launched me into the mystery of ordained ministry. During the time between then and now I have served nine congregations in two denominations across five states, preached more than 1,600 sermons, and served as counselor or director at more than 30 church camps. I’ve lost track of the number of weddings and funerals, and I have no idea how much time was spent in hospital corridors waiting to visit parishioners. Among the countless remarkable experiences along the way, I had the high honor of preaching at two ordination services and officiating at weddings for three daughters. The truth is that it has been an amazing journey and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, but I’m tired. It’s time to step away from the pulpit and give more attention to some other parts of my life. I have a wonderful partner who lives in New Mexico, and daughters and grandchildren scattered around the country. And there are beautiful places just waiting to be explored and photographed. It is time for the next chapter of my life to begin.
I am committed to being fully engaged as your pastor for the next several months, including doing what I can to make sure that things continue to run smoothly after I leave. The Council will receive guidance and support from our Conference Minister in the process of planning for what comes next. And I am grateful that we will be back together in person for Easter. I look forward to being with you in the coming weeks as we share together in worship and ministry.
Gratefully yours,
Pastor Roger
