Distancing Myself

I had my big farewell with Ascension the last weekend of June. It was a bittersweet celebration of the time we had shared before we parted ways for what comes next. I was not yet officially finished for four more days, which I spent tying up loose ends: saving the files I thought I might need from my computer at the church, deleting my voicemail message, extricating myself from managing all church-related online accounts, and turning in my keys. I tried to leave all the information the interim pastor might find helpful in a three-ring binder. I slipped him my parking pass for the hospital. We did lunch and I introduced him to the staff. After I prayed with them, I quietly exited the meeting so they could carry on without me. It wasn’t nearly as traumatic as I had imagined. Everything was going to be fine.

On the night before my last day, I decided to go to the food trucks. They come to Ascension’s parking lot every Wednesday night as a way to create community in the neighborhood and pass along the revenue the church receives from the vendors to help organizations serving food insecure folks in the Baltimore area. I hadn’t been to the food trucks since they started up again back in May and knew that once I was retired, I couldn’t put myself in the position of rubbing shoulders with Ascension people, so I figured this was my last chance to go. I went, knowing I would run into members of the congregation, and my plan was to pick up my food and leave as swiftly as possible. But, of course, I couldn’t ignore folks. That would be rude. So I stopped briefly to greet them.

Technically, I was still their pastor. But practically, what on earth was I thinking? They weren’t expecting to see me. They had showered me with love a few days earlier and said their goodbyes. And I realized immediately that my appearance was a mistake. It was awkward to the point of embarrassing. 

Once a person makes a final, dramatic farewell to the people they love, they need to go. I should have learned this back when I was in college and the guy I had been dating since junior high was drafted. As he headed off to the Army, we had a deeply emotional goodbye, which included the loss of my virginity (something I had been saving for a worthy occasion, like sending a boyfriend off to war). We clung to each other amidst our tears, not knowing if we would ever hold one another again. 

A couple weeks later, he showed up at my college dorm unannounced. They pulled him off the bus when they saw that he had a bad knee from an old high school football injury. He didn’t call me to tell me this. He wanted to surprise me. And, surprised I was. I should have been thrilled to see him, but I wasn’t. In fact, it resulted in the end of our relationship. I was devastated when he didn’t immediately tell me he had been spared from Viet Nam. I had been crying over his fate for months, and he waited a couple weeks to tell me he didn’t even go. But worst of all, he put me through a gut-wrenching goodbye, and then he didn't follow through by leaving. He had been playing with my heart like a yo-yo. 

When a pastor leaves a congregation, it’s important to say goodbye in a meaningful way, and then leave. For the sake of the next pastor and the congregation itself, they need to move on. That’s the rule pastors live by. But it’s a little different for me this time. In the past I’ve always gone from one call to the next one. As much as it’s hurt to leave a church community, there was always another one waiting for me. This time, that isn’t the case. Yes, I’m looking forward to the future, living with Gretchen, Jon, Nicholas, and Justin, and whatever God has in store for me, but that’s nearly two months away. And here I am, cut off from the only community I’ve ever known in Maryland, while I wait for the moving truck to arrive on August 22.

It's a strange, liminal space for me. And that's okay. I have stuff to keep me occupied, and I enjoy my own company. To be honest, I need to be alone for a while. Some members of Ascension have reached out and asked to get together with me. A month ago, I thought this would be great. We could meet for lunch secretly, and no one would need to know. But it doesn’t feel that way now. I can’t do it. The very thought of it makes me want to run and hide. No, no, no! It seems that the deeper the feelings I have for the person, the stronger my aversion is to seeing them right now. And I am seeing the whole rule about the former pastor distancing themself from the congregation in a new way. It’s not only best for the congregation and their next pastor, it’s also best for me. I need to grieve so I can let go, and eventually move on. And I can’t do that unless I distance myself from Ascension. My heart can’t get through this any other way.

I need to distance myself. They need that, too. Not because those are the rules but because, right now, it's the best way to love Ascension--and myself.

How Could I Plan for This?

I had my life all planned and knew exactly where it was headed. Buckeye born and buckeye bred, one day I would be buckeye dead. When I entered Bowling Green State University, I figured I would graduate and teach little kids how to play “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” somewhere near my hometown of Hamilton, Ohio. I had it all planned. But that’s not how it went.

Seemingly out of nowhere, I felt this inexplicable, dare I say, bizarre call to become a pastor. I hadn’t grown up a church person and didn’t have a clue what that might mean, but I felt like the Hound of Heaven was never going to give me a moment’s peace until I went to seminary so I might as well do it before it drove me nuts.

From the get-go, God and I were at odds with one another. Maybe it was because, when I began, I had no women role models. Or maybe it was just me. But, as a pastor, I always felt like I was pretending to fill a role. When I put on my collar and my robe, it was like wearing a costume. For the longest time, I wasn’t completely convinced this was who I was or what I should be doing with my life, and I always had one foot out the door, ready to make my exit. No one is as surprised as I am to see that I’ve made it this long. How did this happen?!

If you had followed me through all my calls, you would know me as very different pastor in each of them. In the beginning, I was a young mom and shared ministry with my then husband, also a pastor. I was all about children and education. I wrote children’s songs and Bible School curricula and directed children’s musicals.

I had such a passion for Christian education that I decided to pursue a doctorate. I was sure God was calling me to teach in a college or a seminary. I completed my dissertation and earned my Ph.D. after I had served on the bishop’s staff and then returned to the parish. Timing and the circumstances of my life got in the way and my window of opportunity to move to a teaching position closed. Was this God’s way of keeping me in parish ministry?

When my marriage and my life fell apart, I didn’t know if I could continue as a pastor. I needed time to heal and ended up serving a congregation with a colleague who gave me the space I needed to do that. But, in the process of healing, I felt like something had died inside me. I went to school to do something else, and I publicly announced that I was leaving ordained ministry. It was over.

And then, once again God wouldn’t let me go. We had quite a go round about it until I went on a retreat to sort it all out, and a wise spiritual director said two things to me that changed my life. The first was, “Following Christ doesn’t always have to be hard.” Really? I hadn’t experienced that. I always thought that following Christ meant choosing the hard way.

And second, she told me, “When you love someone, you want what they want. You don’t fight them every step of the way; your wills become one.” And I realized it was time for me to stop doing battle with God. God was not my enemy. God loved me, and all they wanted was for me to love them back. And if God wanted me to be a pastor, I would become a pastor, full hog. No holding back. No fighting it. (This was when I started wearing a full clergy collar. Prior to that I had worn one of the little tab collars. There was symbolism in my switch to a full collar. When I put it on, at last I was saying, “I’m all in.”)

I went to serve at a congregation that should have scared me to death. They were less than a year from going down the tubes if things didn’t change, and yet I knew everything was going to be okay. That’s where I really became a pastor. But I was still a pastor with a plan, and I planned to stay with that congregation until I retired.

God had another plan, and that brought me to Ascension. Those of you who’ve worked closest with me probably realized early on that I’m a compulsive planner. I had all staff and committees writing goals, implementing and evaluating them every year. I carefully built a staff that could handle the transition from having two or three pastors to a solo pastor. I started lay ministries to share the joy and, quite frankly, to make it possible for me to breathe. I gave myself totally to the task at hand. And it was all very organized.

I was in my comfort zone, things were going well, and I had a plan for my time at Ascension. Before I finished up, we would spend some time developing a long-range plan and revising our goals to better reflect where we were as a congregation. And then, after we were squared away on that, we were going to have a capital campaign to reduce our mortgage payments. Then it would be time for me to retire. And I could leave Ascension in a great position for the next pastor. 

It was a great plan. But, of course, I hadn’t planned for covid.

As a planner, it probably goes without saying that chaos is my idea of hell. I don’t do well with chaos. And yet, for some reason, God has given me the gifts to be really good in a crisis. And I rose to the occasion. From the first day until now, the pandemic has not gone the way I expected, and I’ve worn myself out thinking through, what if this happens? what if that happens? planning for one possibility after another. The pandemic has left me exhausted. But I’ve also come to realize that my exhaustion goes way beyond the pandemic. Over the course of a lifetime, I’ve exhausted myself trying to control everything. 

I know there’s some of that need to be in control in all of us. And you might think that I’m telling you all this today as a cautionary tale. But that’s not it.

Looking back on my life as a pastor, I’ve made some good choices and some questionable ones. I’ve often found myself in circumstances that were clearly beyond my control. I’ve had a few heartbreaks. And I’ve experienced some amazingly delightful surprises along that way.

And here’s the thing… Through it all, I’ve never been alone. God has been with me every step of the way. And the way I’ve experienced that is through the people God has sent into my life. I’ve had more of that than any person could ever hope for. Through my family and dear friends, through people in Columbus, Ohio and Marine City, Michigan, and Jamestown, North Dakota, Carrollton and Kilgore, Ohio and Uniontown, Ohio, and the Northeastern Ohio Synod and Charlotte, North Carolina and now here in Towson, Maryland. Thank you for your partnership along the way. I have been so incredibly blessed.

We never know where our journey will take us, and it usually isn’t going to go the way we’d planned. A big reason for that is that we ourselves change so much along the way.

As a pastor, I’ve changed the way I think about so many things: About how to interpret scripture and the meaning of the cross. About Holy Communion and who ought to be receiving it. About the value of children and youth—not for the adults they will one day become, but because of the gifts they bring us right now as children and youth. About gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender folks and what they have to teach us about living authentically as the people God created us to be. About racism that’s blatant and racism that’s latent, and how difficult it is for us white people to see it. I’m not at all the person I was when I began as a pastor. I couldn’t have planned for that. And God isn’t finished with me yet.

I can’t expect to know what’s next, and neither can Ascension. God doesn’t give us a roadmap for what lies ahead. The best we can do is take a step forward and wait on the Spirit to guide us as we take the next step, and the step after that. And trust that when we’re living into God’s reign, our lives have purpose. God has a plan for us and all creation. We may not be able to see what it is, but we can trust we’re a part of it whenever we embody the Jesus way in the world around us: the way of mercy, compassion, and justice.

It's been an honor to do that among you as your pastor. Thank you.

 

 

Switching Pronouns

I’m having a lot of trouble with pronouns these days. I’m not talking about honoring the preferred pronouns someone chooses. That’s a good thing, although for those of us who didn’t grow up with such options, it’s often difficult. But those aren’t the pronouns I’m having trouble with right now. It’s when to use we and when to use you.

For six years I’ve been we with Ascension. I’ve challenged our community in sermons with the pronoun we. I’ve remembered our past with we. I’ve looked forward to our future with we. We have been doing ministry together. We have had some glorious moments. We have worshipped inside, outside, with various levels of precautions. We have weathered some storms. We have butted heads at times. We have laughed often. And we have loved and cared for one another through it all.

But now I am starting to refer to Ascension as you. It usually happens when I’m leaving instructions for something that needs to happen after I leave. And I catch myself in the we. No, we aren’t going to be doing this next week. You are. It’s all very confusing and leaves me in complete liminal limbo—right smack dab in the middle of nowhere.

I like the warmth of living in a we-state. You-ville is such a detached, uncaring place to be. My we days are rapidly coming to an end, and I wonder how long it will take me to permanently lose the we. That will be when I start referring to Ascension as them. Ugh. I’m not ready to think about that yet. I’m having enough trouble going from we to you. 

No pigs were harmed in the preaching of this sermon

Can’t you just hear them squealing as they run for the cliff? They plunge to their death and *splat*, the squealing stops.

Poor pigs. It was a horrible way to go. Of course, so is having your throat slit, being butchered, and eaten, so maybe we shouldn’t feel that sorry for them when the demons send them over a cliff.

It’s just a terrible thing to be a pig. I understand they are very intelligent animals. And yet, they’re of no value to us humans until they’re dead. They’re not good for their fur, or their milk. Their only use is for meat. And for the Jews, they aren’t even good for that since Jews don’t do pork.

Perhaps those who watched this bizarre incident had no sympathy for the pigs. But what about the pig owner? Surely, he deserved some restitution. His investment had literally gone over a cliff. Those little piggies were never going to market! 

This is my penultimate sermon for God’s beloved at Ascension, and I’ve been musing a lot about those pigs.  What if I could put some demons inside a few pigs and send them over a cliff for the sake of Ascension? I don’t mean literal demons and pigs, but metaphorical ones. The demons who are oppressing our ministry and holding us back from living into the Kingdom of God that Christ is calling us to be a part of. 

I want to name some of those of those demons for you today as a hope and a challenge for you as you move into a new chapter of ministry. The first demon I wish I could send over the cliff for you is confusing the huddle with the game. 

Our worship ministry is so important for us, and all the people who make it possible by serving on Sunday mornings: altar guild, choirs, ushers, readers. During the pandemic, we’ve learned that our worship ministry doesn’t need to be confined to this space. Many of you are with us today via YouTube.

Our ministry also includes caring ministries within the congregation: eucharistic ministers, Stephen Ministers, Sunday school, and youth group.

And then there’s outreach in the community around us: our nursery school, Christian Service Group, Quilters, food trucks, work with the refugee family living in our parsonage, our partnership with Lutherans in Nicaragua, ACTC, Food for Thought, BRIDGE Maryland, Campus Ministry, and more... It’s a long list of ministries that we’re involved in as a congregation. A big thank you to everyone who gives so much of themselves to these ministries.

But what I've neglected to say as often as I should have as your pastor is that most of the ministry of Ascension doesn’t happen through the programs of our congregation, or even our partnerships in the community. Most of our ministry happens in schools, and hospitals, and banks, and restaurants, corporate offices, and small businesses, caring for family members and neighbors. Wherever you are living out your lives as followers of Jesus, in your homes and the places you work and volunteer, that’s where most of the ministry of Ascension is happening.

What we do here on Sunday mornings serves the purpose of a huddle during a football game. We come together and huddle here in this place. But that’s not where our ministry happens. We huddle to get us ready for the ministries we have on the field. The huddle is not the game. It could change the way we do ministry at Ascension if we stopped confusing the huddle for the game.

Another demon I’d like to put into a pig and send on its way for Ascension is concentrating on the rearview mirror.  

God has given us an opportunity with covid—an opportunity, not to return to the church we once knew, but to allow God to do a new thing through us. I pray that you don’t miss this opportunity God is giving you. And I pray that your next pastor will have what I am lacking right now—the energy you need for this new beginning. I also pray that you aren’t expecting the next pastor to help you return to the way things were before the pandemic—what many people call “normal” as in, “I can’t wait for things to get back to normal." Ugh. 

The more things change and the more uncertain they become, the more we tend to look wistfully in the rear-view mirror. But if you’ve ever driven a car, you know that you can never move forward while you’re preoccupied with looking behind you in the rearview mirror. If you do, there’s a very good chance you’re going to end up driving off the road.

In the months and years ahead, may you move your attention away from the rearview mirror, and instead wait eagerly on tiptoe, trusting that God is doing a new thing at Ascension. Living into the unknown is scary, but it’s the only faithful way to embrace this opportunity God is giving you.  

The next demon I’d like to send over a cliff for you is cutting the head out of the picture. 

You know how sometimes you can take a picture on your phone or camera, and you cut off someone’s head? It all depends on what the focus of our picture is, doesn’t it?

Do we cut the head out of Ascension’s picture? Let me be clear about who the head is in this metaphor. It’s not the pastor. Or the staff. Or Council. Or our nursery school. Or music ministry. Or youth group. Or anything else that may be near and dear to us. Our head is Jesus.

Our primary focus as a congregation is not to offer more programs. It’s not to get more butts in the pews on Sunday morning. To keep the building cool in the summer and warm in the winter. It’s not to increase our offerings or balance our budget. And it’s certainly not to keep everybody happy all the time. It’s always nice when those things happen, but when they become our primary focus, we’re cutting off our head.

When we cut Jesus out of our picture, by focusing on anything else, we are no longer the church. We may be a social club or a service organization, or any number of other things, but we’re not a church.

The most important thing we do when we huddle together is spending time with Jesus. Understanding what he said and taught and did. Allowing him to challenge us. Preparing ourselves to do what he sent us to do in his name. And allowing him to transform our lives.

Jesus who answered the question, “Who is my neighbor” by telling the story of the Good Samaritan. Jesus who told a rich man to give away everything he has to the poor. Jesus who, when the soldiers came to arrest him, told Peter to put away his weapon. Jesus, who says people will know we’re his followers if we have love for one another. Jesus, who calls us to deny ourselves, take up our cross and follow him. Jesus, who will judge us by how we show our love for him—feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting prisoners, caring for the sick.

Focusing on Jesus is challenging. It’s easy to see why we might prefer to cut off our head. And that brings me to the final pig I’d like to throw over a cliff for you.

In this pig, I’d like to stuff what I’ll call, clinging to the boat. 

Do you remember the story of Jesus walking on the water? As he approaches the disciples’ boat, Peter asks, “Ooo. Ooo. Jesus, can I do that too?” Jesus says, “Sure, come on out.” Well, Peter steps out on the water, and he’s doing fine until the waves pick up a bit. He panics and almost goes under, but Jesus reaches out a hand to save him. The part about that story that really amazes me is not Jesus walking on water, but Peter actually stepping out of the boat. No doubt, he is petrified, yet he faces his fears and takes a bold step toward Jesus.As disciples of Jesus, we’re called, not to cling to the boat, but to step out in faith.

We’re living in a scary world right now. I don’t know that any of us would deny that. Increasing gun violence, war in Ukraine and elsewhere, fires in the western US, droughts, floods, and other effects of climate change, the coronavirus that just won’t quit, both blatant and latent racism that won’t go away without a whole lot of struggle, the deepening divide between political parties, widening economic disparity, a global refugee crisis. There are so many reasons to be afraid for our future.

The gospel calls us, not to ignore our fears, but to face them, to step out of the boat. This is a time for bravery and boldness. We cannot cling to the boat and follow Jesus. Are you prepared to step out of the boat and follow Jesus? Know that he’s always there to catch us when we fall, but first… we have to get out of the darn boat!

Those are the four pigs I’d like to throw over the cliff for you:

1.    Confusing the huddle with the game

2.    Concentrating on the rearview mirror

3.    Cutting the head out of the picture

4.    Clinging to the boat

Of course, I know I can’t just fling what’s holding Ascension back over a cliff. If I could, I would have done it six years ago when I came to you. 

The Christian church is facing unprecedented challenges in the years ahead. Ascension, like all churches, will come to a time in the future when you will become preoccupied with survival. And when you’re in survival mode, it’s especially difficult to remember who you are and what you’re called to do. You will be inclined to play it safe, confusing the huddle with the game, concentrating on the rearview mirror, cutting the head out of the picture, clinging to the boat. It’s when you’re worried about survival and everything in you says, “play it safe” that you need to do just the opposite and step out in faith. That’s when I hope you’ll think about this sermon. Or maybe think about it whenever you’re munching on a slice of bacon.

I’ve gone a lot longer than usual today because this is my final sermon to Ascension. I need to stop before you decide to stuff me in one of those pigs and send me over a cliff. Next week I’ll be addressing the occasion of my retirement. Today’s sermon is what I want to say to Ascension as I leave you.

You’re entering a new era. So is the world around you. No one knows exactly what lies ahead. I can assure you it won’t be without some pain. I hope you know that. Know also that Ascension has been richly blessed by God with abundant gifts to do God’s kingdom work in wondrous ways. Prepare yourselves for the next big adventure!

Preached for God's beloved saints at Ascension, Towson on June 19, 2022.

 

 

 

 

My Brush with an Emmy Award

Today, this headline popped up in my newsfeed: “Band of Brothers Struck Gold at the Emmy Awards 20 Years Ago.” And suddenly, I was sitting at my desk one evening in Charlotte, North Carolina. No one else was around, the phone range, and I picked up. It was a random man with an even randomer question.

He introduced himself as Erik somebody and told me he was working on the screenplay for a series called “Band of Brothers” coming to HBO. He explained a bit about the plot, that it was something about World War 2. But when he mentioned the name Steven Spielberg, I was suspicious. I mean, if someone were going to prank me about writing a screenplay, wouldn’t they mention Steven Spielberg? Of course they would.

Erik Somebody explained that he was one of many writers who were working on this project. And then he finally got to his question. He was writing a scene that took place at a graveside. The person being buried was a Lutheran, so he needed to know the wording. What exactly would a Lutheran pastor say at the graveside?

Okay. Maybe this was legit. But is this really how people research screenplays for bigtime shows on HBO? Do they just open the phone book, go to Lutheran Churches, and start calling? (Yes, people were still using phone books back then, and I was serving at Advent Lutheran Church, so we were at the top of the alphabetical listing and got a lot of strange phone calls.)

Rather than hang up on him, I decided to play along. I pulled out my Lutheran Book of Worship and read some pastoral graveside verbiage to Erik. He thanked me and that was that.

But then, after he hung up, I realized I hadn’t given him the correct information. I gave him the words I would say at a graveside, but this scene took place during World War 2. That was two service books ago! I quickly searched my bookshelves for the old black hymnal that would have been used back then and called Erik back. After I explained my error and gave him the correct wording that would have been used in the 40s, again, he thanked me, and again, that was that.

I was relieved when I finally learned that Erik hadn't been pulling my leg. There really was a series coming to HBO called, "Band of Brothers" and Steven Spielberg was involved. When it aired, I watched it intently, waiting to see my contribution, but it never happened. It must have ended up on the cutting room floor… if it even got that far.

So, I didn’t win an Emmy. And my contribution was a small one. And it wasn’t even used. But still, it’s the closest I’ll ever get to an Emmy and I’ll take it. I accept this non-award on behalf of the Common Service Book of the Lutheran Church and the telephone book, both now obsolete but not forgotten.

Letting go, moving on... and praying I can do it

In addition to retiring in a little over a month, I’m getting ready to relocate my life. The plan is that I will move to be with my family in Queens, New York. We have talked about this for years and it’s hard to believe that it’s almost time to make it happen. I’m grateful that my daughter, and especially my son-in-law, are okay with this. As a single person, it doesn’t make much sense for me to stay in Maryland or move anyplace else without family nearby. And I’ve always had this longing to live close enough to my grandchildren that I could become a part of their lives, and they would be able to really know me. This is something that neither I nor my children ever had the opportunity to experience, and I want this for Nick and Justin. 

The plan is for us to live together in the same house with a separate space for me where I can have my own privacy, and I won’t be constantly annoying Gretchen and Jon (or vice versa). I can offer an extra hand with the boys, and they will be nearby to help me as I continue to go downhill in the years ahead. (I'm obviously getting the better end of the bargain.) 

Jon and Gretchen have been renting in NY, so this means purchasing a home. Of course, I’m also selling my home in Maryland. That’s been easy. I put it on the market and it sold immediately. But as buyers, Jon and Gretchen have faced one challenge after another since they started looking back in March. They’ve extended offers on a number of houses that have gone nowhere. One was accepted only to have someone else come along and offer more money, and that was the end of that. Right now, they’re moving quickly to get a house they’ve fallen in love with. I’m praying with my fingers crossed as I hold my breath. I hope this is it. I have to say that I’m beyond proud of the way they’ve persisted; they’ve learned a lot along the way and are determined to succeed. 

I’ve also had some reckoning of my own to work through. I always knew that I would have to divest myself of a lot of my possessions to make this move. I began getting rid of stuff during the pandemic, selling some and flat out giving a lot away. But it wasn’t enough. I’m coming to terms with the reality that I’m going from 2000 sf to something more like 300 sf. That means that pretty much everything I own must go. I know a lot of  older people come to this point, if they live long enough, but I wasn’t ready for it quite this soon. I keep telling myself that it’s just stuff, and I will finally have the opportunity to live a simpler lifestyle. Yes, I can do this. 

Throughout my life, it’s been like a death every time I’ve moved, leaving behind my life and the people I loved who were a part of it. It’s a gut-wrenching trauma that I suspect has taken years from my life every time I've gone through it. This time is a bit more than that for me. I’m not just leaving behind a congregation of people I love. I’m leaving behind a way of life, the only way of life I’ve ever known as an adult. As ready as I am, I know it’s going to be hard for me, and a part of me is already grieving. But, on top of that, there’s this moving thing going on. Literally leaving behind tables, chairs, beds, pictures, books, dishes, linens… stuff that I’ve been lugging from one place to another my whole life. It’s a lot to say good-bye to. 

I've also learned, every time I've moved and started over, that resurrection always follows the time of death, and the grieving gives way to joy. I know that's the way it works. I’m praying that I will have the grace I need to let go and enough faith to trust in the gift of new life that always seems to find me on the other side. Experience has taught me that I have every reason to believe my prayer will be answered.

Easter, Marvin K. Mooney, and me

On Easter Sunday, after the dust settled, in a moment of self-reflection, I posted this on my Facebook page: I never wanted to become one of those pastors who doesn't know when it's time to retire. Today began when I put on two pairs of panties. I've never done that before. Then after worship, I went to leave the building and noticed I was still wearing my robe and stole. I wish I could say that I've never done that before, but I can't. This afternoon I watched the video of this morning's worship on YouTube and saw I made the same announcement twice without realizing it. On my final Easter as a parish pastor it has been confirmed for me once again... It's time for me to retire.

Judging from the comments my post elicited, I’m feeling the need to say more. First of all, if you know me, you know that I like to exaggerate in my storytelling. So, regarding the panties, I realized while I was putting the second pair on that I already had the first pair on. I did not wear two pairs of panties on Easter morning. And then, about exiting with my robe on… I didn’t get very far before I realized I was still wearing my vestments. It’s not like I made it to the car. And, regarding the duplicate announcement… Even though I didn’t realize I had already made the announcement about taking home Easter lilies at the beginning of worship, it was still a good idea to say it again just before the benediction. If I hadn’t confessed the fact that I didn’t realize I did it twice, no one would have noticed. And, it was a simple mistake, considering the fact that I hadn’t written it down anywhere and I had a gazillion things to remember on Easter morning. In other words, I might have done the same thing 20 years ago. So, I appreciate all the people who tried to make me feel better by encouraging me to be gracious with myself.

But here’s the thing for me, and the real reason I wrote that post. Although it was the first time I led in-person worship on Easter since 2019, I can still remember how it was back then. And I am not the person I was three years ago. Everything was more stressful this year. Keeping track of the details took more effort. Just getting through it felt like it took everything I had. Perhaps to those who were sitting in the pews, it didn’t seem that way, but from inside my skin, that’s how it felt. 

Prior to Sunday, I wondered if I would be able to make it through leading my last Easter worship without shedding a few tears. In reality, I didn’t even come close; I simply didn’t have enough bandwidth for emotions. I was working too hard to do what I needed to do so folks at Ascension could have a nice Easter. And I gave it the best I had to give. 

Later in the day, reflecting on my experience, it was clear to me that it’s good this is my last Easter as a parish pastor. I don’t say that with any regret or angst. I’ll turn 70 this year. I’ve been doing this for over 43 years now. That’s long enough. And, of course, I’m not the pastor I once was. After I’ve crawled on the floor ironing the wrinkles out of an Easter banner, I need some help getting up. When I do the Easter Bunny Hop with the kids, I have to fake my hops. I sometimes have a brain fart and can’t remember names when I give people communion. And every little thing I do requires a tremendous amount of effort. 

I don’t say any of this with a sense that I’ve somehow been defeated. I’ve spent enough time with old people through the years to know that it’s normal. The affects of aging are going to continue for the rest of my life. And I’m grateful to be alive! (I’m also grateful that I have the ability to laugh at my own limitations.) I suppose what I’m saying is that I don’t need to prove that I’m still young and up to the job because I’m not. And that’s okay.

I keep thinking about a book I read to my kids when they were little, Dr. Seuss’s Marvin K. Mooney Will You Please Go Now! All through the book, the narrator is trying to get Marvin K. Mooney to leave, and he won’t go. “You can go by foot, you can go by cow. Marvin K. Mooney, will you please go now?” So it continues, and Marvin K. Mooney just won’t go. Until the very end when we read, “I don’t care when and I don’t care how. Marvin K. Mooney, will you please go now!” And after begging, cajoling, and demanding that Marvin K. Mooney go, we finally read, “I said go and go I meant. The time had come, so… Marvin went.” 

I don’t deny my limitations as I age. And I don’t wonder if maybe I could hang on for a few more years. Instead, I hope it will be said of me, when all is said and done, that I went out like Marvin K. Mooney. “The time had come, so… Nancy went.”