They say that life endings and transitions are in some ways a preparation for that greatest of transitions, dying. So I am noticing some things about the ending of my ministry. I have not been able to do everything I would have wished to do, or imagined I would do. For example, I wanted to have more final visits with people, more moments of personal gratitude and farewell. I wanted to give gifts, I wanted to express more appreciation. I wanted to pass along more details of how things work at my church–why do I know so many details? Who will they ask when I am no longer there?
Is that how it might be with dying, as well? That we finally come to realize we can't finish anything? That we can't express enough appreciation? That we can't pass along enough of the knowledge we so carefully gathered?
Meanwhile, I am trudging along with the sheer volume of work to do to clean out my office. I am asking, What should be saved to pass along, and what should be recycled or shredded? I am remembering meaningful activities, caught in old file folders, that I had forgotten we had done together. I am asking, What do I want to keep for this unknown future life called retirement? Right now, I don't feel connected to the magic, to the flow of the River. I feel as if I am in the dark about what the future might hold and where I am going.
Is that how it is with dying, as well? That we feel overwhelmed with the minutiae of our daily existence? That we are too weary to feel the magic? That we are fully in the dark about the mystery beyond death?
Meanwhile, our country is descending deeper and deeper into fascism. Social support systems are being gutted, even as I am wading through the bureaucracy of signing up for Medicare, Parts A, and B, and D, and supplemental. Migrant children are being detained in cages, while their parents suffer, also caged, not knowing where they are. Discriminatory exclusions are ruled legal. Courageous people are protesting in the streets, making a loud noise, saying don't go gentle into that dark night. And I am at home in this liminal space, unable to participate in resistance, exhausted and weary, and all I can do is pray, and that, not very well.
So I come to this morning, this morning of my birthday of all things, and I finally write in my journal after several days neglect. I set it all down, by setting it in words on paper. And that is my prayer, setting it all down, while I sit outside in the backyard. I feel as if I am in labor, but to what purpose? Someday, too, I will enter the labor of dying, and what will be the purpose of that?
Finally, I realize, we cannot finish everything that needs doing. All we can do is surrender into the Mystery. And so I do. I surrender to you, dear Creator, dear Goddess, dear Mystery. I surrender to you, dear River, dear Ocean, dear Love. You have been my source and strength since before I was born, you have led me through dark valleys into transformation. So I trust you, and I surrender once again, into the Unknown, into the Mystery. Have mercy on us all.
On Sunday, June 17, my congregation celebrated my ministry of thirteen years, upon the occasion of my retirement. (I will still be working behind the scenes in June and on-call through July, but that was my last Sunday service.) I was overwhelmed with their expressions of love and appreciation. I will miss everyone so much.
There were so many amazing touches to the celebration, including this tiny (6 inches across) diorama of my life created by Kathy N. with details including my guitar, a stole I wear when I preach, tiny protest signs, the cover of my actual book, our fire circle, cherry tree, rain barrel and garden tools. The celebration included a reflection from me and testimonials from a few church members, and a poem and a funny song created for me, and more. There was a gorgeous rendition of Jeremy Geffen's song "Mystery," done by the choir and instrumentalists, along with other beautiful music. They also honored me with the designation of Minister Emerita, and gave me beautiful gifts. There was a photo slideshow of moments from my ministry. We danced around the dawn redwood tree. And ate delicious food, and I received so many hugs, including from the children.
The ministry relationship is so very deep in a particular way. Not the same as friendship, but filled with intimacy. During conversations with people during the meal, I kept remembering the significant moments I had shared with them. I remembered their loved ones who had died during my ministry. I remembered the joyful weddings, and the painful separations. I remembered our work together in the community that I helped to hold and cherish. I felt the blessing of our relationships.
In retirement, I am leaving those relationships behind. That will be the hardest part. I am relieved to let go of the work. My body just can't do it any longer. This year has been hard with many auto-immune flare-ups, days of exhaustion, and just barely keeping up with everything. I am ready to lay that down. But I will miss the people. Not that I will never see them again. I will be in the same city, and our paths will likely cross occasionally. But in our tradition, the retiring minister disappears for a while, to give people a chance to form a ministry relationship with someone new. The Interim Minister has already been chosen, and will arrive August 1st.
Meanwhile, I am cleaning out my office, and saying goodbye to staff members, and taking care of transitional details. But I feel absolutely full of gratitude and amazement for these wonderful people, that I was lucky enough to serve and to love during these past thirteen years. Just wow!
I learned yesterday morning of the death of my mentor, Rev. Victor Carpenter. He was my internship supervisor in 1998-99 at the First Church of Belmont, MA, and truly a ministry "father" to me. He was the same age as my dad, and taught me all the practical ins and outs of life in the ministry, especially a ministry infused with a passion for justice. But the best gift he gave me was his expression of belief and confidence in me–through Victor, I felt I could do everything!
I was ordained at the Belmont church on Fathers Day, June 20 in 1999. Victor preached the sermon at my ordination, and I was grateful that my dad was also among the many people who participated in the laying on of hands that blessed me for my work in ministry. That work took me away from the Boston area, so I only saw Victor during occasional visits after that internship year, but his love and belief stayed with me through all the years of my ministry.
I should say a little more about him for those who do not know him. Victor was a graduate of the Harvard University Divinity School class of 1959. Along with Belmont, where I knew him, he served churches in Norwell, Massachusetts; Philadelphia; Arlington Street Church in Boston; and The First Church of San Francisco. He also served The Free Protestant Church of Cape Town, South Africa; perhaps pivotal in shaping his own passion for social justice. After retirement, he was an interim minister in Dorchester, Carlisle, and Hingham, MA.
He received an honorary Doctor of Sacred Theology degree from Starr King School for the Ministry in 1987. In 2011 he received the Unitarian Universalist Association Distinguished Service Award. (You can read more about his amazing ministries at that website.) He was active for racial justice, peace in the middle east, access for people with disabilities, and an end to oppressions of all kinds. He was also kind, funny, savvy, and did I say passionate? He was a mentor and support to many others in ministry.
Today I am thinking about his wife Cathe, who herself has been a fierce and loving advocate and educator, and his children and grandchildren, and all of us who were touched by his life and ministry, and feel his loss. I am also pondering this unlikely juxtaposition for me personally–his death occurring in the very same week as my own dad's death. I had known that Victor was terminally ill with cancer, so it wasn't a complete surprise. But I feel the double loss of these two father figures in my life, in many ways so different from each other, yet each so pivotal in my spiritual journey. I feel so grateful for the gifts I received through their fathering.