I admit, when she first said those words, I felt seen. I have felt the burden here in this call. It has more than one component. There's the burden of preaching and teaching and living the truth, as well as any flawed saint-and-sinner can, by the grace of God, in this place. There's the burden of listening and understanding, of walking with people through dark places, through the valley of the shadow of death. There's the burden of knowing that people will come to you with questions for which they want answers, and the realization that sometimes there are not really answers but only the mystery and the love of God.
And there is the burden of walking with a congregation that is declining, and feeling the pressure to know what to do to "turn it around", to "bring in the young families," to be this magnetic presence that brings people into the church. There is the burden of feeling like I have to know the right strategy, talk to the right person, read the right book, figure out the right steps.
Truthfully, we have been through a lot here in the last ten years. Personal tragedies that broke the hearts of this small community. COViD lockdowns. Broken relationships. Steep learning curves, and also (I admit) things we didn't really want to learn. I suppose these are part of the burden. A heavy load.
But as I thought about this sentence, I grieved. I thought of all of the times I sat with someone at their home, or in the hospital, or in a nursing home, and held up a small piece of bread, and said, "The body of Christ, given for you." I thought about the stories I heard around kitchen tables, and in coffee shops, the joy of hearing the story of how you fell in love, the sorrow of leaving home, what it was like to be a small child moving to a new town where there wasn't anything yet, and seeing it built up before you. I have heard stories of failure and victory, I have experienced the heartbreak of unanswered prayer, and have witnessed small miracles. I have seen lightbulbs go on in Bible studies, heard young people pray for one another, and seen parents gasp at the wisdom of their children. I have eaten at homeless shelters, and been prayed for by people who sleep in church fellowship halls.
How can it be a burden if I will miss it so much? How can it be a burden if I will miss them so much, the child who didn't want to be baptized, the pre-schooler who asked why Jesus had to die, the man who thought I was a terrible pastor, the widower he said he joined the church because of me? How can it be a burden to witness the woman in the back of the church singing "this little light of mine" like her life depended on it?
Maybe burden isn't the right word.
Maybe the right word is "weight."
I have felt the weight of ministry.
But in my best moments I know that it is really weight of glory.
It is the weight of the glory of the light of Christ, shining in the darkness, shining in our imperfect lives, lives joined in faith and sorrow. Our lives are joined to his life, and our lives are also joined to one another's lives, whether we know it or not.
Often we don't know it. Then it becomes a burden.
So, as I prepare to retire, I pray that my congregation will be able to see -- even briefly -- the glory -- the glory in one another, the glory in the stranger, the glory in their neighbor. And I pray that we will be able to bear one another's burdens, which is the weight of glory.