This Burden

 One of the first people I told that I was going to retire (after the council president at my church) was a woman I meet with occasionally for prayer.  The first thing she said when I told her was that she was not surprised.  The second thing she said was, "You've borne this burden for a long time."

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.

My Colleague Is Retiring....

...after 40 some years in parish ministry.

I know I should know the exact number, but I'm terrible at that sort of thing. Besides, maybe he wouldn't want everyone to know the exact number.

A lot has changed in the years he has been in ministry. He started his ministry in a more conservative branch of the Lutheran church, but now is in a branch of the Lutheran church which, for example, ordains women. He has a persistently inquiring mind and is an expert at historical Jesus studies. But, he's also quite insightful when it comes to interpersonal matters and counseling.

He works harder than any pastor I've ever known. But, that doesn't mean that he doesn't know the value of spending time with family. Recently, I've confessed being conflicted regarding my work and my need to spend time with my dad. My colleague said, "You will never regret the time you take for your dad now."

In the event we have an misunderstanding, he's always willing to hear me out, and to work through it.

I'm thinking right now about all the changes that have taken place in the past forty-odd years -- changes in the culture, changes in churches, changes in the expectations for pastors. Forty-odd years ago, no one talked or worried too much about whether or not a particular church was "growing". People were pretty loyal to their denominations. The big revolution called "women's liberation" was just beginning. Women were on the verge of being ordained in my denomination.

So many things are different now -- we are in a "paradigm shift", as some say. The church is no longer in quite the same position of respect as it once was. There is much more competition in making meaning for people's lives.

In the midst of many changes, it's a good time to celebrate forty-some years of faithfulness to a call, and to pray for courage in times of transition.

May the coming generations have even half the wisdom as the ones before us.