When You Stop Walking on Water

For those stepping out of parish ministry

The rhythms are different
this side of the pulpit.
Like walking ashore
after hours
or weeks
on rocking waves,
your sea legs may persist awhile,
unsteadying your gait
and haunting your dreams
with the sensation of motion
in the midst of unmoving crowds.

You will look up at the night sky
and forget you do not have to plot a course
between the rocks and the reef,
charting seasons and casting stories
by force of longstanding habit.

You may not miss the grueling hours
or the demands of captaining your crew,
the churn of stomach in stormy waters
or the constant vigilance for dangers hidden
just below the surface,
but at times you will look out upon the shining, shifting ocean
and find yourself unmoored by dazzling splendor
or grim eternity,
the tides that keep on changing
while you are standing still.

There are blessings in this landlubber's life,
as all the throngs who never went to sea
can easily testify.
But have patience with yourself
as you relearn how to walk on solid ground.
For you have seen beyond the horizon
and you yet carry with you
the knowledge of winds and weather,
rising and falling,
harnessing the elements
to move through time and space.

Here, too, is Sabbath
and starlight
and soaring toward mystery,
even in stillness.
Even on land.

© 2014 Kerry Greenhill

The incongruity of joy

For nearly 10 years, I have served in part-time, paid leadership roles at one small, progressive United Methodist Church in northwest Denver. For the last 5 years, I have had the title of Associate Pastor. Because of financial constraints, which mainly boil down to the congregation not being large enough or wealthy enough to support a second clergy person, even part-time, the church has eliminated my position, and this Sunday is my last day there.

As you might imagine, this has been a difficult time for me, as I have struggled to reconcile my joy and sense of giftedness in serving this congregation with the hard financial realities that are causing the end of my pastoral relationship there. I have been through all the stages of grief, several of them over and over, and I am pretty sure I'm not done with that roller coaster ride yet.

Today is my last day of 'office hours,' when I need to put Sunday's worship bulletin together and finish packing up my office. Saturday there is a farewell luncheon and celebration, and Sunday, I say goodbye, at least for now.

Because The United Methodist Church wishes to promote healthy boundaries and discourage unhealthy triangulation among congregations, departed pastors and new pastors, there is a covenant among clergy that an outgoing pastor will not contact members of the congregation for the first year after the pastoral relationship ends, and will refer any pastoral inquiries initiated by church members to the new pastor. The new pastor may invite the former pastor to take part in memorial services or other occasions, but this is at the discretion of the new pastor.

So these goodbyes are different from leaving most jobs, where I might reasonably expect to plan social gatherings with former coworkers and contacts on a regular basis. And because Highlands has been much more than a place of employment for me, serving as my primary faith community for almost the whole time I have lived in Denver, I am losing my spiritual home, as well as a significant part of my professional identity.

All this is to say that I have been sad a lot over the past 4-5 months. (Also angry, scared, depressed, defiant, and resentful at times, but I'm working through those as best I can.) And I am kind of tired of being a sad person so much of the time, even while I don't want to ignore or rush through my grief. So finding little things that bring light and joy to my heavy heart has become more important than usual.

Today, a vase of flowers sits in front of me on my dining table as I write this. They are some kind of daisy-like flower, dyed bright (dare I say gaudy?) shades of pink, blue, purple, orange, and yellow. Not the kind of thing I would ordinarily buy from the floral counter, and they certainly don't match the sage green, dark red, and ivory tones of the dining room. But they were brought to church as altar flowers on Sunday by a woman whose passions include gardening and art, and she asked if I wanted to take them home as a gift, since she won't be able to attend the farewells this weekend due to travel plans.

And they brighten the room, and my spirit, in spite of clashing with the decor and not matching my own personal sense of floral style. Or perhaps it is because they are so incongruous, so out of place in my carefully planned (though perpetually messy) home and life. They seem cheerful, and earnest, and optimistic: better than platitudes about God closing doors and opening windows; more sincere in their intentions to spread sunshine, however gaudy; not denying my pain but offering an alternative to focusing on it.

And sitting on the sill of the dining room window is a kalanchoe plant I bought years ago in full bloom, which has not bloomed since - until last month. I can hardly blame its reticence, since it's a tropical succulent stuck in Colorado, but I had begun to doubt it would ever flower again. And now, next to the pile of boxes of books I've brought home from my church office, it is growing eagerly toward the ceiling and opening dozens of bright pink blossoms to the morning light.

I am so grateful for these tangible reminders that new life continually unfolds, even in the midst of loss and grief. And I hope this week - and next, and next month and throughout this year - I can remember that just because I'm sad doesn't mean I can't also find joy and hope, however incongruous, however unexpected or unlikely it may seem. Thanks be to God, who makes all things new.

Kyrie eleison: on the Newtown, Connecticut, shooting

My heart breaks for the children, families, and community of Newtown, Connecticut today. Although I do not believe God causes or intends violence in the world, the phrase "Kyrie eleison," ancient Greek for "Lord, have mercy," keeps running through my mind. In a more extended form, this is my prayer:

Mothering God, bring comfort to those who mourn. God of justice and mercy, teach us what changes we can make in our society to prevent such tragedies, and give us the courage to persevere in the face of opposition. Holy One, remind us once more that we are all your children, all sisters and brothers in one human family, all inextricably woven together in the fabric of creation, and transform us by that knowledge to regard one another with love. In the name of Jesus, who was called the Prince of Peace, I pray. Amen.

A quick Google search for "school shooting" yields 163,000,000 results. After the Wikipedia entry for the category, the names of places display like a devastating roll call: Amish school shooting. Rio de Janeiro. Emsdetten. Kauhajoki. Rocori. Maryland. Ohio. Although it has yet to reach the top 10 results, today's tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary, leaving 18 children (kindergarteners) and 10 adults dead, is sure to show up soon. A friend posted on Twitter that there have been 31 school shootings since Columbine - and that doesn't include movie theaters, Sikh temples, camps, malls, and other places that should be safe.

I have opinions about what we as a society should do at the policy level, to make mental health services more available and guns, especially automatic or semi-automatic weapons, less so. And I have theological beliefs about what God desires for humankind (abundant life, justice, love, wholeness). And I am so grateful for my friends and colleagues who are making eloquent arguments that unite those two arenas in urgent calls to action - because I do not believe that prayer, by itself, is sufficient response. I believe God calls us to put prayer into action, to help bring about the kin'dom of heaven on earth.

But right now, I have a sermon to finish writing, about light in the darkness, about longing for something brighter and muddling through, about choosing joy in the midst of struggle. And so I pray that if, today, you need to turn off the news to be kind to yourself, to show love for your family, to cultivate peace in your own heart, that you will do that. And I pray that we will engage in conversation, as friends and family, as communities, as a nation and as a global society, about how to care for those with mental illness, how to stay connected to people who are troubled so they do not reach the extremes of despair and isolation, how to protect children and other vulnerable people, how to prevent violence and offer healing to those who carry the scars of violence in body, mind, or spirit, and how together we can move toward a vision of a world of justice, peace, compassion, and joy.