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.

New job

Last month, I started a new job. For those of you playing along at home, that's 3 places of employment, which is my new excuse for not blogging (or doing much non-work-related writing) over the past few weeks. In addition to serving as Associate Pastor at Highlands UMC (the position that ends next week), and Communications Manager for Family Voices Colorado, I am now the Field Coordinator for Imagine No Malaria in the Rocky Mountain Conference of The United Methodist Church.

I'm excited to be part of Imagine No Malaria's extraordinary and historic work to end preventable deaths and suffering from malaria in Africa, where  a child dies from malaria every 60 seconds. That's far too many children who don't live to see adulthood, but the death rate is already half what it was just a few years ago.

The United Methodist Church is partnering with the UN Foundation, the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, and the Global Fund to Fight AIDS, Tuberculosis, and Malaria in developing a comprehensive approach that includes the insecticide-treated bed nets that made Nothing But Nets such a successful campaign, and adds other prevention measures (draining standing water where the mosquitoes that spread malaria breed), plus treatment by stocking hospitals and clinics with rapid diagnostic kits and effective medications, education on how to use bed nets and the importance of seeking treatment quickly through trained community health workers, communication by radio and cell phone to raise public awareness, and advocacy for continued global health funding to fight these diseases of poverty.

As a denomination, we are working to raise $75 million by 2015. The Rocky Mountain Conference share of that is $1.2 million, which seems like a lot until you learn that it works out to just $20 for every member of every United Methodist Church in our region (Colorado, Utah, most of Wyoming). I am confident that we can achieve this goal, and it is my hope that we will surpass it with the enthusiasm of a people who believe that Jesus came so that all people might have abundant life in God's name (John 10:10).

If you're interested in learning more about this ministry of healing and saving lives, you can follow the campaign in Rocky Mountain at our blog, like the RMC Facebook page, or contact me at kerry [at] rmcumc [dot] com.

We now return to your regularly scheduled programming.