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.