Goodbye [Epiphany 2C]

The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

I Thessalonians 5:12-25

Goodbye

This is it.  As I was writing this, I could only imagine my emotions at this moment.  Because this is just words on a screen, on a page, before I say it to you out loud.  And somehow saying it out loud makes it real, really real, if that makes sense.  In the back of our brains, we all know that everything ends, but then it does and it makes for heavy hearts and biting the inside of my lip to control my emotions and steady my voice.  And like so many Sundays before this one, I see your faces looking back at me – and listening; I appreciate that; I've always appreciated that.  Your gazes, your eyes, always help write the sermon and they give me hints of what your heart is feeling.  Today mostly they are telling me that you too feel the unique sadness that accompanies a goodbye – as if it would be easier to just let time move us past these last things without having to acknowledge this with words.  Because maybe that would be easier.  It is hard to say goodbye to the ones we love. 

And yet, I stand in this pulpit and in this chancel and soon behind the altar, and it is the last time.  And we all know it.  I've been thinking about this moment for a little while now; I've been consumed by it this week – without another Sunday, another sermon, another list of tasks to distract my mind.  And here it is, rushing by as things do.  Moving quickly into the past.  And while time will march on.  And we will loosen hands and go into God's great, mysterious future on new, but separate paths, I want to breathe it in, to make it one of those memories that become embedded deep – like so many baptisms and funerals and weddings and little hands reaching up to cradle the Body of Jesus.  And also the time Owen carefully submerged the Baby Jesus in the baptismal font on Christmas Eve and the time I passed out during the early service and the time we filled the entire narthex with smoke in a bumbling attempt to light the new fire of Easter.  And you, of course, you – your faces and your kindness and  the ways in which you have opened to me your hearts and lives and souls.  That is a sacred gift.  That is embedded deep.  I won't forget that. 

I have been told that the hardest sermons to preach are the first and the last.  And I suppose that is true – but for very different reasons.  The first is hard because it is a first impression – like an audition, like a wedding night.  And it feels like it just might set the tone for the duration of the journey.  But the last is different because there is really nothing else to be said.  What is done is done.  And what was left undone, what is yet to be, is now in your hands and not in my hands.  All that is left for us is the goodbye.

And yet, for this last Sunday, I decided to do something for the very first time: I picked one of the scripture readings.  I rebelled against the inerrant judgment of the lectionary committee.  Although, just for the epistle reading.  I'm not that wild.  And for today, for you, for our goodbye, I chose the ending of Paul's first letter to the Thessalonians. 

First Thessalonians is the oldest book in the New Testament, the very first New Testament book set to paper, or parchment, or whatever, and I'm not sure a pastor has ever been able to pen a better goodbye.  And so I chose it because it says what I want to say to you, what I hope over seven years has been embedded deep in you, in this amazing congregation.

Brothers and sisters,

Be at peace among yourselves. 

Admonish the idlers, encourage the fainthearted, help the weak, and be patient with all of them.

See that none of you repays evil for evil, but always seek to do good to one another and to all.

Rejoice always.

Pray without ceasing.

Give thanks in all circumstances.

Let the Holy Spirit move in this place and through this family.

Hold fast to what it is good.

Resist the power of evil.  Do not let it distract you from the important work God is dreaming for you.

Love each other the best you can.

And, beloved, pray for us – for me and for my family, whom you have loved so very well.

Just about every day for the past seven years, I have walked through the Hall of Rectors.  And I see the faces of my predecessors.  And I trust that they, like me, tried their very best to be faithful ministers of the Gospel, to be a pastor, priest, teacher, leader, and baptized brother in Christ worthy of this high calling.  And like them, I have at times followed the call of Christ with courage and wisdom; and like them, I have at times missed the mark and made mistakes.  I hope I did more of the former than the latter.

But what I hope more than anything is that you know that I love you.  And distance and absence and time will not change that.  I hope I have made that clear.  I hope that my words and actions have conveyed the depth of my love for Christ and for you – as individuals and as a community.  I hope I have opened my heart wide enough and let love dictate my decisions.  And if I have failed to love well enough, I hope that you might love me enough to forgive me. 

After we named our oldest son Oscar, a friend gave us a framed print of a poem inspired by Oscar Romero, our son's namesake.  It says,

This is what we are about:
We plant the seeds that one day will grow.
We water seeds already planted, knowing that they hold future promise.
We lay foundations that will need further development.
We provide yeast that produces far beyond our capabilities.

We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that.
This enables us to do something, and to do it very well.
It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way, an
opportunity for the Lord's grace to enter and do the rest.

We may never see the end results, but that is the difference between the master
builder and the worker.
We are workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs.
We are prophets of a future not our own.[1]

Today this poem becomes my story.  One day it will be yours.  Things end but we never really finish; there is always work to do, seeds to plant, stories to write, people to love. 

The work of St. Andrew's is not done.  It belongs to you.  But for me, this is it.  Thank you.  I love you.  Goodbye.

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[1]   http://www.usccb.org/prayer-and-worship/prayers-and-devotions/prayers/archbishop_romero_prayer.cfm