A Retrospective [Psalm 126 - Advent 3]

 The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Psalm 126

 

A Retrospective

 

I first started dreaming when you talked to me about your nightmare. 

 

It was late in the summer of 2015. The sound of toddlers trying to be quiet filled the nervous air.  I straightened my interview best and whispered a centering prayer.  I was sitting at my dining room table, laptop open, Skype on the screen.  And, for the first time, I was seeing the faces of Grace and St. Stephen’s – a parish far away, in Colorado Springs, that I knew only from their on-line profile.

 

It was that profile that first piqued my interest.  It was lovely and excellent and exciting – words that I now know describe this parish perfectly.  When I first looked through its digital pages, I started to imagine standing in this pulpit, watching my children sing with the St. Nicholas choir, staring up at the lighted tower on a crisp December night. 

 

I stumbled upon that profile one July evening, during one of those rare peaceful moments, after the rest of the family was tucked into their beds.  And it felt special.  So special that I left it open for Jen to review the next day.  She immediately decided that Colorado Springs was too far away.  But also agreed that it looked like the perfect parish for our family.

 

And so I contacted the Bishop’s Office.  And they told me I had two days to submit all of my paperwork.  The problem was: I had no paperwork because I had not applied to a church in seven years.  But I just knew, deep in my bones, that I would regret it if I didn’t at least try.  And so, for about 48 hours, I filled every spare moment writing essays.  For a chance to be with you.

 

In late summer of 2015, I was granted that Skype call.  And it went well.  I liked them.  They must have liked me – and my answers to their questions.  And then they asked me if I had any questions for them.  And I did.  A big question about one small section, buried in the middle of the profile.  The section was entitled “Recent challenges.”  It contained some rather jarring phrases, like “theft of church funds” and “locked out of the church buildings,” that sent me scurrying for a search engine.  As you might imagine, there was no shortage of articles about the “recent challenges.”

 

And so I had to know.  And so I asked.  And I could feel some discomfort through the screen.  But that search committee was so honest and vulnerable with me.  They talked openly about their pain and grief, about how hard it all was.  And then there was a but.  And that was what I was looking for: the honesty and the but.  They spoke beautifully about how during that painful time they experienced the grace of God in new and profound ways.  They told me that in the midst of their pain and trauma they learned to love each other better.  That they learned what it meant to be Church.  “Those who sowed with tears will reap with songs of joy.”  Like the euphoria on the other side of a migraine, the Sun on Easter morning, the first breath after being under water too long.  It was hard but then God.

 

And I was hooked.  I started dreaming when you talked to me about your nightmare. 

 

A couple of months later, I was sitting with the vestry in Lisa Noll’s living room.  And as the members were introducing themselves, I heard so clearly the voice of God whisper to my heart: these are your people.  Two weeks later Bishop Rob O’Neill called with the confirmation. 

 

But it was during that Skype interview that I knew we could dream a future together.  That we could trust and love each other.  That we could do hard things together.  That we could write a beautiful, new chapter in the history of this parish.

 

And we have – together.  For these eight years, you have been my people.  And I have been proud to call you my people.  You are a beautiful, eclectic, faithful collection.  You have taught me so much – about being a priest, being a leader, being a Christian.  You have inspired me, encouraged me, prayed me more fully into my calling.

 

Like you, I do hear the warnings about the future of the Church, of the Episcopal Church, of the Church in this country.  I see the numbers, the trends of decline.  But we have defied those trends with a holy belief in a God who is always and forever making all things new.  People say the Church in this country is dying; but we keep walking people to the font: forty-six people - babies, children, teens, and adults - in just the last two years.  Though dire predictions swirl all around us, on social media and at church conventions, you have given me hope for the future of the Church.  The Lord has done great things for us.  And I think that means that God can do great things in all of those places in which hope feels lost.  Because of you and us and what God is doing here, I was able to walk into the Diocese of Albany and proclaim hope, give them hope – a hope built on what I have witnessed in this place.

 

While it has been amazing, it wasn’t always easy.  We did, in fact, do hard things together.  We buried some of our giants of the faith and pillars of this community.  We said tearful goodbyes to all the members, our extended parish family, who have moved, relocated, deployed – some of whom are watching the livestream this morning.  We cried together on the Christ the King Sunday of the Club Q shooting.  We did our incredible ministries with the burden of a mortgage squeezing our financial resources.  We lived together and worshipped together, grieved together and celebrated together, stayed together, despite the many and varied ideologies and opinions represented in our pews, in this fractious age.

 

And we navigated a global pandemic.  And that was really hard.  But we found creative ways through: circles on the lawn, Communion contraptions, a portable font, a barely portable holy table, video and audio and radio, a piped out choir, sermons from my backyard, Bible Studies from my dining room, phone calls and emails, Christmas Eve stations with a Silent Night projected on the tower, an outdoor ordination, and a new ventilation system.  And a ton of trust – in each other and that God was leading us through a world of isolation, agitation, and upheaval. 

 

God never promises easy.  But God gives us what and who we need.  And the whats and the whos, by the grace of God, are what make this life possible, what make Grace and St. Stephen’s possible, what make all of these beautiful moments we are remembering today possible.

 

Thank you for accepting me and my family.  Thank for treasuring my gifts and forgiving my shortcomings.  Thank you for embracing my ministry.  Thank you for supporting me, praying for me, looking out for me.  You have been generous with your love.  You have been open with your hearts.  You have been swift to love.  You have been kind.  You have trusted me.  And hope you feel I was worthy of that trust. 

 

I am going to miss you; you are my last parish as a priest – and will always be something of an ideal in my heart.  I am going to miss looking out from this pulpit.  I am going to miss looking up at that Jesus and hearing the unpredictable strike of the sanctus bell.  I am going to miss seeing your candles on Christmas Eve and your carnations on All Saints’ Sunday.  I am going to miss watching your children grow up – from baptismal gown to red cassock to acolyte alb.  I am going to miss the sounds: hearing the organ mix with the choir mix with the voices of the congregation.  I am going to miss the stone pillars and the smooth tile floor and the marble altar and the old wooden pews.  I am going to miss how beautiful and excellent it is when we worship together.

 

I hope you know that my heart is not leaving you and that I am not leaving because of you.  I am simply following the call of God – like I did eight years ago, trusting and hoping that the match there is as perfect as it has been here.  

 

Saying these goodbyes is hard.  And yet I know, in the mysterious reality of God, we are forever held together, as close as a prayer, as near as a memory.  Distance grows but love never ends.

 

It feels strange to say, but a Lou Reed song has been running through my mind recently, as I think about our time together, as I reflect on this journey we shared, this pristine moment: Such a perfect day and I’m glad I spent it with you.