The Lame Duck's Swan Song (verse one)
a sermon preached by the Rev. Dr. Tim W. Jensen
at the Second Congregational Meeting House on Nantucket Island
Sunday August 3rd, 2003
***
I’ve been thinking a lot this past week about my departed mentor, Rhys Williams. Rhys taught me a lot of things about the ministry, and he tried to teach me a lot of other things which, for some inexplicable reason, I simply had to learn for myself, the hard way, and only later was able to understand the wisdom of what he’d been trying to tell me all along. And, of course, like all great mentors, he taught me as much by example as he did by precept, and those lessons, over time, have turned out to be the most subtle, and the most valuable, of all.
Some of you may also recall that it was Rhys who gave me the single best piece of advice about preaching that I have ever received, which is: “Don’t try to tell them everything you know on the first Sunday.” And although he didn’t say so explicitly, I’ve discovered over the years that this advice works equally well for any given Sunday; and it takes on an added poignancy as one approaches one’s final Sunday with a particular congregation. It forces you to confront and admit the fact that you are NEVER going to be able to say it all; there will always be some things left unsaid, some things left undone, left over for someone else to say or do....
And that’s OK, because there’s really nothing that you can do about it anyway; and there will always be another Sunday, maybe in another pulpit, maybe with a different preacher, but one thing you can pretty much count on is that Sunday comes, every week, whether we want it to or not. You can pretty much take it to the bank....
I’ve also been thinking quite a bit about death this past week, and not merely because of Rhys’s death, nor even the feeling I sometimes get when I look around at all the things I still DO need to accomplish before I leave the island, that someone should just come put a gun to my head and put me out of my misery. But Bob Hope also passed away this past week, at age 100, so I’ve been thinking about the qualitative difference between living an entire century, and being struck down by cancer at age 74 (like Rhys was), or collapsing unexpectedly on Centre Street at age 46, like Jestina Laing did a week ago Friday, or having one’s life taken by violence in a foreign land in one’s 20’s, as too many of our young soldiers and Marines have in Iraq these past few months.
I know that we all have to die of something -- none of us gets to cheat the reaper forever -- but still one would hope to be able to postpone that moment as long as possible. Even if you’re convinced that you’re going to a better place (or at least a place less challenging, difficult, and painful), what’s the point of rushing into anything? Life should be lived fully and deliberately; neither squandered nor even sacrificed without need, but rather savored, celebrated, squeezed firmly until the last, full measure of its essence has been extracted, and then gently surrendered, graciously and with gratitude for this inexplicable and undeserved gift we have received from the Universe.
It doesn’t always happen that way of course (in fact, it very rarely happens EXACTLY that way at all), but at least it’s something to aim for; and maybe, just maybe, with a clear eye, a steady hand, and a little luck, you might get close to the target when your time comes.
Of course, death is just one of the many transitions we experience in living, a transition notable principally for its permanency as much as its inevitability; and even when it comes at the end of a long, full life, our natural reaction is one of loss, and grief. Yet death is only one of the many, more transitory losses we experience in living -- the loss of a job, a home, a relationship -- and we grieve these losses in much the same way that we grieve a death.
When I was in seminary, I was taught that there are basically five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance -- and the point is not to rush through the entire cycle as quickly as you can (which is a natural assumption for an impatient, goal-oriented student-cleric in his early twenties) but rather simply to recognize what you are feeling, and to be able to sit comfortably with that feeling and explore it until it resolves into the next.
And I was also taught that one of a minister’s most important jobs is to sit with people in their time of grief, and to reassure them, simply through one’s presence as much as anything one might say, that they are not alone in their grieving, and that everything they are feeling is real and meaningful and has been felt by other human beings from time immemorial. It doesn’t necessarily make their loss any easier. But it does, perhaps, make it slightly more bearable.
So when people ask me how I feel about leaving Nantucket, I have to be honest, and tell them I feel OK about it. Sure, I’ll miss the island; this has been a great job, and I’ve certainly felt right at home here, and I’ve made a great many friends (and not too many enemies, I hope), all of whom I will miss a great deal. But it’s not as if it’s going to kill me to leave Nantucket. I’ve missed every church I’ve ever served, and I still have friends in most of them; and besides, I’m much more likely to visit Nantucket again than to ever return to, say, Midland, Texas.
But from the moment I arrived here, we’ve all known that someday I would be leaving. At first we thought that I would be here for just a year. And then, after you asked me to stay on for a second, I know that there were some of you who hoped that I could remain indefinitely, as some sort of perpetual interim minister, particularly since it seemed at the time like you might otherwise be perpetually in search.
And I know that some of you were angry at the UUA for their “stupid rules,” and perhaps even hoped that the denomination would make an exception in my case, since this was such a special situation. But that’s all behind us now. And I just hope that whatever lingering sadness some of you may be feeling about my departure is more than made up for by the knowledge that you have found an excellent new minister to serve this congregation, and this time you are entitled to keep her for as long as you like.
About the only real regret I have about leaving the island is that I know how much more work there is to do here, and I feel a little guilty about leaving so much of it for Jennifer to do, rather than having simply taken care of things myself. But that’s always the way it is with interim ministry. My job was simply to help you prepare for the REAL journey that lies ahead. And I wanted to make certain that your new settled minister had the freedom to lead you in the direction that she felt you ought to go, rather than trying to follow a path that I had chosen for her.
Which was a little silly, really, since at the end of the day any minister worth their salt is going to try to lead you where YOU want to go. But before Jennifer can do that, you are going to have to point her in the right direction; you are going to have to take the time to get to know her, and to help her get to know all of you. Finally (and this is the tricky part) you are going to have to come to some sort of agreement about what your destination ought to be, and how best to proceed from here to there.
And this means learning to listen to one another, as well as merely expressing your opinions. Jennifer can help to facilitate this conversation; she can listen carefully to what you tell her, try to articulate publicly what she has heard in private, and define the consensus as it evolves, as well as draw upon her professional experience and education in order to help you anticipate and overcome problems, and ultimately to achieve the things that until now you have only dreamed of. But she can’t do it all by herself. She needs your help in order to help you get to where you want to be as a religious community.
This truly is a wonderful congregation. You have a rich heritage, and a highly-visible and respected identity within the larger Nantucket community. You have a devoted core membership, and a much larger constituency of individuals who share your core values and beliefs. You have a growing cadre of skilled and dedicated lay leaders, and perhaps most importantly, you really seem to like one another, despite (or perhaps because of) all of your eccentric, island idiosyncrasies.
You are passionate and committed, but also tolerant and forgiving; you are hard workers, and generous, but you also know how to let your hair down and have a good time; and you are always there to help one another out in times of need or crisis. So learn how to build upon those strengths, in partnership with your new minister, and you will be astonished by how much you can accomplish together.
I’m going to try to resist the temptation of talking too much about what I think I’ve accomplished during MY ministry here. This has not always been the easiest job on the planet, but I’ve tried awfully hard to make it LOOK easy, and with your help I think I’ve mostly succeeded. I’ve been proud to represent this congregation publicly as its minister, and I’ve tried not to embarrass you TOO badly with my outspoken political opinions.
I’ve especially appreciated the excellent relationship I’ve enjoyed with your minister emeritus, Ted Anderson, and I trust that he will continue to be as good a friend, colleague, pastor and mentor to your new settled minister as he has been to me. Mostly though, I’m just grateful for the many ways that you have embraced me and supported me through MY time of transition here on the island; how you’ve encouraged me in my efforts through your own attendance and participation, and particularly how you’ve given me both permission, and the space, simply to be myself, and to still be your minister.
You’ve patiently allowed me to regale you with game-by-game reports of my experiences as a youth basketball coach; you’ve resisted the temptation to entertain one another with amusing gossip about my pitiful social life (or at least you’ve done so so discretely that *I* haven’t heard about it); you’ve invited me into your homes; taken me sailing and golfing; allowed me to sing the solo from my High School musical, and walk around town dressed like the Skipper from “Gilligan’s Island,” without laughing; in a word, you’ve made it easy for me to be both happy and successful in my ministry here, and for that I can’t thank you enough.
And now, I am approaching my final week here on Nantucket. One more Sunday here in this pulpit, and then I’m off to the mainland to begin my new ministry in Carlisle. I still have a lot to do between now and then, and I am feeling a little anxious about getting it all done, but I also know that what must be done will be done, somehow, because that last Sunday is coming, whether I want it to or not, and when it arrives I have no choice but to be as ready as I can.
And then, ready or not, away I go...the same tide that washed me ashore here two years ago will carry me again “off-island” to another ministry in another community. And there will be new friends, and a new home, and a new set of challenges to be met to the best of my ability. But when I go, I will carry a little piece of Nantucket with me always, just as a little piece of me will always remain here on this “Faraway Island.” But I’ll have more to say about that next Sunday. I look forward to seeing you all again in church.
at the Second Congregational Meeting House on Nantucket Island
Sunday August 3rd, 2003
***
I’ve been thinking a lot this past week about my departed mentor, Rhys Williams. Rhys taught me a lot of things about the ministry, and he tried to teach me a lot of other things which, for some inexplicable reason, I simply had to learn for myself, the hard way, and only later was able to understand the wisdom of what he’d been trying to tell me all along. And, of course, like all great mentors, he taught me as much by example as he did by precept, and those lessons, over time, have turned out to be the most subtle, and the most valuable, of all.
Some of you may also recall that it was Rhys who gave me the single best piece of advice about preaching that I have ever received, which is: “Don’t try to tell them everything you know on the first Sunday.” And although he didn’t say so explicitly, I’ve discovered over the years that this advice works equally well for any given Sunday; and it takes on an added poignancy as one approaches one’s final Sunday with a particular congregation. It forces you to confront and admit the fact that you are NEVER going to be able to say it all; there will always be some things left unsaid, some things left undone, left over for someone else to say or do....
And that’s OK, because there’s really nothing that you can do about it anyway; and there will always be another Sunday, maybe in another pulpit, maybe with a different preacher, but one thing you can pretty much count on is that Sunday comes, every week, whether we want it to or not. You can pretty much take it to the bank....
I’ve also been thinking quite a bit about death this past week, and not merely because of Rhys’s death, nor even the feeling I sometimes get when I look around at all the things I still DO need to accomplish before I leave the island, that someone should just come put a gun to my head and put me out of my misery. But Bob Hope also passed away this past week, at age 100, so I’ve been thinking about the qualitative difference between living an entire century, and being struck down by cancer at age 74 (like Rhys was), or collapsing unexpectedly on Centre Street at age 46, like Jestina Laing did a week ago Friday, or having one’s life taken by violence in a foreign land in one’s 20’s, as too many of our young soldiers and Marines have in Iraq these past few months.
I know that we all have to die of something -- none of us gets to cheat the reaper forever -- but still one would hope to be able to postpone that moment as long as possible. Even if you’re convinced that you’re going to a better place (or at least a place less challenging, difficult, and painful), what’s the point of rushing into anything? Life should be lived fully and deliberately; neither squandered nor even sacrificed without need, but rather savored, celebrated, squeezed firmly until the last, full measure of its essence has been extracted, and then gently surrendered, graciously and with gratitude for this inexplicable and undeserved gift we have received from the Universe.
It doesn’t always happen that way of course (in fact, it very rarely happens EXACTLY that way at all), but at least it’s something to aim for; and maybe, just maybe, with a clear eye, a steady hand, and a little luck, you might get close to the target when your time comes.
Of course, death is just one of the many transitions we experience in living, a transition notable principally for its permanency as much as its inevitability; and even when it comes at the end of a long, full life, our natural reaction is one of loss, and grief. Yet death is only one of the many, more transitory losses we experience in living -- the loss of a job, a home, a relationship -- and we grieve these losses in much the same way that we grieve a death.
When I was in seminary, I was taught that there are basically five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance -- and the point is not to rush through the entire cycle as quickly as you can (which is a natural assumption for an impatient, goal-oriented student-cleric in his early twenties) but rather simply to recognize what you are feeling, and to be able to sit comfortably with that feeling and explore it until it resolves into the next.
And I was also taught that one of a minister’s most important jobs is to sit with people in their time of grief, and to reassure them, simply through one’s presence as much as anything one might say, that they are not alone in their grieving, and that everything they are feeling is real and meaningful and has been felt by other human beings from time immemorial. It doesn’t necessarily make their loss any easier. But it does, perhaps, make it slightly more bearable.
So when people ask me how I feel about leaving Nantucket, I have to be honest, and tell them I feel OK about it. Sure, I’ll miss the island; this has been a great job, and I’ve certainly felt right at home here, and I’ve made a great many friends (and not too many enemies, I hope), all of whom I will miss a great deal. But it’s not as if it’s going to kill me to leave Nantucket. I’ve missed every church I’ve ever served, and I still have friends in most of them; and besides, I’m much more likely to visit Nantucket again than to ever return to, say, Midland, Texas.
But from the moment I arrived here, we’ve all known that someday I would be leaving. At first we thought that I would be here for just a year. And then, after you asked me to stay on for a second, I know that there were some of you who hoped that I could remain indefinitely, as some sort of perpetual interim minister, particularly since it seemed at the time like you might otherwise be perpetually in search.
And I know that some of you were angry at the UUA for their “stupid rules,” and perhaps even hoped that the denomination would make an exception in my case, since this was such a special situation. But that’s all behind us now. And I just hope that whatever lingering sadness some of you may be feeling about my departure is more than made up for by the knowledge that you have found an excellent new minister to serve this congregation, and this time you are entitled to keep her for as long as you like.
About the only real regret I have about leaving the island is that I know how much more work there is to do here, and I feel a little guilty about leaving so much of it for Jennifer to do, rather than having simply taken care of things myself. But that’s always the way it is with interim ministry. My job was simply to help you prepare for the REAL journey that lies ahead. And I wanted to make certain that your new settled minister had the freedom to lead you in the direction that she felt you ought to go, rather than trying to follow a path that I had chosen for her.
Which was a little silly, really, since at the end of the day any minister worth their salt is going to try to lead you where YOU want to go. But before Jennifer can do that, you are going to have to point her in the right direction; you are going to have to take the time to get to know her, and to help her get to know all of you. Finally (and this is the tricky part) you are going to have to come to some sort of agreement about what your destination ought to be, and how best to proceed from here to there.
And this means learning to listen to one another, as well as merely expressing your opinions. Jennifer can help to facilitate this conversation; she can listen carefully to what you tell her, try to articulate publicly what she has heard in private, and define the consensus as it evolves, as well as draw upon her professional experience and education in order to help you anticipate and overcome problems, and ultimately to achieve the things that until now you have only dreamed of. But she can’t do it all by herself. She needs your help in order to help you get to where you want to be as a religious community.
This truly is a wonderful congregation. You have a rich heritage, and a highly-visible and respected identity within the larger Nantucket community. You have a devoted core membership, and a much larger constituency of individuals who share your core values and beliefs. You have a growing cadre of skilled and dedicated lay leaders, and perhaps most importantly, you really seem to like one another, despite (or perhaps because of) all of your eccentric, island idiosyncrasies.
You are passionate and committed, but also tolerant and forgiving; you are hard workers, and generous, but you also know how to let your hair down and have a good time; and you are always there to help one another out in times of need or crisis. So learn how to build upon those strengths, in partnership with your new minister, and you will be astonished by how much you can accomplish together.
I’m going to try to resist the temptation of talking too much about what I think I’ve accomplished during MY ministry here. This has not always been the easiest job on the planet, but I’ve tried awfully hard to make it LOOK easy, and with your help I think I’ve mostly succeeded. I’ve been proud to represent this congregation publicly as its minister, and I’ve tried not to embarrass you TOO badly with my outspoken political opinions.
I’ve especially appreciated the excellent relationship I’ve enjoyed with your minister emeritus, Ted Anderson, and I trust that he will continue to be as good a friend, colleague, pastor and mentor to your new settled minister as he has been to me. Mostly though, I’m just grateful for the many ways that you have embraced me and supported me through MY time of transition here on the island; how you’ve encouraged me in my efforts through your own attendance and participation, and particularly how you’ve given me both permission, and the space, simply to be myself, and to still be your minister.
You’ve patiently allowed me to regale you with game-by-game reports of my experiences as a youth basketball coach; you’ve resisted the temptation to entertain one another with amusing gossip about my pitiful social life (or at least you’ve done so so discretely that *I* haven’t heard about it); you’ve invited me into your homes; taken me sailing and golfing; allowed me to sing the solo from my High School musical, and walk around town dressed like the Skipper from “Gilligan’s Island,” without laughing; in a word, you’ve made it easy for me to be both happy and successful in my ministry here, and for that I can’t thank you enough.
And now, I am approaching my final week here on Nantucket. One more Sunday here in this pulpit, and then I’m off to the mainland to begin my new ministry in Carlisle. I still have a lot to do between now and then, and I am feeling a little anxious about getting it all done, but I also know that what must be done will be done, somehow, because that last Sunday is coming, whether I want it to or not, and when it arrives I have no choice but to be as ready as I can.
And then, ready or not, away I go...the same tide that washed me ashore here two years ago will carry me again “off-island” to another ministry in another community. And there will be new friends, and a new home, and a new set of challenges to be met to the best of my ability. But when I go, I will carry a little piece of Nantucket with me always, just as a little piece of me will always remain here on this “Faraway Island.” But I’ll have more to say about that next Sunday. I look forward to seeing you all again in church.
posted by The Eclectic Cleric at 7:43 PM
