I recently completed three-plus years of off-and-on (mostly on) supply work at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church in Española, New Mexico.
The end came rather suddenly; for a variety of reasons, we relocated on short notice, so what had been a 30-minute commute each way became 90 minutes. That seemed like a bridge too far, so I let the parishioners know that, regrettably, I could no longer serve.
We’ve been through a lot in those three years, especially Covid-19, which meant conducting services on Zoom for much of the time.
Low-church congregations can get by with that more easily, but for those of us who are sacramentalists, having the priest consecrate and consume the elements over Zoom provides I suppose some vicarious benefit, but it’s not the same. The incarnational dimension of worship was lost.
For that reason, coming together again in the nave was an occasion of great celebration.
I wish the parish had grown more during my brief tenure, but with the pandemic working against us, that was unrealistic. We did welcome some new folks, but we lost another to that distant shore.
Dust to dust.
It occurs to me that a minister knows better than most about saying goodbye. Some congregants leave and others die. And then the pastor himself inevitably leaves, along with his or her family.
It was 60 years ago (almost to the day), but I still remember a line from my father’s final sermon before we left his first church, in East Chain, Minnesota, for another in Bay City, Michigan.
The line itself was rather inconsequential, but I remember it clearly. “Today I am your pastor,” he said. “Tomorrow I am not.”
I recall just as vividly several congregants sobbing as he preached. “Parting,” William Shakespeare wrote, “is such sweet sorrow.”
No one cried during my final service at St. Stephen’s, though several parishioners called out their gratitude and sadness during the morning announcements midway through the liturgy.
My homily, as always, was short. (I believe that the sermon should never, ever overshadow the main event: meeting Jesus in the real presence of the Eucharist.)
I was doing fine, composed and cheerful, until the recessional when Dove, our incomparable music impresario, decided we should sing “God Be with You till We Meet Again.” My voice hitched, and my eyes clouded over.
I was caught in the moment, of course, but that music also unleashed powerful, sweet memories.
My father was a minister for four-plus decades in the Evangelical Free Church, and every year our family vacation was dictated by the venue of the denomination’s annual conference.
Mom, Dad and all five sons would pile into the sedan – my father had an aversion to station wagons; that was before the days of minivans or SUVs – and we’d hit the road for Green Lake, Wisconsin, or Denver or Seattle or Ocean Grove, New Jersey, or wherever the conference was being held that year.
In retrospect, my brothers and I agreed that the reason we’re all afflicted with wanderlust is because those trips were the highlight of our childhood. It was the one time we had our workaholic father’s undivided attention.
The conference itself held limited interest for us, as you might expect, but I remember well the hymn they sang every year to conclude the gathering: “God Be with You till We Meet Again.” And the refrain included the phrase, “Till we meet at Jesus’ feet.”
During coffee hour, I shared that recollection with the parishioners at St. Stephen’s.
All things considered, I probably would have preferred simply to have concluded the service and walked away. No fuss, no fanfare. But I’m coming to see the value of closure, the importance of saying goodbye, something I learned long ago as a PK (preacher’s kid).
My wife, the estimable Catharine Randall, often quotes the lesson she learned from Henry the Horse, her late, beloved thoroughbred: “Always go forward.”
There’s obvious wisdom in that, I’m sure, and for many, the past is painful. But there’s also value in remaining connected to the past, the people and the experiences that have shaped you.
I recently attended my 50-year high school reunion, for example, and visited the church in Bay City for an anniversary celebration. I’m still in touch with several of my classmates and professors from college, one of whom plans to visit for several days this fall, and I speak with one of my childhood friends from that church in southern Minnesota once a year or so.
Having moved more times than I can count, I know about saying goodbye, but I try to bring something from the past with me.
As John Lennon wrote, “There are places I remember all my life / Though some have changed / Some forever, not for better / Some have gone and some remain.”
And so, I take with me the wonderful folks at St. Stephen’s – Karen and Chris (and Chris’s mother remotely in Louisville), Charlotte and her sister Juanita, Orlando, Trish, Kelly and Alicia, Joseph, Nancy, Jim and his granddaughters, Mandie, John and Ann, Kay, Pamela, Diane, Dove and others. And Jeanne – may she rest in peace and rise in glory.
Goodbye, dear ones, and God bless. Till we meet at Jesus’ feet.
An Episcopal priest, Balmer is John Phillips Professor in Religion at Dartmouth College and the author of more than a dozen books, with commentaries appearing in newspapers across the country. He is a contributing correspondent at Good Faith Media.
