Retirement Beckons, Part 2

Once I never thought about retirement, other than being a good lad and salting away some rainy-day dollars each month for a distant future.

How could I ponder retirement when, on a pre-dawn Sunday morning, the sermon was still making demands? In a few hours the sanctuary seats, cradling innocent-appearing adults and cute children, would be occupied. Every member was a mix of dreams and disappointments. They’d all felt loss (of faith, of loved ones, of a future). And a few, with clenched jaws or fake smiles, hoped today the preacher would say something that made sense.

Or, they were present from habit or the football game was on later or the kids should go to church or the wife had given “the look” and it was far better to get your butt to church after a quick bowl of Cheerios rather than protest.

No, early on Sunday mornings, with an unfinished sermon (and it’s never truly done until the “Amen” hours later after the good news was cast before the beloved, beleaguered, bored, bereft dwellers of the pews), retirement was never a thought.

It is now.

The proverbial fat lady sings in June 2018.

I’ll go from “active” to “retired” clergy. An Elder in the United Methodist Church, I literally have become elderly. And crankier. More fearful. Less certain. Still, I traipse after Jesus (with a hundred daily failings). God, ever elusive, ever sublime, lures me toward being neighborly, open to the new and the next. The Spirit, holy or not, ghostly or not, swirls with divine nudges of love and light.

Retirement won’t change my current schedule. At month’s end (April, 2018) I’ll have deposited a paycheck for six years of part-time hospice work. It’s my final official appointment. What I do barely tips the scales of meaningful ministry. I phone the bereaved. I share randomly helpful thoughts in meetings. I wander hallways, trying to be polite.

On one day in June I won’t be retired, the next day I will be.

But on either side of retirement, I’ll phone someone during the worst time of their life and try to let them know someone is listening and caring. I rarely mention God, but the Holy is the reason for my courage to call. I like to imagine that Jesus, when asking the disciples how their day went, might hear about my typical day in hospice and offer me an encouraging nod and grin.

Fine job, Larry. Keep at it, fella.

And yet there’s this also about a calendar marking a looming change: I think of the worst that has happened to me. My worst pales compared to others that struggled in life and ministry. But they are my worst experiences. They shaped who I became (or didn’t become) as a pastor.

Retirement, rightly so, invites gazing at days gone by.

As an old-school preacher, I’ll stick with three examples.

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The first worst

Once young, leaping through the early hoops toward United Methodist ordination, I sat in a required meeting. The Board of Ordained Ministry, a passel of pastors, demanded that I share why I felt God’s call. Would they deem me . . .

Worthy?

I muttered something naïve part-way through the gathering. Surrounded by wall-to-wall preachers, I questioned the importance of sermons. I don’t recollect my inane insights, but those in the stuffy room (maybe twenty clergy) figuratively jumped on me. They were irked or angry or bemused that I—a dumb kid still more influenced by Sunday school lessons than seminary training—would critique the value of homilies.

I felt lousy. Attacked. Stupid. Alone.

Soon the meeting ended and I retreated to the door and my car, and likely for oblivion.

One clergy found me. One of the twenty. One of the ordained strangers in the room.

She spoke my name. She told me I actually made sense. She told me she appreciated me being there. She told me I’d do well in ministry.

All the other clergy seemed eager to argue. To “correct” my opinions. To belittle my thoughts. To hammer at my faith. And then to ignore me as they turned to the next agenda item.

One came and shared love. Thanks, Rev. Barbara Troxell. Yeah, I will always remember.

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The second worst which was the worst

I’ve told this tale in many sermons, essays, and conversations.

The best church ministry I ever did was a new church start in Wisconsin. It was frustrating, joyous work. How humbling to serve laypeople dedicating endless hours to create a loving, Christ-centered church. Every person contributed!

But I clashed with the District Superintendent (the pastor in charge of the district where the church was located). We were both stubborn, two bulls in one china shop.

But he had the power.

In a meeting with the Bishop and other Superintendents, he lied about me. I know this because later the Bishop told me what had been said and done. His actions were based on intentional, premeditated deceit.

This happened 25 year ago. Just before ten o’clock in the evening on April 21 (John Muir’s birthday, by the way) this pastor—a colleague in ministry, a disciple of Jesus, someone ordained to preach the good news—phoned my home. He told me the Bishop had decided to move me to another church. In other words, dump on my ministry and my wife’s plans. (She was then getting her Ph.D. at UW-Madison.)

My “colleague” wanted me gone. Everything spoken to the Bishop was a lie.

I left that church. Fighting to stay could harm the newly born congregation. At least that was the Bishop’s rationale when she met with my wife and me. While the Bishop shared her dismay at a colleague’s lies, she preferred not to go “public” with the problems.

How can people be so cruel? They can. The church is, after all, a human contraption.

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The last worst

I am old knee-jerk liberal. Mostly private, mostly introverted (an INFP for Meyers-Briggs groupies). But, in the late 1990s, when a friend and fellow pastor advocated for a high-profile Holy Union, I wanted to help. Scores of ministers would gather to openly and enthusiastically bless the life-long relationship of two women.

National news! It was (and still is) against the “laws” of the United Methodist Church.

Eventually, charges were filed against the participating pastors. Indeed, the accusations against me were submitted by two laypersons in a church near Sacramento.

I didn’t know these laypersons. After a little digging, I found that the pastor of the church where they were members had asked them to bring charges against his colleagues. If I am labeled “liberal,” this particular pastor would be “conservative.” Ah, the curse of labels! I am left and right! You are right and wrong. Whatever. Divisiveness is always so, well, divisive.

I discovered the couple had done a variation of pulling names from a hat. Their pastor asked for volunteers to accuse other pastors of misconduct. Along with others, they volunteered. I didn’t know them. They didn’t know me. Nonetheless, they willingly signed a piece of paper with the potential to terminate my ministry.

I called ‘em.

Would you like to hear juicy details about the conversation? Alas, I don’t recall much. They were a husband and wife. They thought homosexuals were sinners. They didn’t think homosexuals could be Christian (let alone married or ordained). They also didn’t expect the pastor they were accusing to phone. It took a bit to refresh their memory of who I was—the guy they were judging!

I didn’t change their hearts or minds about the “evil” of homosexuality.

And yet I like to believe they learned I was more than a name drawn from a hat. That I was a fellow who cared enough to attempt a conversation with them.

Now, years later, I smile—and yet also frown deep in my soul—that a fellow pastor who never once talked with me, schemed to have his church members accuse me of misconduct.

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Retirement births memories of the worst and weird. I don’t think I hold grudges. I resist spouting the cliché: God closes a door but opens a window. Doors do slam shut; windows remain shuttered. God, if only metaphorically, weeps. Humans can be trite, nasty, devious, and—sadly—evil. Though I never use the doors and windows nonsense, I unabashedly lean on God’s love. Or as Flannery O’Connor wrote, “I can, with one eye squinted, take it all as a blessing.”

Hey, isn’t my worst . . . insignificant?

What an easy-peasy forty-one years of ordained ministry I’ve had.

Maybe next time, I’ll remember some of the best.

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(If you missed my self-indulgent Part 1 about retirement from a few months back, it’s here. There might be a Part 3 or 4. Or not . . .)

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4 Comments

  1. Larry, I’m not sure you can ever truly retire. I have a “worst” bishop story, too. We both moved here at the same time. Wnen I met with him, I knew something was wrong from the get-go. The word came down – my transfer wouldn’t be accepted. No reason given – at least not right away. Eventually, I found out. Too many women here. That didn’t help much. No amount of tears or words changed his mind. So, I went to another denomination. Never felt at home until one day I just said , “the hell with it!” I got used to being “just” a Christian cause I never really felt like being defined by any other label. For obvious reasons I’m not putting my real name but you know who I am, Larry.

  2. Larry, I always appreciate your willingness to share the deep stuff. The thoughtful stuff. The stuff that hurts. You remind me that man is fallible and thank God, He is not. Your 41 years in ministry and some of the crappy stuff that has happened reminds me that mean people suck—I’m reminded too that they can chat with Peter at the gate and then God— then they’ll come find you and apologize for being such jerks. You remind me that through it all God is sovereign. Thank you for you my friend.

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