2 Timothy 1:1-14
Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus by the will of God, for the sake of the promise of life that is in Christ Jesus,
To Timothy, my beloved child: Grace, mercy, and peace from God the Father and Christ Jesus our Lord.
I am grateful to God—whom I worship with a clear conscience, as my ancestors did—when I remember you constantly in my prayers night and day. Recalling your tears, I long to see you so that I may be filled with joy. I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, lives in you. For this reason I remind you to rekindle the gift of God that is within you through the laying on of my hands; for God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline.
Do not be ashamed, then, of the testimony about our Lord or of me his prisoner, but join with me in suffering for the gospel, relying on the power of God, who saved us and called us with a holy calling, not according to our works but according to his own purpose and grace. This grace was given to us in Christ Jesus before the ages began, but it has now been revealed through the appearing of our Savior Christ Jesus, who abolished death and brought life and immortality to light through the gospel. For this gospel I was appointed a herald and an apostle and a teacher, and for this reason I suffer as I do. But I am not ashamed, for I know the one in whom I have put my trust, and I am sure that he is able to guard until that day what I have entrusted to him. Hold to the standard of sound teaching that you have heard from me, in the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus. Guard the good treasure entrusted to you, with the help of the Holy Spirit living in us.
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In early 1990, Andy Phillips, our late and beloved Administrative Assistant, told me he wanted to make arrangements for me to have a portrait taken for the wall of Davidson Lounge. When I didn’t get right to it in those demanding days of starting my ministry here, he prompted me again. I asked him why the rush and he answered that based on experience there was no telling how long I might be around, and that it’s always easier to get a photo at the beginning than at the end… especially if the end is not pleasant.
So my name was added to those of my 33 predecessors, and my portrait became number 14 the collection. Just last year we had all the photos copied, standardized, and framed, so now in the hallway near the main office there’s a gallery of ministers dating back to the late 19th century, each labeled with the starting date and the ending date:
· The Rev. Augustus Field Beard, 1860 {dash} 1862;
· The Rev. Nathanael Mann Guptill, 1943 {dash} 1951.
· And at the tail end: The Rev. Dr. John Brierly McCall, 1989 {dash} 2013.
That dash is shorthand for everything that lies between the beginning and the end. Several years ago I heard a poem in genealogical circles called “The Dash.” It fits well with the conviction Andrea and I share that the best things in life are corny….but also true. As one stanza reads:
For it matters not, how much we own;
The cars…the house…the cash,
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our dash.
[by Linda Ellis]
How have we spent this dash beginning in 1989 and ending today? I can tell you now that fairly often during our first five years together my prayers were something like “God, what the hell were you thinking when you led this church and this preacher to make a covenant together?” There were sleepless nights, occasional tears, frustration, and anxiety, not just on my part, but yours, too. Surely there was another place that would prove to be a better match. I was an avid reader of “Employment Opportunities in the UCC,” and I interviewed for a call in another state. When they said “no thanks” I settled back in… and my prayers began to change.
Rather than praying God would lead me to a better place, I prayed for myself to become the best pastor I could be so I could help you become the best church you could be… That prayer – and yours – have been abundantly answered. Look what God has done!
Like beach glass or that rock tumbler that we used to have when the kids were small, the abrasive and the constant turning will smooth the sharp edges and bring out an inner beauty that we might easily have missed.
Or the old hand-crafted furniture that has come down through many generations, now marked with dings and dents, but more beautiful by far than brand-new perfect pieces, because each mark has a story to tell about living. Let me note I came here with just a few gray hairs – and look at how many I’ve earned while serving with you. Fortunately, none of you has aged.
Many years ago, someone said to me that the congregation respected me because I was good, but they’d never love me. I didn’t agree, but I did realize that if you didn’t love me it was probably because you didn’t really know that I loved you. So, I resolved to show my respect and love, warts and wounds and shortcomings and all. And in that change in my heart I felt the change in yours.
I want to offer my thanks to those of you who’ve really embodied the best that a faith community can be. You are the pillars, the rocks, the foundation. You’ve been here through thick and thin. In the face of the worst you’ve managed to point us to the best…like the kid who knew that somewhere in the barn full of manure there had to be a pony. God bless you all.
Thank you to those who’ve told me God has changed your hearts, at least a little, through my ministry with you.
And, thank you to those who are here today and who may have almost left at some time in the past 23 years. Maybe you felt I wasn’t leading well, or that your church had abandoned you, or that something was fundamentally wrong in the ways we were changing and growing. I respect you who have wanted to be reconciled and who have welcomed me into careful, mutual listening, knowing that God cares more about our relationships than our being right.
I know I was stiff and defensive and anxious at the beginning. Part of the reason was that I knew then and now that many of the decisions that we faced were fraught with a level of risk. There were times I was tempted just to keep my head down and preach platitudes and keep you all happy. But you challenged me to step up and speak out and do what I could to inspire and guide.
I can say honestly that I have given you my best. I hope you can say the same… that you have given God and the church your best. And I pray you’ll keep that as the measure in your lives shared in the next chapters. There is so much more God will help you be and do.
So this is it. Today. Now, at the end of the dash; 23½ years together. For me, today is also the close of 42 years since my ordination, June 20, 1971. That’s something like 2,100 Sundays total, and more than 1200 with you. I haven’t preached every week but let’s imagine a good 1500 sermons (which is quite different from 1,500 good sermons).
We’re closing our covenant and releasing each other from the promises we made when I was installed on April Fool’s Day, 1990. Our guest preacher was the Rev. Dr. Joseph Evans – a long-time McCall family friend, a clergy colleague to Andrea in New Hampshire days, and third President of the United Church of Christ. He used the same text that we just heard a few minutes ago, as the Apostle Paul wrote from prison to his young disciple Timothy, and to the people Timothy would serve. Joe challenged us to minister with boldness and with courage. I believe we have. The community no longer thinks of us a country club church. We are known as the loving, serving, justice-seeking, Open and Affirming, God-is-still-speaking church.
We are a Good News people who know every ending is a beginning. We are the food pantry and Community Crisis Ministries, and children’s closet and spirited worship. We are people who grow and stretch in our faith. We have become the church God has called us to be.
Now you and I move to the next chapter as we have many times before. But this time we do it separately… not overnight, but gradually. Before too very long another senior minister will begin and another portrait will be added to the wall, and another dash will hang there for years – maybe a few and maybe many. His or her portrait may very well break with the tradition of good-hearted old white straight males who’ve been ministers here for the first 280 years.
Years ago, I think first in a sermon, I made the remark that it’s good that we have been the church our grandparents loved, but our job is to become the church our grandchildren will love. Sometime last year a colleague pastor emailed me and asked if she could quote me if she gave me a footnote! I challenge you to keep that faith and focus.
We’re continuing to be shaped in these challenging times both by the Spirit of God and the realities of the culture in which we live. We’re smaller and older than when I came. Most churches are. You’ll have important decisions to make with your new senior minister and together I know you’ll dream large and move forward with boldness and with courage.
I know I’m really not the leader you need at this time in your life. And the demands and challenges of parish ministry don’t give me the energy they once did. It is time.
I won’t go on. You’ve invited me to speak to you over these many years – you’ve been kind to listen, as the author George Elliott wrote:
A friend is one to whom you may pour out the contents of your heart, chaff and grain together, knowing that gentle hands will take and sift it, keep what is worth keeping, and with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away.
You have been to Andrea, Ben and me, friends like that. We have intended the same.
And with that I draw a deep breath and say again God bless you all.
And I add those very inadequate words “thank you,” thank you for the dash.