Loved to the End

"Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end."

John 13:1, NIV

This is the week that I have been dreading.

It's an emotional rollercoaster sort of a week. But, as a friend reminded me this morning at church, isn't that so often true of the life of faith--the highs and the lows held together, somehow each necessary for the other--death and resurrection inseparably bound to one another by some kind of strange, invisible cords.

This morning, I had the privilege of becoming a member at the church I love, the church that has become home over the past year and a half. Two years ago, I was hurting, and I wasn't sure what it would take to find another church I could call home--today, I finally got to officially become a member of the body of Christ in this particular place. There's much so joy and gratitude in that. (Those of you who know me will appreciate the fact that this moment would have come sooner, in the spring, but I was out of the country on the Sunday when I was supposed to transfer my membership, presenting a paper at an academic conference in Virginia, and delighting in every minute of the chance to dabble in academics again.)

But in the background of the celebration today is the fact that two days from now will be my final day pastoring the community that I love at House Blend. On Tuesday evening we will gather for a final supper to celebrate with gratitude the good gifts that House Blend has brought to our lives over the past ten years, not least of which is the community itself and the relationships that have meant so much, and we will say a final official good-bye to House Blend before it officially closes its doors.

I can't even begin to know how to process so much joy mingled with so much grief.

If I've learned anything about being a pastor, and I think I've learned quite a bit over the past two-and-a-half years that I've been at House Blend, it's that the work of pastoring is primarily about love. But how do you stop loving a group of people just because someone decides that a ministry has run its course? What does it look like to end well, when the most vital work that you are called to do is not to plan programs, or to find ways to serve people, or to provide ministries that meet people's physical needs, but to love one another as God has loved us? To wrap up a program is one thing. To stop loving someone is something else. And as anyone who's had a relationship end knows, whether because of a parting of ways or because of a death, it's no easy task to stop loving someone.

During this season of ending, it's become apparent to me that I have no answers, easy or otherwise, about how to go about this work of ceasing to be a pastor. At the end of this week, I will officially no longer be the Community Pastor at House Blend Ministries. But that in no way means that I will love these beloved people any less than I do today. 

The only way I can think to do this is to follow the example of Jesus who, having loved his own who were in the world, loved them to the end. 

So, this week I will love my people as best as I know how. I will love them as best as I can through this week of official endings. 

And then things will change. My title will change. The structures that have shaped this community will change. 

But I'm certain of this: The love that I have for these dear brothers and sisters is real, and so much more is God's love for them. And when the week is over, when everything has been said and done, I will entrust each one to the One whose love will never end and whose presence abides always. Because in a resurrection economy, what feels like an ending never truly gets the last word.

These words have been the benediction for our potlucks week in and week out at House Blend over the years. They are the words that I will pray once more over my community in a couple of days, and the words that I will continue to pray in the days and weeks to come, as a reminder that I can trust God's ongoing presence and care in the places that I cannot be--as a reminder that as I lean into the necessary letting go, there are strong hands waiting to continue the work of love and care.

May the peace of the Lord Jesus Christ

(and the endless love of God)

go with you wherever he may send you;

May he guide you through the wilderness,

Protect you through the storm.

May he bring you home rejoicing

at the wonders he has shown you.

May he bring you home rejoicing

Once again into our doors.

Amen.

On Burning Bushes

Maybe it has to do with having grown up in Pinawa, or maybe it's just the way I'm wired, but I have always found the wilderness to be sacred space, a place where I'm more open to the presence of God. I first remember big questions like, "Is everything the Bible says true?" and "Is God real?" occurring to me during drives between Pinawa and Caddy Lake through the beautiful Whiteshell Provincial Park while I was in high school. There, in our wine-coloured Dodge Caravan, my mom was one of the first recipients of my theological questions. (The other early recipient, bless him, was the minister who confirmed me in high school.)

Today I found myself in the forest, hoping beyond hope that it would prove, once again, to be a place where I might encounter God's presence.

Hoping that, at some point on the 7 km hike, I might find the burning bush I desperately long for.

The burning bush that would give me answers about the job I will soon need. About what to do with my calling. The burning bush that would reassure me that God is and ever shall be, and that God loves me still. 

In less than three weeks, my work as a pastor will come to an end. That is a terrifying and heart-wrenching reality. Over the past couple of years, I've been compiling a mental list of the things that I think were missing in my seminary education. It's an interesting list, friends, but one that's best discussed over coffee and not on the blog. However, at the top of the list of things I wish someone in seminary had warned me about is this: I wish someone had prepared me for how deeply the work of pastoral care is rooted in love. I wish someone had told me how real the love is that a pastor has for the people she cares for. I wish someone had warned me that this love doesn't evaporate when someone tells you that time is up, that the job is done. To be fair, I don't know if this is everyone's experience. I suspect, from talking to other pastors, that it isn't universal. And, to be fair, I'm not sure that anything could have prepared me for this. But still.

Not unlike a 7 km hike, the journey I find myself on isn't an easy one. It's not without discomfort. My shoes, it turns out, don't have the same support that they had when they were new. My feet are making sure that I know this. Likewise, the knot between my shoulder blades and the tension in my neck remind me that the journey I'm on right now isn't easy either. 

And it's not a race to see who gets to the end of the path the fastest. Especially if you're alone in the woods. It's foolishness to hike without stopping periodically for a water break. Part of the joy of a hike is in noticing and appreciating the scenery along the way. And sometimes it's not all that helpful to try to focus on the map, or to pinpoint one's location. Sometimes, the goal is simply to keep going, one step at a time, following the path even though it's not clear what will emerge up ahead around the next bend. 

While I'm a big-picture person who longs to see the whole picture, and who desperately wants the plan for the next six months to be laid out as clearly as possible--who wants the burning bush, please and thank you--it turns out that sometimes God instead shows up as a companion on the journey, keeping pace with me one step at a time. God is present in the water breaks, in the slow stretching, in the pause to breathe in the scents of the forest, in the song birds that sing out their greetings from just out of sight. 

And, it turns out, when I slow down my breathing, fold up the map, and focus on my immediate surroundings, the forest is actually filled with burning bushes. If only I have eyes to see them.