When I was a seminary student I took at chaplaincy course at
a hospital in Toronto. That was a long time ago. The first day, everyone went
around the circle and introduced themselves. The chaplain who was teaching and
supervising us went last. He informed us that he was 59 years old. I can
remember clearly thinking, “How depressing must it be to be 59 and realize your
life is more than half over.”
Well, here I am today. 59 is a receding memory and I realize
that my life is well more than half over. I also realize that the ministry I
started in 1981 – at least the part of it with a pay cheque attached – is also almost
over.
And, that the church into which I was ordained almost four
decades ago has changed beyond recognition. One manifestation of that change is
that Presbyteries, which in a lot of ways were the glue that held this widely
flung church together since 1925, are soon to be no more.
It’s a symptom of our time. We no longer have the resources
or the people to keep the kind of multi-leveled governance structure that
defined our church for so long going. It points to a church that is diminished,
more fragile and vulnerable. We might have restructured 30 years ago when our
hand was not forced. But such is human nature that we often don’t change until
our backs are against the wall.
I’ve done my share of complaining about Presbytery over the
years. But – and there was a time I could not have imagined saying this – I’m
going to miss it. My work as Presbytery Support Minister has given me an
insight into the value of this much maligned dimension of the church’s
existence.
For me personally, it was a godsend. In 2014, I left my last
congregation after a conflict that I tried unsuccessfully to manage finally got
the better of me. I had begun to doubt my effectiveness as a minister and knew
that if I didn’t get out I would be no good to anybody. One Sunday night I
called Greg Smith-Young and said, “Buddy, you got any interim appointments up
your way? I’m going to need something.” “I don’t know about that,” he said,
“But there’s this full time position the Presbytery has just created. I think
the application deadline is tomorrow.”
And so here I am. People often tell me they appreciate my
work. What you may not know is the role that Waterloo Presbytery has played in
my own personal healing, and in the recovery of my confidence in my vocation.
So thank you.
But this work has also made me aware of how, with a little
support and some consistent attention, even struggling congregations can be
very resilient. It’s been a joy to me to see small bands of faithful people
recover a sense of hope and confidence in their future.
And, I’ve become aware of just how important the community
and collegiality of Presbytery is to many of you, both lay and ordered alike.
In the past, I was puzzled by the “Presbytery junkies.” You know who you are,
you people who just can’t get enough of Presbytery. There was a time when I
thought, “It’s my job to go to Presbytery. You mean there are people who do it
because they want to.” I’ve grown to
admire your dedication – you Presbytery junkies.
So, for me and probably for many of you, this is kind of sad
time. It’s not just that something familiar is ending, but we recognize it as
part of the move of the church from the respected centre of our culture to the
fringes where most people barely notice us.
That’s why I chose Romans 8 for my Scripture text this
afternoon. I think more than any other passage in the New Testament, this text
reminds us of why we are here.
Someone once asked Lesslie Newbigin, that giant in the
ecumenical movement of the last century, whether he was optimistic or
pessimistic about the future of the church. “I believe Jesus Christ is risen
from the dead,” Newbigin replied. “Optimism or pessimism has nothing to do with
it.”
Jesus is risen. Regardless of whether the church is thriving
or struggling, Jesus is risen. That’s all we need to know. And that’s all we
need.
My guess is that Romans chapter 8 was written on Lesslie
Newbigin’s heart. It’s hard to imagine a more powerful and compelling
theological vision than these words of St. Paul which sit like an anchor in the
middle of his greatest letter. Paul reminds us that, no matter what is
happening around us, no matter how our fortunes may be rising or falling, God
has a plan – a plan to restore the whole of creation – not just to take individuals
to heaven when they die but to redeem the entire cosmos.
And so, no matter what, we live in hope. Hope, Paul says, is
by definition something we cannot see. “Who hopes for what he or she already
has.” No, we live in hope for what we do not see and, truth be told, what we
cannot possibly see hidden in our present reality.
In our weakness, God out of love sustains us God’s Spirit.
Which is a good thing, because without the Spirit we are pretty hopeless cases.
For heaven’s sake, Paul says, we do not even know how to pray – ever felt like
that? Ever felt that our empty, banal words are an offense in the face of the
suffering and need that surrounds us on all sides? Well, you’re in good
company. The Apostle Paul went through the same thing. But no worries, Paul
says. God’s mercy is so great that, when our prayers fail, the Spirit even
prays for us with sighs too deep for words.
“We know that all things work for good for those who love
God, who are called according to God’s purpose.” This doesn’t mean that the
faithful are protected from harm or that all they do always prospers. In fact,
it’s just the opposite. Faithfulness to God more often leads to suffering and
disappointment and heartache. But we live in the conviction that our
faithfulness will not fall to the ground – that in ways we will never know, our
faithfulness contributes in the furtherance of God’s purposes. I hope you who
feel tired and discouraged and wonder what you could possibly do that will make
any difference will hold these words close to your heart.
“Who will separate us from the love of Christ?” In the end,
says St. Paul, there is this. And it is on this that we build our lives.
Nothing in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in
Christ Jesus our Lord.
Romans 8 is a text most often heard at funerals. And there’s
a good reason for it. It is about hope in the face of death, whether it’s our
death, or the death of something we have loved and cherished.
I’m reminded of another great saint of the church who has
given us some cues in how to prepare for the coming death of something many of
us have given much of ourselves to.
Eugene Peterson died a couple of weeks ago at the age of 85, in hospice,
of complications of dementia and heart disease.
I will bet that almost everyone here has been touched by Eugene
Peterson, whether you know it or not -- through a reference your minister made
to one of his many books in a sermon; or a passage read from the translation of
the Bible known as The Message, which Eugene Peterson wrote. Peterson was an
enormous influence on me and many pastors.
Peterson understood the Gospel. And he understood that chipped and
broken clay vessel called the church into which God, for reasons that often
escape us, has placed that Gospel. He was a man of deep faith and humility, a
teacher, preacher and pastor who has enriched the church immeasurably. His
writings taught many of us a long obedience in the same direction.
Eugene Peterson was a Presbyterian minister and taught at
Regent College in Vancouver, but he was raised in the Pentecostal church. Here’s what his family said about his dying
“During the previous days it was apparent that he was navigating the thin and
sacred space between heaven and earth.
We overheard him speaking to people we can only presume were welcoming
him into paradise. There may have even
been a time or two when he accessed his Pentecostal roots and spoke in tongues
as well.
Eugene
Peterson wrote in 2012: “Resurrection does not have to do exclusively with what
happens after we are buried or cremated. It does have to do with that, but
first of all it has to do with the way we live right now,” “But as Karl Barth,
quoting Nietzsche, pithily reminds us: ‘Only where graves are is there
resurrection.’ We practice our death by giving up our will to live on our own
terms. Only in that relinquishment or renunciation are we able to practice
resurrection.”
Among Eugene Peterson’s final words
were, ‘Let’s go.’”
And I think those are fitting words for us at this
transitional moment in our history as a church. We know that things are not
what they used to be. We know that the future is uncertain. But Christ is
risen. And we are people of the resurrection.
So, let’s go.