- First, Advent.
- Second, the Feast of St. Nicholas of Myra.
- Third,
the end of a pastoral relationship.
Ready?
Advent. It’s probably my very favorite season. Although I admit that I'm a bit like Erma Bombeck who famously told each of her children they were her
favorite. I sometimes feel a little bit that way about the liturgical seasons. But we
are in Advent now and I love it best. I love the flickering candles in the
darkness of December days and nights. They remind me and all of us that no
matter how dark it may feel in the world, a little bit of light is enough to go
on. I love Advent because those candles remind us of God’s dream for this world,
and the promise of peace, and hope, and joy, and love. We do not need to be
afraid of the dark and we should never curse the darkness. We are little lights
and we can let them shine in the darkness.
I love Advent because it’s all about the preparation,
about getting ready. I love Advent because of John the Baptist, fearlessly
preparing the way in the wilderness. John points to the one who is coming after
him and I can relate, since we have known from the time I arrived here fifteen
months ago that this day would come and that our work was in preparation of the
next chapter.
I love Advent because of Mary, fearlessly saying yes
to God and telling out with her soul the greatness of the Lord. I grew up a
United Methodist, and in that little church in Hawley Pennsylvania we didn’t
talk about Mary very much. She seemed too “Catholic” for our tastes. But over
the course of my ordained life I have come to appreciate holy Mary, the mother
of our Lord and let’s face it, without her “yes” there is no Jesus and we
aren’t even here tonight.
Oh, and one more thing: I love the hymns in Advent.
I’m told that some clergy get pushed by their parishioners to sing Christmas
Carols before it’s Christmas. I have never understood that and frankly I’ve never
been pushed. I’ve been fortunate enough to serve in parishes that “get” Advent.
I have nothing against Christmas carols. But the Advent hymns, including the
ones we selected for this night, speak to a deep place in my soul. They are so
beautiful.
So it all comes together - the waiting, the
preparation, the flickering candles, John and Mary, the music – to create a
mood of hopeful expectation. And Lord knows we can use some hopeful expectation
these days.
Second, St. Nicholas. Let me just confess that today
is actually the feast of Ambrose of Milan. We were originally going to do this
last night, on December 6, which is actually St. Nicholas’ Feast Day. Then we
realized that the closing of Hope Street for the illumination of the Christmas
tree required us to adapt our schedule. But I was already committed to St.
Nicholas in my mind (nothing against Ambrose!) so let’s just go with that.
Before he was brought to this country by Dutch
settlers and became jolly old St. Nicholas, he was a fourth-century
bishop who likely took part in the Council of Nicaea. He is the patron saint of
sailors and children. Well, I know some of you are sailors, and even if this
parish doesn’t have many children in this chapter of its long life, we are all
children at Christmas, right? So he’s our guy: he encourages generosity and
gift giving and helps us all feel young at heart, even if we happen to be of
retirement age.
This leads me to number three. As most of you know,
before arriving here, I spent nearly twelve years serving on the staff of
Bishop Doug Fisher as his Canon the Ordinary in the Diocese of Western
Massachusetts. Prior to that, I’d been the Rector of St. Francis Church in
Holden, Massachusetts, a suburb of Worcester, for fifteen years. We raised our
kids in Holden and when they went off to college, the newly elected bishop
asked me to join his staff and I said yes. That was in 2013.
It was a good run and I was a decent-enough Canon to
the Ordinary. But I missed some parts of parish ministry a great deal. That
never went away. In fact during the pandemic I did a lot of walking on the
Wachusett Rail Trail and I thought a lot about how I might return to parish
ministry before retiring.
Don’t misunderstand; being a Canon to the Ordinary is
a great gig in many ways. Some say it’s the best job in the Church. But my
analogy was always this: if you love being a classroom teacher and then get
made assistant principal, there is an adjustment and some loss. Or if you
prefer a sports analogy, if you love playing the game and then become the offensive
coordinator, it’s different. Early on I read a book called “Leading from the
Second Chair.” The book itself was “just ok.” But the title described what I
was up to for nearly a dozen years, zig-zagging across central and western
Massachusetts to support the ministry of the guy in the first chair.
I have no regrets. But I became a priest to preach and
teach. To baptize. To be at the bedside to anoint people as they lay dying and
then offer them a Christian burial. To officiate at weddings. And you, St.
Michael’s, have given me the chance to finish my active ministry by doing all
of these things again. Thank you for opening your lives to me, for welcoming me
to Bristol. It’s been a great run!
In the final prayer we’ll offer after this sermon,
we’ll list the names of those I have had the privilege to baptize, and marry,
and bury over the fifteen months we have shared together. All of those things
and the life of a congregation that unfolds in between big events is about
relationships. Thank you for giving me this opportunity. Thank you for sharing
your lives with me. I wanted to “go out” doing the parts of this calling that I
love the most and you invited me to do just that over the course of the past
fifteen months. Tonight my heart is full of gratitude.
You enthusiastically welcomed me and we worked
together to get things back on track. You’ve done amazing work in the search
process and you’ve called a wise and capable priest to walk with you in the
next chapter of your life together. Well done. I know I’ve helped, and I’m
proud of that. But I did not and could not do that alone. I’m so grateful for
the staff – Alexander and Loretta and Steve and Betty. I’m so grateful for the
officers of the vestry: Allison and Maryanne and Deb and Geoff, and for the
others who serve on vestry, and outreach, and stewardship, and in worship. Even
driving up and down 146 between here and Worcester has not dampened my spirit
of joy at getting to be with you for this season in your long history.
The end of a pastoral relationship sounds very ominous.
But it’s important to call things by their right name. It’s important to say
goodbye and not just slip out the back door. Being a priest is an incredible
gift. But always, and throughout this journey I’ve had, being a husband and a
dad and a grandpa has taken precedence over my work in the Church. If you get
to talk with Hathy and Graham and James, with Cara and Lindsay and Julian, tonight,
you will understand very quickly why this is. I am the luckiest man on earth.
Until I ran into Bishop Kniseley at General Convention
in Louisville in June 2024 I didn’t know anything at all about St. Michael’s or
Bristol. I did not know about the oldest continuous Fourth of July parade in
the country. Now I will never forget that. And I won’t forget you all.
When we turn the calendar to 2026, I will no longer be
your pastor. You will have a new priest heading this way, driving up from North
Carolina with her wife. I pray that you will welcome Ginny and Barbie as you
have welcomed me and Hathy. I pray that you will open your hearts to them as
you have to us.
In my previous job it drove me crazy when clergy would
retire or leave and throw the diocese under the bus by saying, “I can’t talk to
you any more because of the diocese.” So I’d walk into the parish a week later
and get asked, “why do you have these stupid rules?”
This does not mean I will forget you, and I hope you
don’t soon forget me. But it does mean that things are about to change, and we
don’t need to be afraid of change. Through it all, God is with us.
O Come, O Come, Emmanuel – be with us all.
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