Leaving
January 14, 2001
I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of Murphy’s Law Simply stated, Murphy’s Law is, “It is easier to get into something than to get out of it.” Examples of this law might be debt. It is easier to incur debt than to get out of it. Or marriage; it’s simpler to say, “I do,” than to get a divorce. Or smoking: It’s no trouble starting, but hard to stop. And so it is with life in a parish. It’s a lot easier to come into a church than to leave it. Murphy’s Law, all over again.
The late Henry Nouwen, who has taught me so much, once wrote, “that all of us need to cultivate the art of leaving.” But then he admits the task is probably one of the most difficult things we have to learn. Later on, he writes, “It isn’t easy to be articulate about future absences. We must work on and create ways to separate ourselves from people.”
I suppose that’s why so much of Scripture is concerned with leaving. The last two-thirds of John’s Gospel are about preparation for leaving. The disciples, who are very much like us, are constantly asking Jesus, “Where are you going? What’s going to happen to us once you leave? Give us some instructions on what to do after you leave.”
All of which brings to mind a shaggy dog story, which Manney Reid reminded me of several months ago.
Once upon a time, there was a parish whose Rector was retiring. Now, this parish had already chosen its replacement. The replacement called up the retiring Rector and requested to meet in order to get the lowdown on the parish. “No,” the Rector who was leaving said, “I think you ought to find out for yourself.” The new guy was, if anything, persistent. So just before the retiring rector left town, he tried again. Once again, the Rector refused. But, he said, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Here are three letters. Open them one at a time, as the occasion arises.” This wasn’t exactly what the new guy wanted, so he threw them in the back drawer of his desk and promptly forgot about them.
Six months later, as the honeymoon period ended and people began saying no, and not being very kind in the criticism, he remembered the letters. He dug through this desk and found the first crumpled letter. Much to his surprise, there were only three words printed on a scrap of paper. It said, “Hang in there.” Which he did and after a while things did improve, or at least he developed a thicker skin.
About a year later, those people emerged who were experts at playing the game,
“Roast the Rector.” He was ready to pack his bags when it occurred to him, the envelope, the envelope. Maybe number two might have something to say to this situation. So he went back to his desk and found envelope number two. This one had a little longer message. “Remember,” it said, “it’s always darkest before the dawn.” He didn’t exactly understand this cryptic message, but it did inspire him to continue. And sure enough, things did get better.
Unfortunately, in about two years, there was the somewhat predictable blow-up. All the nay-sayers came out of the woodwork. It seemed as if _ they were picking the skin right off his bones. Just as he was going down – for the third time, he thought of the last envelope. After a lot of rummaging around, he finally located envelope number three. Here was to be the answer to all the backbiting. Here was what every embattled Rector needed to know. So with shaking hands and a fast beating heart, he ripped open the envelope. And there it was, “Prepare three envelopes,”
There were times, I must admit, during the past twenty-three years, when I seriously thought of preparing three envelopes. Somehow, though, I knew it was more difficult leaving than starting over. I also knew that a parish is like a clearing in a jungle. You work hard to push back all the underbrush, weeds and assorted tangles. And then when you turn your back, the jungle seems to creep right back and overrun the clearing. Sure enough, you have to get underway again. If not, you begin to write three letters. But remember, leavings are always very difficult.
Our Gospel this morning is about leaving. Jesus tells his disciples that he is going away and will prepare a place for them. We often use this passage at funerals. Preachers use this as an introduction to talk about Heaven. (a subject they know little to nothing about). But, suppose this passage is not talking about Heaven as a destination. Suppose Jesus is teaching the disciples about leaving. Suppose he is saying that he is leaving in order to make room. Jesus leaves to give us space to grow. That’s a painful lesson that we all have to learn. Eventually, if you want a person to grow, to mature, you have to take the risk of leaving.
Think of teaching a child to walk. You can hold them by their hands, but eventually you have to let them go and risk having them fall.
Think of learning how to drive a car. You can show someone all the car instruments, explain the rules of driving, but eventually, the instructor has to surrender the steering wheel and risk an accident.
But, make no mistake, leaving is hard. It’s risky and costly. But it is also a time of tremendous growth. “I go,” Jesus says, “I go, to give you the opportunity of growth. I go so that you might come to the Father.”
And yet, Jesus tells his disciples, I will not leave you completely alone. I will not abandon you. Some part of me will remain. Isn’t this true of most leavings? When we leave, some part of us remains behind, as well as some part of the former situation is taken with us.
The Irish have a custom called Greishog. Greishog refers to keeping the warm coals from last night’s fire from going out. They do this with the knowledge that the fires that warmed us before are worthy to warm us in the future. Greishog also refers to the process of leaving. When a family moves from one house to another, they take some of the warm coals with them from their former place of abode. They also let some of them remain for the new owners. Greishog, is one way the Irish have of symbolically saying, “I will not leave you comfortless.”
Murphy’s law is true. Leaving is hard, it’s risky. It often leads to chaos. What happens if the fires go out? Can we start again? What happens if the new situation doesn’t bring growth? What happens if upsetness is all that occurs?
One of my favorite musicals was Camelot. I’m sure most of you remember the story. Camelot was that ideal kingdom where all people were happy, where love and caring, and knightly good deeds abounded. Then everything went wrong. Bliss turned to chaos. The dream turned into a nightmare. The real message of the play was that for those who kept alive the memory, Camelot still existed.
I can still hear Robert Goulet singing, “Don’t let it be forgot. Once there was a spot. For one shining moment that was known as Camelot.”
Camelot stands for those moments of Grace that you and I have had in our lives. As I prepare for my last week with you, I would simply say, leavings are hard, but they are made easy by keeping alive the memories, the visions, the dreams, of what has been, what could be, and God willing, what will be. Remember, remember those shining moments that were known as Camelot.
Amen.