Preparing to Leave

I’ve gradually learned how to leave properly so that with the tension there is also a sense of joy.
—Robert Kemper

The fable of the race between the tortoise and the hare reminds me of when I’ve accepted a new call. It’s not so much the unexpected outcome of the race or the moral about tenacity or the warning about overconfidence that impresses me. It’s just that when I accept a new pastorate, I feel like both a tortoise and a hare.

As he moves, the tortoise carries with him everything he owns, with the consequent risk that entails. I am amused by the New Yorker magazine cartoon depicting a turtle with a hung over look on his face. The caption says, “What a night. Hailstones!” Such are the complications of self-contained units.

After deciding to move, there comes a moment in the moving process, whether I am loading a U-Haul trailer or professionals are filling up a huge Allied van, when I see all my worldly possessions strewn upon my front lawn. To me that’s not only a dramatic symbol of what is taking place in my life, it reminds me how vulnerable I am at such moments—like the cartoon turtle in the New Yorker.

Then again, after receiving a new call, I also feel like the hare. The hare, of course, represents speed. Likewise, after taking a new call, I instantly become future oriented. My whole being moves toward what will be; the past and present become disproportionately smaller, and the future looms big and bright. I feel a great rush to get on with the future or, better, to get to the future. The present seems a barrier, an annoying distraction from what is really important to me. “Let’s get going,” says the rabbit in me.

In spite of such tensions, my three pastoral moves have been glad and celebrative experiences. There’s something about closing one chapter of my life and opening myself to a new one that excites me.

Over my three moves, I’ve gradually learned how to leave properly so that with the tension there is also a sense of joy. Here are some of the principles I’ve found helpful.

Letting emotions have their way

Watching my daughter get married—that moment was filled with mixed emotions. On the one hand, I was sad that one era of my wife’s and my relationship with our daughter was ending. On the other hand, it was the beginning of something fresh and wonderful for our daughter.

There are many experiences in life like that, where two contrary emotions struggle for predominance. Changing churches is one of them. At one moment, I feel terrific—a wonderful church wants me. I look forward to helping the people move ahead in ministry for years to come. Then the next moment my twelve-year-old daughter comes to me in tears, “Daddy, do we have to move?” The ecclesiastical hero has become the family villain.

It’s difficult to live back and forth between contrary emotions. For one thing, it wears me out. But if I try to fight these emotions, or simply suppress the negative in favor of the positive, I complicate the already complex situation and make myself more exhausted still. Consequently, I’ve found it better to let such emotions weave their way in my life and let God, in his own time, resolve the tensions.

In particular, I have found great help in being able to talk with a ministerial friend, not just a colleague, but one who speaks my language, who lets me be myself, who often knows intuitively what I’m feeling. I like to talk with another human being without my having to paint the picture or qualify myself. To such a person I can say things aloud I do not really mean but need to say, and I can speak about my ambivalent feelings.

A good good-bye

Moving means having to write a “Dear John” letter. Somehow I have to tell my congregation that I am leaving them for another.

Because it’s so difficult, I’ve been tempted to make a clean break of it: “I hereby resign my pastorate effective December 31.” Technically, that is all I have to say.

But then I begin to think of particular people in the parish: my golfing partners, the women at my baby’s shower, the person who slipped me extra cash for a getaway vacation, the troubled ones who have trusted me and counted on my support. In addition, special memories crowd into my consciousness: the place my daughter was baptized; the budget battle we fought and won, despite the odds; the addition of a new Sunday school wing.

When such thoughts rush in, I feel as if I’m rejecting friends and renouncing treasured moments. And so that letter becomes harder and harder to write. I’m eager to tell these loved ones about my good news, but my good news will be bad news to them, and to me. At such times it’s not unusual for me to wonder, Am I doing the right thing?

In composing the letter, I find it helpful to recognize the strong emotions that swirl within. Then exactly how to write the letter becomes easier in one sense: I tell people what’s going on with me.

So I not only tell them what is happening, but how I’m struggling. I tell them how hard it is to make this decision, and how painful it is to leave a congregation that has been good to me. To me, that’s the proper tone for a pastoral letter of resignation, not because it’s the most diplomatic, but because it’s the truest.

In addition, I also remind the congregation of the need for changes, that I cannot do everyone’s funeral, confirm or baptize every child. I celebrate what has been good between us. I also name high accomplishments we’ve worked on jointly. Finally, I assure them that the church goes on. Paul used the phrase, “When Timothy comes …” I’ve found that a useful analogy to employ; it helps the congregation get used to the idea of someone succeeding me.

Lyle Schaller also suggests that we include in this letter a variety of reasons for leaving: theological (“It’s God’s will”), professional (“The new church will use many of my gifts”), and personal (“We’ll be within an hour of my wife’s parents”), and the like. If we offer multiple reasons, members will surely understand at least one of the reasons we’re leaving and so better accept our decision to move.

Ministering until the last

Until my resignation takes effect I am still the incumbent. I still have continuing duties, and in spite of my rabbit impatience to get on, I try to perform these duties with professional competence and integrity.

Special occasions. Some of these routine duties take on a special urgency for the congregation. People want me to baptize a child, marry a daughter, or whatever, before I leave. Although such last-minute requests can crowd my calendar, I try to do as many as I can. They are testimonials to the congregation’s regard for me, and I want to honor that.

Administrative urgencies. Elected lay leaders feel a new sense of responsibility for the church when they know I will not be there to counsel them. So they ask many questions of procedure and propriety, sometimes in desperation.

There is a story about a fresh seminary graduate who, shortly after graduation, called the professor of practical theology to ask, “What do you do at a funeral?”

The professor was astounded. “We covered that in class,” he said.

“Yes, I remember,” said the graduate, “but this guy is really dead.”

Something of that sort goes on with lay leaders when we resign. They have heard what to do, but faced with the prospect of having to do it themselves, they are in a bit of a panic.

One way I respond to this anxiety is by cranking up the special administrative machinery that will help the church find a pastoral successor. In my denomination that means meeting with our moderator, the chief lay officer of the congregation. I make sure the moderator, other church leaders, and denominational officers responsible for helping churches get in contact with one another.

In our case, the church council must nominate a search committee that, in turn, must be elected by the whole congregation. I often urge the moderator to make sure that many different parts of the congregation be represented on that committee, including youth. In that way people will feel their concerns are addressed in the selection of the new pastor.

Polities differ in how they find successors, of course, but I’ve followed one piece of advice given in all of them: I give no direction to the selection of a particular person to succeed me. My role is simply to teach them how to find a successor—of their choosing.

Private audiences. Certain people need to meet with me personally and privately. No matter how I communicate my resignation, a few people (some with whom I’m close, others who may feel betrayed, others who are counting on me) are entitled to a private conversation about my move. In such conversations, I try to communicate my decision is not a personal rejection of them.

Reconciliations. Then there are people I’ve managed to alienate from the church during my tenure. In some cases I have to let bygones be just that. But sometimes one last stab at reconciliation is in order.

In one parish I served, we had a husband and wife who were loyal parishioners and who also loved music. They had wanted our church to purchase a new organ. In what I thought was the best interests of the congregation, I had not supported their idea. They held that against me for the rest of my pastorate.

Before I left the parish, however, I made a call on that couple. I acknowledged they had probably felt hurt and disappointed in me for not supporting their cause. I told them I thought that new ideas had to be good and timely, and that theirs had been good, but the time was not right. I cannot say that they were suddenly enlightened by this explanation, but we parted with a greater mutual respect.

More gracious to receive

Truly, it’s more blessed to give, but it’s more gracious to receive. So I try to anticipate and accept graciously the parting tributes of my parishioners.

First there are the gifts. People want and need to bid me farewell, and giving gifts is a way they do that. In addition, there is some sort of collective party at which a special gift is given—although I never anticipate exactly what! (When asked what I want at such parties, I simply ask that the occasion be celebrative and not maudlin).

In addition, dinner and luncheon invitations abound. Sometimes I’ve found all this becomes a bit much. Parting festivities blur into one big mirage; I cannot remember who said what or what I did and did not do.

Nevertheless, the congregation and I both need this. The proper word for all these festivities is closure. Endings need to be formalized in some way. First, they mark the new chapter in my life. Second, they clear out debris for the church, so it can make a fresh beginning.

In addition, I’ve found that graciously receiving farewells prepares me to receive new welcomes. For me, tears are part of farewells, even though most of the time I’d rather avoid tears. But when I shed no tears, I fail to acknowledge the permanence of the change. When no permanent change is acknowledged, I have a more difficult time starting up in my new place.

One caveat: when leaving a parish, I do not believe all the nice things said about me. I receive tributes graciously but also with a grain of salt. If I don’t, I may wonder why I’m leaving these wonderful people in the first place, and I may convince myself that my new sense of call was nothing but indigestion.

Meanwhile back at the parsonage …

When I was ten years old, my father, a pastor, received a new call. I remember my mother gathering a school party for me. My parting gift was an address book. At the party my classmates entered their names and addresses that we might write to each other. It was a memorable gift, symbolically and in fact.

I also remember attending my parents’ farewell reception and some dinner parties. In sum, as a ten-year-old, I was not excluded from the family’s closure ceremonies. Further, my parents made a special effort to show me pictures and drawings of our new home. As a child, I needed to be assured there was a special place for me in the new and unknown environment.

In various ways, I need to recognize my family’s needs at such a time. They need to experience closure too. My wife will have farewells at her work, my children at their school. As often as possible, I like to share these experiences with them as they shared mine with me.

I mentioned that poignant moment when, like the turtle, I see all my worldly possessions strewn out in front of me. Before I get to that moment, however, I’m tempted to vigorously and decisively eliminate some of those possessions: No sense carrying around things we no longer use, I think. For me, books especially are a case in point.

However, there is another side to this issue. Books, for example, are my professional tools, too powerful of a symbol to discard lightly. Nor should I be too quick to cast off my children’s old toys; children, too, need symbols of continuity in the face of uncertain change. Just before a move, then, may not be the best time to simplify one’s life.

“By faith Abraham … obeyed and went” forth from Ur of Chaldea (see Heb. 11:8). So he did. Clear. Simple. But the Bible does not say how Sarah felt about it. It does not mention the late-night conversations in the tent about whether to go. It does not show Abraham having to explain to neighbors where he was going and why. We don’t see the hassles of changing addresses, negotiating with movers, filling out forms, and making deposits. We don’t hear about the nitty-gritty of moving that can be a pain in the neck, not to mention heart rendering.

Of course, the Bible is right in focusing on the larger events, like the divine call to which we must respond. But moving also contains many little things, little concerns we are wise to attend to. When we do, it makes our dutiful obedience to God’s call all the more joyful.