When I celebrated my sixty-third birthday, I decided I would retire in two years.
It wasn’t a hasty decision. I had served the same church for thirty-eight years, my entire ministry. The community where we ministered was our home: our children were born in the town hospital, and one of them died there.
Years ago I had buried those who led the church when I first arrived as a young pastor. I performed weddings for couples whose parents I had baptized. Children I had taught in confirmation were now church leaders.
Since ordination, retirement would be the most significant change in my life. Leaving would also impact dramatically others’ lives: the church and its staff.
As soon as I made this decision, one question arose: when would I tell others of my decision?
Spilling the beans
Delaying my announcement to the church seemed like a good idea for several reasons. A lame duck pastor might lack the authority to lead the church. The staff and congregation might be distracted from their mission by the uncertain future. I might weary of talking about my impending retirement.
Still, I decided to announce my retirement immediately to better prepare the church for my leaving. I broke the news to the staff first and then to the governing board. My close friends also knew before the general congregation. Twenty months before my retirement date, the whole congregation was informed. The official actions leading to retirement were completed a full year before I left.
I did this partly because I’m terrible at keeping secrets. Others’ secrets are safe with me. Like most pastors, I had heard a few secrets over the years and had sealed my lips.
But I felt uncomfortable harboring my own secrets. I couldn’t conceive of working closely with people whom I loved, concealing a momentous event in my own life.
In the end, though, a less credible reason influenced my decision: my need to be in charge. I like feeling in control, even when I’m not. Though I couldn’t stop the erosion of the years, at least I could govern the ending process. Instead of having retirement forced on me, I proactively made the final two years an exciting challenge.
I also hoped that the church and I could prepare for the transition together. Getting an early jump on it, I believed, would allow the search committee ample time to complete its work. I hoped, too, that I could spare church members the feeling of desertion. Ample time to grieve my loss might help them better adjust to the new phase in their history.
Benefits of a slow farewell
As I reflect on it, announcing my leaving had its advantages. First, retirement, I discovered, is like dying (without the obvious disadvantage): no one speaks ill of those who are about to retire. Unhappy people know their unhappiness will be short-lived. Supportive people want to seize the chance to show their loyalty. After I announced my leaving, then, I enjoyed enthusiastic support.
Second, there was time to tidy the house before the interim pastor arrived. Because I wasn’t initiating long-term programs, I was freed up to attend to the transition. Putting the church house in order for my successor became a high priority.
Throughout my ministry, our church had handled memorial gifts poorly. Now, however, I took the time to create policies for that and other procedures. This was the time to tighten the loose nuts and bolts.
Third, I could help my successor by preparing my congregation for future change. Over a long pastorate, small matters of style harden into custom. A new pastor can be caught in a web of precedent, hearing the repeated phrase, “That’s the way we’ve always done it.”
I began, then, to make changes-not necessarily to find a better way but to impress upon my congregation the inevitability of change. Sunday’s order of worship had been the same for a decade; now we switched the batting order. Long-standing events like the annual Christmas Carol Dinner were dropped or scheduled at a different time. Meeting times were changed. The changes weren’t important; their acceptance, however, was.
Fourth, ordinary tasks, familiar from repetition, became exciting. My last confirmation class was thrilling to teach instead of a weekly chore. My last chance at excellence was now.
Preaching to leave
Nor were there any ordinary Sundays. Here I would preach only 100 more times, then 50, then 10. Deciding what to preach before my retirement was like sending my daughter off to college. I tried to think of what I wanted the congregation to remember when I wasn’t there any longer. After my final Christmas, I compiled a list of topics for the remaining nine months.
The list fell into three categories. The first was teaching them how to sustain and deepen their faith. I preached sermons on the various nuances of prayer, studying the Bible, and basic discipleship. I wanted to make sure they would continue the disciplines of the faith long after I was gone.
The second category dealt with relationships-how God wants his people to treat each other. I preached from the gospels as well as the pastoral epistles, showing how Christians must strive to love like Christ.
The final area focused on the transcendent dimension of the Christian faith. I wanted to communicate the bigger picture of Christianity, helping my people embrace eternity, where all stories of those who love God have a happy ending.
The downside of leaving
The church staff, perhaps, struggled the most with my leaving-not just the other pastors, but the secretaries, the custodians, the music staff. With one exception, all had worked together for several years. They felt like a closely knit team.
I knew the path before me; I had chosen it. The staff, however, didn’t know what lay ahead, and they had no input on my decision to retire. Nor would they have a part in choosing the next pastor. They faced an uncertain future.
Announcing my retirement early extended their stress. The uncertainty lasted for years, not months. On the other hand, it may have given them time to map their own futures. Three of the staff were my junior only by a year or two; one was older. Now, all considered retirement, too.
I talked with each of them, asking them not to retire the same time as I. “Remain until the new, permanent pastor arrives,” I said, “or retire immediately, well before I do so your replacement can be trained.”
In the end, three decided to stay through the interim. The fourth chose to retire six months before I did. Although he only worked half-time, his loss crippled the transition. Six months didn’t leave me enough time to reorganize the staff. I didn’t leave the interim pastor the well-oiled team I had hoped.
Even though another half-time worker agreed to go full time, the staff dynamics had shifted. Soon after arriving, the interim pastor reorganized the staff again, adding another part-time position.
Time to find a successor
Giving the lay leadership time to make the transition had mixed results. The committee hunting for an interim pastor used the advance notice wisely, needing only a year to define their needs and complete their search. A well-qualified interim moved into my office the day after I retired.
The pastor-nominating committee, however, didn’t fare so well. They, too, organized a year before my retirement. During the first year, though, they felt no urgency. Their study of the church’s mission and the community, which should have taken six months, lasted two years. The interim pastor, as a result, pinch-hit for an extra year, extending his stay from one to nearly two years.
This was not all bad. The interim pastor was competent, and the church didn’t suffer significantly from the wait. In addition, the belated mission study not only defined sharply the committee’s goals but helped them learn to work together. After my long pastorate, the extended transition was probably, in final analysis, a needed time of healing. When the new pastor stepped up to bat, the church was ready to play ball, leaving the past behind.
Dimming the lights
I had preached at a midnight Christmas Eve service every year for nearly four decades. It had always been my favorite worship of the year. The vacationing college students, the grandparents visiting for the holidays, the old carols, the choir, the smell of the candles-these all seemed so much a part of the celebration of Christ’s coming.
We didn’t ask a janitor to work on Christmas Eve. It was easy for me to turn out the lights and lock the doors when the service was over.
After my last Christmas Eve service, I stood alone in the sanctuary. The room has an elaborate lighting system. The lights don’t turn on and off; they fade gently from one setting to another.
For the last time, I stood in the now silent sanctuary, under the high beamed ceiling. I touched the button, and the lights slowly dimmed. I was a solitary figure standing in the aisle-tired, a little gray, alone.
As the room darkened, I thought, Boy, that was great!
I didn’t want my retirement to be sad for the people. It wasn’t. The last Sunday the church had a pig roast and picnic at a forest preserve. A Dixieland band, games, and a hayride for the children celebrated my retirement joyfully-and hardly anyone was sad.
Except me
-Malcolm Nygren
Champaign, Illinois
Copyright © 1993 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.
