Sermons

Endurance

Some Sundays, the gospel seems almost absurdly well timed. This is one of those Sundays. If you were looking for a mild little gospel that says all things are lovely and stable and will remain precisely as they are, then Matthew has chosen not to help. Matthew is speaking about the destruction of the Temple, the appearance of false messiahs, wars and rumors of wars, famines and earthquakes, persecution, betrayal, people abandoning their faith, and many people’s love growing cold.

It’s honestly quite a lot. Then, right at the heart of all that, Jesus says, “The one who reaches the end will be saved.” Well. Happy farewell Sunday, Caitlin. Just to be clear, I’m not commenting on your decision to leave.

But something here is worth hearing today, especially as we say goodbye to someone who has been part of this community’s life for a long time. Jesus is not giving us a schedule for the apocalypse; he is not instructing us to look at every earthquake or every election or every war and then declare that this must surely be the end.

Matthew is writing to those who already know what it is like when the world which they thought they knew collapses. The Temple has been destroyed, and Jerusalem has been devastated; the religious and political world which they had inherited has been broken to pieces. Jesus’ response is not, “Here is how to predict exactly what happens next.” His response is much more practical: Don’t be deceived. Don’t panic. Make sure that your love doesn’t grow cold. Endure. Keep going. Continue to share the good news.

It is a completely different kind of gospel. When anything changes, especially when it is something we care about, our immediate reaction is usually to think the change is the problem. We say to ourselves, “It’s all going to be different now.” That’s certainly true. It will never be the same again. But saying ‘never the same’ does not mean ‘never good again’. That distinction matters. You are leaving us, Caitlin. And there is no getting around the fact that we will miss you.

We shall miss the particular way you carried out your duties; we shall miss your sense of humor, your calm, peaceful manner, and that you were always ready to get involved in difficult situations and figure out what needed to be done. We shall miss knowing that whenever a task needed attending to, you were likely already thinking about it.

We shall miss you in ways we haven’t even thought to describe, because communities are made up of thousands of small interactions that, over time, become part of the texture of our lives. That’s what it means to belong somewhere.

You become woven into the place. That is not to say leaving is nothing. There is grief in leaving a community you love. But Jesus gives us another truth today. It’s this: God’s work is always larger than any one of us. If the responsibility rested with any one priest, any one rector, any one associate rector, any one warden, any one staff member, or any one congregation, we should all be in serious difficulty. We must remember, even you OG, that St. Mark’s has outlasted all of us.

The church has survived those who were completely sure they were indispensable. It has endured those people who believed that they knew precisely what God was doing. It has outlasted those people who declared the end of all things. In some way, thanks to God’s grace, the gospel continues to move, to speak to us, to ask us to look around anew and to create.

One thing I admire about what Jesus says today is this. Endurance is not the same as clinging to life for dear life. One is not showing white-knuckled determination. We don’t pretend that change isn’t painful. We step up with a certain kind of trust. We can know God is still at work even when we don’t see what comes next. The story isn’t over just because one chapter concludes.

One should understand that the Spirit is not limited to the individual who, at a particular time, held a particular office. That might be one of the most important lessons that a priest can acquire. At some point, we will have to learn how to let go. Not because the work doesn’t matter. Precisely because it does.

We consider something a gift when we realize that nothing given can be ours to possess. We don’t possess a ministry. A congregation does not belong to us. A relationship isn’t ours to possess. The good work which we have achieved cannot be ours to claim forever.

We receive it. We tend it. We love it. We give ourselves to it. And then, eventually, we hand it back. That is not failure. That is stewardship. In my opinion, you’ve done that most beautifully, Caitlin. You have not merely taken up a post in this organization. You’ve played a part in bringing something into being.

You have looked after people. You have taught. You have preached. You have carried out baptisms and burials and visits and arrangements and concerns and laughter, and have probably replied to about seventeen million emails. You are taking part in the ordinary, holy effort that makes a congregation a community.

You’re then going to carry out that work to St. A’s. Your leave-taking is not our loss. In fact, it is one of the ways we know what takes place here is important. The good news isn’t meant to remain here. At the end of the passage, Jesus concludes, “This is the good news of the kingdom that will be proclaimed throughout the world.”

The good news takes root in places we never expected. That is why one of the things we are doing today is to bless Caitlin as she goes. We haven’t stopped loving her or stopped caring that she is leaving. Love doesn’t require possession. We can love someone and still let them go. We should feel thankful for the past and be curious about the future.

We may grieve at the change and yet still bless the future. That is a mature kind of love, and one that is especially important in a church, since the church is continually prone to confuse familiarity with faithfulness, stability with health, and its own preferences with God’s purposes. Jesus always makes it clear that the kingdom of God is in motion. The question we should be asking is not ‘How can we make sure that everything stays exactly the way it is?’ but rather ‘How can we stay faithful as God guides us into the future?’

That brings us back to the alarming statement that many people’s love is growing cold. Maybe the real danger in times of change isn’t change itself, but fear. Fear can make us stiff, distrustful, and cling tightly; it can lead us to look for someone to blame or say, “This isn’t the way we did it earlier.” Jesus says, “Do not let your love become cold.”

Keep loving when things change. Keep loving when the future is uncertain. Keep loving when someone leaves. Keep loving when someone arrives. Keep loving when you don’t know what’s coming next.

That is endurance.

Therefore, Caitlin, as you enter this new community, I hope you take something with you. Take our memories, of course, and the skills you have acquired here; but most importantly, take the knowledge that we have loved you and that you have made a difference.

We will also take from you what you have taught us, the relationships you helped establish, and the confidence that comes from working with you. That is exactly what the church has always been required to do. We will keep going.

One part of leaving well is acknowledging that we all have our own responsibilities. When people leave, our natural reaction is often to retreat and wait for someone new to take over; but maybe this season encourages us to draw closer instead.

Perhaps we are called to simply pay attention. And to set up and tend something that needs tending.

Which part of the garden needs looking after right now? And what small section right in front of you needs a bit of attention? It could be about welcoming a stranger. Checking on someone who has slowly moved away. Reaching out to an organization that needs help. Sitting down with the children. Taking part in the work of justice. Or merely observing something that needs looking after and looking after it.

What small space will you look after over the coming few months? Since the next person to arrive won’t step into a vacant space but into a thriving garden, we now have the chance to work together to care for the soil, water the new growth, open the doors further, and make the earth a bit deeper. It’s not a perfect garden, but a lively, living one.

A place where the next person who arrives need not feel obliged to save us but is instead welcome to walk by our side.

We say goodbye in that way as well. Caitlin, carry our love, our gratitude, and our prayers with you, and remember that this place has changed since you’ve been here.

We will move forward with gratitude for the past, courage for what lies ahead, and enough faith to believe that the God who has brought us this far has not finished with any of us.

More light. More love. More God.

Amen.