From April 18-21 I helped escort 17 14-and 15-year-olds from our Religion in Life class on a pilgrimage to the hub of the Unitarian Universalist universe - Boston. That Sunday, Earth Sunday, we visited three of the downtown Boston churches for worship, intending, on the bus ride home, to compare notes on their very different liturgies. The most passionate of the sermons dealt with what the preacher deemed to be the moral imperative of vegetarianism. An accompanying father who heard that sermon, a scientist, was impressed by its power which had so forcefully challenged the ethics of his own eating habits. Then he asked me, quite worried, "What is the "half-life" of a sermon?
Now, the term "half-life" usually refers to the process by which a radioactive isotope falls to half its original power. As I understand it, this process continues, but the original power of the isotope never really reaches zero. What is the half-life of a sermon? As I face retirement in less than three weeks I begin to wonder about the "half-life" of the several hundred sermons I have preached for this congregation and, more importantly, the "half-life" of my 32 years with you.
I confess I like the idea that the value of these sermons may never completely reach zero. I like to think this 3-plus decades will have an influence long after I have gone. Of course, I have my hopes as well as my doubts, but then, who am I to know? Preaching, ministry, are fundamentally acts of faith.
Some thoughts and feelings, then, on this, my last hurrah. It has been a humbling experience being your minister - not that you have done anything to humble me, but that I was so honored to be chosen - youthful 33-year-old that I was then, with just 8 years of ministerial experience. I have been honored to be here.
I recall a ministerial installation service I attended when one minister reminded the minister to be installed that, in his frank words, "You can, and will, be replaced." It was tough love at its most honest. This church is not about me - though I have figured heavily in the last 32 years of its history and hope my influence will be felt for that mysterious half-life. I don't know who it was who put it in proper perspective - minister and church - person and cosmos: "You're not the water, only one wave." I need to remember that, and so do you.
To further emphasize the point, I think of the story of one Richard Shepherd, an English cleric who had come down with a cold just before he was to give an important lecture series. He had a dream of God pacing up and down wringing his/her hands, saying, "What am I going to do? Dick Shepherd has a cold." Strange, I had a very similar dream. Only in this case God says, "What am I going to do? Dick Gilbert is retiring." I really don't think that God is pacing up and down concerned about my retirement, God has better things to do.
Last Sunday after church I was interviewed by a reporter from the Democrat and Chronicle about my retirement. I explained to him that we were going to have an interim minister for two years and then the congregation would call a settled minister. He kept referring to the "settled" minister as the "permanent" minister. He couldn't grasp the idea that in the long run we are all "interims." "No," I said, waxing philosophical," there is no such thing as a "permanent" minister. I was tempted to go to the Greek philosopher Heraclitus who said the only constant is change, but I could see that wouldn't work either. No one of us is permanent. No minister is permanent. No ministry is permanent.
As I researched our church's history last fall, I was struck by one persistent truth. Through all the trials and tribulations, this congregation hung in there and witnessed to the liberal religious faith. It is amazing that the church continued through a series of one-year ministries. It is astonishing that it survived moving from one edifice to another. It is incredible that it survived the stresses of the Civil War, both world wars, the Depression, the Civil Rights Revolution and the Vietnam War. It is inspiring to note its continuity through a fascinating parade of ministers. You will march on and you will march with strength and dignity, peace and justice.
The message is clear. This congregation is more than a particular building, more than a specific minister, more even than a single congregation. In Biblical language, it is a "great cloud of witnesses" committed to the liberal way in religion. It has over the long years maintained a laser-like view of the importance of its presence in the lives of its people and in the life of the wider community.
I am reminded of Theodore Parker's last letter to his congregation, which articulated his theology - "a sacrament of works." He wrote it during a journey of convalescence from which he never returned. In it he summarized his view of the prophetic ministry: "So I have not only preached on the private virtues, which are and ought to be the most constant theme of all pulpits, but likewise on the public virtues that are also indispensable to the general welfare. . . . I have preached many political sermons. . . . No doubt I have often wounded the feelings of many of you. Pardon me, my friends. If I live long I doubt not that I shall do so again and again. "You never made me your minister to flatter, or merely to please, but to instruct and serve." That I have tried to do.
I can remember the call from Sue Schwardt, Chair of the Search Committee 32 years ago, asking me if I would like to be considered as a potential candidate. It came like a bolt from the blue. I was happy at the First Unitarian Church of Ithaca with its town-gown ministry; we were comfortable living there with two small children - ages one and three; we really hadn't given any thought to moving. But it certainly was worth exploring. Joyce is an alumna of the University of Rochester; it was always "the big city" in my growing up years on Baptist Hill; it was close to both our families. What harm could come of exploring it?
Thirty-two years later it seems like we have always been Rochesterians, always at the First Unitarian Church. 220 South Winton Road is like home to us. You are our good friends. The only call this time was an insistent inner voice that said it was time to retire from this ministry. Not that there isn't more to do; not that I don't have many sermons I'd like to preach and courses I'd like to teach; not that the wider community doesn't need ministry; And not that I have felt anything but support from the congregation. But there are miles to go before I sleep, and other promises to keep - writing, traveling, teaching, preaching in some other context - being husband, son, father.
In some ways I feel I'm just hitting my stride as a minister. Though these are troubled economic times for our community, we are a vitally healthy church which has much to give. Isn't it much better to retire now when it is hard to do than when I feel in decline and just don't have the same energy and drive? Isn't it better to leave a healthy church that will be sorry to see you go than to leave one impatient for your leaving? Thirty-two years is hardly a fly-by-night ministry!
I am aided in my perspective by a Charles Schultz cartoon in which Snoopy sits atop his doghouse with his typewriter, pondering. He begins to type. "What a great title for my new book .... Things I've Learned After It Was Too Late. If only I had it to do again. But I don't. We don't.
I confess to my ambivalent feelings about this decision and this process of letting go. I have a hard time saying "good-bye" and, given my druthers, I'd probably just quietly take my leave. I remember how hard it was to bid farewell to the Ithaca congregation after only five years. But that would be a cop-out and would deny you and me the opportunity to doing our letting go with feeling and dignity.
This isn't a final farewell, as you will shortly make me your Minister Emeritus, for which I thank you. We will always have a relationship, though it will be very different after June 30. I have a mother, a son and daughter-in-law here, another son in New York City, and so Rochester and New York State have a strong familial attraction. We hope eventually to settle in this area - perhaps even find our way back to this church after a proper interval and your Interim Parish Minister helps you through the transition and your called Parish Minister has a chance to put down roots. My hope and expectation are that you will welcome them as warmly and as generously as you welcomed me 32 years ago. I hope you will welcome them as warmly as you welcome us in the fall of 1970.
There is much of which I am proud - much that we have accomplished over the past 32 years - a full generation? We have developed into a very caring community in which our mutual ministry is paramount. I have felt so good these past few Sundays as people - both oldtimers and newcomers - remark on how much love they sense here. The Caring Community Group has facilitated that process, but we know all of us have a ministerial portfolio to care for one another.
We have evolved a powerful liturgy which inspires so many of us - an outstanding musical program and a service that has flow and meets reasonably well the varied needs of our diverse parishioners.
We have created a fine religious education program under a series of religious educators, not the least of whom is Helena Chapin. Working with her has been a delight - well, most of the time.
Our social responsibility program has been institutionalized in our church structure so it does not depend on any one person - clergy or lay - for its continuance, but is a vital part of what we always do. I hope and pray that you will continue the tradition of this church as "Rochester's Alert Conscience and Hospitable Roof."
We have tended well to our world-class building, even adding an elevator and storage space to it and refurbishing many spaces for our use. I am honored to note that one of those wonderful spaces is called Gilbert Hall - so I'll always be looking at you from over the fireplace. Leave your chocolate chip cookies there.
Our grounds, especially the Memorial Wall and Garden with the plaques in the Susan B. Anthony Lounge to memorialize our beloved dead, are a source of pride. The building is in so many ways sacred space; and we do walk on holy ground as we enjoy its natural environment. And, of course, who can forget the "great organ transplant" as we moved a fine pipe organ across town from St. Bernard's Roman Catholic Seminary to First Unitarian Church - a move both geographical and theological.
But with all the pride I have in what we are and what we have accomplished, I confess to a deep sadness at leaving. We have established strong ties. There are so many memories of laughter and tears that I cherish - joyous weddings and deeply-felt memorial services. How will I ever be able to spend Sundays not behind this marvelous oak pulpit, hearing choir descants over congregational singing? I will miss getting to know so many of you through adult education courses; keep on building your own theology. All three volumes of that adult religious education program were developed in this congregation.
Our two sons have grown up and thrived here. They went through the church school - and I have tear-producing pictures of when they (and we) were young at parties and picnics. Douglas I think developed his love of teaching by practicing it with a church school class. Matthew even attended services to hear his old man preach - a fact of which I am proud and he is still a bit incredulous.
Joyce found in this church a place to make music with other people from Gilbert and Sullivan to sacred anthems. She has cooked and taught and proofed (and corrected - and critiqued) sermons over the years. From this church she emerged to launch the Unitarian Universalist Musicians Network, was elected to the boards of the New York State Convention of Universalists, the St. Lawrence Foundation for Theological Education and the Commission on Appraisal. She has carried on her own informal and unofficial ministry among you.
More than one choir member has said - I'm not sure if in jest or not - that it was OK if I left, but Joyce would have to stay. And, of course, I could not have been your minister for these many years without her constant support and involvement.
I have concluded after 32 years, that with all the pain of leaving so many good friends, that a long ministry is a godsend. I have now dedicated children and grandchildren whose parents I married here. There is a wonderful continuity in getting to know generations of people - birth and dedication, marriage and holy union, life and death in their dramatic procession. To have been a part of these cycles of human existence has been a rare privilege. I thank you for allowing me into the deep places of your lives.
This last sermon is hard for me. I try to keep in mind a sweatshirt given to a minister on this birthday. It read: "Ministers do it with grace." I try not to get too sentimental, but I just can't do it. I'm a very sentimental guy, though you might not guess it. I've tried hard to maintain my dignity during these wonderful festivities. Did the bard have any idea how right he was when he wrote, "Parting is such sweet sorrow"? Thank you for making these 32 years so meaningful and joyful for us. This is a great congregation. Your greatest tribute to me will be to continue to make it so.
Mary Oliver writes about letting go in one of her poems: "To live in this world you must be able to do three things: To love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your life depends on it; and when the time comes to let it go, to let it go." Now is the time for letting go.
Well, what will be the half-life of this sermon? The half-life of our time together? The answer is blowing in the wind - wrapped up in that great mystery in which we live and move and have our being.
There is a time to celebrate the past,
and a time to envision the future.
The time for celebrating the past is here, but briefly,
For now the future beckons and we must be on our way.
return to main page