1 Thess, Advent, Church Life, Farewells

Farewell Newsletter Article

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Dear ones in Christ,

The earliest document preserved in the New Testament is 1 Thessalonians, a letter written by Paul in 51 C.E. to the church at Thessalonika. It is our first impression of what the newly born Christian faith and practice might have been like, decades before the gospels were written.  In this letter, Paul writes to a beloved community, saying:  How can we thank God enough for you in return for all the joy that we feel before our God because of you? (1 Thessalonians 3:9)

Paul wondered whether he would ever see the people at Thessalonika again, and he cared deeply about their faith. Soon I will be far away, and although I will not see you, this family of faith will always hold a place in my heart. We have shared in both personal trials and celebrations in the past several years. You have shown a deep kindness to me and to my dear ones, the two-legged and the four-legged.

Saying goodbye is never easy. My last service of worship will be at 11 p.m. on Christmas Eve. There we will gather around Christ’s table, as Christians have done since before Paul wrote his letter to the Thessalonians. For almost 2000 years, faithful people have been parting from one another with words of Christ’s peace, and we will do the same. At my last Sunday service, on December 23, we will take the time to say good-byes and to release each other from our covenant in ministry. You will always have a place in my heart, but after I leave here for the last time on December 26, I will not be able to baptize or officiate at funerals or weddings for members of this church; that is the practice in our faith tradition.

We read this passage from Thessalonians in Advent, the beginning of the church year, a time when we anticipate the unpredictable future. Paul writes, And may the Lord make you increase and abound in love for one another and for all, just as we abound in love for you. (1 Thessalonians 3:12)  Like Paul, I wonder how things will develop for the people I can no longer see. I have hopes for your future together. I pray that God will be with you in all that you do and that you will share your abounding love with the hungry and hurting in this community and in the world. I pray that you will be spiritually nourished by your work on Christ’s behalf.

Your next chapter will unfold without me, as mine will without you. Whatever comes next, know that you do not face it alone, for the God who made you and the Christ who redeemed you and the Holy Spirit who comforts you will always be with you. As God has blessed you, may you be a blessing to others.


Rev. Martha



As we near the end of the school year and Snowman prepares to say farewell to Hippy Dippy High School, there have been disappointments. Perhaps these losses are a necessary part of separating from one community and moving on to another. I know we felt this way about Large Church, that in the final year of my time in seminary, several things happened in the life of that church that made it easier in the end for the children and me to leave that church family without looking back. In the moment of each disappointment, there was a sense of anger or grief, but later just a philosophical realization that detachment from a place that had been part of us for so many years inevitably contained a measure of division and disillusionment. Those feelings prepared us to walk our new road, knowing no church would be ideal or perfect, that each would be flawed in its own particular and unique way.

The first disappointment involved a tree planted in the church garden. When I lost the baby in 1992, we had no money for a cemetery burial. My mother and father might have helped make that possible, but my mother felt relieved that we would not be having an impaired child and encouraged me to put the whole thing behind me as quickly as possible. She later regretted that, but at the time, it made me afraid to go to my father. The pastor of our church, bless him, suggested we plant a tree and simply put the baby’s ashes in the ground first. He held a private memorial service for us there in the garden, and we planted a Kousa Dogwood tree. Although it would bear no resemblance to the dogwoods of my girlhood in Virginia, something about the name and the fact it would flower felt comforting to me.

Disappointingly, it didn’t flower, and years went by, and it still didn’t flower.

Finally, in its tenth summer, it did. But at the same time, someone decided it had grown too tall and was blocking the window of the church cloister, and chopped it in half.

I wish I were kidding about this. The top of the tree was lopped off.

I inquired about how it happened and got no satisfactory answer. How could there be one?
Later that summer, I drove into the church parking lot and glanced into the garden, looking for the tree. It was August, the anniversary of the baby’s due date, and I had a few minutes to go and sit by the tree before I needed to be at a meeting.

To my horror, I did not see it.

I parked the car and went into the garden. The tree was entirely gone.

I want to tell you that I was angry and horrified and shocked and wounded, and all those words are true, but none of them suffices to describe the way I felt on that hot Tuesday afternoon.

Eventually the whole story came to me. The church had a drainage problem. Water was getting into the basement. Everything planted along that wall had to go. Three different people passed around the blame for not telling me in advance. This made it worse. They had not forgotten the tree was special. They just didn’t care enough to do the hard work of telling me it had to be removed for the sake of the building.

My son is feeling the same sort of emotions as he leaves his school. The grade he received for a reflection piece on his development as a musician this year was low, although his father, who saw the presentation, tells me it was quite good. It hurts right now, I know it must. The three teachers who gave him a grade, are they thinking of him or of the institution? They are making it easier for him to leave, ultimately, but right now it hurts. It hurts.

The church found the money to plant another dogwood, near the original, in a "better" position. I managed to speak, graciously, at the garden re-dedication the following spring. No one apologized for disrupting the place where my baby’s ashes were buried, although they did say they were sorry my feelings were hurt. Of course the second tree means nothing to me. I no longer connect with that space. Perhaps the passage of time, fifteen years, is part of that, and is evidence of healing.  More than once I have told a seminarian that frustrations with his or her sponsoring church are a good preparation for moving on to what is next on life’s journey without being *too* hung up on what was special in the past.

I hope Snowman will find that place, and that I will stop feeling angry about a bad grade (relatively speaking) that will be on his transcript when he applies to college someday. How they could hear him play and talk about his music without understanding and appreciating is beyond me. But this is one of the stories of his time at that school, and the primary reason we are making it possible for him to go away, despite the fact that he will be so much missed at home.