Farewell Sermon

Dec 04, 2008
The Rev. Charles James Cook

There is a very wise saying that goes something like this: The first sermon that one preaches in a parish should always be on the text, And from that time forward, no one dared ask him another question. The final sermon, regardless of length of tenure, should be a devout reflection on the Biblical comment, He could have performed many signs and wonders except for their little faith. All ministerial presence and practice exists between those two poles! Oh, if it were only that simple.
        
On a hot August afternoon in 1984, I met with the Dean and Faculty of The Seminary of the Southwest for an interview - the position in pastoral theology included, initially, teaching courses in parish leadership, directing and overseeing the theological field education program, Visiting Fellows, continuing education for clergy, and alumni relations. The last line of the job description included the familiar phrase, "and all other duties as might be assigned from time to time." Obviously, there wasn't room to include a course on clergy self-care. Well, alumni relations did move to a more appropriate place, but for the most part, for eighteen years the other obligations stayed in place. With Will Spong's departure, pastoral care took the place of theological field education.

And so that is where this pilgrim finds himself, at this moment in time, peering early into Advent, a season that has something to do with both endings and beginnings - closure and new birth. Gordon Cosby, the great founder of the Church of the Savior in Washington D.C., once remarked that "retirement is a secular idea." It has, then, more in common with a profession than with a true vocation, and so after the office boxes are packed and the Oliver North memorial paper shredder has done its work, the work of service through priestly ministry and formation continues, and that is how it should be. After all, the Baptismal Covenant is a rather expansive document, and with not a lean imperative asks us to stay tuned...or as Mark has Jesus say, "Keep awake."

The first sermon I ever preached in this Chapel was as a middler student
in the autumn of 1972. Intent on being cutting-edge, fashionable at all costs, the text was not from Holy Scripture but from  Jonathan Livingston Seagull (a weighty text!), a popular over- sentimentalized story that would put any card-carrying New Ager to shame, and even with a handful of crystal-worshipping devotees.  A week later, the distinguished ethicist Paul Lehmann gave a lecture here in this chapel which, sure enough, his primary example of a culture in spiritual decay, was of course Jonathan Livingston Seagull. After the lecture, one of our more folksy members of the faculty remarked to me, "Well, Charlie, it looks like he done shot down your bird", and I began to realize that this work would be both fulfilling and humbling.

But if I could return to that August afternoon twenty-four years ago, one of my future faculty colleagues asked me a question: "Why would you want to come and teach in a theological seminary?" I understood that to mean, "Why would you choose this rather than something else?" That's a fair question, because seminaries had already experienced some feeling of marginalization, at least far from the center, and well, they are also often objects of what is often perceived to be wrong with the church. If the seminaries would just do a better job of this or that, then we wouldn't have all these conflicted issues in our local parishes! That is a long-standing mantra which I have often feared might make its way even into The Great Litany.

Well, I answered that question without much thought or hesitation; I said something like this: "I can't imagine any more important work than preparing persons for leadership in the church." I believed it then, and I believe it now. I also know that this work often goes unappreciated and is undervalued, but then again, it has its rich moments, to be sure. Sometimes, you just have to wait awhile to know that particular truth.

In preparing to move to Austin to join the faculty, one of my dear friends, Arthur McNulty, the late Rector of Calvary Church in Pittsburgh, who died unexpectedly and way, way far too soon, took me to lunch for a little farewell celebration. In the midst of eating, drinking, and sharing many memories, Arthur paused, looked at me and said, "Don't you think, Charlie, that you could tell someone almost everything you know for sure in less than an hour?" "That's true," I thought, "but as slow as I talk, I'll get at least a decade out of this." Well, it's been over two decades, and while the slow talking helps, the support of colleagues, students, staff, and friends has been sufficient for the task at hand. I've also been given the freedom and encouragement to engage in more than a little subversive teaching from time to time, which is always of course the very best kind.

My mentor and friend, Bishop Sam Hulsey, who in a previous incarnation was largely responsible for my seeking a life in the church, told me that to serve on a seminary faculty was indeed honorable, but that over time, it would lead to professional marginalization. I understood this to mean type-casting, and I have found this often to be true - not always, but often enough. So, let me share a secret. I love the margins. I love the margins because that's where the church does her best work - speaking to the center, the establishment, speaking to the mainline - sending up a prophetic trial balloon now and then - pushing the envelope, dancing on the razor's edge, naming the powers. That's type-casting worth living for, and with, yet, always remaining faithful to the One who lived on the margins in order that no one would be marginalized in the time of God's holy reign - that time is both now and in the future. I regret the many times I have not lived up to that call - as a priest and as a teacher. And so I say, with one of the followers of Jesus, Lord, I believe, help my unbelief.

Parker Palmer says that we teach who we are - we teach who we are. This is essential and I've found this to be true. It is more important than content alone because the teacher and the content, especially in the work of Christian formation, have to express a deep compatibility - one with the other. Ultimately, if there is a high degree of authenticity in the teacher, then the learning process can be trusted, and there is receptivity to what is being taught. I first learned that here as a student, especially from John Knox, the New Testament scholar, whose class presentations on Romans always seemed the carry the quality of both a lecture and a meditation.

The same can be true for an institution like our seminary. We were created some sixty years ago on the Sesame Street model - "One of these things is not like the other." There's General, there's Virginia, there's Sewanee, and there's ETSS. A certain identity, character, and way of being grew out of that, and held us together through thick and thin. The Rev. Woody Bartlett, a priest in Atlanta, and brother of our beloved Nancy Busbey, lives in an area of the city not totally unlike our Hyde Park. Woody told me that their neighborhood sponsors a house tour every year, and it's known as the Atlanta Funky House Tour - and it draws lots of people who enjoy funky things, rather than well trimmed lawns, McMansions, and closed gates. This seminary has always had its share of funkiness which has often led us to describe ourselves as who we aren't, rather than who we are. At the current moment, we seem to be attempting to finally get all that sorted out, one way or the other, and that's probably a good thing and long overdue. But in the process, from my vantage point, we would do well to not slip away from a communal amanesis to amnesia - moving from remembrance to forgetting - and so in polishing up the image, we need to keep a little of the funkiness in the mixture of things. I also think that's the reason visitors feel at home here when they're on our campus, because a stuffed well-worn chair is always more comfortable than polished chrome. The first followers of Jesus were not polished at all, and yet they, over time, changed the entire world.

The late Southern novelist Walker Percy believed deeply in the holiness of the ordinary - that what we have been given in this world actually contains the presence of God, if we have the eyes to see it and an open heart to receive such a sacred mystery. We often miss this encounter with the holy because we are always looking for something else, something up over the horizon - another greener pasture, some other place. T.S. Eliot got it right when he wrote:

        We shall not cease from exploration
        And the end of all our exploring
        Will be to arrive where we started
        And then know the place for the first time.

There is holiness in this place, among the jagged edges, and the peculiar pathways, there is a holiness here. Over the years, it has been mostly expressed through people who have come to sojourn here for a while. Some graduated, some retired, some were fired, some were tired, some live on and some died. I can still hear some of their voices, see the familiar expressions on their faces, and feel the joy and the pain of attempting that most difficult assignment given to every community, to learn how to simply live together with more peace than anxiety. On occasion we did it well, and now and then we didn't. But there was still holiness. Regardless of how one came or went, they contributed some to this hallowed ground. Alice Walker wrote in The Color Purple that "people don't come to church to find God, people bring God in with them." That's what happens here, and it's a gift that needs tender care.

One final thought about teaching. When Reinhold Niebuhr delivered the distinguished Gifford Lectures, he spoke to a packed house for many days - he spoke to inspiring scholars and students alike - often speaking without notes or a manuscript. It was an absolutely superb performance. After the last lecture, an older woman approached Niebuhr to offer her own assessment of what she had heard all those days. She had been there each day because, as luck would have it, it was her job to clean the lecture hall after each session. As the story goes, she looked at the great theologian and said, "Dr. Niebuhr, I don't know if I really understand all you've said about God, but somehow you make him sound great."

        Isn't that the ultimate compliment.
        Isn't that the very essence and purpose of our being here.      Amen.

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