God Be With You
By Rev. Dr. Karin Case
July 18, 2010
God Be With You
By Karin Case
Text: 1 Philippians 1-11
Many refer to Philippians as the “epistle of joy.” Here is a profound exploration of distance and proximity, the nature of joy, sorrow, spiritual friendship, and intimacy. Paul expresses joy in his memories of the Philippians, a joy which, given the circumstances, must surely be born of sorrow. For Paul is in prison—his first arrest and the first time, perhaps, he has felt the wrath of Rome turned against him. He writes from prison—we don’t know for sure—perhaps in Rome or Ephesus—we can guess from the details of the letter that it’s someplace where there is a seat of government.
Neither do we know the charges against Paul, but we do know that he is in a fearsome situation. Paul writes, “I hope that I will not be put to shame in any way.” And we know, with the hindsight of many years, that in fact, Paul did suffer beatings and eventually, execution at the hands of Rome.
So the contents of Paul’s letter to Philippi are nothing less than amazing. We might expect apprehension, fear, dejection, even a plea for help. But Paul’s letter is an “epistle of joy.” He writes, “I thank my God every time I remember you, constantly praying with joy in every one of my prayers for all of you.”
What is this crazy joy that transcends fear and distance and every kind of adversity? What is it that Paul has, and where can we get some? I suspect that what Paul “has” is an uber-concentrated version of what we have right here among us at First Church in Cambridge. Here’s a clue from the epistle. Paul writes, “I remember you with joy...because of your sharing in the gospel from the first day until now.” Sometimes translated, “because of your participation in the gospel,” the Greek word is koinonia. I believe this koinonia is the root of Paul’s joy.
If Paul is like most ministers, he probably remembers alls kinds of things about the congregation at Philippi—where they live, each and every member of their households, what work they do for a living, any illnesses they might be struggling with, the ups and downs of everyday life. He remembers meals shared, late nights and early mornings spent in each other’s company.
But he also remembers much more than these simple textures of daily life. Paul remembers the individual stories of how each one came to faith. He remembers praying with them, worshipping with them, baptizing them, sharing the Eucharist—literally the feast “of joy.”
Paul’s remembrances are not mere affection or sentimentality. They are a deep collective memory of shared time and of a common project, if you will—the life of faith.
Paul expresses the joy of being in koinonia. Koinonia, that rich concept we most often translate as “fellowship,” our English word that fails utterly to capture the richness, texture, and depth of the original Greek. Paul’s joy is in the special kind of spiritual friendship we share with those with whom we journey in faith.
I will share with you, that in all my life experience, there is nothing that quite compares to the intimacy that arises, the bonds of friendship that grow, as we share our faith together. Think for a moment about the understanding, love and gratitude that grow as we sit in silent contemplation together, or lift our voices in song, or walk through the church in candlelight, or share a bedside vigil with someone who is dying, or dig deeply into scripture, or pour the water of life into the baptismal font, or gather at this table for a meal of bread and wine, or probe and even argue about what justice requires of us as Christians.
These are the textures of our common life, the things that Paul remembers and in which he finds a joy so profound that he speaks of it even from a prison cell, in a time of great difficulty.
There is a special kind of spiritual intimacy that grows out of relationships that are based in shared faith. This intimacy is utterly profound. When we share our innermost hopes and fears, when we come to the feast of joy—confessing before God and each other our brokenness and need of healing. When we admit that we are searching or struggling or lost or frightened. When we pray for one another and lift up each other’s joys and sorrows. These practices sow a seed of spiritual intimacy and holy friendship. The fruit of this seed is uncommonly sweet and good, dear friends. Extraordinary, really.
Holy friendship, the kind that Paul shared with the church at Philippi, and we share among ourselves here at First Church is quite precious. It feels personal, like a friendship we might have with a close friend, yet it is much more than that. It transcends personal affections because it is rooted in God’s grace and Christ’s love.
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Paul’s letter begins and ends with the good news of Jesus Christ, which is the entire reason for his being in Philippi, the context and vessel of his relationship with them, sharing in worship, study, outreach, and care for the congregation there.
Scholar and preacher, Fred Cradock notes that Philippians is an “epistle of intimate distance.” Paul recalls his presence with the church, describes the current circumstance of imprisonment, and concludes that, whether he is “present or absent they are to live in the gospel.”
I confess that Craddock ‘s phrase “intimate distance” catches my attention, as I contemplate my departure from First Church. You have touched me deeply and I will carry you with me, wherever I go. The holy friendship we have shared has shaped me and made my life richer. I feel sorrow in parting, but at the root of that sorrow is the joy of what we have shared. One of you said a few weeks ago, “I love you” and the implicit end of the sentence was “and I don’t want you to go.” And I replied, “I love you, too. It’s a good thing.” It is a good thing, this intimacy, this holy friendship we have shared, even if it brings sorrow in parting.
I confess that leaving First Church, for me, is little bit like having a dental procedure. You know you have to do it. It’s the mature, responsible, healthy thing to do. But there’s nothing inherently pleasurable or fun about it. I am truly excited about my next ministry in Shrewsbury. And at the same time, I am truly sad to be leaving you. But I’ve gotta do it!
I’ve thought a lot this year about the peculiar demands of Interim Ministry, about leave-takings in general, and—in particular—about what it feels like when a minister leaves. It is such a peculiar and special friendship, that it makes for a very odd leave-taking. Words fail me when I think about what you mean to me. Words have failed me in the past when I have had to say “goodbye” to ministers who have supported, sustained, and guided me.
Such a precious intimacy. Such sorrow. Such joy.
At the end of the service today we will join together—you and I—in a liturgy of leave-taking, to mark the end of my ministry at First Church. I have been saying more personal and individual goodbyes to many of you in the last several weeks. But this morning we say “goodbye,” literally, God-be-with-you, right here in the middle of worship. This is right and good. In so doing we acknowledge that we are held by God, and that our friendship—the holy friendship—we have shared, is held by God.
There have been private joys and disappointments. But here in God’s sanctuary, in the midst of praise and prayer, we lay these down. And in so doing, we remember that Christ’s gospel is greater than all of this. The good news of resurrection and new life is the reason for our being together, the compass and container for our common life. It is our hope and our future, whether we are together or apart.
In my work with hospice patients, I learned that there are five things people may need to say to loved ones as they face the end of their lives. Five simple things: Thank you. I’m sorry. I forgive you. I love you. Goodbye.
These are about gratitude, forgiveness, and love. To my mind, they are excellent practices for daily living and fine practices for leave-taking. And so I want to thank you—for sharing your confidences with me, for sharing yourselves, for welcoming me with hospitality and receiving my ministry with grace and kindness, for challenging me and disagreeing with me and working side by side with me. Thank you.
I do not feel I have anything for which I need to forgive you—but for any of you harbor doubt about that, please be released. I forgive you.
I ask your forgiveness for the times I have disappointed you or failed in any way. I know there have been a few. Please forgive me for tasks not completed, and hopes not fulfilled and all of my human failings.
And finally, friends, I do love you. I will miss you. I hope to see some of you from time to time around the Metropolitan Boston Association and at UCC events. I will give you time and space to establish a new relationship with Ute, your new minister, when she arrives this fall. I wish all of you good graces in that new ministry together. I hope to come visit sometime, but that day may be a distant possibility (considering that I’m a minister and will be working on Sundays!)
While we are together and when we are apart, I will not stop caring for you, remembering you, loving you. In Paul’s words, “I will hold you in my heart, for all of you share in God’s grace with me.”
Amen and God be with you.