There is a River
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by Gordon Forbes
I knew an ending was at hand and "handing over" was in the offing when I began writing memoirs of the four churches I had served more than forty years. In February of 1999, I announced my intention to retire from the pastorate of my church at the end of October.The writing of those memoirs became a two-edged sword in my life. On the one hand, it was deeply satisfying. My mind filled with faces of beloved people, milestones of achievement, experiences, both painful and pleasing, that forced me to grow. My life overflowed with a sense of gratitude and grace. A silent, invisible, beneficent presence had accompanied me in my life.
On the other hand, I sensed all the potential losses facing me in this handing over of responsibility. Euphoria sets in for all of us when we first think of retirement. All our unfulfilled fantasies swell us with hope and excitement. Only as the time approaches do the realities of change hit us.
My apprehension grew. What would life be like? Would I really be able to do what I wanted? I sensed freedom would not only be a gift but a challenge. Was I up to it?
Two tensions asserted themselves as the retirement date approached. One was the tension between professional and personal life. I had spent such energy in professional performance - calling on people, relating to community concerns, preaching at least 40 sermons a year, managing staff, teaching classes, administering an institution, responding to crises of various kinds. None of those responsibilities would be operative any longer. When a professional ministry is over, a vocation still remains. What was the new call? How would I discern it?
A second tension surfaced - the tension between community and isolation. One of my children once said the coolest thing about being a minister's kid was the presence of instant community wherever you moved. It's true. Community is given to ministers and their families, for better or worse. However, my denomination requires a complete severing of ties with a congregation once you retire. How would I deal with isolation and the need for new community?
Early one July day, Shalem's flyer announcing group spiritual direction came in the mail. A vague feeling told me I should do it. I had participated in various Shalem programs. Despite my action-driven life, part of me has a thirst for the meditative - up to a point. So I applied.
Groups are very familiar to me. I have participated in scores of them-sensitivity groups, therapy groups, skill-enhancing groups, training and empowerment groups. Most of them have been "talk" or "experiential learning" groups. They have concentrated on skills - learning new ones and improving learned ones. They have been heavy on practical work, psychological insights, and combinations of confrontation and comfort. None of them gave more than lip service to prayer. They trusted in the adequacy of human perception. Something told me that simple human perception was not going to hold me up this time.
My first group spiritual direction meeting at Shalem was incredible. It began with a considerable amount of silence, fostering centering down into God. No introductions or group building: the telling of names, the reporting of "what you do," or what goals you had for this program. The introductions came after the silence and were minimal. More silence followed, with a brief meditation by a "facilitator."
The whole emphasis focused on one thing: What goes on between God and us individually and collectively? It required contemplation, not interaction. The power came not only in personal, inward meditation but also in intercession, holding each other in prayer, a major emphasis of all contemplative practice. To gather together in communal prayer and discernment can break any sense of isolation and provide a spiritual connection that is gentle and pervasive. It creeps into the individual like fog, filling up the nooks and crannies of separate existence without reliance on words. It also is a safeguard against the delusions possible in an over-individualized practice.
I still wondered if this was for me. I thought I needed harder stuff, like confrontation. I could handle conflict and controversy, but here I was being called to trust this gentle, seemingly passive, highly introspective way. I suspended all judgement and plunged in like a rookie.
And I entered a gentle whirlpool that started more like a soft current in our first small group meeting. Several group members faced circumstances that required a letting go. Two of us needed to let go of an adult child; another wanted to let go of the fear of letting go, of losing individual freedom. In the silence after each sharing, a common image emerged from our prayer for each other: God seemed to be calling us to let the river of His love carry us. The river image spoke to each of us powerfully. That month, between meetings, I had visited Harper's Ferry, West Virginia, on the first day of my retirement. It has always held a strange attraction for me. This poem emerged as a result of that visit.
Down Stream
I watch thirty ninth-graders board the shuttle-field trip to the National Park.
They will learn of Union and Confederate maneuvers, hear of canon, rifles, and insurrection.
But I will ignore this history now.
I feel pulled toward the river to a rock at the spot where legs of two rivers meet.
The wind peels leaves, just past peak, twirls them to rushing currents.
River receives their fluttering, carries them down stream.
Rocks, and whirlpools ahead, they tumble over Great Falls, headed for the bay.
Conception, birth, death converge.
The white spire of St. Peter's church juts like a needle above the trees, points to heaven.
But I have not come for heaven.
I come to watch the leaves, just past peak,
get carried away to places they cannot imagine on this first day of my retirement.
This river image remains, for me, a call to let go and let God.
It is a call to trust.
This article is another excerpt from The Lived Experience of Spiritual
Direction, edited by Rose Mary Dougherty. Gordon is also a Shalem Board
member.
© 2008 The Shalem Institute.