This weekend is the hinge sitting between thresholds and transitions in my ministerial formation. It should have an epic name, but it does not.

On Friday, I was included in the graduation ceremony at Hartford Seminary. I did not graduate, though I did get to wear a black gown and process with my colleagues who did graduate.

As part of the Cooperative Masters of Divinity program, I have completed half my studies and am moving on. This year, for the first time, the Seminary got it together to recognize students who are a part of this program as they transfer either to Yale Divinity or Andover Newton Theological School (that’s where I am going). Usually there are several people in the cooperative program but not this year. So I was the only whose name got called as part of the program and I was the only one who got to overwhelm the Dean with an effusive hug in front of all.

I am sad to be leaving HartSem and I am oh-so-ready.

Tomorrow morning, I start eleven weeks of a full-time chaplaincy internship at a local hospital. It is part of the requirements for eventual ordination. It’s official name is Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE). It’s a mix of lectures/learning/reflection and hands-on clinical work through different departments in the large trauma hospital. I am thrilled and daunted. Looking forward to what I will learn and what will change in me. And not just a little bit intimidated by the eight overnight shifts ahead of me, the first of which is scheduled for less than a week from now.

In between leaving HartSem and starting CPE, there is this other thing. This kinda really important other thing. The hinge of the hinge:

This morning was worship at the little-church-that-could (that CAN), where I have been serving for two years. It was my final worship with them. We have been attentive to this transition, paying attention to ending well so that the next ministry, already in place, may blossom.

So, in addition to the traditional elements of worship at this church, today’s worship was replete with ritual:

• First there was the Blessing the Congregation
• Then there was the Blessing the Departing Minister
• Followed by Dissolving the Co-Ministry
• And concluding with the Blessing the New Ministry

There was singing and guitar playing. There was interpretative dancing by a 8-year-old and an 11-year-old. There was the beloved chasing of beloved toddler. There were tears. There was holy water (made holy by the congregation a year and a half ago). There were gifts. There was deep stuff going on.

Deeper still: there was chaos.

By chaos, I mean that the copier in the church office decided to die this morning. Half an hour before worship was meant to start. Before all the hymns were copied.

By chaos, I mean that usually we start on time at 10am but this morning it was closer to 10:15, though I cannot tell you why.

By chaos, I mean I FORGOT THE TEXT OF MY HOMILY. I mean, I left it at home on the dining room table. I mean, it was not in my purse. I mean, I   d i d   n o t   h a v e   i t   w i t h   m e.

I had not planned a regular sermon – I knew there was not that kind of time, given all the other things taking place. Though the order of worship called it a homily, it was by no means your typical homily. Inspired by a classmate this past semester, I found a roll of unused adding machine paper. On it, in different colors and differing fonts/scripts, I wrote the titles of all the sermons I had written in the two years I served the church. I planned to have folks in the pews hold onto it and unroll it, as reflecting together, connecting each of them with each other and with our joint efforts.

What is that old adage? We make plans and god laughs?

Now is the time to express gratitude to some of my teachers and mentors, some of whom do not even know I have learned from them. Thank you, to Rev. Stephen Shick and Rev. M’ellen Kennedy for their workshop on Preaching Without A Manuscript, which I took two years ago.

Thank you, Rev. Clyde Grubbs, who recently wrote as general guidance on Facebook, that every minister should memorize some poems (I did just that, last night, memorizing one of my favorites of Rilke).

Thank you, mentor Stephen Philbrick, minister of the church down the road from this one, who has never been all that impressed with my written texts and who has told me over and over, in myriad ways, that there must be room for more than what you prepare, more than what you write ahead of time. There must be room for the now to bubble up.

Well, the now did bubble up. Held lovingly as I was by this mighty congregation, this little-church-that-could-and-can, I stepped away from the pulpit, and I preached good-bye from my heart.