“Letting Go and Picking Up”
2 Kings 2:1-18
It’s not often that I write an entire sermon, or almost the whole thing, and then start all over. I would guess that I’ve done it only a handful of times in more than 17 years—partly because for almost all that time I’ve written my sermons on Saturday; when I have had to throw out one sermon and start all over it was usually because something horrible had happened on a Saturday night.
This sermon is different.
I’ve been working hard to change my sermon-writing habits, and I began writing this one on Wednesday. But by the time I had almost finished what was a pretty good sermon with, among other things, lots of good tips for how to read and understand the Bible, I realized I was going to have to do what we call a complete write-through.
The good—and maybe even helpful—sermon I had written would have been absolutely fine—even better than fine for most Sundays. But as I reflected on it, I realized that for this particular Sunday it had too much head and not enough heart. Which is to say, in part, a little too much Bible and not quite enough Dick. And, as we used to say in the news business, too much tell and not enough show.
Because the truth is that, while this morning’s Bible lesson is about any number of things, it is primarily about the pain of transitions: the uncertainty we might feel when we move from one sure thing to another not-so-sure thing, the fears we have of being left, and the grief we feel when we lose someone or something cherished comes to an end.
The story of Elijah and Elisha is, among other things, a story about loss.
It is, in other words, about life. Loss isn’t something that happens in life; it is part and parcel of life. Things are forever changing. Children grow up. People move away. Beloved staff members retire or move on. Dear ones die.
And in every case there is at least a part of us that cries, if not aloud at least to ourselves, “Don’t go! Don’t leave me!”
To be clear: I didn’t go looking for a Bible story about endings and beginnings and painful partings; it is one of today’s lectionary readings. And yet it seemed almost tailor-made for thinking about Dick’s ministry and our communal life together at this very moment.
And while the first draft of this sermon certainly acknowledged that reality and our feelings about it, I came to see that I needed to address those issues even more directly.
So before we go any further, I invite you to consider what else—in addition to Dick and his ministry with us—you may be needing to let go of these days—whether that is a beloved person, a relationship, a dream, a certain reality or sense of yourself, or a vision for your future or our future together as a church, a people, a nation, or all creation.
Consider what—if anything—you might need to let go of, and whatever fears or other feelings make that difficult. I hope for all of us and all those things that the challenge for you is the same as it is for us in saying goodbye to Dick: The letting go is so hard because the having and holding has been so good.
Hold that thought of what you may be needing to let go of as we consider the situation in which God is calling both Elisha and Elisha to let go of people and circumstances that had become central to their identities and their ways of being in the world.
Elisha was a protege of the great prophet Elijah, and the one most clearly marked to carry on his ministry. But everything Elisha knew he had learned from Elijah, and even though Elisha and everyone else knew the time had come for Elijah to go to be with God, Elisha couldn’t bear the thought of losing his teacher.
And so it was that every time Elijah told Elisha to stay put, Elisha refused. “As long as God lives and as you yourself live,” he would tell Elijah, “I will not leave you.” And so, like a sad puppy with separation issues, Elisha followed Elijah wherever he went: across the Jordan River to Gilgal, from Gilgal to Bethel, from Bethel to Jericho, and from Jericho back again to the River Jordan.
On the one hand: Elisha’s clingy behavior is exactly what we shouldn’t do when everything and everyone is telling us we need to let go. And yet it also reminds me of the story of Jacob wrestling with the angel (or God) all night long. When the angel (or God) told the wounded Jacob to let go, Jacob refused, saying, “I will not let you go until you bless me.”
And so it was that God blessed Jacob with redemption and a new name, and the scoundrel Jacob limped along into the rest of his life, forever blessed and changed.
In the same way, when the moment of separation finally came for Elijah and Elisha, Elisha asked Elijah for a double portion of his spirit.
What if, when faced with a painful letting-go situation, we asked for a blessing—or to see and integrate the blessings already bestowed upon us? What if, when no longer able to deny that a dear one is soon to leave us or that a treasured life stage is coming to an end, we prayed to be able to receive the very best of that person or phase of life? What if, when faced with the painful realization that we must let go of particular hopes and dreams, we were able to give thanks for all they had given us?
At the very least, those stances might make our letting go a little less difficult and painful. At best, those perspectives might help heal our wounds, give us the strength to process our grief, and carry us into the next chapter of our lives with hope and faith.
And what if, instead of only agonizing over our own loss or unwelcome change, we also considered the feelings of the person doing the leaving, the grief of the people being left behind, or all the people who will be impacted by the change?
While we tend to make this story all about Elisha’s fear and grief around losing Elijah, what if it’s just as much about Elijah’s fear of loss and change and not knowing what’s coming next? What if Elijah had mixed feelings about leaving the life he knew and going to God, whatever that meant?
What if the blessings of this story are not only for those of us being left behind, but also for those who are moving on?
What if God’s message to all of us, as expressed by the seemingly overly-dependent Elisha, is a variation on Elisha’s attachment to Elijah? That message is, “Be not afraid, I will not leave you.”
No matter where we go, no matter how deep our grief, God’s word to us, again and always remains the same:
I will not leave you.
To Dick, God says: I will not leave you.
To you, and to all of us, and to us as a church, God says: I will not leave you.
If only we could receive the blessing of that promise—moving on might not be so scary. If only we could receive the blessing of that promise—being left might not be so painful.
With that reassurance, we might not be tempted to send out a search party in the hopes of regaining what we have lost and, instead, might be able to begin moving on. With that comforting presence, we might not be tempted to try to hang on to the person or relationship we’ve lost in ways that hinder our healing and keep us stuck in nostalgia for days gone by. What that strengthening word, we might be able to respect boundaries and make room for new people, new blessings, and new growth.
As it is, these are things that Dick’s retirement require of us.
Both his music and his way of being have blessed us beyond words. We love him. And while most of of understand and even agree with him that the time has come for him to move on, we don’t want to let him go.
But we have to let go—for Dick’s sake, for our sake, for Anthony Tracia, our soon-to-be music director, and for the health and well-being of our church.
And this means truly letting go: Cutting out the emails, texts, and phone calls, and not asking to get together—at least for some length of time.
It will be hard for all of us, and . . . Dick understands why it’s important. It is important not only for us, but also for Dick. He needs to be able to truly retire and to move on without feeling that he is being held back—even by people he loves.
In a few minutes, we will offer Dick our blessings and ask God’s blessings on him as he leaves us. We will send him into retirement with lots of love and more than a few tears.
But his love, like God’s will not leave us. All the gifts and joy and strength he brought to our music ministry and to our lives will continue to bless us long after he’s gone.
May we be blessed with a double portion of Dick’s spirit—the joy of praising God in music, the gift of caring, the commitment to building community, and real love for one another.
To cross over into retirement and all that the next phase of his life will bring, Dick needs to leave us. And for us to cross over into new opportunities and ways of being both choir and church together, we need to let him go.
Even in times of transition, even in times of loss, let us pick up the mantle of blessing and move on with hope and faith. Let us pick up the mantle of love and care for one another and our neighbors. Let us pick up the mantle of joy and make of our lives a song. Let us pick up the mantle of practice and make beautiful harmonies together. Let us pick up the mantle of Jesus and justice and bless the world.
Let us pick up the mantle of blessing, and let it comfort, strengthen, and encourage us. Let us pick up the mantle of faith, trusting that God’s love will never leave us.
