Most of the farewells have already taken place, the good-byes voiced, hugs exchanged, and relationships recalibrated for a future distance of 850 miles. The pastor leaves and the congregation steers forward with new leadership and resolve. It is a healthy, albeit difficult, separation. At least it’s difficult for me, especially in this time-between-times.
The responsibilities at Northminster Presbyterian Church in Cincinnati formally concluded a month ago, and I’m a week away from starting at North Lake Presbyterian Church in Lady Lake, FL. During July, while doing research and writing for a doctorate, I’ve also been scrambling to prepare for the sale of one home and the purchase of another, not to mention all the logistics of moving out-of-state. This relocation accentuates the current gap of belonging, the peculiar sense of being NOT at home anywhere. My former office is a good example. All the books and files are packed and stacked and ready for the moving van. All photos and artifacts of ministry are missing from the walls and shelves. My nameplate is removed from the door. When I stop there to pick up something I need in this interim phase, I am starkly reminded that “this is not my place anymore!”
A similar feeling occurs in our house, now strangely barren. Framed art and family portraits are not hanging, but leaning against the wall for final packing. Shelves and cupboards and tabletops are empty. Boxes are piled high at the perimeter of almost every room. This is not my place anymore. I am readying for departure. When I mow the lawn or replace a lightbulb I feel more like the caretaker of someone else’s property. It will be theirs soon enough. I do want them to enjoy it as much as we have, to delight in this space, this location, this neighborhood. Yes, I have loved it, but I cannot call it mine anymore.
Perhaps the imminent departure stirs my keen sense of place, my awareness of a whereness. Our English language even provides a clever word, “ubiety” (rhymes with piety), to indicate the property of having a definite location at any given time, the condition of being in a particular place. The word derives from the Latin “ubi”, meaning “where.” These days I feel my whereness much like you feel the breeze. This is my location, or at least it has been for twenty-two years.
I am relinquishing a network of relationships in this community. Beyond treasured church relationships, I leave behind bank tellers and a manager who greet me by name. My haircut has become like a monthly reunion. The dentist and hygienist know what teeth give me problems. The optometrist loves to tell me about his young children and always asks about our family. And my primary care physician has accompanied me through swine flu and pneumonia, not to mention dengue fever. All of these are less than a mile from the church, just around the corner from where I live. I have been happily nestled in this Winton/Compton world, situated in a metropolitan area with a small town feel.
I know multiple ways to get to the same destination in Cincinnati, in case one of the major arteries is blocked. My wife and I can name at least four favorite Thai restaurants in the city. We have walked in most of the city and county parks. We are familiar with the best overlooks of the city and the Ohio River. We have acclimated to the Cincinnati perspective of the ferocious Bengals-Steelers rivalry, which is not easy for Pittsburgh natives! But this has been our home, where we have been based for more than two decades.
Those who grow grapes and produce wine speak of the terroir, the unique soil and climate conditions that yield a distinctive flavor. Terroir is the whereness of grapes on a vine in a particular vineyard in a certain region. It is the growing environment. Cincinnati has been our terroir. This is where our children have grown up and reflect a certain vintage of the neighborhood. This is where I have grown up as a pastoral leader; at this point more than 60% of my ministry experience has been grounded in the northern hills of Cincinnati. This has been our context for living and moving and having our being.
And now we are leaving. Leaving many beautiful people. Leaving a home with memories in every direction. Leaving ground we have tended. Leaving the sweetgum tree that turns deep crimson in late autumn. Leaving the massive cottonwood that snows on our backyard in early June. Leaving the mole that defies capture in the flower beds. Leaving the lawn where I have walked miles blissfully behind the mower. And in the leaving I am acutely aware of my whereness!
In the introduction to his book FALLING UPWARD, Jesuit priest and author Richard Rohr states:
The familiar and the habitual are so falsely reassuring, and most of us make our homes there permanently. The new is always by definition unfamiliar and untested, so God, life, destiny, suffering have to give us a push—usually a big one—or we will not go. Someone has to make clear to us that homes are not meant to be lived in—but only to be moved out from.
Rohr’s intriguing quote seems an appropriate place to stop Part 1 of this reflection, so that I can post part 2 next week while we are literally in the midst of moving out from our home. I’ll meet you again in the whereness of next week.