It takes a special sort of energy to plant something new; now it’s time for me to move on.
I recently heard a wonderful story. Words from Sanctuary had sparked an awareness in someone in another congregation that, even if things don’t come out the way we want or plan, ‘if God has anything to do with it, there will be new life, new friends, and plenty of justice and joy.’ She read those sentences over and over again, to herself, to her husband and even to their prayer group. For her husband was preparing for a driving assessment, and very anxious about it he was. And indeed, despite all his practice and prayer, the assessor concluded that it was no longer safe for him to drive and his licence could not be renewed.
This man has dementia. Losing his licence was at some stage inevitable, yet when it happened, it marked a very significant loss for them both. But he parked his car in the shade and stroked it, then gave the keys to his wife. And later that same day, his wife drove them both to Memory Lane Café, where people with dementia and their loved ones can hang out without masking or feeling ashamed. The man and his wife felt awkward, but a friendly couple wandered over to chat and soon put them at their ease. Music was playing, and suddenly the man looked at his wife with a twinkle. ‘Shall we dance?’ he asked. Then he took her hand, and they found a space; together, they began to dance.
I loved this image of them among new friends, dancing in the face of loss; and it sounded to me like a parable. So with their permission I shared the story with you all, then asked some reflective questions, namely: When have you had to give up something significant due to loss of capacity? What new life, new friends, new joys emerged?
I wrote those words on a Friday, assuming they were questions for Sanctuary. We have long been stretched for volunteer time as we try to make things work; and, over the last year, attendance and giving have both significantly declined. And so we have been engaged in a process, begun in March and pushed hard since June, to establish precisely what this congregation’s commitment and capacity is.
It’s not the first time we have engaged in such a process, and I assumed it would have similar outcomes. That is, I assumed that no one would volunteer for the necessary roles of treasurer or secretary and I assumed that, based on current giving, financial pledges wouldn’t cover my part time wage. These assumptions were reinforced by the comments of a number of people that, due to other commitments, they cannot contribute any real time or labour towards the life of the church, and that Sanctuary cannot afford a three day a week pastor. They were also reinforced by the work I found myself doing both in facilitating this process and in preparing reports for the end of the financial year.
So I have been gradually preparing for us to let go of Sanctuary as we know it due to lack of capacity, and to think about new and different possibilities. A household network, perhaps, or an online community, or some other form yet to emerge.
That was the Friday. On Monday, E called. I was on the train to Melbourne, so she dictated to me the pledges of labour and money she had received late Sunday night. To my surprise, they nearly doubled what had already come in, and I realised we were in a different situation. Suddenly, after seven years of asking, we have three people willing to be treasurer, someone willing to help with policy and compliance, and various other people willing to take on smaller roles. We also suddenly have more money pledged than we have ever seen before, which would nearly cover my wage. It is wonderful, I am glad and grateful, and yet, to be honest, I was totally thrown.
So I sat with it, and over the next couple of days talked it through with family, close friends, and trusted colleagues. As we talked and prayed together, something which has been nagging at me these last few months finally crystallized. This is that *I* no longer have the capacity to meet the demands of my role here at Sanctuary, and the questions were for me.
‘When have you had to give up something significant due to loss of capacity?’ I had asked; and my emerging answer is, ‘Now.’ Quite simply, I do not have the energy to continue with my role here at Sanctuary in its current form, nor do I have the energy to shepherd Sanctuary as it pivots and finds a new expression.
Seven years ago, we had a strong sense of call. We moved to Warrnambool and, with the Spirit’s help, together we catalysed something new. Individuals have come and gone, but the gathering we call Sanctuary has endured as we have tried to embody God’s beautiful kingdom of diversity, justice and joy. We’ve celebrated countless dinners and house blessings, a baptism in the bend of a river, and a baby blessing in a lounge room among her family and friends. During lockdowns, we experimented with carboot communion with the manna-mobile, and how to create intimacy and beauty over Zoom. We’ve had dawn services in botanic gardens and bushlands. We’ve prayerfully walked the streets and the labyrinth, and we’ve interpreted the Bible and shaped our liturgies through local, place-based eyes.
We’ve read the Bible slowly, listening for the voice of God, and we’ve considered creation and wondered together what small birds and the sky might teach us. We’ve put words around the holy in our ordinary, beautiful lives through Lent books and testimonies and prayers. And as we’ve journeyed, many of us have discovered new ways of loving God, wrestling with Scripture, praying together, telling our stories, and living into our questions ever more faithfully and fully.
It’s been a wild ride, a steep learning curve, and a plunge into newness and joy, and all this can continue for you in some form or another – only, not with me. The process over the last few months has clearly revealed just how tired I am, and how little I have to offer now. Like my friend who no longer has capacity to drive, I no longer have capacity to captain the SS Sanctuary.
I’ve been listening to the fields, and they’re telling me to lie fallow for a while. I’ve been listening to the birds, and they’re pointing me back to Melbourne and our little flock of family and friends. And I’ve been listening to the beautiful rivers which flow through this region, and they’re assuring me that the water of life will never run out – but that which wells up in me must soon be redirected.
So, as much as I have loved being part of this grand experiment, it’s time for me and my family to move on. It is customary in Baptistland to give three months’ notice of any significant change, so I will continue with services until the end of November, freeing you to take a new direction in Advent.
For let me assure you, you do have plenty of capacity to continue without me, in some form or another. Your pledges leave all options open, including that of a regular worship service with a paid pastor. You’ll need to find a different pastor and a different space, but there are people who can help with that. And you are people of great ability, creativity and insight, with lots of social capital and financial resource. Many of you work part time, and many of you show a willingness to contribute to the wider community beyond the bounds of your work. If you band together, combining your energies and passions and wrestling seriously with how to embody God’s culture here and now, you will continue to be a significant force in the healing of the world; and if God has anything to do with it, you will continue to discover new life, new friends, and plenty of justice and joy along the way.
I will walk alongside you for a little while longer, but your future is your responsibility. I encourage you to find a way together. To this end, the leadership suggests that, over the next week or so, you identify two or three people beyond the current leaders who are willing to take the conversation forward. And of course, if no names emerge, then that is a decision, too, and we will act accordingly.
But for now, let’s take a minute or two for silence; then we will pray and talk. Ω
An announcement by Alison Sampson given to Sanctuary on 13 August 2023 © Alison Sampson 2023. Photo by Mantas Hesthaven on Unsplash.
Alison and the whale 