The Sacredness of Sharing Our Stories
the Rev. Beth Hoffman Copenhaver
April 6, 2025 | Final Sunday Sermon
Text: Isaiah 43:16-21
While this is only my sixth time in 31 years, crafting a farewell sermon has always been for me a complicated task. There is so much to say, and no one wants a Sunday morning message to be that long. Of this, I am certain. Approaching this offering as both an epistle of gratitude and a congregational charge, I turned to the lectionary scriptures for this fifth week of Lent for some guidance… Paul tackles circumcision, so I decided to leave that for another day. John offers up the scene where Mary washes Jesus’ feet with expensive perfume, a lovely Lenten gospel story but not much for saying goodbye. So I offer you a few verses from the first testament reading in Isaiah, (which is wrong in your bulletin, it is actually from Chapter 43, not 42) that includes a most definite blessing and a charge right in the middle of the pericope:
Isaiah 43: 16-21
Thus says the Lord,
who makes a way in the sea,
a path in the mighty waters,
17 who brings out chariot and horse,
army and warrior;
they lie down; they cannot rise;
they are extinguished, quenched like a wick:
18 Do not remember the former things
or consider the things of old.
19 I am about to do a new thing;
now it springs forth; do you not perceive it?
I will make a way in the wilderness
and rivers in the desert.
for I give water in the wilderness,
to give drink to my chosen people,
21 the people whom I formed for myself
so that they might declare my praise.
PRAYER
On my very first day at Plymouth – March 15, 2017 – Jeff Sartain (a beloved former pastor here and close personal friend of mine) gave me a tour of the church building. It lasted for three hours. Of course we became distracted by conversation and catching up, but with each space there was also the silence of reverence and pause for appreciation. With each breath I inhaled the history here. We talked about the rituals and rhythms that occurred in each room, and I learned about the significance of past events while also creatively imagining the possibilities of the future. I asked him over and over – now how do I get to my office from here? Here being the Bovey Room, the sanctuary, the parlor, the education wing, Jackman Room, etc. etc. etc. As we turned an almost final corner Jeff exclaimed, and here is our Art Gallery and 200 hundred seat theater! What? A THEATRE? My inner actor, fueled by a bachelor’s degree in musical theatre instantly ignited and I believe I may have bellowed a few stanzas of “Rose’s Turn” from the show “Gypsy” from center stage. I returned to my office, under Jeff’s direction because at that point I was hopelessly lost, in a state of wonder and amazement – feeling both overwhelmed and a bit out of my element, determining I would need to create a breadcrumb trail every time I ventured out the office doors. While I have always enjoyed the blessings of new beginnings, I fretted about finding my way to a bathroom much less the sanctuary. And really, it took me a long while to remember how to find Room 215. IFYYK.
That was, of course, before I knew all of you, before I had a true sense of what made Plymouth uniquely Plymouth, before I witnessed this covenanted community in action. Now these hallowed spaces feel like home – but not because of their beauty or grandeur or familiarity but rather because they have been the place where relationship has formed, where ritual has been crafted, where the sacred is infused, where the heart is opened and the perspective has widened. These walls hold the most marvelous tales and become the container for our shared stories of hope and joy, sorrow and angst, creativity and transformation. Yet I will tell you what you already know – it is not this building that makes us a church. It is who we are together, bound by covenant and blessed by God. One hope I have for all of you is that you will work collectively and creatively to imagine new purposes for these sacred spaces – that this building will be enlivened by programs and projects and communities that emulate the church I dream about referred to in the book of Acts: sharing meals, making sure everyone has what need, praising God with happy and hopeful hearts. While finances will continue to be something you discuss and discern and difficult decisions will be necessary, my prayer for you is that it will not be money that will fuel decisions made about this beacon on the corner of Nicollet and Franklin, but rather through prayerful consideration you will determine that there is truly space here for all and that by practicing radical hospitality you will meet communal and societal needs in revolutionary ways. God has ordained this in the words from Isaiah: I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth; do you not perceive it? How might this prophecy shape the future of Plymouth Congregational Church?
You have heard me say too many times that it is all about relationship and that everyone has a story and every story is sacred – and you can trust I will continue to say these same things to the weariness of my new congregation. I also believe that there is always a common thread between the stories of two people. Perhaps it is a shared alma mater or a degree of study, perhaps it is the same country, state or city of origin, perhaps it is as simple as a favorite book or poet, a tried and trusted recipe, a person known to both. These simple yet significant parts of our stories become our connective tissue and when we acknowledge another with a common thread, then there becomes the possibility to build a beautiful tapestry of relationship. If we endeavor to discover something about another whom we initially conclude is too different from us, that builds a transformative bridge. This intention can radically change us communally. So many of you are committed to justice work and for each of you the cause is different. And so our congregation splits into many – some working on housing, others on immigration, some on racial equity, others on gender and identity. Still others are searching for contemplative study and experience, and others want the social connection of a small group, some come only to be inspired or challenged by a sermon, while others want to gather for learning and study, still others are fueled by making music or exploring art, and others want to make sure the hungry are fed. At Plymouth there are so many smaller groupings of us doing all the beautiful and essential work of God’s kindom that it appears we are unable to readily identify the common mission and purpose of the collective beloved community. I am not suggesting that we put an end to any of our life affirming ministries, but I am charging you all to consider where these good works intersect and then you intentionally embrace and build upon these intersections so that who you all are together becomes more defined and purposeful. Be cautious of your works becoming siloed, and seek God’s leading and direction together so as to relish the extended community you are becoming. May your threads of justice and arts and worship and spirit filled living become one big beautiful garment of color and light and love. Isaiah 43 is a salvation oracle. It is a text about who God is, what God has done and what God will do. It was first addressed to the exilic community who had long accepted and settled into their lot. Lest the people forget, the prophetic voice reminds them of who their God is. This is the same God who knows and names us, and who beckons us into the future unafraid. As a community, lean in to this God who has already proclaimed a future for you, a next new thing.
In elementary school we are taught that a good story has a beginning, a middle, and an ending. Later we are taught that a story will always be nuanced by the author’s perspective. If I were to classify our shared story, it would be a tale of courage, constant change and continued compassion. I have been a recipient of your generosity and grace as you have offered prayerful care to me in times of sorrow and joy… and that kind of support and compassion has extended mightily to my precious children, my mother and my beloved Mark. You may or may not remember that just two weeks after I started here Ellie and Hannah’s dad died tragically. You did not know us at all and it was a strange and uncertain way to begin with you and yet you offered love to Ellie and Hannah and that care helped them to know both healing and inclusion. As we began our scary walk in the wilderness, you gave us both a compass and a safe place to land. You have loved my children into the remarkable women they are today. You have given them voice from this pulpit, the opportunity to serve, the interest in their journeys and the support from afar. I will never have the right words to say thank you for loving my children. My leaving impacts them more than I wish yet I have assured them that this beloved community remains their place, their sanctuary. It isn’t always easy being the pastor’s kid but you have loved them and accepted them and cheered them on in ways that have helped them heal and grow and trust. This beautiful attention is one of your core values. You have loved generations of children into their own becoming, and it is one of your finest legacies. All children feel loved and supported here. God knows our children and youth need a place where they can just be themselves, loved for simply being. You do that so well. Please do it some more. Join Nina in loving with abundance and naming the amazing gifts our youth share. My witness to you today is that it makes all the difference.
Please remember that at your very best you are a church who receives the stranger with love, extends compassion to those in your midst, works tirelessly in efforts of justice and peace, supports one another in grief and laughs mightily with one another in joy and promise. You make decisions based on fact and faith. You expose a need and you tend it. And you deeply love this church – not because of the pastors but because of the people. You care for this sacred building, you acknowledge the depth of the history here. You look forward in hope. You understand that Plymouth Congregational Church has a story that began long before any of you were sitting here and will continue long after our collective time together. Move forward knowing that you don’t always have to move mountains to make a difference. Do not wait for the perfect opportunity to do something, do something now. Little acts like lifting up a banned book, walking around the block each week with signs for justice, shaking the hand of someone new to you, centering yourself in a moment of Evensong are just as meaningful as the big acts you do – like feeding hundreds at a Third Sunday Meal, gathering the neighborhood for an annual Christmas festival, giving thousands of dollars away each year to worthy organizations. Small acts of tenderness and grace often matter most.
I have said over and over again in these last few weeks that my leaving would not be so painful or difficult if I didn’t love you so very much. Our relationship hasn’t been perfect but in our imperfect way together I have appreciated every opportunity to seek God’s presence with you, to love and serve, to laugh abundantly with you and to shed more than a few tears together along the way. We have done some very hard things together in the last 8 years. I pray you will be open to the change that is to come, and to recognize the blessings of this transition time. Trust in God’s proclamation: I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth; do you not perceive it? Thank you for the great privilege of sharing your story with me, in a remarkable myriad of ways, and thank you for making this once unfamiliar building my home for eight years. May our prayers for each other be that of courage and boldness, ready to face the future unafraid. With God as our guide, Jesus as our foundation, and the Holy Spirit as our sacred thread, may we be blessed into our next new chapter.
Amen and amen.
