This coming Sunday is my last at the church I have served for eight years. Yesterday I leaned heavily on “See you next Sunday” when greeting people after worship.
“We’re going to miss you.”
“See you next Sunday.”
This Sunday, though, that defensive jig is up.
It’s presumptive anyway, right?
“See you next Sunday.” Says who? And why wait seven days?
Maybe it’s a gesture of defiance, a declaration of a certain kind of oracle that, in spite of everything that fights to tear at community from day-to-day, the random-tragic and the calculated alike, we WILL see you next Sunday. Come Hell or the AFC Championship game.
Whatever it is, I’ve said it for the last time here.