“Until We Meet Again”

“Finally, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.” These words from Philippians 4:8 have been a kind of lamp for me these past weeks, and now - after the most glorious afternoon of tea, prosecco, jazz, and your generous hearts - they rest in my hands like a folded note from the one who first taught me to love this place.

I am overwhelmed. That is the simplest truth. Overwhelmed by the sight of the Fellowship Hall full of faces, by the laughter that sounded like a benediction, by the music that wrapped us in memory and hope. Overwhelmed by bouquets and ribbons and the many ways you found to say “thank you” - and to say I matter to you. 

Your gifts, both tangible and tender, will be used wisely and remembered fondly, but it is the gift of you that will stay with me: your stories, your grace, your open hands and open hearts.

You honoured me with an exquisite party, but what you gave me, was far more: a living portrait of Philippians 4:8. When I try to describe St. Philip’s, I see truth - honest conversations at coffee hour, confessions and care in the emergency rooms of life. 

I see justice - your steady hands at Good Food Market, your voices for the vulnerable. 

I see purity - the simple, daily sacrament of showing up for one another. I see loveliness - the way you decorate a table for fellowship, the way you make room for the shy and the bold. I see good report - how news of your compassion travels beyond our walls. 

I see virtue and praise - the steady kind that makes a neighbourhood kinder and a soul braver.

I have been a preacher for many years. I have learned that sermons finally live in the doing - the echoes of words shaped by your actions. You have made the gospel tangible for me. You have answered countless prayers with your hands and feet. You have been my colleagues in joy and sorrow, my teachers in humility and my reason to hope.

That afternoon, watching you - the old and the young, the quiet and the loud, the long-time friends and the new faces - I felt what I have felt each Sunday for thirteen years: deeply known, deeply loved. The jazz brushed against the rafters like a blessing; the tea warmed us like fellowship; the prosecco bubbles mirrored the tiny miracles we celebrate every day. I watched you laugh until you cried and cry until you laughed, and I remembered every baptism and funeral, every council meeting and Bible study, every time we wrestled with hard questions and found prayer standing at the door.

Thank you for the beautiful words you offered, for the thoughtful gifts, for the cards and the hugs that said so much without a single sentence. Thank you for the generosity that will carry me into the next chapter with grace and peace. But most of all, thank you for letting me be part of your lives. Pastoral ministry is a mutual making: you have shaped me as surely as I have tried, imperfectly, to serve you. I leave enriched by your faithfulness, by your stubborn hope, and by the daily practice of love that you make visible.

I do not say goodbye so much as “until we meet again.” The bonds we share are not bound by a meeting or a schedule. They are stitched into the ordinary fabric of our days. I will be praying for you - that you continue to look for what is true, honest, just, pure, lovely, and of good report. I will be rooting for you as you find new rhythms and, I suspect, as you discover gifts in one another you have not yet known.

May the music of last Saturday linger in your rooms. May the laughter return at unexpected times. May the work we began together continue in willing hands and brave hearts.  And when you gather, please remember: the best sermon I ever preached was the one you lived.

With gratitude and love,

Pastor Tuula