So this is what it is like to be on the other side.

Since Easter Sunday, my last as a vicar for the time being, I have spent my Sundays not going to church. You could say that I am in-between churches having left the ones I’ve served for the last twelve years without moving on to a new parish. No longer do Sunday mornings mean tiptoeing around the house trying not to awaken the resident heathens, donning robes and collaring up in the dark (well at least during the winter months) and heading out for the 8am Holy Communion, the first in a stream of acts of worship I will be leading that day.

No longer that deep intake of breath as I launch myself off the cliff face that is the sermon without notes, trusting that the Holy Spirit will catch me, and together with the rest of the congregation we will soar to new spiritual understandings, or at the very least not crash and burn; God has been gracious to me so far. There is no standing on the doorstep shaking hands with parishioners receiving their ‘nice sermon, vicar’ comments and asking how they are, before dashing off to the next rural church, competing with wildlife, tractors, ponies, and gangs of lycra clad cyclists along the country lanes.

No ‘more tea vicar’ moments as we linger around the refreshments table (anything from slightly damp digestive biscuits to homemade gateaux may be on offer), and meeting baptism families or wedding couples hoping to book a date.

To be honest church hasn’t been like that for a while due to social distancing and hand sanitising and other Covid prevention measures; but neither has there been any remote worship either, no more livestreaming from my study with a cat on my lap or connecting via Zoom (internet dependent).

Instead, I have done all those other weekend things that people can’t come to church because they are otherwise engaged in. I have slept in, blissfully cocooned in my feather duvet, listening to the birds singing as the sun creeps in through the blinds; I have become a ‘weekender’, packing the dog into the car and escaping to Devon for long walks on the beach; I have lingered over brunch with my husband (sometimes whilst weekending). I have even been shopping for a new kitchen, which is a whole other story!

In short, I have become like my former parishioners who would say to me ‘I used to come to church all the time when I was a choir boy’ and regale me with tales of the organist who would slip out to the pub during the sermon! When I asked them why they didn’t come anymore they would just shrug their shoulders and tell me that it was complicated.

And it is complicated. There is a sense of bereavement that what was formerly part of the weekly routine has simply disappeared; there is a loss of the friendships and weekly connections, and of course there is a brokenness in not worshipping with our Christian family. The sense of belonging has faded away. With any bereavement there needs to be a kindness, a giving of space and time to move from one metaphorical place to another, and I guess I am in that space now.

We haven’t yet moved from the Rectory, and as I ventured into the garden to release the chickens one morning (still in my pyjamas because Sundays are now lazy), I could hear music. I stopped and listened as I tried to work out where it was coming from, when of course I realised that it was the church organ being played, because this is what happens on Sunday mornings. I stopped and listened from the outside. I am now an outsider. So many key moments haven taken place within that church with me at the heart of them, not least my own licensing and the baptism of my daughter. I understand, perhaps, that shrug of the shoulder and why no matter how many times I tried to reassure those overgrown choirboys that they were welcome, they didn’t want to return.

For the first time in my life I don’t belong to a church. I know I would be welcomed by the congregation, but I just don’t belong there anymore: they are all looking forward to new beginnings, whilst I am looking back on past memories. Soon there will be an end date against my name on the board of vicars. Soon I will be a part of the church’s history, the first female priest, and I guess that’s OK.

For now I am going to take Sunday’s easy, worship from the garden, take my time, be gentle to myself, and listen for God’s voice calling me on to the next adventure.