“Who am I?” asks Dietrich Bonhoeffer in his famous poem of that name, written from Tegel Prison, where he was detained by the Nazi regime. The poem reflects on how he could appear to be one person in public—confident, assured in front of the guards and the other prisoners—and in private to himself “a contemptibly woebegone weakling.” He asks himself, am I “one person today and tomorrow another? Am I both at once?”
Bonhoeffer’s words haunt me. I was given the poem by my first spiritual director in the 1990s. It is a classic in spiritual discernment. Now, as I prepare for a fresh, pretty frightening step into the unknown—retirement from full-time ministry on health grounds at the end of July—Bonhoeffer’s poem has come alive again. I know: Retirement is hardly as stressful or desperate as the existential situation faced by Bonhoeffer. But it is still a genuine “who am I?” moment. I have been ordained for 21 years, and my whole adult life has—for good or ill—been oriented around my call to full-time ordained ministry. Pretty much from the moment I came to faith in my mid-20s, 30 years ago, this call has been my focus.
In my head, I know that in retirement I shall remain a priest. The question is, Who am I at a heart level? Well, here are some of my current answers. Early retirement represents the death of long-cherished ministry plans and futures. Given that I live in church-owned housing, it also represents the prospect of losing my home at the same time as I lose roles which have given my life real shape and purpose. Retirement is the prospect of an unchosen financial precariousness. I have long known in my head that being a full-time Church of England priest is relatively cosseted precisely because I serve an institution that offers meaning, purpose, a place to live, and money enough. Now I know it in my heart. The prospect of early retirement is an encounter with being stripped, a chastening exposure to my own absurdity, vanity, and self-importance. My heart hurts.
