A Time to Leave

What autumn can teach us about when it's time to go

“How do you know when it’s time to leave?” I’ve heard the question more times than I can count. And in every case that I can recall, it’s been asked by a woman of color working in a church, a seminary, or some other ministry setting.

Until recently, I always entered new jobs as if they were marriages. I planned to stay there forever. I pledged myself to the health and well-being of the institution, convinced that my sacrifices would pay off in the long-run. I treated the institution’s projects as if they were children whom I was responsible for shepherding into healthy adulthood. I imagined the day that I would hold the “emeritus” title, indicating that I had retired from the institution after decades of serving with distinction.

Even when it was obvious that an organization did not view me with the same covenantal love that I bestowed upon it, I persisted. I stayed when it interfered with my health. I stayed when my labor was exploited but not rewarded. I stayed even after realizing it was toxic. I thought I could make it better. I thought it was my responsibility to make it better.

I wanted to embody the patient, faithful waiting that scripture encouraged of believers:

Therefore, brothers and sisters, you must be patient as you wait for the coming of the Lord. Consider the farmer who waits patiently for the coming of rain in the fall and spring, looking forward to the precious fruit of the earth. You also must wait patiently, strengthening your resolve, because the coming of the Lord is near (James 5: 7-8, CEB).

I also wanted to avoid being like the secessionists that 1 John so strongly criticized:

They went out from us, but they were not really part of us. If they had been part of us, they would have stayed with us. But by going out from us, they showed they all are not part of us (1 John 2:19, CEB).

I had frequently heard ministry organizations use scriptures like these to exhort people to stay in community as a sign of faith. The implication was clear: those who leave are not faithful and not true. So I stayed.

However, scripture offers multiple stories about leaving as an act of faithfulness. Abraham left his country, his people, and his father’s household to follow God’s call even when he did not know where that call was leaving him. Moses left the comfort and privilege of Pharaoh’s temple for the chaos of the wilderness. Ruth left her people out of her love for and dedication to Naomi. And when Jesus sent the 72 followers out to preach the presence of God’s kingdom, he taught them when to leave.

Whenever you enter a house, first say, ‘May peace be on this house.’ If anyone there shares God’s peace, then your peace will rest on that person. If not, your blessing will return to you…Whenever you enter a city and the people don’t welcome you, go out into the streets and say, ‘As a complaint against you, we brush off the dust of your city that has collected on our feet. But know this: God’s kingdom has come to you’ (Luke 10: 5-6, 10-11, CEB).

Sometimes we leave because God has called us somewhere else. But sometimes we leave because we see the signs that it is time for us to go.

For the past few weeks, I have been paying attention to the trees in my home, in my neighborhood, and on my commute, watching the leaves as they slowly begin to change color and eventually fall. I’ve gleaned a few lessons from them about how to know when it’s time to leave.

1. The climate is no longer conducive to our flourishing. Jesus told his followers to leave if they entered a place that didn’t welcome them. Often, though, we can enter new positions that are extremely welcoming upon arrival. For a time, we flourish in them. But at some point, things begin to change. A chill begins to set in. We may even start to feel freezed out of the community. We don’t get the resources that we need for our job and that seem readily available for others. Our attempts to advance in the organization are rebuffed even as our leadership and skill contribute to its success.

   What’s remarkable about the leaves is they begin to change before the climate has become completely hostile. Here in Georgia, for example, the daily high temperatures are still in the eighties. Yet the leaves are already turning because they know the change is coming. What would it look like for us to notice a change in welcome at its start? Perhaps then we wouldn’t stay until the point where our health and relationships are deteriorating.

2. Moving somewhere else may allow us to find new purpose. Leaves have a critical function for trees – they use photosynthesis to convert energy from sunlight into the food that the trees need for survival. But their functionality does not end when they fall. Fallen leaves are abundant in carbon, which fertilizes the soil, promoting new growth that benefits not just plants, but all life.

   Sometimes we need to leave because we need to discover a new purpose. We may have undeveloped and dormant skills that we have not yet tapped into because our current position does not allow it. A new environment may be what we need to break through the stagnation and discover that we are capable of being more than we thought.

3. Our season has come to an end. When leaves have done their job well, they provide enough food during the sun-drenched days of summer that the plant can store and utilize during the fall and winter. Then, during the springtime, new leaves are born, starting the cycle all over again. But for a new leaf to be born, another must fall.

   Even when we serve well, there will inevitably come a time when our season in a particular setting comes to an end. We have made as much impact as we are capable of, and now the setting needs someone else to advance the work. We all have our role: some of us will cultivate the soil; others will plant the seeds; and still others will water and pull weeds. If we overstay, we inhibit the growth of the new leaves, hindering the potential of those who come behind us and stifling our potential to find new purpose. Our leaving can be an act of faith that God is still in the business of making things grow.

I planted, Apollos watered, but God made it grow. Because of this, neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but the only one who is anything is God who makes it grow (1 Cor. 3:6-7, CEB).

For the first 20 years of my career, I focused so hard on staying in every job and ministry role that I failed to recognize the signs that it was time to leave. I kept proclaiming peace where it was not shared. I remained in a hostile climate even when it was damaging to my health. I stifled my own growth and potentially that of others.

These days, I’m learning from the leaves, constantly assessing whether my environment is conducive to my flourishing and accepting that there will come a time for me to leave.

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In Case You Missed It

Last week, I had the great privilege of appearing as a guest on the United Church of Christ’s “Nurture the Soul” webinar series. Rev. Traci Blackmon and I had a great conversation about the theology of self-care and why it’s so hard for Christian leaders to care for ourselves as well as we care for others. Be sure to watch the recording.