Rites of passage take many forms. One of the more familiar is the fond farewell when a colleague moves on, leaving one post for another. These affairs usually consist of lubricated toasts and well-wishes; sometimes – like as not – the local poet tunes up.
So it was, some years ago in New York City, where my wife and I attended the Brick Church. The associate pastor was leaving, having been given a well-deserved assignment to head another, albeit smaller, church elsewhere in Manhattan.
Our senior pastor, Herb, was “traditional,” and his reserve reflected the hushed reverence in which The Brick was held. The departing associate, Leslie, was very much a people person, beloved by all. For her farewell party, I supplied a short verse. My sense was that Leslie loved it; Herb, not so much.
In their quest for Perfect Truth
These two gave no quarter.
Herb bespoke the bricks of Brick;
Leslie was the mortar.