I recently “retired” as the pastor of the most loving and wonderful church family. Woodland Church has been our family’s church home for 27 years and will continue to be our church family. This has been a joyful—and emotionally difficult—decision.

One of my friends encouraged me to ignore the sadness I am experiencing and not acknowledge it. I am not able to do that. After much prayer and reflection, I know that I must work through these emotions of joy and sorrow together.

I have never allowed anyone to say, “This is Pastor Clanton’s church.” It is not my church; it is Christ’s Church. Every Sunday morning, I would hold my hand out and imagine the Lord’s hand beneath mine. I prayed each week, “Lord, this is Your church—Your people. Thank You for calling me to shepherd this congregation. Help me to do it well, out of love for You and Your people. Help me always to remember: we belong to You.”

To the best of my ability, I believe I have lived that prayer. I believe with all my heart that this posture is what allowed me to love the church and our community so deeply. So yes, I sorrow—but it is a sorrow born out of love.

It is not sorrow rooted in fear of having made a mistake, nor in giving up the pulpit entrusted to me for 27 years. During that time, I preached and taught 3,129 messages. With the exception of three sermons, each one was a new message—prayerfully prepared as what I believed the Lord was saying to us as a congregation. That represents countless hours of study, writing, preaching, teaching, and weekly evaluation with our staff, all intended to help us grow. This sorrow comes from missing my brothers and sisters in Christ—praying at the altar with those who asked for prayer, casting vision together, dreaming together. It comes from the fellowship—often daily—around tables, talking about marriage and family, work and calling, dreams and disappointments, victories and losses, pain and joy. Celebrating those special moments of life like coming to faith in God, baptism, weddings, baby dedications, graduations, achieving big goals, and retirement celebrations with your church family. Walking through difficult times with people you love through repentance, renewal, and restoration. Sitting with people in the sad times of illness and death. All of these are life experiences that bind us together. “So we tell others about Christ, warning everyone and teaching everyone with all the wisdom God has given us. We want to present them to God, perfect in their relationship to Christ. That’s why I work and struggle so hard, depending on Christ’s mighty power that works within me.” Colossians 1:28-29

Our church and community celebrated our 27 years of ministry with such generosity and love. Our church, denomination, and community gathered together one Sunday morning in a way I will never forget. They honored our family deeply. There is no doubt in my mind: we are loved.

I firmly believe I made the right decision. And yet I still ask myself, my wife, and the Lord, “Why am I sad?” I have come to two conclusions. First, I am laying down a role that allowed me to serve people I dearly love. Second, I never slowed down after making the decision to retire.

One of our pastors said to me in our final staff meeting, “You never slowed down—you ran full speed until the end. Most people slow down as they approach retirement.” He was right. I probably should have slowed down and spent more time imagining what comes next. Becky and I talked and prayed. I made mind maps. I spoke with men who had retired from the pastorate. But I never really sat down and dreamed.

After preaching our Christmas Eve service, I celebrated Christmas Day with our family. The next morning, I underwent a second surgery related to the cancer I had this summer. The recovery has been more painful than I expected, and I’m sure that has contributed to the emotions I’m experiencing. Still, I know this heartache will heal.

Could I have done better, looking back? Of course. You almost always can—with more knowledge, perspective, and experience. But in the moment, I truly believe I did my best, with God’s help.

After my annual physical at age 28, while living in Central Georgia, my doctor said, “You can call yourself a runner now. You need hills for running.” We laughed after I told him what my friends in South Georgia would say. They were the ones who had convinced me to begin running and training for my first race.

Running became a shared life. We trained together several times a week. We ate similar foods. We worshiped together. Some of us served in the same ministries. We were family. When we moved, I missed them terribly—especially while running those Central Georgia hills. They remain dear friends, and they have prayed faithfully for me during this cancer journey.

Woodland will always be family.

Healthy change makes room for healthy growth. I am deeply grateful for the love and trust Woodland Church extended to Becky and me. I am thankful that I am not singing for joy because I am no longer the pastor of the Woodland family. I am thankful that love sometimes hurts.

Christianity without the heartbreak of the Cross would be a farce. Leaving without heartache would frighten me far more than leaving with it. Love, after all, leaves a mark—and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Peace!