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Good morning.

My dad retired two years ago. He started work when he was 15 and he finally finished at 71, but because the country was locked down with Covid restrictions, there was no leaving party. No fanfare. No official acknowledgment. After 56 years of continuous hard work, he picked his tools up from the builder’s yard one last time and went home. The end. His transition from a worker to a retired man, went unmarked. Such was the fate of the millions of other people who experienced important, life-changing transitions during that period and were unable to find ways to meaningfully mark the moment during a period absent of shared community experiences.

Today is the last day of school for many children and teens in the UK. Year Six leaving primary school is one such transitional moment that is celebrated and acknowledged, sometimes with a service in the local church. The move from primary school into secondary not only signifies a geographical change, but also heralds the process of childhood being left behind. When I was a secondary teacher, I had responsibility for a Year Seven form, and so can attest to the culture shock which occurs when a class of comparatively tiny eleven year olds arrive in September, with their giant rucksacks and pristine blazers, devoid of the cynicism and louche manners of their teenage counterparts in upper school. They very quickly learn.

Marking important transitions seems to be a deeply felt need inside us and this doesn’t just include liminal moments where things change irrevocably such as a retirement or leaving school, but also includes milestone anniversaries and birthdays, starting a new job or moving into a new home – these moments matter profoundly to people’s lives. Places of worship can be a really important space in the community where these human stories interconnect with the story of God. Where, through the use of ritual and prayer, people can be helped to process the magnitude of the moment and attest that we matter to God and are not forgotten in his sight. Ritual creates an opportunity for people to share in one another’s joy and gives us a place to support each other in our losses.

My dad has never complained that his retirement was ignored. He wouldn’t. He’s the kind of man to just shrug his shoulders and say nothing. But I want to say that he matters. His hard work and dedication matter. That chapter in the story of his life is not forgotten. That’s what sensitive pastoral ritual does, it declares publicly that we are cared for. Our stories matter.

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