I entered a relationship with Jesus I was aware of when I was seven. I can still see my tears falling into the green gold shag carpet in my preacher father’s study where I said, “The sinner’s prayer.” And I think I can still hear my little brother’s tone when he learned that I had been saved, “I hope it takes.”

Two years later, my family moved from Texas to Colorado, and I went to a youth camp at Ponderosa Camp just outside of Colorado Springs. I spent a week learning about Jesus, the proper handling of a .22, and making lanyards for our moms.

Every night, we gathered in an open pavilion for a chapel service with an altar call. I listened to the preacher on the last night of the week but heard from God. I heard him in my heart. I never heard words. It was more like a whisper—but it wasn’t a whisper of words. You might say it was a “calling.” It was very vague, almost ethereal, and I was troubled by it.

When I got home from camp, my mom and dad took me out on the back porch of the house we were staying in. My dad asked me about camp and what I had learned. I didn’t want to say anything, but I cleared my throat and finally muttered, “I believe God has called me to preach.”

I’ll never forget what he said next. He looked up at the sky, took a deep breath, looked at my mom, and said, “I was afraid that would happen.”

I eventually became a preacher. It was the natural progression in my family. My dad was a preacher. My grandfather had been a preacher. Folks at church would always ask me, “Are you going to be a preacher like your dad?” I don’t remember what I said, but I remember what I felt, “I hope not.” I didn’t want to be a preacher.

But that night at the camp, God whispered to me. He wanted me to pastor his people. I was called to my first church in 1984. I was twenty-six years old. I had no clue what to do. I knew how to preach but didn’t know how to be a pastor. That was over forty years ago. I have a clue now. And the reason is because God’s grace grew me into who he wanted me to be.

But ever since 1978, all I have wanted to do has been to pastor God’s church.

About ten years ago, at this time of year, Jerry Thornhill called to inquire if I would be interested in interviewing to be the pastor of Mountain Heights. I said yes. Then, in May 2015, you flew Lynette and me out here to meet you. I preached for you, and you voted to have me be your next pastor. That was ten years ago.

The highest honor of my life has been to be your pastor. But it is time for me to retire from pastoring.

Lynette and I are not moving. We love living here in Buena Vista and will continue to host soul care retreats for pastors in our home. I suppose you could say I will devote my time to pastoring pastors now because every pastor needs a pastor.

With your permission, I would like to continue as your pastor until May and help the Leadership Council find a suitable interim pastor to present to you for you to vote on.

I teach young pastors not to let what they do for a living get wrapped around the axle of their identity.  I say, “You are, first and foremost, the beloved of God. Period. God has called you to be a shepherd of his people.”

I teach the younger pastors that, spiritually speaking, each of them has a last name and a first name. Their last name is God’s family name. In other words, their last name is “Beloved.”

But you also have a first name. It has to do with your calling and vocation.

 My given name is Joseph, which means “one who adds.” I used to wonder, “Adds what?” Perhaps a story would help make this clear.

About 22 years ago, my dad and I took my oldest sons backpacking in the Sangre de Cristos. As we climbed the 13,200-foot pass to drop into the Deadman basin, I saw Dad slowing down. His knee had been giving him plenty of trouble. It was before his knee replacement, and he was climbing with bone on bone in his right knee. Understandably, he was the last up to the top of the pass. As we sat in that high alpine saddle above Timberline waiting for him, one of my sons said, “Dad, Grandpa is tough. Are you going to be able to climb up here like he is doing when you are 65?”

“Shut up, kid.”

No. I said, “Yeah, he is setting the bar pretty high for me.”

After a week of catching the best cutthroat trout in the state, we started planning our trek out. Dad’s knee never recovered as he had hoped, and the thought of climbing out the same way we came in was out of the question. The trouble was that we had never come out of Deadman any other way. We got the topographical maps out, and he and I began looking at other possible routes.

We settled on one good route and headed out on the sixth day of our trip. It was a longer trek but much easier on my dad’s knee. He was still slow but making good progress.

The final pitch down to Lower Sand Lakes and the relatively easier trail back to the truck was blocked by a cliff band that was dangerous to descend. I had everyone set their packs down and wait as I probed the cliffs to find a way down that was safe for my teenage sons and my injured father.

Eventually, I found a steep cut in the cliff’s rocks filled with remnants of last winter’s snow. I decided to kick-step down and drop my pack, then go back up and carry each of my sons’ packs down myself. I then carefully “spot them” from below, placing each of their feet in the large and boot-packed snow steps I had created on my initial descent.

I ferried them down the 75-foot snow chute one by one. It was slow going, and the boys were more than a little nervous about the descent. Dad watched me take each of them down and never said a word.

Finally, the only one left was Dad. I climbed back seventy-five feet to where he and his pack rested above the snow chute. I sat down beside him.

After a long silence, he said, “You are really good with those boys.”

“Thanks.”

The boys were burning off residual adrenaline with a snowball fight at the bottom. Dad and I just sat and watched them. Then, we would look out at the green floor of the Wet Mountain Valley.

We sat silently together.

Finally, I asked him, “How’s your knee?”

Probably a little more sternly than he meant, he said, “It hurts!”

I nodded.

We sat in silence a little more.

“How do you want to do this,” I said.

“I want to carry my pack down!”

I nodded.

“But you better carry it,” he said.

“Okay.”

We got up, and I put his pack on my back and went to the snow chute. I went first to spot him and make sure his feet were deep in the pocket of the steps we had created. As I stepped onto the snow with his pack on my back, he grabbed my shoulder, turned me to face him, and said, “You helped those boys feel safe in a dangerous situation. You have a gift of bringing calm and hope when people need it most. And You make me feel safe, too.”

Those words touched a place inside me that ached for affirmation and assurance that I had what it took to be a man. I’m not going to lie: Tears filled my eyes, making it difficult to shove his feet into those boot-packed steps down the snow chute—one foot after another.

My last name is Beloved. My first name is the one who adds hope.

I’ve told you this story to remind you that I love each of you and want to assure you that if I know anything, there is a better tomorrow for this church. Her best days are not behind her. Her best days are out in the many tomorrows that lie before you. I promise to help you get to that better tomorrow and your new pastor.

Now, please receive a blessing from God’s word from your pastor:

“The Lord bless you and keep you;
The Lord make His face shine upon you,
And be gracious to you;
The Lord lift up His countenance upon you,
And give you peace.” ’

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.