"THE BEST SORT OF MEMORY"

11/4/01 - The Rev. Alan Jackson

SERMON

In Alice in Wonderland there is an intriguing little conversation between Alice and the Queen. They're talking about memory, and the Queen is surprised to learn that Alice remembers only things that have already happened; and the Queen declares rather loftily: "Well, it's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards!" Then she goes on to explain how sometimes she lives backwards in order to remember forwards. In fact, the way her memory works becomes so wonderfully complicated that the notion has captured the imaginations of science fiction writers ever since.

"It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards!" says the Queen – and she's right, you know. Our best memory not only looks backwards to where we've come from. It also works forwards, helping us to understand who we are now and where we're headed. Because without memory we have no identity, and if we don't know who we are, how can we know what we're supposed to be about? So today, on this our celebration of All Saints Day, a day so full of memory, I want us to think together for a few minutes about three things: first, the ways that memory shapes our identity as persons; second, how memory shapes our identity as a people; and third, how memory shapes our faith as Christians.

1. First, consider how memory shapes our own personal identity. I think of who I am now, and I thank God for the memory of those who shaped me as I am. My father died when I was two years old, so I have no real memory of him. But by the grace of God, I was the youngest of six brothers; and I carry inside me indelible memories of how each of them cared for me and shaped my values.

Ross, the oldest, read to me from The House at Pooh Corner and Now We are Six, until the lyrics of A. A. Milne became permanently etched on my mind. I owe Ross so much for my love of good books. Dave, the next oldest, would wake me at 4 am to hike into the Alpine Lakes of the North Cascades. He taught me to fish, and get by in the forest. I owe to him my love for the wilderness. Steve would sit at the piano after I had gone to bed, and play classical and romantic pieces until I fell asleep. I have him to thank for my life-long love affair with good music. There was Quentin, "the mad scientist" in the family; who took incredibly detailed pictures of the moon's surface with a box camera mounted to his telescope; who launched homemade rockets over the Columbia River. Quentin, more than anyone, helped me to look at life as an immense laboratory. Then there was Bob, two years older, the "big brother" I always fought with. But as we grew up, he's the one I learned to talk with. As we grew more, he's the one I learned to pray with. And I have Bob to thank for seeing me through to the mature side of a sometimes-turbulent adolescence.

I was two years old when my father died, so I suppose you could say, in a sense, it's a sad sort of memory. But I have five older brothers; and as I think of each one, it brings back memories of times together, and I am overwhelmed with gratitude for each one's gifts in shaping my life. Now, I tell you all this personal information not because I think my life is so unusual. It's quite the contrary, in fact. Single-parent families have become commonplace. But I want you to see that, even in a very ordinary life, without memory there is no identity.

When you and I remember our experiences (the good ones and the bad ones and all the in-between ones) – when we do that, we re-discover much of ourselves. It is because of what has happened to us that we think and look and feel in a particular way. So when we remember our own stories, it's not a "poor sort of memory" that only remembers the past. By remembering who I was, I bring a particular self into the present to face my future.

2. While that's true of you and me as individuals, it is just as true in a larger sense of our identity as a people. Psalm 77, from which we read this morning, is one of those "remembering psalms." It's one of those poems written with astounding literary and religious insight. When things got bad for the Israelites, as they often did, when the pressures of present circumstances drove them to near despair, the one thing that kept them together was their memory. They would recite this poem.

When their resolve grew weak, wondering if God still cared, their hearts told them to remember the mighty acts of God – the God who had delivered them from slavery in Egypt. And despite their present distress, they remembered that they were God's Chosen People. And though they freely admitted the myriad ways in which they had failed God, they held on for dear life to the precious memory that God had never failed them. And that memory, in many cases, was what held them together.

Some of us in our lifetimes have witnessed the saving grace of that same kind of collective memory. During the early days of WW II, when German bombs and rockets were devastating England, Laurence Olivier made a movie of Shakespeare's Henry V. When asked why he did that, he said that he wanted his people to remember those "happy few" who fought an impossible battle against fearful odds at Agincourt – and won! If you have seen the play or the film, perhaps you can imagine how the memories that were stirred by that play steeled the will and encouraged and galvanized those "happy few" who, in our day, faced England's darkest hour and made it her finest hour.

We Americans, of course, have had our own profound experiences of collective memory in recent days. On the morning of September 11, our country was brutally awakened to our vulnerability. But despite the fact that those events shattered forever the naive notion that America is invincible, we have re-discovered in remarkable ways that America is indivisible. That hard reminder of our weakness awakened in us an even greater awareness of our collective character – of what makes us one.

When the twin towers of the World Trade Center collapsed, they unexpectedly brought down with them dividing walls of hostility that have often troubled Americans. Faced with this common tragedy, we've set aside old animosities. For example, on September 11 we discovered, to many people's surprise, that we really don't have a problem with prayer in school. Differences of race and class dissolved in common concern for the victims. And we've witnessed example after example of the compassion and sacrifice that truly makes us one nation.

In many unexpected and deeply moving ways during the past few weeks, we Americans have reclaimed our history. So it turns out that the tragedy of September 11 actually taught us a hard but invaluable lesson. It challenged us to remember and to cherish the stories, the music, the religious freedom and the traditions that define us. Because if we don't remember our history, we lose our sense of who we are. There's a good sort of memory that works not only backwards, but forwards, by giving us a sense of who we are as a people.

3. "It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards!" says the Queen to Alice – and she's right. So it follows that there is a good sort of memory that works both backwards and forwards in shaping our identity as persons and as a people. But there's an even better sort of memory that works both backwards and forwards, and that's the sort of memory that shapes our faith as Christians.

When you and I talk about our Christian faith, we generally speak of it in individual terms or not at all; and that's because we consider our faith a very personal matter. And yet our faith is the most important thing we share as Christians. So there's an interesting tension between the personal and the corporate aspects of our faith. For instance, some of us can remember the precise circumstances when we first came to faith. I, for example, can remember the time and place where I accepted God's gift in Jesus, and offered my life to Him in return. The memory of that intimate transaction is still clear to me.

There are others, however, whose memory doesn't have that kind of pinpoint accuracy. C. S. Lewis in his spiritual autobiography entitled Surprised by Joy says that when he boarded a train one day he didn't believe Jesus was the Son of God. When he left the train a few hours later he believed. There was no deep emotion; simply a quiet acceptance of the truth. But what is common to both my kind of experience and that of C. S. Lewis, is that behind those decisions were a host of people and influences that, over the years, had been moving us there.

I suspect that's true for most of us. If you can, think back on your own coming to faith. Some of us will remember it as a moment of truth, while others will think of it as a kind of gradual realization – like giving a name to something we had suspected was true for years. It's like the native who heard from a missionary for the first time the story of God's love in Jesus. She said, "Oh, his name is ‘Jesus.' I've always known him; I just didn't know his name until now."

The personal memories that shape our faith are all going to be different because we're all different. Common sense tells us that. So we needn't shy away from that fact. Instead of being bothered by the so-called "inconsistencies" in our faith stories, we should treasure those differences. Why? Because our different faith stories not only confirm our uniqueness; they remind us that God is so great that there are all sorts of ways that people can get to know Him. And while Jesus is unquestionably the only way to the Father, I would question anyone who claims to know who belongs to Jesus and who does not.

But while our memories of our own faith journeys are all unique (no two exactly the same), there is one memory we all share. We share the memory of Jesus' gift of his life for us all. And when we gather for worship, we discover there an act of remembrance that defines us more than anything else we do as Christians. It is a simple meal that speaks of the power of memory as a means of grace. Jesus said, "This is my body broken for you. Do this in remembrance of me."

But when you remember in this sacrament what Jesus did for you on the cross, mark my words, it doesn't have to be with the "poor sort of memory that only works backwards" – that remembers only what he did. If you want him to, God can turn this sacrament into the best sort of memory for you – one that can take that perfect gift already given, and make it a real, present gift to you right now. So if you want the death of Jesus on the cross to be more to you than a historical fact to be remembered, then make these words your prayer:

Lord, I don't want to be only reminded of your love – I want to experience it right now. Lord, I don't want to be just reminded of how you gave your life to set me free – I want you to set me free right now. Lord, I don't need to be reminded of how you want me to live – I need to live in such a way that I could never forget you. And I can do that because I trust you to always remember me. So as I approach your table today, Lord, do with me as you will. 
 

amen

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