For the past few years, just before and after my
60th birthday, I've been unusually conscious of reminders of my past. I have
sentimental treasures in my home that catch my eye on a daily basis. In one
secluded hallway are pictures of grandparents, parents from their youth through
senior years, aunts and uncles, and even of me on the day of my baptism. Nearby
are documents related to my education, ordination, and other milestones. As I
routinely move from room to room, several items reach out for my attention: an
infant's cup given to my mother by her father, the rocking chair Dad gave Mom
when I was born, and yes - even my 61 year old teddy bear "Bud." The same model
of the Lionel train Dad gave me sits on a window sill in the family room. There
are the watercolors, pen & inks, and a framed needlepoint of a church I
served - all created by friends, Dad and Grampa's pocket watches, a candle and
a vase from Bethesda friends, and gift Prayer Books along the way. This one was
given to me 52 years ago and signed during my youth by 35 clergy - from the
rector who baptized me and presented me for confirmation and ordinations to
Archbishop of Canterbury Geoffrey Fisher. (I was a bit too churchy in those
days!) So many other valuable reminders of a life shared are always in
view!
Last year a sampling of household treasures was
taken to an appraiser. As I was doing some more estate planning, I was curious
about their monetary value. I was surprised by how little they contribute to my
financial legacy! Yet, virtually every item reminds me of a person who has
enriched my life. For me, each is a priceless treasure. More than an attractive
museum piece admired in a somewhat detached way, every object touches my heart
as well as my mind.
Within a few weeks I'll have attended a number
of 1999 Palm Beach County events sponsored by schools and other institutions
with which I've been associated; they all bring back pleasant memories. But,
just last month I had a remarkable experience. I discovered that the pioneering
founder of the Green Acres Nursery School which I attended in Massachusetts
about 1940 is living in Delray Beach! Through a third party, I learned that she
remembers me and had even mentioned me in one of her books on child care. (I'm
not sure I want to know why.) We had a wonderful conversation and luncheon
together at her lovely retirement residence. In the dining hall I very quietly
sang two of the nursery school songs I remember, and we laughed together.
(Don't even think of asking me to repeat that performance!) She had just had
her 90th birthday. We marveled that the community in which I now live is within
another Greenacres. As I left, she presented me with her newly published
autobiography. The past had come to the present in a dynamic, very moving way.
What had been a distant memory had become enlivened by our face-to-face
conversation, fellowship, and nourishment.
Each week I visit my mother, now 89, in a nearby
long-term care residence. She has many health problems. Yet, in her opinion,
and I believe that she is correct, her greatest problem is her severely
deteriorating memory. Both the past and the present are increasingly fading -
which leaves much distressing puzzlement and loneliness. In late 1978 Mom and
Dad moved from Ft. Lauderdale into my Connecticut home - where at only 69 years
old Dad spent his final four months. He, too, even more severely than Mom's
present condition, surrendered his memories to the ravages of Alzheimers
dementia. Dad's journey toward bewilderment had begun at about age 63, just
about a year older than I am now. Mother no longer remembers the circumstances
of Dad's sad parting, and perhaps that is just as well.
Two weeks ago in this church I led the first
part of the 11 o'clock Service of Morning Prayer. You might have noticed that I
forgot to begin the Psalm; it was definitely not a scheduled moment of silence!
Fortunately, Fr. Warren gently prompted me. Frankly, my mind had wandered
during the preceding canticle. Occasionally in other settings I can't recall
something I want to remember, even where I put something down five minutes
earlier, or a phone number just provided. Such lapses are normal for all of us,
but they can be annoying. Nonetheless, if these kinds of vacuous moments are
bothersome, we have but a hint of what life must be like for my mother and
countless others! Imagine what it is like for those who have only a vague sense
of who they are, their own identity.
To be sure, there are haunting, unpleasant
memories that we'd like to forget: things said and unsaid, wrongful deeds,
negligences, and the like. Yet, they are there, too, and we learn to live with
regrets.
An Old Testament scholar has written, "Memory is
one of humanity's supreme endowments. Each of us acts today and hopes for
tomorrow in the light of past experiences that have been woven into a
life-story. When we want to know someone, we ask that person to tell us
something about his or her life, for in this way personal identity is
disclosed. To be a self is to have a personal history. This is what defines
one's uniqueness." [1]
A primary reason that you and I gather for
worship is neither to prod the Creator to do what we should be doing ourselves
nor to satisfy an imagined need on God's part for kneeling creatures. Rather,
we are here to a large extent to remember. Through what is said and sung, by
depictions in carvings and stained glass, through what is provided in
consecrated water, bread, wine, and touch, our collective memory and individual
recollections reach back over the centuries to God's unremitting search for
human faithfulness, and to numerous Divine self-disclosures, especially His
Word manifest in Jesus Christ. Furthermore, each of us is reminded who we
basically are: children of God "born from above" through our baptisms.
Look toward the High Altar and you see the
Cross; through it we remember Jesus' faithfulness to the death and his
Resurrection. Depicted in the Te Deum window above is the Risen and Reigning
Christ, as well as our extended family members Micah and Isaiah, Saints Peter,
Paul, Stephen, Catherine of Alexandria, Gregory the Great, Augustine, and Mary.
And these are memories from only one window in this church. Later, visit the
Baptistry Chapel at the front, on your left! Reflect on the representations and
emblems of Christ the King, the Holy Spirit, the Four Evangelists, Mary the
Mother of Jesus, and the Holy Family. At the north side of the Chapel is the
font, where so many baptisms have occurred over the years, a great symbol of
our "being born from above," or as some would say, our being "born again." I
suspect it would take considerable time to savor the abundance of memories
caught up in the many depictions and symbols here.
The memories we share here are not indifferent
recollections of ancient doctrines, historic ceremonies, and legendary
personalities - all past and absent - now to be viewed as museum exhibits.
Rather what we do here is intended to make present to us, in the realm of the
here and now, God's Word made flesh. We dare not forget the individuals
represented by the artistic treasures in this church: their diverse witnessing
to their baptismal rebirth in Christ.
On Christmas Eve, two weeks before Dad died, I
served him Holy Communion at home. He carefully put the wafer in his bathrobe
pocket. "Dad, don't you want to consume the host?" I asked gently. "No," he
replied, "it's holy, and I want to keep it for a while." By Christmas morning,
it had disappeared, consumed we trust whenever Dad was ready. In his near
oblivion, sometimes not distinguishing the living room from a passenger car on
a moving train, Dad remembered this symbol of holiness.
Yet, you and I with full comprehension routinely
neglect to remember the many treasures that point to so many that have enriched
the extended Christian family. Our surroundings in this place become so routine
that we acquire indifference, detached from the messages and meanings
surrounding us. Just as the font can easily be overlooked, that we have been
"born from above" at our baptisms may become all but lost. We might even
receive Communion as a pious nicety, instead of a holy moment, indeed a sacred
symbol that enlivens God's Word in our lives. We can leave this building
untouched, if we have forgotten how to truly remember.
Our participation here cannot provide a full
encounter with the Creator analogous to my luncheon with my nursery school
mentor; that will have to await our entrance into the next life. However, you
and I may leave here as sensitive and resourceful participants in God's own
community. We may go from this Service, having relived our sacred history. We
may depart touched by God's Grace, deepened by His presence, and inspired by
his Spirit. We may leave strengthened with memories and enlivened in a renewed
bond, perhaps by being "born from above" even again.
"Thanks for the memories ..." sings Bob Hope.
Indeed! Thanks be to God!
[1] Bernard
W. Anderson, Understanding the Old Testament, Abridged 4th ed. (1998),
1.