Oak Chapel United Methodist Church

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My father used to tell about a contractor who had just visited a friend in a mental institution. As he was leaving the place he noticed a group of inmates building a brick wall. They were working about three stories up, doing a fine job. One man in particular, the contractor noticed, was obviously an first-class mason. He worked quickly, and his workmanship was perfect. The contractor thought, "How terrible that they should lock up such a talented person up in a mental institution! Probably all he needs is a chance." So he hollered up to the man, "When you get out of here, come and see me. I could use a good bricklayer like you." "Gee, thanks," the man called down. "I'll just do that." The contractor turned to leave and suddenly was struck in the back of the head with a flying brick. He looked up, dazed, saw the man still up on the wall, and heard him say, "You won't forget me, will you?"

Everyone needs to be remembered. It makes us feel good, deep down inside, when someone remembers our name, or what we do for a living, or our hobbies and interests. Makes us feel important. Even the dying thief on the cross asked to be remembered. And, in the greatest conceit of all, we like to think that, even in death, people will remember us. That's why we erect headstones. They may say, "Rest in Peace," but the human message is, "Don't forget me." Our need to be remembered can be a little perverse. Truth is, we would rather be remembered unfavorably than not remembered at all. It seems the Hell's Angels" motto applies even in death, "If you can't be loved, be hated." Don't be nothing. That's the pits.

The captured Jews, in Babylon, wanted more than anything not to forget. To forget their former life, in the land God had given them, would be to admit defeat and to submit to evil. "If I ever forget you, Jerusalem, let my fingers wither and fall off…let my tongue swell and turn black." (Oh, my!) They wept beside the rivers of Babylon; they hopelessly hung up their harps on the trees there. It was the day the music died. No more joy, no more mirth. Their captors tormented them, saying, "Sing one of them Jewish songs." But, they asked each other, "how can we sing the Lord's song in a strange land." They couldn't sing but they could remember. And to remember is to resist, to be faithful, to live again. In those most terrible times, in the dark years of exile and slavery, that's what kept the Jews from being nobodies. Their memories made them somebodies. They had roots, faithful roots as well as ancestral roots.

When we get depressed (that is, when we are without hope) our memories become distorted and play a part in reinforcing our despair. Not only is the present too much to bear, but the past was impossible, too - we think when we are down. We remember only the bad things out of our childhoods, or we absolutely refuse to remember certain things at all (things which are too painful), giving those things a great deal of power over our lives. They become like ghosts haunting us, like missing pieces in the jigsaw puzzles of our lives. Who wants to remember bitterness? Who wants to dig up all that grief and anger? But if we don't remember, evil becomes acceptable because it's never challenged. Truth is, it's painful to remember, but it is also painful not to remember. We begin our healing when we realize that there is no part of us (not even our depression, nor our misery, nor our rage, nor our disobedience) that God does not love.

Elie Wiesel said, "We holocaust survivors want to caress our children twenty-four hours a day. We want to shelter them and show them nothing but joy and beauty. And yet, we want them to know…." He said he could tolerate the memory of silence, but not the silence of memory. In other words, he could understand that some experiences were too horrible to speak about (the memory of silence), but he couldn't tolerate not remembering at all (the silence of memory). It takes courage to remember.

At that gloomy table, in Jerusalem, Jesus told his disciples that they should eat the bread and drink the wine "in remembrance of me." In other words, "Don't forget me." Use these everyday activities, eating bread and drinking wine, to remind you of me, of my body and my blood. Likewise, St. Paul reminded the early Christians that, "as long as you eat this loaf and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord's death until he come." Many would rather forget. Many would like not to remember what happened to Jesus, and certainly not proclaim it. One reason outsiders reject our faith (and I think it is a major reason) is because our faith demands that we remember something disgraceful, sets it before us every time we go to church: That our behavior, in regard to Jesus, was unconscionable . That Jesus was a failure by all those worldly standards we hold dear. That he did right, and by a harsh inevitability (one which prevails still today), he paid a terrible price.

The story of Jesus is self-condemning. And for that reason it's painful to remember, and many refuse to do so. But we must remember it, if (like those Jews in exile) we ever expect to get back to the promised land. God, in his grace, enables us to remember even the most terrible things about ourselves, and about our human race, and to deal with these things, and (in his mercy) to move on. "We do not come to this thy table, O Lord, trusting in our own righteousness…." God forbid! Truth is, "we are not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under thy table, BUT thou art the same God whose quality is always to have mercy…" That BUT is everything. That BUT enables us to face the truth about ourselves and to live in faith. The gospel message isn't that we are good - we can bloody ourselves fighting for that and never win. It isn't that we are good, but that God is good and we are the beneficiaries.