I am a keeper of calendars. I am a numberer of days.
A marker of moments. I like my lists, and I love a good
countdown. I’m currently tracking three on the Notes app
on my phone. Would you like to hear them? Of course
you would.
First, I am on day 989 pursuing the goal of getting at least
15,000 Fitbit steps every day. That’s eleven to go before I
hit 1000.
The second is more tender. The countdown tells me that
there are fourteen school days remaining before summer
break begins. Tender, because our older son is finishing fifth
grade and will be leaving the elementary school that has
been such a home for him. (That’s all I can say about that).
The third countdown sits at eighteen days. It ends with
fireworks on May 22: the first day of my sabbatical, the
beginning of a ten-week period when I will disconnect
from the routines and rhythms of ministry to rest, reflect,
and renew.
These countdowns are all about looking forward, asking
what’s next? They fit the narrative of our faith. God’s
people have always been in motion, always been on the
move. We are, after all, a pilgrim people, a people marked
by journey. As you prepare for summer travels and I
count down to sabbatical, our new sermon series tracks
the movements and migrations of the faithful: All God’s
Children Need Traveling Shoes.
This morning, as we welcome new members, and as
we honor those who have been part of this community
for fifty or sixty years, we pause to hear a persistent
command for faithful people, a command that runs like a
ribbon through scripture from Genesis to Revelation. That
command is this:
Remember. Remember. Do not forget.
As you move forward, do not lose sight of where
you have been. Scripture would tell us that amnesia,
forgetfulness, is a constant threat on the journey of faith.
That faithful forward motion must begin with memory.
I confess that somehow—without my permission—I
have reached the age at which historical documentaries
constitute thrilling entertainment. Yikes. I love them. This
winter, I watched all twelve hours of Ken Burns’ nine-part
series on the Civil War. Twice. No kidding.
I found the documentary alternately disturbing, inspiring,
and instructive. Occasionally, as I watched, a thought
would strike me: Second Presbyterian Church existed
then. There were faithful people gathering every
Sunday to hear the word of God, to sing hymns, to offer
prayers, and to wrestle together with what it meant to
live faithfully in a nation being torn apart. There were
preachers crafting messages meant for that moment.
I find it a humbling and comforting realization. The
memory of the Church—of our church—is long. And the
journey of the faithful has never been easy.
This morning’s text. The people of God are standing
on the edge of the Promised Land. Moses, their leader,
addresses them. It is not a short speech. The words
of Moses stretch over thirty-four chapters. My Old
Testament professor liked to say that it’s a little like the
speech that a parent gives before dropping their first kid
off at college. And he was quick to add: like most of those
speeches, the people weren’t really listening anyway.
Thirty-four chapters. We call it the Book of Deuteronomy.
In Chapter Eight, looking over into the Promised Land,
Moses offers this instruction:
Remember where you have been.
Remember who you are.
Remember the Lord your God.
The particulars of Moses’ counsel come in two parts.
First – remember God’s provision. Resist the myth of
self-sufficiency. Or in his words, “Do not say to yourself,
‘my might, my own hands, my power have gotten me all
this.’ No, remember the Lord your God. The one who fed
you in the wilderness, with bread that rained down from
heaven and water that came from rocks.”
My paraphrase: the world does not begin and end with
you. You are utterly dependent on others. Those who
have gone before you. Those who now surround you.
And you are entirely dependent on God.
We worship to resist the myth of self-sufficiency. We
serve because we rely on each other. We give, we
participate in the life of a faith community, because we
know we can’t go it alone, and we didn’t get here by
ourselves. We were created for community, and it takes
all of us to fulfill our God-given purpose. The truth of
abundance is that God provides. God gives enough—
more than enough for all God’s creatures to live and
flourish—and God calls us to share that abundance with
joy and generosity.
But when we forget the source—when we imagine we
are self-made and self-sufficient—we inflate our egos,
and we ignore our limits. We find ourselves taking more
than we need, building larger barns. We justify our
selfishness and even celebrate those whose immense
affluence serves no purpose but pride. And our forgetting
begets fear. Fear of scarcity. Fear of loss. Fear of others
who become not our neighbors but our competitors.
When we remember the source of abundance, we move
from fear to faithful stewardship. From selfish stockpiling
to generous sharing. Not hoarding for ourselves,
but investing in abundant life for all God’s children.
Remember God’s provision.
This first counsel leads naturally to a second. Remember
that abundance, when misinterpreted, will be misused.
Scripture would tell us that human insecurity and
insatiability have tragic consequences. We must not forget
the sins of the past, even when those stories bring pain.
Because when we fail to remember, we risk repeating.
And here I want to be very clear: I am deeply concerned
by voices both in the public square and in the Christian
church that seem to have forgotten the history of our
complicity with injustice and our capacity for evil. This
amnesia leads to pride, and pride twists faith into a tool for
domination, abuse, and exclusion.
Of course, this is not a new danger. Nor is it ancient history.
Recently I’ve been led back to Timothy Egan’s book Fever
in the Heartland, a chilling account of the Ku Klux Klan’s
resurgence in the early 20th Century. That resurgence,
centered in Indiana, was fueled in part by the public
support of prominent Christian leaders. For example, in
January of 1923, the Reverend Aubrey H. Moore of First
Christian Church in Noblesville preached a sermon titled:
“Is the Ku Klux Klan a Menace to America?” Newspapers
reported that Sunday morning gathering as the largest
in a house of worship in many years, and those same
papers recounted the text of his sermon. As Moore
defended, and then praised, the Klan, he asked God to
“bless every Ku Kluxer who may be under the sound of
my voice.” He concluded the sermon with this statement:
“I would rather wear a white sheet in the dark than see
my country in a shroud.”
His congregation rose in affirmation. A sobering memory,
and a stark warning.
When fear becomes our gospel, and power our aim,
we are capable of great betrayal and sin. The words of
Ephesians this morning call us to the heart of what it
means to be people of the cross. That in his own body,
Christ has broken down the dividing walls of hostility
between us. If we seek to follow where Christ leads, we
must live that unity. We, too, can lose our way, and that’s
why remembering matters. Not for crippling shame, but
missional clarity. We remember to learn. To repent. To
choose a more hopeful path.
Memory carries more than a warning. It holds
profound hope.
Several years ago, my favorite author, Marilynne
Robinson, was asked about churches like ours, and
her response struck me as both a provocation and
a promise. Here’s what she said. She recalls how
mainline churches were “very much in the vanguard
of the anti-slavery movement. They truly were radical
in the terms of their time…And I think they are radical
institutions in their deepest impulses…”
She spoke of “prevenient courage” That’s the kind of
courage cultivated before it is required. A readiness to
answer when the call comes.
Listen. That courage is in our bones, right here at
Second Church, where, in the years before the Civil War,
our founding pastor Henry Ward Beecher passionately
preached in the pulpit and in the public square against
the evil of slavery and guided this new church toward
courageous faith. Their legacy is our responsibility.
What if we remembered where we’ve been as we
consider our call and prepare for the path ahead?
Yes, the God who provided manna in the wilderness
sustains us still. Yes, the truth of our brokenness calls
us to humility still. And the courage planted by God still
beats in our hearts.
And so, we remember, that we might respond. Let
the courage forged by where you’ve been shape your
decisions in this time. In a moment of political idolatry
and dehumanizing meanness, move toward mercy.
I feel a need to be forthright. We are living in a time when
much will be asked of the faithful. Perhaps more than you
had imagined. When those days come—and they will
come—it is good to remember. To remember the cries of
the suffering, whose voices were heard by God, the God
who led the chosen people out of bondage. To remember
the commitment of those who came before us, who sat
where we now sit. To remember the God who will never
leave or forsake us.
To remember and respond. And so, with hope and faith
and courage, we welcome new travelers. We honor long
witness. We listen for silenced voices. We carry grace into
a weary world.
And so, I’m going to keep counting. And you should too.
Count the steps that carry you forward. Count the days
that have shaped you. Number the saints who have
formed faith in you. And then count on the God who
leads and walks with you now.
Friends, stand firm.
Have courage.
Hold fast to what is good.
Remember where you’ve been.
Remember who you are.
Amen.