Gratitude without Gravy

Psalm 100
November 26, 2023
Christ the King

William G. Carter

Make a joyful noise to the LORD, all the earth.

Worship the LORD with gladness; come into his presence with singing.

Know that the LORD is God. It is he that made us, and we are his;

we are his people, and the sheep of his pasture.

Enter his gates with thanksgiving, and his courts with praise. Give thanks to him, bless his name.

For the LORD is good; his steadfast love endures forever, and his faithfulness to all generations.

This psalm is a favorite for many of us. And it’s famous, too, so famous that it was quoted by Mark Twain in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. You may remember the scene. Tom, Huckleberry Finn, and their friend Joe Harper were hiding on an island and pretending they were pirates. The whole town fears they had drowned in the Mississippi. As the boys sneak back into town, they discover their funeral is about to happen in the local Presbyterian Church. 

They hide up in the balcony as the mourners arrive in black. Nobody could ever remember the church so full. The preacher stands up in the pulpit and starts lying about them. He talks about what wonderful children they were, spreading platitude upon platitude as if he is icing a cake. Oh, it seemed like they were such rascals, he said, but they were sweet and generous, so noble and beautiful in their youth. The whole congregation breaks down into anguished sobs, and even the preacher gives way to his feelings and begins to cry in the pulpit.

Just then there’s a rustle. The back door creaked, and one pair of eyes after another looked up to see the lost boys walking down the aisle of their own funeral. They are smothered with kisses and poured-out thanksgivings. Suddenly the minister shouts at the top of his voice: “Praise God from who all blessings flow — Sing! — and put your hearts into it.” And they did. Twain says,

Old Hundred swelled up with a triumphant burst, and while it shook the rafters Tom Sawyer the Pirate looked around the envying juveniles about him and confessed in his heart that was the proudest moment of his whole life. As the congregation trooped out, they said they would almost be willing to be made ridiculous again to hear Old Hundred sung like that once more.[1]

“Old Hundred,” of course, is the One Hundredth Psalm, the same psalm that we dwell with today. The Genevan setting became a tune we frequently sing. And we know how good it feels to burst into song. A few of us are even wired to sing joyfully at any moment. The rest of us need to be beckoned to join in. Old Psalm 100 is about as good a song to sing.

It is a psalm of joy; as the heading announces, it is a song of thanksgiving. When early church leaders like the apostle Paul told the church to give thanks regularly, I’1l bet my Thanksgiving turkey that he is talking about psalms like this one. All the elements are there:

• The invitation to praise God.
• The affirmation of covenant love: we are God’s people, and the sheep of his hand.
• There is the call to joy. Like the line in that old version, we sang: “him serve with mirth.” I love that! Just imagine those grumpy old Presbyterians singing about mirth.
• Then there is the continuing invitation: “give thanks to God. Enter God’s gates with thanksgiving.”

In that small town next to the Mississippi River, it wasn’t long before Tom Sawyer’s Aunt Polly discovered the truth. While she was mourning his death, he was off smoking tobacco, covering himself in mud, and swapping lies with his friends. But in the moment when everybody sang in church, she was glad that he and his friends were alive. There isn’t a better sermon on the text than that. 

Is there anybody here who feels glad to be alive? This is the psalm for you. It is a profound reminder that life is a gift from the God who made us. It reminds that we belong to God, as one large flock guarded by one shepherd. This is the primal memory that stirs up gratitude.

It’s a memory that recurs throughout the Bible. Old Moses knew about that. His people were on the edge of the Promised Land. They were so close that they could see the fruit dangling in the trees. They could smell the honey. And he says, “Now, wait a second. Let me give you the Book of Deuteronomy.” In one long speech after another, Moses reminded them how much God has done for them. He knew that when people end up with a lot of the good stuff of life, they start thinking they have earned it, or they deserve it, or they are worthy of it. The truth is far simpler. They have received it.

So, Moses says, “Don’t forget about God. God has given us everything: food, freedom, protection, abundance, and most of all, steadfast love. Don’t forget about God — lest God forget about you.” Sometimes a whiff of obligation when somebody says, “You ought to be grateful.” Well, there’s no “ought” to it. Gratitude is funded by our memory. It is our memory of God - what God has done, how God has carried us through our troubles, how God connects us to people who love us — it is our memory of these things that stirs up our thankfulness.

It is painful to see people forget. Those who have the most are often the ones who are least grateful. The children with the most toys in the closet are the ones who throw the biggest tantrums in the shopping mall. Spiritually speaking, the problem is amnesia. We forget where everything comes from. In that lapse, we start hustling to make sure we have more stuff than everybody else. Or push to the front of the line. That may be the greatest spiritual problem, both in this town and in this nation: too much milk and honey can lead to memory loss.

The pandemic has been over for a while, but we can still remember how it felt. Isolation, anxiety, silence, and fear. And then, as the plague subsided, we began to gather again to share our meals. More than one mother said, “We take so much for granted and forget how close we came to losing even more.” She paused and said, “Thursday was a real Thanksgiving.”

All of us have the capacity to remember. The baby who was sick, but now is strong — thanks be to God. The teenager that got through a tormented season – thanks be to God. The lost job that eventually led to a new open door — thanks be to God. The relationship that blew apart but taught us new insights about ourselves – thanks be to God. The precious one we lost, who instructed us how to love and trust more deeply — thanks be to God.

One of the gifts of scripture is that it reminds us of how many things God has done for us. There are, of course, the big moments, always spoken in first-person plural. We were saved from Pharoah by walking through the sea. We walked through the desert and received food and Torah. Lost in sin, we were saved by the cross of Jesus. When we worried how to live without Jesus in a hostile world, God blew the Holy Spirit upon us, and inspired the Torah to be written down and shared — thanks be to God.

This is the pattern of a God who gives freely, who gives regularly, who gives abundantly. When we remember the large, saving events that the scriptures narrate, it conditions us to start seeing the quieter salvations that happen every day. As we remember, we say thank you.

Psalm 100 was the first Bible passage that I ever learned. Who would have thought my first memorized text began, “Make a joyful noise to the Lord”? Or that whenever I got too big for my britches, the reminder came,  “The Lord God made us, and we are his”? Or that the continuing invitation of the spiritual life is to discern the baptismal promise that we claim again today, namely that the Lord’s “steadfast love endures forever’?

At the heart of it all is the line stenciled over the organ pipes in the church where I grew up. I saw it every week. Still see it whenever I return. In large letters, lest anybody forget, “Enter his gates with thanksgiving.” It’s the code word for accessing the grace of God like the way Eugene Peterson re-translates the verse: “Enter with the password: Thank You!”[2]

I don’t know how you might live this out, but I’ll tell what a friend does. She keeps a gratitude journal. She went to a local bookstore and picked up a blank journal. Every time something good happens, she writes it down and whispers, “thank you.” First thing in the morning, last thing before she shuts her eyes, she scans her life for traces of grace.

“It’s done wonders for my spirit,” she says. “If I am inclined to rush on to another distraction, the gratitude journal slows me down. If I’m feeling grouchy, the journal expands my point of view. And on those days when the world seems out of control and I’m not so sure there’s a God, I flip through the pages and reconsider. That simple practice has rewired my soul. I’m a different person. I pay attention a whole lot more.”

On the festival day of Christ the King, we remember Somebody else is running the world. Life can be hard, and often is, but every day we are showered with uncounted gifts. It is good to open our hands, to receive well, to stop believing we must do it all as if we could save or sustain ourselves. But to pause, count the blessings, and to thank the God who gives them.

Remember. Pay attention. Don’t forget. And once in a while, at least once every day, why not break into song? In fact, this would be a pretty good time.

 

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1] Mark Twain (AKA Samuel Clemens), The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, chapter 17. Accessed online at Project Gutenberg. https://www.gutenberg.org/files/74/74-h/74-h.htm#c17

[2] Psalm 100:4, Eugene Peterson, The Message (Colorado Springs: NavPress, 2005)

Counting Our Days

Psalm 90
November 19, 2023
William G. Carter

 

The story is told of a young boy who dreamed of going into outer space. When he was little, his dad bought him a toy rocket. From that moment, his imagination took over. The countdown would begin, “Ten-nine-eight-seven-six-five-four-three-two-one.” And he would hurl that rocket into the air.

The dream stayed with him. He leaned forward in science class. The possibility of zero gravity excited him. He investigated what kind of foods he could eat in outer space.

And the adults who encouraged his interest were curious. What’s the attraction to becoming an astronaut? Do you want to explore new worlds? Colonize Mars? Go where no one has gone before? One day, at age twelve, he replied. “I want to fly into eternity. Infinity and beyond!”

He had a point. There are no clocks in outer space, just revolving planets that rotate around the sun. The universe seems endless, with no obvious limits, no schedules, no deadlines. After you launch, you just float on forever.

One day, a well-intentioned adult pointed out, “Space may go on forever, but you won’t. You have sixty, seventy, maybe eighty years to go.” When the truth of that sank in, he landed with a thud. There is eternity, call it God’s infinity. Compared to that, our lives are short.

This is the truth of Psalm 90. We have an everlasting God, a God who was there before there was a beginning. Before the mountains, before the earth, before the whole universe was sung into being, God was. As a wise old Episcopalian priest once said to me, “God is prior.” That is, before it all. This eternal God shall also outlast us.

 As for each of us, we have an expiration date. Don’t know when it is, but this is a certainty. Sorry to bring that up, to puncture the illusion of an unlimited life span, but everything ends. Everything except God.

The poet who put together Psalm 90 knows this. Perhaps she was a philosopher, watching the rise and fall of one person after another. Maybe she observed a sunset like the one we watched on Thursday afternoon, a sherbet-colored sky streaked with red, orange, and purple, and then decided there was beauty before us, there will be beauty after us, and that kind of eternity will outlive us all. Maybe that gives you comfort. Or maybe you want to push against it.

The psalmist pushes a bit. Three times, we hear about the “anger and wrath” of God. This is not a scare tactic. The poet is not trying to frighten us, like those fire and brimstone preachers in other churches and previous generations. No, the “anger and wrath” in this psalm sound more like a recognition that sooner or later, life gets hard.

All those iniquities over the years, those secret things that twisted us out of shape, they are exposed in God’s searing light. The effects of aging, the aches and pains, that touch of arthritis that I now have in my right hand – it’s ouch and sigh.

Blame Adam and Eve if you wish. Our primeval parents lived in an eternal Garden until they committed an act of independence. With that, God put limits on our lives. We had to live with the passing of four seasons, the cycles of the moon, the creation of the sundial, the calendar, the clock, the wristwatch, and a thousand handheld devices that shackle us. Our sense of time is merely a subdivision of eternity. Even if we could blast off into eternal space, at some moment, we would run out of time.

The last time I preached on this psalm was 2008, fifteen years ago. Back then, I mentioned a website that a friend recommended. It is www.deathclock.com. I don’t recommend it. It’s billed as “the internet’s friendly reminder that life is slipping away.” If you type in your birthdate, gender, weight, and emotional mood, it will calculate how long you have left.

In 2008, the death clock told me that I will last until 2033, just ten years from now. Pretty ominous if you ask me. So, the other day, I tried it again and it said, “October 24, 2032.” Uh oh – I lost a year. And on a whim, I tried a second time. This time, it said, “November 14, 2047.” Wow – I picked up fifteen years! Then I realized I’ve given my birthdate to a computer server in China. Twice, in fact. And some stupid website cannot tell me how long I have left.

But if only we knew. If only.

When our men’s group gathered last Thursday to reflect on the psalm for today, I considered showing them a portion of one of my favorite movies but decided against it. It’s a film called About Schmidt. Jack Nicholson plays Warren Schmidt, a man whose dreams for retirement are interrupted. His wife dies unexpectedly. She left him with a Winnebago he didn’t want. Their daughter is marrying an idiot. Not what he expected for his autumn years!

And Schmidt, of all people, knows life is short. As he explains,

I was an actuary at Woodmen of the World Insurance Company. If I’m given a man’s age, race, profession, place of residence, marital status, and medical history, I can calculate with great probability how long that man will live. In my own case, now that my wife has died there is a 73% chance I will die within nine years, provided that I do not remarry. All I know is I’ve got to make the best of whatever time I have left. Life is short, and I can’t afford to waste another minute.

 In the very next scene, Schmidt is taking a snooze in his Lazy Boy recliner.

The Bible scholars say this passage reminds us that God is God. God is not arbitrary. God is not mean. God does not dish out absurdity or meaninglessness. But neither will anybody ever step on God’s toes. There are limits to what we can and cannot accomplish in this life. There is only so much that we can get done in one day. Even if God loves us, one scholar reminds us, “Death is the final and ultimate ‘no’ that cancels any pretension to autonomy from the human side.”[1]           

We cannot finish our own lives. We may not finish all the projects around the house. That’s what Psalm 90 says in five or six different ways. This is not intended as good news. It’s simply the news of how things are. There are limits to our ability. No matter how capable we are, we cannot do it all. No matter how good we try to be, there are limits which are established beyond our control. No matter how much time we think we have, we will not have enough. Either that, or we get bored with the time we have. Or end up taking a nap while the world carries on.

This psalm, with the collection of the psalms, lies under the category of biblical wisdom. It lies beside the wisecracking book of Proverbs, the sardonic book of Ecclesiastes, the passion of the Song of Solomon, and the head-scratching mysteries of the book of Job. All of them are unified in the truth that God is greater than we are – God is a whole lot smarter, God is more elusive, God is more loving or more faithful, or – in this case – God has longevity that we don’t have.

It's that insight that gets echoed in the strange Second Letter of Peter, one of the other texts for today. An early apostle reflects on the final coming of Christ, that great day when history will end, when all things will be caught up in the glory of God. It’s going to be a big moment, the greatest of all – but it’s taking a while. It’s taking a long while.

So, Peter draws on the language of our psalm by saying, “Don’t forget that, with the Lord one day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like one day.” God is not being slow, he says. God’s showing you some patience. God is giving you some time to shape up and come to your senses. (2 Peter 3:8-15)  

This is the beginning of wisdom, what the psalmist calls “a heart full of wisdom,” or simply “a wise heart.” In the words of one scholar, "A wise heart does not refer to knowledge, skill, technique, or the capacity to control. Instead, it seems to mean the capacity to submit, relinquish, and acknowledge the decisive impingement of Yahweh on one's life."[2]

God will outlive us. Ultimately God will win…over everything. One way to gain this wise heart is to lean back into God’s everlasting arms and try to get the biggest picture possible - - to see as God sees, over vast spans of time. To be patient, as God is infinitely patient. To affirm that life happens to us, through us, and in spite of us. To declare there is nothing separates us from the steadfast love of the Lord. To hold fast to such truths is to develop a wise heart.

It is of great comfort to remember God does not wear a wristwatch. God is eternal, standing outside of human time, while mysteriously entering our time with the grace of Jesus Christ. From moment to moment, we catch glimpses of how God is inclined to help us when we can’t help ourselves, and that’s how God will save us. To some extent, we are always up against the wall and our own failings are obvious. But God holds the ability to finish what we cannot.

In my journal, I’ve copied and re-copied some words by the theologian Reinhold Niebuhr. They give me perspective, and they go like this:

• Nothing that is worth doing can be achieved in our lifetime; therefore, we are saved by hope.
• Nothing which is true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore, we must be saved by faith.
• Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore, we are saved by love.
• No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as it is from our standpoint. Therefore, we must be saved by the final form of love which is forgiveness.”[3]

Our time is short. But God’s time is eternal. And the best way to number our days is to make them count. To do something important with whatever time we have left.

And so, I charge you to help a child reach for the stars. Enjoy a sherbet-colored sunset. Plant a sequoia. Write the next great American novel. Forgive the lingering grudge. Feed the hungry. Empty your pockets for somebody else’s children. Take a stand against wastefulness. Show strangers they are worthy of your respect. Tell those who circle around you that you love them. Make the most of what you have left, because, eternally speaking, time is short.

Most of all, don’t sweat the small stuff and don’t sweat the big stuff, for God’s steadfast love endures forever.

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1] James L. Mays, Psalms, Interpretation (Louisville: John Knox, 1004) 292.

[2] Walter Brueggemann, The Message of the Psalms (Minneapolis: Augsburg) 111.

 

[3] Reinhold Niebuhr, The Irony of American History (New York: Charles Scribner’s sons, 1952) 63.

Can't Hide These Things

Psalm 78

William G. Carter

                   In case you’ve forgotten the heart of that long psalm, it’s in the opening verses: “Give ear, O my people, to my teaching; incline your ears to the words of my mouth. I will open my mouth in a parable; I will utter dark sayings from of old, things that we have heard and known, that our ancestors have told us.”

            Some people call this “the Christian Education” psalm, and for good reason. It speaks of teaching. It speaks of the faithful tradition of education. A wise teacher speaks to the covenant community and says, “Listen up!” Class is in session. It’s time to learn. The teacher says, “I’m going to reach back and grab the truth from our past, and I’m going to bring right here and give it to our future.” That’s the theme for today.

            Those of you who teach children will find yourself affirmed, for the Teacher says, “We will tell God’s glorious deeds to the coming generation; we will not hide them from our children.” Those of you who work with older adults can affirm that our future is shaped by our memory. The teaching ministry is narrated right here in Psalm 78. And the word for today is “remember.”

            What do you remember? Can you remember Egypt? The Passover? The wandering in the desert? The entry into Promised Land? Can you remember Bethlehem? Jerusalem? Antioch and Rome?  And just for a moment, can you remember those who taught you about these things?

            One Sunday some time back, I preached in my home church in upstate New York. Just like old times back in seminary. It was right after Christmas and the minister was off doing something important (I think it was a New York Giants game). In a smooth move, he invited the hometown boy to return and preach to his family and their friends.

            While the choir was warming up, I peeked into the Christian Education classrooms.  Somebody had painted over that old mural of the feeding of the five thousand – yet the story still lingers in me. I can still remember the face of Jesus.

            As I came around the corner with my pulpit gown over my arm, there was Bonnie Ballard, my second grade Sunday School teacher. She exclaimed, “It’s little Billy Carter.” I assured her that neither is true. Years ago, Miss Ballard made me memorize three psalms, nine Beatitudes, and the Lord’s Prayer. She taught me that Presbyterians don’t “trespass,” they fall into debt. She picked me to play Joseph in the Christmas pageant because I was prematurely tall and it didn’t require speaking a lot of lines. And I tell you, she was one bewildered saint when God grabbed a hold of me and sent me off to serve the church. Imagine the shock – one of your students might become a teacher!

            I’ll bet you’re here today, in no small part, because somebody like you taught somebody like you. They reached into the past to grab the riches of our heritage, and they offered them as gifts to fund your heart and mind. Can you remember?

            I will never forget the memories from that visit. There I was, in the same room where I was confirmed and ordained. The green stained glass gave the air an underwater glow, as if all were submerged in the baptismal font. All around the walls of the sanctuary were large stone plaques, remembering saints who endured long church meetings. Back on the right was a huge piece of marble naming the ancient minister that received my parents into the membership. He served as pastor for thirty-seven years, and his successor told us in Confirmation Class that the Old Duffer might actually be buried behind it.

            Halfway back, center left, my family sat in the same familiar pew. That’s where my Dad croaked out his favorite hymn, “Holy, Holy, Holy,” until the words began to sink in. A few minutes into the sermon, the four of us kids would start to fidget, so he would start a roll of Wintergreen Lifesavers down the pew. Sunday after Sunday he kept doing that until the words of those sermons began to make sense. You know, over the years I’ve heard people brag about their salvation moments. As for me, I got saved through Lifesavers.

            It reminds me of what John Calvin said about his own Christian formation in a passage that I’ve never been able to find: “The moment of my conversion was the moment that I became teachable.” If Calvin didn’t say it, he should have.

            All of this, I tell you, is a parable. Can you remember?

            There is much that the Teacher remembers. Psalm 78 is not all pleasant and joyful. Oh no. If we reach back into the past, we have to deal with the things we’ve done, or the things we’ve left undone. We have to face all those devices and desires in our twisted hearts.

            Psalm 78 remembers a lot of honest stories. It does not whitewash the truth. The Teacher of the poem keeps asking, “Do you remember where we’ve come from? And do you remember the fine mess that we fell into?” The Psalmist offers one story after another of how God did something good, and people of faith goofed it up.

            The Teacher says, “Do you remember how we were in the desert? The sun was pounding down, we were walking around without water, we were complaining about the heat, we were wondering how we were going to make it. And God said, ‘Whack that rock with a stick, and I’ll give you living water.” That’s what Moses did – but we complained about it.

            And the Teacher says, “Can you remember where we were before the desert? We were slaves in a foreign land. We were down in Egypt, forced to produce for Old Pharoah. Pharoah was a nasty taskmaster. He demanded bricks from us until God stepped in. God poured blood in the river, sent frogs and flies, struck the first-born down, until Pharoah said, “Yes, you can go.”

            And the very minute we became free, we began acting like we were the center of the universe, and it made God angry.

            Oh yes, we look back and remember. And some of what we see is painfully honest.

            A friend suggested David McCullough’s book on the Johnstown Flood. For those of you who may not know the details, two thousand people died in 1889. The Johnstown Flood was one of the greatest natural disasters in this country. I didn’t realize until I read the book that it was caused by God and the Presbyterians.

            For God’s part, God sent a lot of rain. As for the Presbyterians, they were people like Andrew Carnegie, Andrew Mellon, and Henry Clay Frick – wealthy industrialists who made millions on steel and railroads. They built a hunting camp about fifteen miles up the hill from Johnstown. When summer came, it was a great place to escape from the stress of their mansions in Pittsburgh. However, they didn’t pay attention to the quality of the dam that created their fishing lake. They ignored every warning that the dam wasn’t safe. And after God sent all the rain, and the dam burst, and the flood roared down the hill, those rich old Covenanters said, “Maybe we should start summering in the Adirondacks, or in Paris.”

            As David McCullough reminds us, “There is a danger in assuming that because people are in positions of responsibility they are necessarily behaving responsibly.” 

            O people of faith, are you willing to remember? Are we willing to look honestly at the human condition? Can we be transparent enough to confess where we’ve wandered? Only then can we also confess the hope that God has planted within our souls.

            Scholars tell us this is a salvation history psalm. With apologies to the scholars, so what? So what does it matter that we classify this as a “salvation history psalm”? That is a worthless piece of information until we realize that we are the ones with that history. We share the narrative of God’s persistence. We hold a sacred story of how God has stuck with us – even though God could have chosen people far more faithful and better tempered.

            Like that lady who was sitting next to me in the movie theater. The film was “Dream Girls.” I was watching the movie like a dull Scot, chomping on popcorn, and going “hmm” every time we heard a good song. Not her; she was in constant dialogue with the plot; if you saw the movie, you know what I mean. It was like we were in her African American church on Sunday morning, and my friend was letting the preacher knew right where she was.

            At one point in the movie, as the band manager from Detroit was starting to get too big from his britches, my friend murmured out, “Now, don’t you forget where you came from.” That was the best part of a really good movie. It summed up the plot pretty well.

            So where do the people of God come from? We come from the steadfast mercy of God. Don’t ever forget this. Don’t forget God makes each one of us, and calls us precious. Don’t forget that, in the language of the psalm, God “snorts with indignation” when we forget where we’re from. Don’t forget that God gives us this day our daily bread, even as we keep testing and pushing up against such generosity. And whatever else, don’t forget that God stays with us through every wrong turn on a bumpy road.

            If you listen to Psalm 78, it sounds like God has had plenty of reasons to dump this unfaithful people, but God will not do it. God stays faithful, because a promise is a promise, a covenant is a covenant. God stays with us - - and that is the great parable. That’s the hidden mystery of how a holy God keeps bending down toward people with bloody hands and dirty fingernails. It has less to do with our behavior, and more to do with God’s character. Infinitely more.

            “Listen,” says the Teacher, “and I will open my mouth in a parable. I will utter things we have heard and known which we will not hide from our children.”

            I give thanks to God for people like you. Your ministry shapes people to get ready for God. You equip people to apprehend the Holy Presence. You school them in God’s perseverance. In fact, much of your work is a parable of the perseverance of God.

            They warned me about him. He was a handful in Sunday School. Actually, more like two handfuls. All I know was he was late for his own wedding rehearsal, sauntering toward the sanctuary, an unlit cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth. Suddenly he saw a project still hanging from his days in Mrs. Diven’s fourth grade class. “Hey, I made that paper cross!” he said, the cigarette tumbling and rolling across the narthex. Who knows what stories you have been planted in many a restless heart? And someday those seeds will take root, and someone will remember about God. Listen, listen - this is the parable.

            Every time we gather is an opportunity for us to remember. It calls us to recall how our story has been shaped by God’s story. That’s our parable to pass along. I pray that this week, you will listen to the past as it speaks to our future. I pray that your memory will be renewed until it deepens the faith of the church. Can you remember how God gave us what we needed? Can you recall how God raised his voice? Can you remember how God abides in thick and thin? We are called to remember because memory is the textbook of grace.

            It is good for all of us to be here. Let us not take this gift for granted. We are here because God has been faithful. So faithful, that someone hands us the broken bread and says, “This is my life, given for you.” And then he hands us the cup, speaking the words, “All sins are forgiven in my blood.” Do you remember? 

            Of course you do. You remember our common human weakness and God’s continuing mercy. You remember - because you’ve been baptized to remember.

 (c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.