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.