The Things You Never Remember

Psalm 106 (106:1-6, 19-23)
Series: Dwelling in the Psalms
October 11, 2026
William G, Carter

That’s one way to end up with a short sermon: pick a long Bible passage! There are longer psalms to choose from. But there are few quite as exhausting. Psalm 106 is a history psalm. A long history psalm. A psalm recounting a long history. If it were left up to the Lectionary Keepers, whoever they are, we would hear six verses in the beginning and five verses in the middle. That’s all that was suggested for today. 

When a text gets trimmed, I’m always curious what gets left out.

The beginning is pleasant enough. The psalm starts by singing a hymn: Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good. His steadfast love endures forever! That is a familiar verse. It comes up regularly. It is followed by a declaration of right living, and that is always a good idea. Then comes a one-word prayer, “Remember!” Remember us, O Lord. We call on God to look back in the divine memory and recognize us.

Yet from that point on, it is the psalm that does all the remembering. What it remembers is a significant number of times we have goofed up. We have sinned. We have twisted ourselves out of shape (That’s the root meaning of “iniquity.” It signifies a twisting beyond original recognition.) And we have done evil.

Here’s my question for today. What kind of people remember all the ways that they have messed up? God isn’t calling them to account. They are calling themselves to account. What kind of people do that?

History, they say, is decided by the winners. We rarely listen for the losers. Can you imagine the history of North America told by the people who lived here first? And if it were spun in a positive direction? Let me imagine one of those scenarios.

We had resigned ourselves to living in North Dakota. The land was barren. The winters were cold. So, when the pale-skinned strangers from Scandinavia arrived, we were happy to hand over the land to them. Not much here for us anyway. So glad they came and planted their flags. We snickered the whole way to Nebraska.

Is that the way the story went? It depends on who tells the story. It’s not revisionist history, just the rest of the story, a more complete version.

Tomorrow is designated Columbus Day, a national holiday. It’s named for an Italian adventurer was financed by Spain to cross the sea, where he discovered Bermuda. Well, he didn’t discover it – other people were already living there. To the empire he represented, they did not count. Thinking he had found a new way to India, he planted a new flag, looked for hidden riches, and took what he could find. In subsequent returns, he and his crew brought smallpox and slavery to the islands. Thousands of natives died from the diseases brought by Europe.[1]

Isn’t that the way we were taught the story in school? No, not really. Back in second grade, the teacher passed out crayons for us to color the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria. It was all about the European conquest of a New World. We were taught it was a story only about courage and adventure. Don’t get me wrong; I like it here. Yet there’s a whole lot more that has been cut off of the story. Just like the suggested verses of Psalm 106.

What would we have lost if we had trimmed out verses seven through eighteen and twenty-four through forty-eight? Rebellion against God, superficial faith, wanton craving, and wickedness. That’s just in verse seven through eighteen. In the latter half of the tale, there was dissatisfaction, grumbling, scattering, to say nothing of sacrificing their own children to the violence of their own making.

If that wasn’t enough, they said, “God is too quiet and too invisible for us. Let’s make a few smaller gods for us to worship. We will light up a bonfire and crank up a pep rally.” They wanted fire, excitement, exuberance, so God nodded and gave them over to the vain desires of their ravenous souls. And it did not go well. The shorthand account is in the psalm that we read together.

Once again, I ask: what kind of people tell the crystal-clear truth about themselves? They must not be running for office in Pennsylvania. They might not even be Presbyterians.

Do you remember that classic scene with Colonel Nathan Jessup, in the film A Few Good Men? In a critical moment, he bellows out, “You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth.” And a few moments later we discover in the darkness of the theater, he can’t handle the truth either. He has acted despicably and done what he could to cover up what he has done.

And Israel goes into the Temple, opens the prayerbook to Psalm 106, and begins to tell the truth. God already knows what they’ve done – and what they have left undone. God is not surprised by anything we do or say. The surprise comes when we have the courage to say out loud when and where we have been wrong.

Years ago, I had a friend who wrote a lot of songs. Dave has been gone for many years, but I had the privilege of his company on many occasions. One day, Dave Brubeck gave me the handwritten manuscript for a fresh new song he had written. There were words attached. The first verse went like this:

            The things you never remember / are the things I’ll never forget.

            The vows we made to each other / the thrill we felt when we met.

            The life we started together / so full of promise and yet

            The dream was so quickly shattered / our hearts so full of regret.[2]

I said, “Dave, are you in trouble with your wife?” He laughed and said, “She wrote the words.” Then he quickly added, “It’s about a dear friend who went through a traumatic breakup.” And I thought, “It could have been anybody.”

Reflect on your own experience. We try to push painful memories out of our heads. We jump out of one broken relationship to create another broken relationship. Our friends, the therapists, tell us if we bury the pain or pretend “we don’t remember,” the pain is still there. Grief always waits for us to catch up. If you kick it down the road, it’s waiting for you. Unresolved pain waits to be named – and only then can it begin to be healed.

And Israel goes into the Temple, opens the prayerbook, and recites Psalm 106. “Lord, here is when we wandered off your path. When we broke your commandments. When we went our own way rather than your way. We are certain that we made you angry – yet you have never let us go. You are a god – The God – of steadfast love and mercy.”  

Suddenly, my friend’s song modulates to a new key. The things we never remember are the things God never forgets. Let’s hear it that way. Mercy comes only through honesty. We cannot be free from the mistakes we’ve never confessed. We cannot fully experience the power of forgiveness if we have never owned our own broken lives.

And here we are, in the Temple, in God’s local Presbyterian Temple. This is safe space for truth-telling. And it’s an old, old building – a hundred fourteen years old. I suspect it’s heard it all and seen it all. It’s OK if you drop your burden here. God can carry it.

At the same time, let’s remember there is more at stake than our personal issues. Our psalm is a national psalm. It is a national confession. And there is so much pain in our own nation that is shoved aside, denied, and dismissed. Every single day we see real truth covered by lies, smoothed over by selfishness, and postponed in the hope that our grandchildren might tackle the problems someday.

Now, we can’t fix all the messes we’ve made. Nor can we mend all the brokenness we have inherited. The psalmist knew that. But here is what we can do as the people of God: we can tell the truth, the whole truth, and our differing points of view of the one truth. We can look into our own past to admit, “Yes, that was us.” There’s no shame in confessing our shame. We can keep talking with one another and resist the tendency to shout past one another. And we can look to the Holy God who has not given up on us, who waits for us to get it right.

This is what true community looks like. It is faith embodied by honesty. It’s a community led by Jesus to remind us of what we don’t want to remember. It’s a community that invites those who have been silenced to speak up. It’s a community that stands up for others when those who are far too comfortable beg us to sit down. It is a community in Christ that serves a broken world with crucified hands, a truthful tongue, and an open heart.

Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel, from everlasting to everlasting. Let all the people say, “Amen.” Praise the Lord.

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

---

[1] See, for instance, https://www.history.com/articles/columbus-day.

[2] “The Things You Never Remember,” words by Iola Brubeck, music by Dave Brubeck. © Derry Music.

If You Know What's Good for You

Psalm 19 (click here to read)
Series: Dwelling the Psalms
October 4, 2026
William G. Carter

 

Whether people go to church regularly or not, most of us perk up at a psalm that begins, "The heavens are telling the glory of God." What a beautiful thing to say! Had any experiences of the sky lately?

Two weeks ago, I watched the sun sneak over the horizon on a farmer’s field. The grass sparkled with the dew. The cobwebs twinkled with drops of diamonds. The sky went from black to blue, to purple, to brilliant orange, to flaming red. I tried to capture the scene with the camera on my phone. Alas, the light kept changing, the technicolor brilliance was too bright for my gadget. Had to stand there, slack-jawed, and take it in.

The heavens are telling. No wonder C.S. Lewis said, "I take this to be the greatest poem in the Psalter and one of the greatest lyrics in the world."[1] For the poet points to say, "There really is a God out there." Anybody who looks around the natural order comes to that conclusion. As John Calvin put it, "There is nothing so obscure or contemptible, even in the smallest corners of the earth, in which some marks of the power and wisdom of God may not be seen."[2]

That's where Psalm 19 begins. The opening words celebrate a world that bears God's fingerprints. And before we jump down the throats of people who skip church to enjoy bicycle paths and putting greens, we remember an institutional church cannot contain the glory of God. "The heavens are telling the glory of God."

A lot of people will tell you that they have had religious experiences outside of church walls. Like the woman who confessed, "I often feel closer to God on the tennis court, or on the golf course, or taking a stroll in the park." We know what she's talking about. Ask someone, "When have you felt God was present?" A few might mention a sermon, a hymn, or a prayer, but others will say, "When my daughter was born." Or watching the sunset descend into the Gulf of Mexico. Or finding yourself at night in a dark sky ignited by stars. I understand what the woman said: God can be experienced out there.

It's striking that Psalm 19 begins out the heavens. Whoever wrote these words didn't compose them in a pulpit gown, but in a sweatshirt and jogging shorts. As the sun floated from one side of the dome of sky to the other, the poet’s heart swelled with wonder. His head swirled with mystery. Just like the sun-worshipers of every time and place, he threw back his head and broke out in song. "The heavens are telling the glory of God . . ."

But then, the scene changes. There is wonder and mystery, to be sure, but ambiguity and loneliness too. Did you hear that? Listen to the psalm: "Day to day pours forth speech" (That's a good thing!) "and night to night declares knowledge (also good); “but there is no speech. There are no words. We can't hear the voice." The Psalmist hears the melody reverberating through the skies, but he can't make out the lyrics. He knows God is out there, but he doesn't know what kind of God it is. In fact, the word he uses for God is Elohim. That's the Hebrew name for the God who is out there somewhere, the Great Spirit. 

But the heavens can't tell us what kind of God it is. They do not have the words.

This is true, isn't it? Nature can be so beautiful and so impersonal. Creation is both captivating and cruel. Out there you can taste maple syrup and step in poison ivy. You can enjoy purple mountains and be crushed in an avalanche. You can find a good housecat or be eaten by a wild beast. For all of the beauty of this world, there is danger and irrational violence. Catch the wrong germ, and the infection could do you in. Shoot the rapids in a canoe and you could be smashed on the rocks. One little bitty hurricane can cause immeasurable suffering.

Belden Lane, backpacker and theologian, tells of hiking a red rock canyon in northern New Mexico. A sudden storm became a flash flood, and Belden kept scrambling up the box canyon wall as the water kept climbing beneath him. He paused long enough to say it out loud: “I could die out here and this beautiful landscape would not care.”

So, the psalmist confesses, "The heavens are telling the glory of God, but I cannot make out the words." It’s natural to wonder, "What kind of God made all of this, anyway?"

That's why the psalmist comes in out of the cold. The rhythm of the psalm changes. The words take on the insistent beat of a drum: "The law of the Lord is perfect. The decrees of the Lord are sure. The precepts of the Lord are right. The commandment of the Lord is clear." The pulse changes.

And the word for God changes. As the psalm begins, God’s name is "Elohim." That’s the God-who-is-out-there-somewhere-if-only-we had a clue. Then the name changes to Yahweh. That’s the Lord of the covenant, the Lord who brought us out of slavery, the Good Shepherd who pursues us even when all seems lost. This is temple-talk. It's church talk. Out there, the heavens are infused with the glory of God - but in here, we tell the story of what this formidable God has done among us and for us.

Out there, we fear God's power whenever creation shakes its fist in all of its fury. But in here, we tell the story of how the Lord’s power has saved us through humility, mercy, and self-sacrifice.

Out there, we know the rage of a hurricane and the roughness of disease. But in here, we are instructed that "nothing shall separate us from the love of God."

Out there, the only law is the law of the jungle, namely, "the survival of the fittest." But in here, we discover the only way to life is through the laws of mercy, justice, and sacrificial love. We tell the story of the Lord God who freed us from the domination of slavery and taught us another way to live. We tell of a Savior who forgives destructive behavior – then calls us to make things right, to walk humbly, to love kindness, to tell the truth.

We remember what the world out there can't tell us - - that the God of wind and wave is the Lord who loves us. This is the God who wants what is best for us, who desires that we flourish, the God who wants each one of us to know that we count and we are called to make a positive difference. The words of God break through creation’s silence and teach us that every last one of us is worthy of honesty and love.

A good friend told me about a professor that he had in graduate school. The teacher was a very imposing man. He was not a tall man physically, but his mind and his piety were powerful. You can even sense something of what he was like when you hear his name: Dr. James McDowell Richards. Well, the students adored Dr. Richards. They revered him and held him in great esteem. But they were scared of him too. He was not a very approachable man.

That was Bob’s read of his former professor. After school, he took a series of jobs. Then he landed as an administrator in a Presbyterian nursing home. Imagine his surprise when discovered the newest resident was Dr. James McDowell Richards, now retired and feeble. He felt more than surprise; Bob was intimidated by Dr. Richards in school and dreaded he would be seeing him regularly in the hallways. But he did the best that he could. He gathered up his courage and knocked on the old man’s door. He re-introduced himself as a former student, which prompted a single nod of the head. He sat with him at chapel services, greeted him regularly, tried to strike up conversation. He did the best he could.

One evening, Bob went into the dining room of the facility. There was Dr. Richards in his wheelchair, having his dinner. Bob pulled up a chair and struck up an informal conversation. Then suddenly, and he does not know to this day why he asked him this, Bob said, "Dr. Richards, I've always wanted to ask you something."  "Yes?" 

"You and your wife had sons."  "Yes."  "Did you ever tell your sons that you loved them?"  "No. I'm an old-fashioned father. I didn't need to tell them. They knew.”

The old man paused for a moment, then added, “Well, one time, I told one of them. I was in the hospital. I thought I was going to die, and one of my boys came to visit me. I told him I loved him. But it wasn't a regular thing." 

Bob said, "You know, Dr. Richards, my father never told me that, either. And you were like a father to us in school, and I just wondered if fathers ever did that sort of thing." Dr. Richards looked at him, silent, then pushed around some food on his plate.

The meal was now over, and an attendant began to wheel Dr. Richards toward the exit. Bob watched him go, then saw him signal to the attendant and say something to her. She turned the wheelchair around and brought him back. Dr. Richards reached up and touched his cheek and said, "Bob, I love you."

"I knew that all along," said Bob, "but to hear him say it sealed it in my soul."

If you go outside and look at the heavens, you get the clear impression there is a powerful and awesome God out there. But when we come in here, into the sanctuary, we hear the story of the Lord who loves us so much that he gave his own Son to the world. And when the world tried to get rid of the Son, God sent him back. And we come in here to meet him once more, as he keeps teaching, correcting, forgiving, and risking more love on the likes of us. That’s the good news. 

And it’s good for us to keep hearing it spoken in sacraments and words.

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

Thanks to Dr. Tom Long, who told a version of the concluding story in a sermon on this text. 

---

[1] C. S. Lewis, Reflections on the Psalms (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1958) 63.

[2] John Calvin, Commentary on the Psalms, 308.