How We Remember
One of our favorite idols in this country is innovation. We like new things, even when most of us would probably say that change is scary and we like things the way they are—at least on the personal level. While individuals might try and keep their own habits as consistent as possible, there is still this cultural drive to try the next big thing. It’s that good old model of American progress that has us chasing the most efficient, the cheapest, the most productive way of doing whatever it is that we do. Even in the church, efficiency and ingenuity are driving factors that leave us looking for the next big thing that will spark a revival. I was at a gathering for clergy from around the Upper New York Conference this past Thursday, at which a pastor insisted that our churches would be doing much better if we pastors more readily embraced things like social media and podcasting. Ah yes, because I’m sure that the people would just come flocking if they could only hear every thought that pops into my head, right from their phones each week.
In our common quest for the future, for efficiency and productivity, looking backwards can seem more like a burden than a worthwhile responsibility. It’s a distraction, time that could be better spent looking forward in anticipation of the next thing that will drive our lives, our careers, our society into the next stage of development. We mourn, we move on. Lingering on death, on misfortune, on loss can prolong any pain that went along with those experiences. Why would we want to re-live suffering? Why would we want to remember? It doesn’t make any sense to stop, to look behind us, and to allow our rhythms to be disrupted. Anytime we pause, we’re doing something that goes against our instincts. Nevertheless, each year we set aside time to stop, to look around at where we are, and to look backwards at where we’ve come from.
If you spend any time at all around United Methodist Archives and History folks, you’re bound to hear the phrase “ministry of memory” thrown around once in a while. It’s a tagline, a catchy piece of marketing, a compact little phrase that tells you exactly what the Commission on Archives and History does…without actually telling you anything about what we do. I suppose that’s what makes it good marketing. When we talk about memory, though, we’re not talking about nostalgia, or dwelling on the glory days. We’re not just talking about recalling the numbers of old records about attendance and finance. The ministry of memory is the act of keeping in front of us the people, places, and events that have made us who we are. It’s not about shame, though it is often about the need for repentance. It’s not about glorification or idolatry, though there is much to celebrate. It’s not about longing for a return to a mythologized past, though there are things that we can reclaim. It is about knowing where we come from, knowing who we come from, and allowing that knowledge to shape how we move through the world.
In just a few moments, we’re going to sing one of my favorite hymns: “Lift Every Voice and Sing.” Lift Every Voice and Sing was written in celebration of Abraham Lincoln’s birthday in 1900, and quickly grew in popularity. In Black churches and community spaces in particular, it was a means of recognizing shared identity and common struggle. It’s a hymn that looks backwards, that remembers violence endured, that seeks to recognize the places in which God was at work along the way. But it’s also a hymn that looks to the present and even the future, that calls for us to look towards the rising sun, towards the hope of a new day, standing presently where the white gleam of that bright star is cast. As communities, it’s important to remember where we have come from, who we have come from, and what struggles we have endured to get to where we are now. It’s why we gather, each year, to pause and say the names of those we have lost. But it’s also important for us to pair our remembrances with hope for the present and the promise of tomorrow. We don’t live in our remembrances—we are grounded and united by them.
Each time we gather at the table together, we practice our common memory together. Each time, we share the same old story—nothing new. Anyone who was at Bike Trip this year can tell you that this storytelling part of Communion, the part when we recall the events of the Last Supper, is what’s known as the anamnesis. Now you all know one more Greek word than you did when you woke up this morning. Anamnesis, in its simplest sense, is about remembering. In the context of Communion, though, it becomes so much more. It’s not just a memory, a recollection of the events that led up to the suffering, death, and resurrection of Jesus. It is the bringing forward of all those events into the present time. It’s a statement, a practice that calls the events of the past into the present time. The barriers that we put up between now and then come crashing down. The violence of imperial occupation, the voices of the hungry and the oppressed crying out, the groans of Creation longing to be set free—those are no longer confined to the past. But neither is the grace of God, which was offered to the disciples in the form of bread and cup.
When we gather at the table, when we bring these memories to the present, we bring with them the memories of all those who have said these words before us. All our saints, all our ancestors of faith, become present at this table with us, say these words and sing these hymns with us. We remember—we re-member—the body of Christ. As in, we put it back together. In this act, and in the act of remembering the saints that are a part of who we are, we embody the spirits of those who have come before us. We embody these spirits, too, when we live into the shared purpose to which we are called—the purpose which unites us with saints whether we share biology or not. Anamnesis must become more than just words we say or tired old liturgy—it must be lived out. We must live as those who recall the dark past of struggle. We must live as those who have known sorrow and loss. We must live as those who not only remember, but refuse to forget the suffering, death, and resurrection of the one whose call has brought us together. In the planting and tending of gardens; in our refusal to conform to society; in our welcoming of strangers; in our senses of humor; and in our cries for justice. This is our anamnesis, our recollection—our refusal to forget what has been, our refusal to lose hope in what might be.
So come, let us remember. Even though it doesn’t seem to make sense. Even when our urge is to simply move on with our lives and look to the future. Let us remember in word and thought, and let us remember in the ways we live and move. May we honor the saints of our lives and our communities, not in a way that puts them beyond reproach or polishes them to perfection, but that acknowledges who they were, and are, to us. In rising from the grave, Christ showed us that death does not have the final say. In setting the table to dine with his friends, Christ called us to remember, and to refuse to forget that which has come before. So come, let us remember, let us refuse to forget, the saints who have blessed our lives. Let us remember, let us refuse to forget, the common struggles and common purpose that binds us to one another through the ages. Let us remember, let us refuse to forget, the resurrection call that carries us through the present and into the future. In our living, in our remembering, and in our hope for the future, may we bear that resurrection promise in the company of all the saints. Amen.