Then
they Remembered
April
21, 2019 | Easter Sunday
Preached
by Pastor Matt Braddock
At
the crack of dawn on Sunday, the women came to the tomb carrying the burial
spices they had prepared. They found the entrance stone rolled back from the
tomb, so they walked in. But once inside, they couldn’t find the body of the
Master Jesus. They were puzzled, wondering what to make of this. Then, out of
nowhere it seemed, two men, light cascading over them, stood there. The women
were awestruck and bowed down in worship. The men said, “Why are you looking
for the Living One in a cemetery? He is not here, but raised up. Remember how
he told you when you were still back in Galilee that he had to be handed over
to sinners, be killed on a cross, and in three days rise up?” Then they
remembered Jesus’ words. Luke 24:1-8
Easter begins with remembering.
Or maybe Easter begins with forgetting. I’m glad, because I have been forgetful
lately. I forget what I was going to say. I forget why I walked into a room. I
forget important family events. Details are slipping my mind lately.
If you could be granted a superpower
of memory, would you choose to remember every day of your life? Would you want
the kind of mind that could recall details on command? I can’t believe how
quickly time has gone by in my own life. I think I’ve been thinking about loved
ones I’ve lost and find it inconceivable how long it’s been since they died. My
cousin reminded me about our grandfather the other day. James Hudson was a
mysterious man to me. He never said too much, but when he did speak, we
listened. He nicknamed all his grandchildren, and he called me Big Ike. I’ll
never forget the time he caught my cousin and me on the roof of his barn. When
we finally came down, he was ready for us. He said, “Big Ike, if I ever catch
you up there again, I gonna kick and blister your behind.” I believed him. His
care could be ferocious. He was also a stubborn man. Every carpet and blanket
in his house had cigarette burns, due to his bad habit of falling asleep while
smoking in bed. Mostly, I remember him sitting at the head of the dinner table
for hours, listening to the chatter and laughter of his family, smoking cartons
of cigarettes (True Blues), drinking coffee with two saccharine tablets, eating
Velveeta and smoked sausage, and looking impassive.
I’m sure there’s more to
remember, but my recollections of him are fading. Sometimes I wish I had a
better memory — to know that the past is not gone, that the people are not
gone.
I read a fascinating story
about a woman who cannot forget anything about her life. She remembers every
single detail since she was fourteen years old. Give her a date, and she can
tell you the day of the week it was and what she did. Give her a historical
event in her lifetime and she’ll tell you what she was wearing and what the
weather was. She describes her life as a split screen TV with the present
running on one side and the past on the other. In an interview she said, “Some
memories are good and give me a warm, safe feeling. But I also recall every bad
decision, insult, and excruciating embarrassment. Over the years it has eaten
me up. It has kind of paralyzed me.” I don’t know if I want that superpower
anymore.
Speaking of memories, last
week, I reached out to an UCC acquaintance who is not a member of the
Connecticut State Assembly. Back in the day, she was the co-director of a UCC
Summer camp where I volunteered. I congratulated her on the new position, and
after some small talk she wrote, “I'll always remember you crossing camp in a
Cher wig and long skirt.” I did not remember that. It sounds like something I’d
do, but I did not remember.
I wondered how many people hold
memories of me that I don’t recall. So, I went to Facebook and typed, “Would
you share a memory you have of me? I'm doing a project on remembering, and I'm
curious about a story you remember about me, especially from childhood, high school,
and college years (but anyone can share). Thanks!” Knowing full well the risks,
I hit send, and waited for the responses.
Here is what people remember: I
have a habit of singing unsuitably loud at others in public places. People
remember me wearing random costumes – because you now know how much I like to
dress up. Sometimes the loud singing and dress up go together. People remember
getting talked into half-baked exploits by me. I tend to be kind and helpful. A
bit o Sometimes funny. Sometimes brash.
Some stories I had totally
forgotten – events that were significant to others but had faded from my view. Here
were the memories I was most interested in. One of my favorites came from Rita,
a community friend in Connecticut who was known to enjoy a glass of wine or two.
In one of my many attempts to lose weight, I talked her into doing Weight Watchers
with me. Back then, you would get a daily allotment of points for all the food
you were going to eat. Every food had a point value. Anything consumed, like a
glass of wine, would get subtracted from our daily total. Rita wrote, “You and
I sat together at a Weight Watchers meeting. Later that day, I had a small fire
in my kitchen. I was pretty shook up watching all those firefighters going
inside. As I stood outside in the middle of all the fire trucks and their
flashing lights, I looked up the street and saw you get out of your car and
come rushing toward me. You were the minister for the firefighters in town and
had gotten the call about the fire. You gave me a big hug and whispered in my
ear, ‘Don’t worry. Red wine is only two points!’”
This is all to say, I’ve been
thinking a lot about memories, because Easter begins with remembering. Or maybe
Easter begins with forgetting. Think of the women going to the empty tomb to
prepare the body of Jesus for final burial. They have a thousand reasons to be
jaded, exhausted, beat down, and burned out. They have every reason to be stuck
in the stupor of pessimism. They are so wrapped up in grief, they don’t recall
what Jesus said – that he would suffer, and die, and be raised up on the third
day.
In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus
predicts his death three times. He tells his 12 disciples exactly what will
happen to him. Each time, Jesus’s closest followers, the men who follow him day in and day out, the men who learned from his teachings and witnessed miracles, the men don’t get it. They cannot
understand, and they are too afraid to ask for an explanation.
Fast forward to the empty
tomb. Two men appear, but they are not like the other men we’ve met. They repeat
what Jesus said earlier in the Gospel, “He is not here. Remember how he told you when you were still back in Galilee that
he had to be handed over to sinners, be killed on a cross, and in three days
rise up?” Do you know what different this time? This time … this time! … the
reminder is not to the men. The reminder is given to the women. Then they
remember. Then the miracle of Easter happens. Easter begins with remembering.
The story of the resurrection
of Jesus is the core recollection of Christianity. It reminds us of God’s power
over death. It reminds us of the empire’s loosening grip over life. It’s a
story that demands all perspectives be heard: a diverse chorus of voices all singing
a common song. The story and the song begin with women remembering.
Remembering is a political
act. Communities make different decisions about what we remember, about how we
tell the stories of the past. One group’s story of triumph may be another’s
story of trauma. One’s joy may be another’s pain. It changes based on where we stand
— whether we have power or fight for power; whether we are thriving or
surviving; fighting, fleeing, or resisting.
Let’s go back to my
grandfather. I have another memory of him I didn’t tell you about. When he died
of a sudden heart attack from his decades-long diet of Velveeta, smoked
sausages and cigarettes, he also left my grandmother $5 million in debt.
Secrets came to light about businesses gone bad, failed investments, and hidden
affairs. The banks started to close in, wanting their money. Our devastation
and trauma filtered every memory we had of grandpa. We could not hide our confusion
and fear. The story of my grandfather’s memory was dominated by our anger and
disappointment. We were so wrapped up in grief, we forgot the good things he
did. People do this all the time in all parts of life. It especially happens in
communities. Those in charge try to shape the story.
Maybe you’ve heard it said
that history is written by the winners. Domination requires deliberate mis-remembering.
Certain details get celebrated and others get buried. Wins become larger than
they truly were and losses to become minor setbacks. Those who control the
story decide what to keep alive and what to lay to rest; what to dwell on and
what to let go of; where to focus and when to block things out.
In our political lives, domination
desires the oppressed to forget. If domination prospers on forgetting, then memory
is form of resistance. Memory challenges the forces that romanticize the past
or believe that progress alone unlocks a more just future. The corrupt commanders,
the proud plunderers, the terrible tyrants, and the immoral manipulators of the
world take comfort in the knowing that people easily forget their misdeeds. In
these times of impunity and injustice, remembering is be an act of resistance.
History is written by the
winners. History is also told by survivors. On that first Easter morning, it’s
the women who resist and remember. It’s the women who arrive to make sense of
the carnage of Good Friday. Cleaning and preparing a corpse was the work of
women who came to re-member a body torn in a grisly public act of torment, a
body killed as a symbol of the Empire’s intention to destroy any thought of
resistance. Simply showing up at the tomb mark the women as followers of
someone tortured and killed by the state -- never a safe move! It’s women who
are willing to risk the danger of exposure. It’s women who will not allow the empire
to establish the “official” state memory of the event of Jesus’s death.
When they arrive at the tomb and
nothing is as they expect it to be. Before the women have any time to process
the trauma of having their loved one’s body stolen, they receive a reminder of
the very words Jesus told the men over and over again. The women get it. This
time, they are healed of their trauma. This time, they become the first people
to share a new memory -- not Rome’s story of domination … not the men’s story
of failure … it’s a new story of life, and love … a story of new beginnings and
new growth. It’s a story we remember today: We remember that God’s love can
never be entombed. We remember how we see love overcome hatred. We remember how
good can overshadow evil. We remember how courage can take the place of fear.
We have a thousand reasons to
be jaded, exhausted, beat down, and burned out. We have every reason to be
stuck in the stupor of pessimism. We can get so wrapped up in grief, we forget
what Jesus said. But Easter won’t die. In an empire so zealously committed to
crucifixion, God relentlessly reminds us how in the ravages of trauma and the
hierarchies of power, God’s voice refuses to be silenced. Amid the hatred and
fear that puts innocent people in the grave, God’s story refuses to yield to
the domination of death. Easter begins with forgetting. Or is it remembering? In
a diverse chorus of voices, all in common song, we remember this impossible
mystery: Jesus is risen. Remember?
Sources:
https://www.them.
us/story/deray-mckesson-on-the-other-side-of-freedom
https://www.centralsynagogue.
org/worship/sermons/detail/memory-the-importance-of-forgetting-yom-kippur-5776
https://politicaltheology.
com/memory-and-the-risen-christ-luke-241-12/
