 Rev. Jeff Nelson |
A Place to Remember....A Place to Be Remembered
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On the dry Laetoli plain of northern Tanzania in 1977, archaeologist Mary Leaky found a trail of footprints belonging to some of the earliest known humans to have ever lived. The three barefoot people—likely a short man, a woman and a child—walked closely together. They walked on moist volcanic turf and ash on a day about 3.6 million years ago. After they walked across the plain, more ash covered their footprints and later hardened. We know that it was raining as they walked together, because next to their footprints are the pockmarks of the rain also preserved by the fallen ash. We have about ninety feet of that family’s steady footprints intact. We do not know where they were going or why. But it’s likely that as the great Sadiman Volcano erupted and destroyed much of their land, they were fleeing their home in search of safer ground. Wherever they were heading, we know that as they walked, the woman paused and turned back, walking briefly in the direction from which they came, only to turn back and rejoin her family. We do not know why she paused. We know only that whatever it was that caused her to turn away was not enough to keep her away, and that wherever they went, they went there together. The oldest footprints ever discovered reveal some things to us about us. These footprints remind us that life is riddled with volcanoes, with eruptions and disruptions to the patterns and fabrics of our lives. Since the dawn of time, the human family has faced moments they could not manage and they could not control. These ancient footprints also reveal that sometimes humanity simply cannot stay where it has always stayed. The circumstances of life sometimes make it impossible to stay put, stay home or stay in the same place. These ancient footprints reveal a difficult truth. Sometimes we must pack it all in and leave behind the places of familiarity and security to face an uncertain and unknown future. The footprints embedded forever in the ashes of fear and heartbreak strike a chord deep within us that in the journey of life, especially during its toughest and most trying times, the journey need not and should not be traveled alone. But what captures my imagination most today in the journey of this ancient family is the moment the owner of one set of footprints paused and, just for a few moments, turned to look back. They paused for just a moment to remember—to remember what once was, to remember what might never be again. They looked back to remember those who did not and could not make the journey with them and to remember the miraculous “coincidences” that helped to get them out of harm’s way. And yes, those footprints paused to remember the things of the past—even the tragic past—that needed to be carried into the future. On this day I find myself most connected to footprints that pause to remember. The 17th century Danish theologian Soren Kirkegaard is quoted as saying, “Life can only be understood backward, but it must be lived forward.” Life can only be understood backward, but it must be lived forward. I think he is right. It is often by looking back at where we have been that we are able to figure out where it is we are going. Often the path to the future runs through the past so that we might recall its wisdom and learn from its mistakes. Life can only be understood backward, but it must be lived forward. We know what it means to live our lives this way. Every time we get behind the wheel of our car, we look out through the windshield to the open road that lies ahead of us, while at the same glancing in the rearview mirror to survey the landscape we have already traveled. So I want to invite you to do just that with Bridget and me for a moment. I want to ask you to come along with us as we look both forward and back—pausing in the midst of our journey to turn back, remember, and then to move forward “re-membered,” literally, “put back together again.” Bridget and I pause to remember what once was. On the morning of April 14, we went to see our doctor—a doctor we love and who loves us. Bridget was called into the office and I remained in the waiting room. While waiting for the doctor, the nurses took the obligatory tests. Our doctor did not know why Bridget had made the appointment, so after seeing the test results, she bounded into the room and said, “I don’t know why you are here, but do you know?” I was called back into the office and there, for the first time, we had the confirmation we had expected. We were pregnant. I bounded out of the office and announced to a waiting room full of strangers, “I am going to be a dad!” The little-over four weeks that we lived with the idea of being parents were among the most exciting of our young lives. This little life growing within Bridget made us more aware of our love for each other, our families and our friends. You know that during those weeks we could barley contain our excitement. So tonight we remember what once was. We also pause to remember that which might never be. We lost a child. A child we never held, never named, never even saw, and yet a child we already loved in ways that it is absolutely impossible to describe. Heaven will hold this baby before we will. We have hope that we will one day have a child of our own, but we will never escape the sad truth that it will not be this one. As joyous as the previous four weeks were, these past two have been as sad. Tonight we remember that which might never be. Our footprints stop and turn tonight so that we might look back and recall all the miracles that appeared along the way. I think that any time we look back at the most difficult and trying times of our lives, we can begin to see all of the little things that somehow just appeared. When we look back, the list is long and amazing: a red-headed friend suddenly appearing in the waiting room with a hug and helpful hand; returning home to a stocked refrigerator; a dog who knew when all we needed was to cry with someone silently; the cards; the e-mails; the calls; the cookies; the stories of those who walked this road, as well; the dream of a deceased grandmother cradling her first grandchild; the candles lit for us; a staff who knew how to carry on without us; and family and friends who promised to walk this road with us. It is easy to see, looking back on this moment, that we did not do this alone. You were there. God was there. So tonight we look back to remember all of the miracles that appeared along the way. Tonight we remember to look back so that we may carry into the future those things we do not want to leave behind. There are many things we have learned about ourselves, our faith and our world these past weeks. But there is one overriding thing I will take with me from the events of these past weeks. Life is absolutely precious. Life is a gift, an amazing and delicate gift. Did you know that each person ever conceived is one of 78,000,000,000,000,000 (78 quadrillion)—that is 78 with fifteen zeros after it—possible people combinations? We are an absolute miracle. The fact that you and I exist in the fashion and the uniqueness that we do is an absolute miracle. The fact that we exist at all, given the fragility of every pregnancy, is an absolute gift. And so we move forward from this moment in our lives with a newfound respect for life—all life—and will do our best to live our lives in ways that honor this most precious of gifts. Tonight we remember to look back so that we may carry into the future those things we do not want to leave behind. Our scripture tonight speaks to this very moment of remembering. This scripture sits at the very center of Mark’s gospel. It is the hinge text. The entire story turns on this word. Once again Jesus gathers with his disciples and he once again asks them to follow. But this time it isn’t just a simple, “Come on, let’s go.” This time he turns to his disciples and says, “If anyone would come after me, they must deny themselves and take up their cross...” and then they can follow. Before moving ahead, they must pause—they must stop for a moment, turn around and remember to pick up their cross. Then and only then are they able to follow Jesus. As far as I can tell, this is hardest word Jesus ever spoke. This is a hard word. It does not preach well in this self-help, pop-psychology world in which we live. Take up your cross and then, and only then, can you follow me. What about a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole? What about following the rules, doing good, believing all the right things and getting rewarded for it? Isn’t there some immunity to pain inherent in the Christian way of life? Isn’t Jesus supposed to protect us from the things that hurt us? But all Jesus talks about is the cross. Truth be told, friends, in many ways Bridget and I wish we could just erase these past three weeks. And if we cannot erase them, well, then we wish we could just forget them. I wish I could just stand here tonight and tell you that while it has been hard, everything is all right. That we are down but not out. That somehow the sadness and disappointment of this moment will fade. But I can’t. I wish I could stand here and tell you that everything makes sense, that we see our loss as a part of some “bigger plan” or “higher purpose.” But we don’t. And I wish I could just stand here tonight and preach of a happier text, a gentler text, a more soothing text. But I couldn’t. But what I can tell you is that over these past few weeks, it has been the words of this text that I have heard over and over again. Take up your cross and follow me. It is as if the voice of Jesus has been whispering in my ear: “I know you would just as soon leave all this behind. I know it is tempting to pretend none of this ever happened. I know it might seem easy to hide the pain and confusion behind a smiley face and a thinly-veiled religiosity. You know all that ‘this must be God’s plan’ stuff. But you can bear this. I know at times it seems impossible. But it is not impossible. Don’t run away from it; instead take it with you.” Today’s scripture makes one thing abundantly clear. God does not promise to take the cross from us. But God does promise to bear each cross with us, and then promises that there will be life on the other side of it. Those promises are available to us—to all of us—if we are willing to pick up our cross, to confront our brokenness, be honest about our fears, and to follow after a God who knows all too well what it means to carry a cross. Bridget and I move ahead on our journey with our crosses intact because we do indeed follow a Savior who carried his own cross. And when it was all said and done, this Savior never hid from us the lasting and permanent marks of the cross he carried. Our cross has been a little lighter to carry because so many of you have been honest and willing to talk about your wounds and have shown us how to carry this particular cross. I am always amazed that in the post-Easter accounts, the risen Christ still has all the visible, tangible marks of his darkest hour intact. The marks of suffering, shame, defeat and death are not removed. And not only does Jesus carry these marks, he invites all to see them and to touch them. “Put your finger here,” Jesus says to a doubting Thomas. “See my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.” The wounds have not disappeared, but they have been transformed. Our scriptures call us to carry our crosses. Whether that cross is cancer, job loss, depression, aging, broken relationships, loneliness, addiction or countless other crosses that we carry, we do not need to hide the brokenness and wounds that our losses and suffering have brought us. Letting others see our sadness and allowing others to touch us in the midst of our suffering allows God’s light and love to shine in us and through us. Even though the wounds may never disappear, they may be transformed. In his letter to the church at Rome, Paul writes: Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword? No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. In those most powerful of words, Paul does not say that our faith will prevent trouble, hardship, persecution, famine or death. In fact, this passage seems to indicate that all of these things will be inevitable. But when we walk by faith, none of the crosses we carry—no matter how heavy, no matter for how long—will ever, or can ever, separate us from the love of God found in Christ Jesus our Lord. Nothing—absolutely nothing—will separate us from the love of God we find in Jesus Christ. Yes, at the center of our faith stands a cross that had its day. But because of the resurrection, that cross, and every cross thereafter, was denied its dominion. So, to take up our cross is to be brave enough to look back and remember. To remember where we have been. To remember how we have been hurt. To remember how God has brought us this far. To remember that God will also bring us home. As I read about those ancient footprints preserved forever in volcanic ash, I could not help but think of the poem called “Footprints in the Sand.” I am sure it is familiar to most of us. It tells the story of a man who, in a dream, saw two sets of footprints in the sand. One set was his and the other was God’s. Then, during a difficult time in his life, he saw only one set of footprints. The man was confused with this and asked God, “Why, when things were toughest, was there only one set of footprints?” Had God abandoned him? To which the Lord cleverly replied, “My precious, precious child, I love you and I would never leave you! During your times of trial and suffering, when you saw only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you.” Well, as I look back over these weeks, I have had a vision that is a little different. It begins with three sets of footprints. Bridget’s, mine and, of course, God’s. We walked together the path in the same way we had before. Bridget, me and God, traversing the ups and downs of life together. When the moments of these last weeks enter into the journey, suddenly there are a couple more footprints appearing, and then some more and some more. With each new day, new footprints appeared in the sand. It is hard to tell which are ours and which are God’s. In our darkest hours, we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by friends and family. It was you who walked with us. Now the journey brings us to tonight. I can see that the multitude of footprints stopped for a moment, and I turned back to see the path that had just been traveled. And suddenly next to each set of prints there appears a square indentation in the sand—left by the crosses that each person had been carrying with them. And there we stood and looked back to remember and to be remembered. You have loved us well. You have remembered us. And that is something we will never forget. My only prayer is that you remember others as you have remembered us.
Note: I am once again thankful to Mark Feldmeir’s book, Stirred Not Shaken, and his sermon “All that You Can’t Leave Behind.” From this sermon I found the opening story and some insight into the way of the cross. Needless to say, Bridget and I are so thankful for all of your prayers and support. We leave this moment of our journey feeling very blessed—blessed to have the family and friends we have, blessed to have each other, and blessed by the faith that under girds all of it. I leave you with this quote from Czech poet and politician Vaclav Havel. Hope is a state of mind, not of the world... Either we have hope or we don’t; it is a dimension of the soul, and it’s not essentially dependent on some particular observation of the world or estimate of the situation. Hope is not prognostication. It is an orientation of the spirit, an orientation of the heart; it transcends the world that is immediately experienced, and is anchored somewhere beyond its horizons…
Thank you for the hope you have given us.
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