Memory Is Where I Live

I was telling a friend this evening that possibly the best sign that I shouldn't do a PhD program anytime soon is that I think most PhD programs sound really exciting and cool (at least for a minute!).  My inability to focus on any one - NT? OT? Hermeneutics?  Theology and the Arts?  Sociology of Religion? - is a good indicator that I'm not ready to dive into any single track for the next 4-7 years.  I'm also not ready to continue to be a full-time student; I just need a break.

However, the one idea for a program that has stuck with me since my second semester at Divinity School would be to do a theological account of memory.  My Medieval Theology professor gave a lecture on John of the Cross and his tripartite division of the soul, and how he related each bit of the soul to one of the three theological virtues: the will to love, the intellect to faith, and memory to hope.  Ever since then I have wanted to write a poem / book that centers on the phrase "The currents between memory and hope are longing..."  It's possible that John of the Cross relates those two because they both have to do with time, but I think memory and hope are similar because they are both primarily about longing. 

One of the reasons this topic sticks out to me as an exciting ground for further study is that memory is usually a degraded concept in the culture as I view it.  Practices of memory are rare, and everything is focused on the now or the near future rather than the past.  Nostalgic is term used to insult those who can't deal with the present, the ones who would rather live in the past.

It's not living in the past, but I do often find myself living in my memory; or, rather, living from my memory.  Certainly, everyone makes it through the day (as Joseph Butler talks about in his Analogy of Religion, the only point I really remember from that dense text) because of the patterns and habits and expectations they form from remembered experience.  More than that, however, I find the energy to build new relationships because I remember the rewards of old ones.  I speak my prayers with the hope of prayers answered in the past.  Memory at every moment influences my present and helps me dream the future.

I write this post tonight because I'm lonely and nostalgic, which have put me in a certain mood; but I don't think being in this mood is a bad thing.  Melancholia is part of who I am, part of who I choose to be, part of what makes me (and everyone else) unique.  But let me say more about what I mean by being lonely...

The reason for my nostalgia in this case is that at the Divinity Drama show tonight, the final sketch was about a senior's angst about what comes after graduation (and the constant stream of people asking him what he was doing after graduation!).  As he and his friend took a moment to slow down and remember all the experiences that made their time at Divinity School so valuable, I realized that I couldn't necessarily pick which friend I would do that with.  Both my previous graduations involved tearful goodbyes to friends I didn't think I knew how to live without - thankfully, I learned I didn't have to, even if I did have to adjust to missing their daily presence in my life.  Those times in my life were marked by a practical intimacy forced by the constant friction of being in each others face every day, whether for meals or classes or worship or homework or conversation and fellowship.  It was difficult at first, but grew to be as comfortable as a security blanket, the source from which all my achievements drew confidence, courage and joy. 

Now, though, I don't know that I have a friend that close at the Divinity school.  Part of it is the unique set of challenges that come with making relationships during graduate school, or so I tell myself.  But I realized another part of it as I prayed my way home tonight: my loneliness is the existential weight of my overcommited toobusy schedule.  I'm taking 5.5 classes, I have two internships, and in case you forgot I'm also married.  A friend I have tried a similar schedule last year and failed to maintain it - he had to quit something.  I can name my schedule as "unsustainable" or even "insane," but I won't quit anything.  Is it pride?  Arrogance?  Graduation requirements?  Ambition?  I'm not sure.  All of these, certainly.

I think it also represents something I vowed in high school would never be true of me: the "adult" change from a focus on relationships to achievements.  I have unaware made a set of choices that will let me graduate with a very impressive resume, but have taken away from my ability to invest and be invested in by my peers.  If I'm not sure how I feel about the effects of that choice on a daily basis, I know it is not the methodology I want to use to make decisions in the future.  That isn't who I believe I am, but it seems to be who I have been being.

Well, my wife has just arrived home, so I shall end my post here.  I didn't expect to come to this place at all, but I'm not surprised to find myself here.  This moment of self-realization / confession is one I hope to remember as I move forward into the next phase of my life (whatever that may be).

For now, know that I am longing.  Longing for rest in God, and longing for the deep fellowship of intimacy with friends.  Go in peace, and pray for me (a sinner).

Failure

I can't recall how many times I've willingly chosen to fail, but I'm fairly certain it's precious few.  My Great Ideas final paper, perhaps, or the time I swore I'd never get on AIM again.  But when it came to posting once a week, I quite clearly made that choice.  Three posts in two weeks, I could have posted any time between the end of finals and Christmas week.  Every day went by and I thought about it, but never posted.  The same for this week, and I've essentially continued in that decision (as you'll soon read / see).

As procrastination has won the war over my New Year's Spiritual Discipline, I've begun to wonder.  It used to be true that failure was supposed to be a reminder to me of my limits, of sin and death.  But I've begun to think about identity as being marked by habits, and I wonder if it's better that I can be relied upon to fail.  Is failing in certain ways, at certain times, a marker of my identity?  Is it what helps the people around me get a hold on my identity, to know who I am?  Is it better to be predictable rather than perfect?  What relationship does failure have to perfection to, possibly, something that some call atonement, to what God makes up in my life?


With that question lingering, here's a sermon I preached today.  My wife thought it went well, and so did the congregation on the whole (although no one else in my family said anything about it.  Hmm.). At the end of it, I felt I'd failed.  I was grateful that the Holy Spirit did not.  How do I live with failure?

Let them praise the name of the LORD, for he commanded and they were created.

May I speak in the name of the Incarnate Christ.  Amen.

I’ve always been enchanted by Isaiah’s promise of a new name.

The promise taken up again in John’s Apocalypse:

“To the one who overcomes I will give a white stone,

And on the white stone is written a new name,

That no one knows except the one who receives it.”

I’ve always loved the idea that my life is hid with Christ on high,

The who I really am, my most authentic self, my true identity is between me and God,

And not defined by the people that surround me. 

I want a name, a name, a true name that no one knows but me,

The identity I grow towards in every action made and every habit formed,

The name that God gives me that I cannot make for myself.

I came to two realizations while Clara and I were in Kansas last week about receiving a new name.

The first was that it is a heavy weight to bear,

Receiving a name from God the people around you do not know and do not recognize.

We spent Friday night with some longtime friends of my family,

And one of their sons said out loud what I could tell many of them were thinking:

“A priest huh?  I never ever expected that’s what you would end up doing.”

I tried not to be too offended; Jesus does say that only in his hometown is a prophet without honor.

It’s just as likely they never imagined my growing up at all

As it is that they never expected me to become a priest.

But something that now makes perfect sense to me

Seems completely unexpected to my friends and neighbors and even some few of my relatives.

I feel at home with a white stone that says “priest” on it,

That calls me to a life of church leadership and ministry.

But some of my friends scratch their heads and think I’ve lost my marbles.

My second realization was this:  What I was waiting for was not at all what I expected.

I openly shunned the idea of every going to seminary,

Ever becoming a pastor,

For a whole variety of reasons,

At least one of which was that for a long time I didn’t feel called to it,

Even if some few of my friends were pushing me in that direction.

I desperately wanted a new name from God,

A white stone with a name unique to me on it,

But I didn’t realize that accepting such a new name would require so much work.

I wasn’t thinking about the fact that a new name meant a new understanding of my identity,

The beginning of a process of forming new habits, new relationships, new faith.

I wanted a new name from God,

But I didn’t realize how much change that new name involved.

What I was waiting for was not at all what I expected.

This brings me to the story of Anna in our gospel text from this morning.

A woman, a widow, a worshipper,

One who was in the temple day and night waiting on the Lord,

Wondering when the sword that pierced her own soul,

Her grief and isolation, would ever be removed.

Anna in the temple,

Fasting, praying,

Searching like Simeon for God’s light, his revelation, his salvation, his peace.

For God’s comfort.

Maybe even, just a little bit,

Ready to accept her death,

Waiting to escape from the pains of her present situation.

And then: the child, Jesus.

Carried in by Mary and Joseph,

Lifted up by Simeon as most of the crowd passed by.

Anna’s weary eyes long-accustomed to looking for God

Saw the boy,

Her ancient ears heard Simeon’s gentle song,

His new song, a different one than the pleading prayers he always used to offer.

Anna was the one whose eyes and ears were molded by night and day worship,

Whose fasting and praying and waiting before the Lord

Gave her the ability to recognize the boy.

We aren’t blessed with the words of her praises –

Perhaps they were a Psalm like the one we read this morning –

But what she does in response is remarkable.

It’s not the fact that she speaks about the child.

A widow in the temple night and day had seen hundreds and probably thousands of infants, Thousands of parents coming to offer the pair of doves or two young pigeons.

Anna isn’t remarkable because she shared the news “Oh another child was in the temple today,”

Such news was commonplace.

What makes Anna remarkable is who she goes to speak to.

Anna goes to find all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem.

Redemption. 

            God’s activity.

Jerusalem.

            Israel’s capital.

Anna goes to find all who were looking for God to work in Israel’s capital,

For God to throw out the Romans who enforced the recent census,

The Romans whose military occupied their streets and marketplaces,

The Romans who forced them to carry their weapons mile after mile,

The Romans who crucified their political opponents.

The temple and the city were full of people who expected God to drive the Romans out,

To crush their military and restore Israel’s monarchy.

Anna went to them and talked about a child, a boy,

An everyday occurrence at the temple they had all seen happen before.

But Anna’s old, old eyes and her ancient ears,

Eyes and ears more that were waiting for God to show up,

They saw something in that child that had to be shared,

That the ones waiting for Jerusalem’s redemption had to hear about.

And it was not what they expected.

It was an ordinary, everyday occurrence,

Given special meaning by the prayer and the fasting and the flickering light of the Holy Spirit.

What they were waiting for was not at all what they expected.

We don’t have the message Anna spread,

And we don’t have the words she exchanged with Mary and Joseph.

But I don’t it’s too far-fetched to suggest that maybe it was Anna

Who relayed this series of events to St. Luke the Historian.

And perhaps the name on her white stone is the one that Luke gives her: Prophet.

If I were going to try to usher in the new year with a sermon,

I might have preached instead on another text this morning:

And Jesus grew in wisdom, and in stature, and in favor with God and men.

I would have spoken about how forming new habits and resolutions

Is to imitate even Jesus, who himself had to grow and to change.

But because I’m an Episcopalian,

I want to focus on this message for the First Sunday after Christmas:

At the end of Advent, a time of waiting and preparation, anticipation and hope,

Jesus is born.  Christ still comes.

And, like Anna, we need to be prepared for his coming to give us a new identity and a new name,

And to ask the Holy Spirit to open our eyes and ears,

Because what we thought we were waiting for might not be at all what we were expecting.