The hope that comes with remembering
I am among those who might fit into the category of “spiritually homeless,” at least when it comes to having a church. After having been a pastor, and going through some painful losses of spiritual community, it’s been tough to find a church that feels like home. Especially when I’m not even sure what I believe church is supposed to be.
Most of the time, the 40 Orchards community feels like enough. I learn so much from those who gather. Our circles are safe spaces for me to process my own journey, even when I am the one facilitating the conversation. Not only that, but leading with Lisa means I get the gift of her voice in my life on a regular basis.
But what happens to the spiritually homeless on Easter? It was a day we wanted to go to church as a family. How would we choose where to go when no place felt like our community anymore?
In the end, we decided to go to a traditional and liturgical church with my mom. She loves her faith community and enjoys singing in the choir. Easter felt like a great chance to support her. I expected the service to be a way to connect as a family.
I did not expect the service to make me cry.
The choir entered as the congregation sang, “I Know that My Redeemer Lives,” and by a few bars in, I couldn’t sing along. My throat was stopped up with memory and emotion. I opted to use my energy to hold back the tears instead of give-in. I didn’t want to explain to those around me what was happening. I wasn’t even sure I knew what was happening. It’s still a little tricky to put into words. Here’s how I’ve come to see it as I have thought more:
Memory poured over me. And the residue it left behind was a feeling that has been rather elusive: hope.
That song was composed by John Hatton in 1793, and has been sung in Lutheran churches for years. Having grown up Lutheran, I still knew the words and melody by heart. I could picture sitting in church as a child, transitioning through my parents divorce. I thought of how odd my life as a pastor would have seemed to the young me who never saw a woman lead. I felt the reality of all the years of death and loss and transition since I had first learned the lyrics.
In my more recent church traditions, the focus of Easter has often been about how to make it new. I’ve been part of leadership teams brainstorming how to tell the story in a way that feels fresh and relevant. It is like we are trying to conjure hope by leading our eyes to something shiny and new.
I forgot the hope that comes with remembering. Maybe we all have.
The hope of remembering holds the whole of our stories. There has been life, and there has been death. Some losses have been reborn to new life, and some losses have not. And here we are, having found a way through it all. Here we are, sitting together on Easter Sunday and singing. Maybe God is with us. Maybe we can make it after all. Maybe there could be life up ahead.
After the tough set of years we have had as a human community, the voices inside our heads may be yelling, “Stop! Don’t remember! Just move forward!”
Some of us may need to honor that voice inside us. Remembering might be too much right now. The broken relationships, lost jobs, injustice, and grief we’ve experienced may still feel too tender to explore. Like the disciples in John 21, we may need to just go back to fishing for awhile. Or like Elijah in 1 Kings 19, we may need to eat some food and take a nap. Hope isn’t meant to be choked down like a pill we are forced to swallow.
Others of us may need to push back against that voice inside us. Remembering might provide just the hope we need right now. We might need to start looking at the last few years in the scope of our lives and even in the scope of history. Like the people as they are ready to cross into the promised land in Deuteronomy, we can hear Moses telling us the people over and over again to remember: remember Egypt and remember the wilderness. We can ask, “What have we been through?” Or “How have we grown and changed?” or even “How has God brought life?” What if that kind of remembering can leave us with a residue of hope?
What if looking back could be the first step towards moving forward?
Remembering with you,
Steph
When we hold Scripture Circles, much of what we are doing is remembering together.
When we look at the human story of what God has done in the past, it can give us language for what we have experienced in our own lives. If remembering feels like a pathway for you, take a look at our Upcoming Studies. We’d love to have you join us.