Remembering

Sermon

Today is what the church traditionally calls Palm Sunday or Passion Sunday. It is the beginning of the end of Lent, the gates to Holy Week and Easter. Naturally then, I’d like to speak with you about Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve, 15 months ago, Eliz, our smart and incredibly welcoming Director of Children’s Ministry, had this great idea that we would have a Christmas pageant that any kid could participate in. Any kid could be any of the roles—if you wanted to be an angel, you got wings; if you wanted to be Joseph, you got a hammer—no pressure, all praise. My wife and I’s kiddo was three and still hadn’t been to worship that much because he was born in 2020, so despite all the praise, he was shy, but eventually he came up, and from where we sat, it looked like he mostly hid behind things… which was fine, no pressure, but on the way home he talked to us about how he sang all the songs with everyone and did all the things. His memory was cute, and we did not correct it. This last year was similar, though now that he was four, there was more flare, shall we say, but the memory is still sweet. He remembered differently than we did. Parents remember a snow day as damp yelling, with bribes, but our child will say, “It was so fun!”

I don’t say this to endorse our parenting, but of course we had something to do with this: we don’t always correct him, we emphasize the good core memories. When he fell at his swim lessons and exclaimed, “I WENT UNDERWATER!,” we made our best WOW faces, instead of pointing out the obvious. We try to choose to let him remember the good, whenever he can. There’s plenty of other times he gets down on himself, or worse, we overly criticize him. It helps us, too, to remember some things his way.

How are we remembering today? Today’s version of Palm Sunday, in Luke’s Gospel, doesn’t even have palms. Maybe Luke forgot; some scholars say Luke left the palms out on purpose because culturally, palm waving was more of an empire-at-war parade. But the cloaks, that’s Christmas—cloaks are “king of heaven come down” rally. And that’s one way to remember this day: people, lovingly, participating in a parade of memories, like a second-line parade in New Orleans, after a wedding or funeral. Another way we remember today, collectively, is less romantic, and more critical, but still not wrong—and not our fault; because we are in America, most of us are likely steeped in Christian history, intentionally or unintentionally. If you know anything about Christianity, and its main symbol, you know more of the cross than you do of parades. It’s normal to be thinking about the cross that comes later this week; it’s hard not to remember Jesus’ death. Or as Chauncey Diego Francisco Handy taught us in Adult Education today: it’s a good reminder that the empire can kill you.

Those are crucial events we shouldn’t forget; that’s why we have a Good Friday service. But some Christians, some parts of all of us, often focus on that punishing memory of Jesus and miss this humble yet powerful parade—and we criticize, we get down on ourselves, we get mad at the disciples. We question the motives of the parade goers. Where do these people go when the going gets tough? Why would they come to this rally since we know they’re going to abandon Jesus and the movement days later? These are fair questions. Some even asked Jesus to have the parade calm down and he said, almost as if he wished it would: “That’s not gonna happen.” The parade is here, palms or not, and if the people weren’t here, the rocks, the colt, all creation would parade: praising God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen. We, all creation, are remembering, remembering, recollecting, recalling, pulling ourselves together. Lately, since the end of last year, I’ve been trying to remember how we made it through the gates of the years 2017, 2018, 2019…

I know we did some things that sounded like this parade and looked like the pictures some of you sent me from last week’s rallies. My wife and I got married shortly after it became legal for us to get married, and we couldn’t throw a reception until 2017, and I was glad. It gave us something to rally for; our wedding feast day, as my sister-in-law called it, was at an old schoolhouse turned farm, bar, and restaurant outside Nashville, where we lived. All the musicians were local; we told them to play what they wanted. All the executives and chefs were women; they used products from the nonprofit farm which employed adults living with disabilities—it was truly a haven. And it was across a picturesque country road from a gas station that flew confederate flags; that station was more than once on the news for being a basecamp for a different kind of rally than one my wife or I would ever go to or even feel safe within a few miles of. But other than holding our breath a few times, we had a great time, and we exited doing a squiggly but traditional second line, playing kazoos, and waving napkins. That same year we went to more rallies that could’ve been mistaken for parades. We also went to Montreal, Canada, and it’s a longer, more forgettable story of how and why, but we also went to a hockey game. And everywhere we went in and around that stadium, people said, “Nice game.” Anyone could’ve asked what our motives were for being there, because my wife speaks some okay French, but I am clearly not French Canadian, yet everyone we met shared compassion with us, hot dogs, and said, “Nice game.” Hearing Canadians sing your national anthem is very healing. Sometimes the best way to rally is to go away; go away, and rally, before you return to the collective.

In 2017 and those other years, I was what we call a campus minister at multiple colleges in Nashville, supported by local churches. And though the students I knew absolutely had the energy and the best motives for it, I didn’t organize or go to any protests with students, because I felt like those were faith choices they needed to make, hopefully together, but apart from me. And as an executive director of a nonprofit supported by local churches, I thought there could be ethical or financial questions, too. When students would ask if I was protesting, I’d say: I make those faith decisions, too.

We had many intentional conversations about protesting. Aimee, who was here last week, and other practiced organizers, like the executive director of Tennesseans for Alternatives to the Death Penalty (who is also a PC(USA) minister), were often invited talk to students and supporters from local churches about how to rally or attend other peaceful protest efforts. I felt more confident organizing these conversations and helping at other demonstrations, where there were clear guidelines and safety procedures, where what was happening was in support of a dialogue, or an issue of faith or safety, not for or against specific candidates. In fact, I think the most worshipful thing I did my whole time in Nashville was hearing a 19-year-old sing Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way” as a song of peace, while on the other side of the same building where he was singing, maybe 40 yards away, there were Christians from another state who came to town protesting because they’d heard that queer students were affirmed here. The students couldn’t see them; it was set up that way intentionally. I have became more aware of how I don’t want and can’t let hurting folks to experience more hurt because of their attending an event that made me feel good and affirmed my choices. So, I didn’t attend rallies with students, but we rallied. Following their leadership, we sent letters to our state reps about safety and better promotion of safety through gun laws and diversity programs. We heard John Lewis speak; we’d go sit where he sat in.

We listened to each other when someone said: No, I’m not surprised by what’s happening, I grew up Black in Alabama. The meals and worship I shared with students were deeply connected to the churches nearby, so we were led by young people, but we weren’t all young, and we didn’t all come from the same background. I was constantly worried that the folks we’d gathered were too different, and that being together would fall apart, but worship works. Praying together. Studying scripture. Singing songs. We went to ecumenical advocacy days in D.C. and spoke to our senators about why voting rights were important to people of faith. We leaned into our connections as a church body, to mental health counselors, to our Office of Public Witness in D.C., and to the Presbyterian Church’s Ministry to the United Nations in Manhattan. Before COVID, at larger gatherings, a few ministers would get all our students together and throw parties where people could dance, and laugh, or where others would set up spaces to read or play a game because there isn’t one way to rally. There isn’t one way of healing or remembering; as part of the Protestant tradition, we’re reformed and always reforming.

In the wildest rally of them all, my wife and I decided we were going to try to get pregnant and have a child, which thanks to modern medicine and the efforts of many who raised all kinds of families before us, we did, six weeks after COVID shut the world down. And it was amazing and terrifying. I spent my working days before he was born filing a PPP loan and doing worship with students online, and that was very hard (you might remember there was also a tornado in Nashville then, making us grateful for all those times we’d given or volunteered for Presbyterian Disaster Assistance). And then Merrick was born, and that was also amazing and terrifying, but we decided we would try to remember this time well, like he does, and say, “We did all the things. It was so fun. We went underwater!” It doesn’t mean we don’t also remember how sad and angry and anxious and frustrated and tired we were, too. It doesn’t mean we didn’t support the rallies we couldn’t attend because we were working, healing, and taking care of a newborn. There isn’t just one way to reform.

We were remembering, too. In June of 2020, we got caught in a rally’s traffic while Merrick was still a tiny infant, and I was so hot and scared and annoyed. But I was also encouraged, because three teenage girls had organized this particularly encompassing rally. You go, girls. Now go, over there, or let our car go around you, so I can go home from the doctor, and feed our baby. You can be bothered by a rally and still rally. We can ask fair questions about why we have a parade like this, wonder who is this for and who has palms?!, and still be praising God, remembering. We need not be disparaging when others are remembering the “deeds of power we have seen” in a different way than we are. We certainly do not need to be judging others or our own motives for going to the parade. If you’re a person who can go to a rally, go, be why someone feels safe. If you need to parade for your own family, do that.

If you’re paraded out and need to go away to rally and return, do that. If you can lend your colt or your cloak for the collective, do that: teach Sunday school, give to the food drive, say yes when the Nominating Committee calls. If you don’t have the childcare, the time, or a sense of safety, then rest and trust that the rocks and the donkey and the practices of the connectional church and maybe three teenage girls will be remembering for you, for all creation, joyfully shouting in places and times we can’t. For the glory of God.