I am a keeper of calendars. I am a numberer of days.

A marker of moments. I like my lists, and I love a good

countdown. I’m currently tracking three on the Notes app

on my phone. Would you like to hear them? Of course

you would.

First, I am on day 989 pursuing the goal of getting at least

15,000 Fitbit steps every day. That’s eleven to go before I

hit 1000.

The second is more tender. The countdown tells me that

there are fourteen school days remaining before summer

break begins. Tender, because our older son is finishing fifth

grade and will be leaving the elementary school that has

been such a home for him. (That’s all I can say about that).

The third countdown sits at eighteen days. It ends with

fireworks on May 22: the first day of my sabbatical, the

beginning of a ten-week period when I will disconnect

from the routines and rhythms of ministry to rest, reflect,

and renew.

These countdowns are all about looking forward, asking

what’s next? They fit the narrative of our faith. God’s

people have always been in motion, always been on the

move. We are, after all, a pilgrim people, a people marked

by journey. As you prepare for summer travels and I

count down to sabbatical, our new sermon series tracks

the movements and migrations of the faithful: All God’s

Children Need Traveling Shoes.

This morning, as we welcome new members, and as

we honor those who have been part of this community

for fifty or sixty years, we pause to hear a persistent

command for faithful people, a command that runs like a

ribbon through scripture from Genesis to Revelation. That

command is this:

Remember. Remember. Do not forget.

As you move forward, do not lose sight of where

you have been. Scripture would tell us that amnesia,

forgetfulness, is a constant threat on the journey of faith.

That faithful forward motion must begin with memory.

I confess that somehow—without my permission—I

have reached the age at which historical documentaries

constitute thrilling entertainment. Yikes. I love them. This

winter, I watched all twelve hours of Ken Burns’ nine-part

series on the Civil War. Twice. No kidding.

I found the documentary alternately disturbing, inspiring,

and instructive. Occasionally, as I watched, a thought

would strike me: Second Presbyterian Church existed

then. There were faithful people gathering every

Sunday to hear the word of God, to sing hymns, to offer

prayers, and to wrestle together with what it meant to

live faithfully in a nation being torn apart. There were

preachers crafting messages meant for that moment.

I find it a humbling and comforting realization. The

memory of the Church—of our church—is long. And the

journey of the faithful has never been easy.

This morning’s text. The people of God are standing

on the edge of the Promised Land. Moses, their leader,

addresses them. It is not a short speech. The words

of Moses stretch over thirty-four chapters. My Old

Testament professor liked to say that it’s a little like the

speech that a parent gives before dropping their first kid

off at college. And he was quick to add: like most of those

speeches, the people weren’t really listening anyway.

Thirty-four chapters. We call it the Book of Deuteronomy.

In Chapter Eight, looking over into the Promised Land,

Moses offers this instruction:

Remember where you have been.

Remember who you are.

Remember the Lord your God.

The particulars of Moses’ counsel come in two parts.

First – remember God’s provision. Resist the myth of

self-sufficiency. Or in his words, “Do not say to yourself,

‘my might, my own hands, my power have gotten me all

this.’ No, remember the Lord your God. The one who fed

you in the wilderness, with bread that rained down from

heaven and water that came from rocks.”

My paraphrase: the world does not begin and end with

you. You are utterly dependent on others. Those who

have gone before you. Those who now surround you.

And you are entirely dependent on God.

We worship to resist the myth of self-sufficiency. We

serve because we rely on each other. We give, we

participate in the life of a faith community, because we

know we can’t go it alone, and we didn’t get here by

ourselves. We were created for community, and it takes

all of us to fulfill our God-given purpose. The truth of

abundance is that God provides. God gives enough—

more than enough for all God’s creatures to live and

flourish—and God calls us to share that abundance with

joy and generosity.

But when we forget the source—when we imagine we

are self-made and self-sufficient—we inflate our egos,

and we ignore our limits. We find ourselves taking more

than we need, building larger barns. We justify our

selfishness and even celebrate those whose immense

affluence serves no purpose but pride. And our forgetting

begets fear. Fear of scarcity. Fear of loss. Fear of others

who become not our neighbors but our competitors.

When we remember the source of abundance, we move

from fear to faithful stewardship. From selfish stockpiling

to generous sharing. Not hoarding for ourselves,

but investing in abundant life for all God’s children.

Remember God’s provision.

This first counsel leads naturally to a second. Remember

that abundance, when misinterpreted, will be misused.

Scripture would tell us that human insecurity and

insatiability have tragic consequences. We must not forget

the sins of the past, even when those stories bring pain.

Because when we fail to remember, we risk repeating.

And here I want to be very clear: I am deeply concerned

by voices both in the public square and in the Christian

church that seem to have forgotten the history of our

complicity with injustice and our capacity for evil. This

amnesia leads to pride, and pride twists faith into a tool for

domination, abuse, and exclusion.

Of course, this is not a new danger. Nor is it ancient history.

Recently I’ve been led back to Timothy Egan’s book Fever

in the Heartland, a chilling account of the Ku Klux Klan’s

resurgence in the early 20th Century. That resurgence,

centered in Indiana, was fueled in part by the public

support of prominent Christian leaders. For example, in

January of 1923, the Reverend Aubrey H. Moore of First

Christian Church in Noblesville preached a sermon titled:

“Is the Ku Klux Klan a Menace to America?” Newspapers

reported that Sunday morning gathering as the largest

in a house of worship in many years, and those same

papers recounted the text of his sermon. As Moore

defended, and then praised, the Klan, he asked God to

“bless every Ku Kluxer who may be under the sound of

my voice.” He concluded the sermon with this statement:

“I would rather wear a white sheet in the dark than see

my country in a shroud.”

His congregation rose in affirmation. A sobering memory,

and a stark warning.

When fear becomes our gospel, and power our aim,

we are capable of great betrayal and sin. The words of

Ephesians this morning call us to the heart of what it

means to be people of the cross. That in his own body,

Christ has broken down the dividing walls of hostility

between us. If we seek to follow where Christ leads, we

must live that unity. We, too, can lose our way, and that’s

why remembering matters. Not for crippling shame, but

missional clarity. We remember to learn. To repent. To

choose a more hopeful path.

Memory carries more than a warning. It holds

profound hope.

Several years ago, my favorite author, Marilynne

Robinson, was asked about churches like ours, and

her response struck me as both a provocation and

a promise. Here’s what she said. She recalls how

mainline churches were “very much in the vanguard

of the anti-slavery movement. They truly were radical

in the terms of their time…And I think they are radical

institutions in their deepest impulses…”

She spoke of “prevenient courage” That’s the kind of

courage cultivated before it is required. A readiness to

answer when the call comes.

Listen. That courage is in our bones, right here at

Second Church, where, in the years before the Civil War,

our founding pastor Henry Ward Beecher passionately

preached in the pulpit and in the public square against

the evil of slavery and guided this new church toward

courageous faith. Their legacy is our responsibility.

What if we remembered where we’ve been as we

consider our call and prepare for the path ahead?

Yes, the God who provided manna in the wilderness

sustains us still. Yes, the truth of our brokenness calls

us to humility still. And the courage planted by God still

beats in our hearts.

And so, we remember, that we might respond. Let

the courage forged by where you’ve been shape your

decisions in this time. In a moment of political idolatry

and dehumanizing meanness, move toward mercy.

I feel a need to be forthright. We are living in a time when

much will be asked of the faithful. Perhaps more than you

had imagined. When those days come—and they will

come—it is good to remember. To remember the cries of

the suffering, whose voices were heard by God, the God

who led the chosen people out of bondage. To remember

the commitment of those who came before us, who sat

where we now sit. To remember the God who will never

leave or forsake us.

To remember and respond. And so, with hope and faith

and courage, we welcome new travelers. We honor long

witness. We listen for silenced voices. We carry grace into

a weary world.

And so, I’m going to keep counting. And you should too.

Count the steps that carry you forward. Count the days

that have shaped you. Number the saints who have

formed faith in you. And then count on the God who

leads and walks with you now.

Friends, stand firm.

Have courage.

Hold fast to what is good.

Remember where you’ve been.

Remember who you are.

Amen.