In Remembrance

It is startling to consider the amount of information we carry about in our heads. Think simply of all of the numbers you have by memory: phone numbers, birthdays, ID numbers, zip codes, appointment times and dates.  Among these many numbers are some so inscribed in your mind with permanent marker that you could not forget the number anymore than you could forget the person or thing they represent. The significance moves well beyond the boldfaced digits themselves—the birth of a child, the death of a loved one, the street number of the house you grew up in, the number of times you failed before you finally passed the test.

In the days of Mordecai and Queen Esther the people set themselves to remember the days when they received relief from their enemies, the month that had been turned “from sorrow into gladness and from mourning into a holiday.”(1) And so it was determined: “These days of Purim should never cease to be celebrated by the Jews, nor should the memory of them die out among their descendants.” The days were weighted with enough hope to press upon them the need to remember them forever. More importantly, they saw the very certain possibility that they might forget.

I suppose there are moments in our lives when we realize that we are beholding the carving of a day into the great tree of history. On my way to the hospital on the day my son was born I thought about the date and how it was about to be something more. Like any bride or groom or parent I knew from that day forward it would be difficult (and detrimental) to forget this day on the calendar; it would carry the force of forgetting so much more. Like the number itself, my remembering is more than a recollection of detail; it is the recollection of a person.

With a similar sense of anticipation, God told the Israelites that they would remember the night of Passover before the night even happened. “This day shall be for you a memorial day, and you shall keep it as a feast to the LORD; throughout your generations, as a statute forever, you shall keep it as a feast” (Exodus 12:14). Moses and Aaron were given instructions to tell the whole community of Israel to choose a lamb without defect, slaughtering it at twilight. Then they were to take some of the blood and put it on the doorposts of the houses. “The blood will be a sign,” the LORD declared. “And when I see the blood, I will pass over you. No destructive plague will touch you when I strike the firstborns of Egypt.”

The significance of remembering is a theme carried throughout all of Scripture. It is not about static facts or rules or figures, but the mystery of a place, the significance of a person, the marking of lives. Celebrating the Passover was nonnegotiable. The command to remember was passed down from generation to generation. But they were remembering more than the mere events of Israel’s exodus from Egypt; they were remembering God as God showed up and changed them—the faithful hand that moved among them, the mighty acts which exclaim a Father’s untiring remembering of his people.

As the disciples sat around the table celebrating their third Passover meal with Jesus, an observance they kept before they could walk, everything probably looked ceremoniously familiar. The smell of lamb filled the upper room; the unleavened bread was prepared and waiting to be broken. Remembering again the acts of God in Egypt, the blood on the doorposts, the lives spared and brought out of slavery, they looked at their teacher as he lifted the bread from the table and gave thanks to God. Then Jesus broke the bread, and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me.”

I have always wished that Luke would have described a little more of the scene that followed. Were the disciples hushed and confused? Did their years of envisioning the blood-marked doorposts cry out at the Lamb of God before them? They had spent their entire lives remembering the sovereignty of God in the events of the Passover, and then Jesus tells them that there is yet more to see in this day on the calendar: In this broken bread is the reflection of me. On this day, God is engraving across history the promise of Passover: I still remember you. I still seek you. 

I imagine from that day forward the disciples knew it would be difficult to forget that day on the calendar. It is not that different for us today either. Forgetting what was witnessed in the upper room on that Passover carries the force of forgetting so much more.

God of Remembrance

God of Remembrance

It is fascinating to see the increasing role of forensic science in solving crimes. DNA can be recovered in anything from a few skin cells to a licked postage stamp. Forensic scientists can establish an association between a suspect and the crime scene with only an eyelash or single strand of hair. It appears we leave traces of our presence where ever we go. 

Interestingly enough, your hair not only tells people that you have been there, it also tells your story—or at least provides some noteworthy details to that story. Scientists have discovered that your hair can divulge significant habits and particulars of your lifestyle: what you eat, where you live, if you smoke or drink, if you are of Asian or European decent. And a single hair can keep records for months, if not years, depending on its length.    

When my mother first told me as a little girl that God knew the number of hairs on my head I was thoroughly amazed and a little troubled at the thought of it. The number of hairs on my head was something I didn't know about myself; it was something no one else seemed to know about me either. This meant that someone knew something about me that my mom or my grandma didn't know. It meant that someone had the capacity—and the aspiration—to know me and all of my details. 

Even as I looked at this promise quite literally, it was at once both comforting and troubling. When I brushed my hair and caused several strands to fall out was I making work for God? How often did God have to recount them? And why did God care how many hairs I had anyway? Certainly it was one detail that God could overlook.

Then sometime later I was given the rest of Jesus's words uttered that day: "Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows" (Luke 12:6-7). Strand of hair or simple sparrow, worry, fear, or dream, God does not overlook even one. 

That God knows the number of hairs on our heads is still a thought at which we do well to wonder.  Wrapped up tightly within such knowledge is the great and fearful truth about who we are praying to when our eyes grow heavy with sleep, who walks beside us through shadowy valleys and streams of still waters, who hears our groaning when we don't know what we mean. God knows us more specifically and more effectively than we know ourselves—a thought that reminds us that God is Father, a detail that holds both immeasurable love and great consequence. God knows not only the stories told in each strand of your hair but every detail of who you are: the desires of your heart, the worries you carry, the questions you don't know how to ask. In this perfect love our fears are cast aside and we are given not only reason to trust, but a will to obey.      

According to the Natural History Museum of London, the average person has up to 150,000 hairs on his or her head.  The one who knows exactly where you stand in that average, who knit you together in your mother's womb and knows each word on your tongue before it is formed, is a God of remembrance. Like the psalmist at this thought we wonder. "O Lord, what are human beings that you regard them, or mortals that you think of them? They are like a breath; their days are like a passing shadow" (144:3-4). In the echoing of that question across time the promise of Christ is also heard: "Everyone who acknowledges me before others, the Son of Man also will acknowledge before the angels of God" (Luke 12:8). Not even one of them will be forgotten.