The way in which we remember those who have gone before us can either empower us or it can disempower us. The way in which we grieve for those we have loved and lost can either enable us to greater things, or it can disable us and hold us back. It all depends on what we do with the judgment that lies on our hearts.
“Judgment on our hearts” is a fascinating phrase that appears in an unlikely place in the Book of Exodus. “Judgment on our hearts” is a picture of what we do with our memories and with our grief.
Let me set the scene by taking you to the context, in a part of the Bible we seldom read and which, I am sure, I have never preached before. I am very sure that never before have I preached about priestly vestments. The issue of what the well-dressed preacher should wear is not usually a part of our Baptist conversation. In fact, this is the first Baptist church I’ve been in where the pastor is expected to wear all this regalia. Every Baptist church I have ever been a member of, and every one I served as interim pastor, expected the preacher to come in a business suit and be done with it. Only here at Takoma do we think we are just low-rent Episcopalians, or, in deference to our guests, do we think we are Presbyterians without the hifalutin’ Scottish accent!
But in Exodus there is a great deal about the vestments made for Aaron, the high priest. Lots of blue and purple and scarlet, plenty of gold, and, most intriguing of all, precious stones. According to these instructions, Aaron was to wear on each shoulder a stone engraved with the names of the tribes of Israel, six on the right and six on the left. That was a way of suggesting that when he did his duties at the altar, he represented the whole people of God, not just his own tribe, not just the ones he liked, not just the ones who supported him, but all of them. The good, the bad, and the ugly. That speaks to me, and, by the way, is a good word for our seminarians who are only a few weeks away from ordination: remember that you serve the whole people of God, and that all of them are precious stones, not just the ones that shine brightly, not just the ones that are your color, and not just the heavy-weights. All of them are precious stones.
And then, in addition, according to Exodus, Aaron was to be given a breastpiece. This was a pouch, measuring some nine inches square. And on that breastpiece he was to attach twelve different precious stones, each one again representing one of the tribes of Israel. Aaron was to wear that breastpiece over his heart as he served at the altar. Wonderful symbolism! Each tribe is precious, but different; each family, unique, but valuable, in its own way. And the priest carries them all near his heart; in other words, he is to love them. It is not a question of whether they are his favorites. It is not a matter of whether they take his side in disputes. It is only that each of the tribes is a part of the people of God, each is precious, and each deserves to be remembered. So Aaron’s breastpiece was worn above his heart.
And inside that breastpiece, with all the stones attached, are to be kept two special items. Special stones, called the Urim and Thummin. We don’t know a lot about these words, or about these stones, but evidently they were sort of like dice, used to help make decisions. Evidently, at times the priest would throw these special stones and they way they fell would tell him God’s will.
Now let’s get it straight. You have not heard me suggest that we have been throwing dice in the deacons’ meetings; I have not said that we cast lots to see which bills we pay this month. (No, we do that by throwing all the bills up in the air, and we pay only the ones that stick to the ceiling!). The Urim and Thummin in the breastpiece made it the breastpiece of judgment. Discernment – sifting the truth – judgment. This mysterious pouch, carrying the symbols of all the tribes of Israel over the high priest’s heart, suggested judgment. And so, symbolically, judgment was carried on the heart of the priest.
And so, here is my thesis: that judgment, when we remember those who have gone before us, is on our hearts.
The way in which we remember those who have gone before us can either empower us or it can disempower us. The way in which we grieve for those we have loved and lost can either enable us or it can disable us. It all depends on what we do with the judgment that lies on our hearts.
I
Now memory is a tricky thing. When we remember those we have loved and lost, we are apt to remember either the good and not the bad, or else we remember the bad and not the good. If we are not careful, we’ll be captured by either one side or the other. We’ll be disabled and disempowered by our memories, if we do not sift among them and discern and judge what is worth keeping and what is not.
A
Some people choose to remember only the good things about those who have passed on. You’ve heard them. Oh, Daddy was a saint. Oh, Mom was just the most wonderful mother who ever lived. My late husband and I never, ever had a cross word. Haven’t you heard that kind of thing? I tell you, I want to scream out to high heaven, “Baloney”! If you are holding up the one you loved as a paragon of perfection, it may be that you are so angry with yourself about having put up with so much mess over the years, that now if you admit anything negative about your loved one, it would be acknowledging your own failure. You are angry with yourself for not challenging this person who messed up so much, and so now, in your memory, he or she has to be one of the angels, or else why were you living with him? Memories sometimes improve on the facts.
One of those Civil War generals whose statues adorn various circles downtown was a very poor horseman. He could hardly keep his balance on even the gentlest nag. In fact, he was such a poor rider that they gave him an old gray mare to ride into battle. But his followers didn’t want to remember him that way, and so the sculptor cast him in bronze perched on top of a magnificent stallion instead. Manufactured memories! Hard cast exaggerated images of those we loved! But when we remember only the good stuff, we are going to press judgment on our hearts.
B
On the other side of the ledger, some people choose to remember only the tough sides of their loved ones. Some people choose to see only the negatives. You’ve heard them too. My father didn’t support us very well; he was always in his own little world, with his posse. My mother didn’t care about me, always favored my brothers and sisters. If that is happening to you, watch out! Because nothing is more disabling than resentment. Nothing is more disempowering than a deficit personality – do you know what I mean by “deficit personality”? If you always feel deprived, if you can never fill up your emotional tank, if you can never get enough love, never get enough esteem, never get enough attention, never enough of anything emotionally, you are a deficit personality. And that is an unhealthy grief. It is a disempowering grief. If you cast that in stone, it will eat at you, it will gnaw at you, and it will disempower you.
Over here on Georgia Avenue there is an apartment building whose name is in a concrete slab above the door. But the name of the building is spelled wrong. Oh, how I hate misspelled words! I absolutely cannot resist correcting the spelling in any document that comes to my hands. Can I get an Amen from the staff?! But there, in all its misspelled glory, cast in concrete, is a permanent spelling mistake. I cannot change it. That irritates me. It grates on me. It bothers me. But now, that’s just a slab of concrete. How much more if it is my father’s reputation that I cannot change! How much more if it is my mother’s behavior that I cannot change! How much more if it is just the way my spouse was, and I felt abused when we were together, and now I can’t get past that. I can’t let it go. Judgment lies on our hearts.
So what have I said? That unhealthy grief means we cannot let go. It means we cannot let go of manufactured memories of someone too good to be true. Or it means we cannot let go of malicious thoughts about someone too bad to be believed. Either way, judgment lies on our hearts. And either way, we cannot move forward.
II
The other day someone asked me how many eulogies I’ve done in my twenty years here. My answer was, “None.” I do not do eulogies. I do not preach eulogies. When I do a funeral, I preach a gospel message. Now I have not been able to get some funeral directors to cooperate, and they still print the word “eulogy” in the order of worship. I do not do eulogies, because a eulogy is a speech praising the deceased. It is a talk whose intent is to gloss over the realities about the one who has passed away, so that everybody leaves saying, “What a good man.” Of course, that ignores the fact that they actually leave asking, “Who in the world was he talking about?” But no, I don’t do eulogies; as Shakespeare’s Marc Antony says, “We are here to bury Caesar, not to praise him.” I do gospel messages, and do my best to remind everyone of the good and the not so good, the positive and the not so positive. My task as a preacher of the good news is to let the Scripture interpret this person’s life, and then to remind us all that whatever we have done, we can be forgiven. Whoever we are, we are nothing more nor less that the recipients of grace, sheer, undeserved grace.
For I hope that a few days later, or a week or two later, or maybe as much as a year later, if you are grieving in a healthy way, you’ll begin to tell the truth. You’ll begin to tell stories that suggest you knew that Mom had her little ways and Dad had his funny quirks, and it’s all right. No, he wasn’t a saint, at least not in the stained glass kind of way; and it wasn’t all that easy living with him. Hey, I’ll give you a hint about what Margaret will say about me ten seconds after I’m gone; repeat after me, “It wasn’t all that easy living with him!”
Now that’s healthy grief. And when you get to that point – when you can remember and laugh, and then remember and criticize, all at the same time – that’s healthy grief. That’s when you are dealing with the judgment on your hearts.
III
And so today, brothers and sisters, let us remember. Let us remember them well. Let us remember them as they were. Yes, let us praise their gifts, but let us remember that they were human, like us, with faults and foibles. And yes, let us remember their flaws and their sins, but remember that we too are flawed, we too are sinners, and all that any of us can count on is the grace of God. For when you remember that, judgment lies lightly on your heart, and becomes a precious stone, like Aaron’s breastpiece.
A
Remember that we had among us some who were pioneers. We had among us some who forged ahead into uncharted territory. Esther Coffmann, as a child, helped start our Sunday School. Her parents were among the charter members back in 1919. A pioneer. Ruth Gossage told me many a story about working hard, so that this building could be built – selling suppers to move this church from minor and mediocre to major and magnificent. Another pioneer. And Dolores Mitchell, though much later on the scene, also a pioneer, showing us how to do things in a more professional way. I am personally grateful to Dolores that she took the lead in planning a celebration for the birth of my first grandchild; without her leadership there is much that would never have been done.
Were these pioneers perfect? Were they without mistakes? By no means. But we thank God for their gifts, we learn from their imperfections, and we move on. They are precious stones that lie in judgment on our hearts. But they lie lightly and not in guilt, for they received grace.
B
Remember that we had among us some who were learners. We had among us some whose thirst for knowledge was exceptional. Lillie Fontaine, as a young woman, saw to it that her children got to Sunday School and, indeed, began to teach Sunday School, and she herself would be the first at the door on Sunday mornings, eager to learn. Kathleen Hardman helped to found the Christian Basics Class, and pressed incessantly those who taught it for more information. “Do we have a printout?” she would always say. Alice Queen, of whom her minister friend said at her memorial service, suffered fools badly. She taught us how to take a stand, press forward, and yet at the same time forgive those who could not measure up to her standards. Learners all.
Were they perfect? Did they learn it all? By no means. But we thank God for their thirst for knowledge. We learn from that hunger, and we move on. They are precious stones that lie in judgment on our hearts. But they lie lightly and not in shame, for they received grace.
C
Remember that we had among us some who were builders. We had among us three men who cared deeply for this place. Cecil Davison, whose diligence made him a favorite on our Building and Grounds Committee. Frank Jackson, who cared for this building as if it were his own home, and who cared for his own home as if it were the Lord’s house. And Flenoid Bettis, a master craftsman whose work in wood was a thing of great beauty.
Were these men perfect? Did they make no mistakes, did they leave no soiled surfaces, did they measure no wrong lengths? By no means. But we thank God for their care for this house. We learn from what they accomplished. And we move on. They are precious stones that lie in judgment on our hearts. But they lie lightly and not as a burden, for they received grace.
D
And remember that we had among us one who was a complete mother, an exceptional light in the neighborhood and among her sons. Julia Hamilton raised four strong sons and brought life to Aspen Street. Was she perfect? Did she always know what to do with her boys? I suspect not. But we thank God for her love for her family. We learn from her. And we move on, grateful for yet another precious stone that lies in judgment on our hearts, but lightly, and without oppression, for she too received grace.
Conclusion
Yesterday Margaret and I were asked by our son’s fiancee, who was hosting Bryan’s fortieth birthday party, to bring pictures of him when he was a small boy. One I just had to take, since Bryan and Jackie are getting married in two more weeks. It is the picture of a that very young boy, just about fifteen months old, after the very first wedding I had performed. This little tyke is scooping up small stones to put into the hubcaps of the car the newlyweds would drive away! I want to make sure that my grandchildren see that and get a few ideas for May 1. I’m sure it was a memorable moment for that young couple, driving away with stones rattling around, spoiling the pristine perfection of their wedding day!
But isn’t that always the way it is with memories? Stones, stones, stored in the cavities of our minds? Some are precious stones and some are just gravel, but they all make noise! The point is neither to succumb to them nor to deny them, but to treat them as moments of grace.
Memories, precious memories, how they linger! These memories are not all glorious. Neither are they all negative. They are the memories of men and women who went through life offering ideas, building, tearing down, teaching, learning, worrying, praying, fearing, loving, hating, believing, doubting, struggling, winning. Real people. Making noises!
And so to their families I say: if judgment lies on your heart today, we understand. There are bound to be some regrets. But let go. Let go and let God bless you. Let go and let God forgive them and forgive you. Bear the names of these sons and daughters of Israel in the breastpiece of judgment when you come into this holy place .. Bear their judgment on your hearts before the Lord continually, and do not forget. But let it lie there lightly. The noise you hear is a memory of grace.
