The following is the text of a talk I gave today at a small half hour service I led at a sheltered housing complex in Aberdeen. I post it here because it sums up a number of different things I've been thinking about recently and wanted to share, but couldn't quite find the words until this challenged me to organise my thoughts properly. The Bible passage for the talk was Luke 22, 7 -19.
2012 is a funny year, isn’t
it? There are so many things happening
this year, especially for those of us living in the United Kingdom. The Queen’s Diamond Jubilee. The Olympics. Lots of events are being planned to tie in with both of those. And then there’s the one for those with a
more outlandish taste, the end of the world as we know it on December 23rd
– or, at least, if you believe certain mis-readings of the ancient Mayan
calendar... There are lots of events,
things to look forward to or dread, occasions to look to the future and those
that recall the past.
For
me 2012 was always going to be a year that seemed centred on one of the latter,
a link to the past. Two weeks ago, on
the 15th of April, it was the 100th anniversary of the
sinking of the RMS Titanic. For as long
as I can remember I’ve been fascinated by that ship: a work of supreme
Edwardian elegance, an engineering triumph, a terrible, unexpected disaster and
a grave in the cold depths of the lonely Atlantic.
I
have no particular connection to the ship.
None of my relatives were passengers on her that I know of, nor did they serve on board or help to build
her. She sank 71 years before I was
born. My only connections, as I see it,
are that I was born in Birkenhead, on the other side of the Mersey from where she
was conceived in the offices of the White Star Line, and I grew up in the small
coastal town of Donaghadee in Northern Ireland, around the corner from Belfast
Lough where she was born and first set sail with hundreds watching her. They would have been able to see her from
Donaghadee harbour, I imagine, waving and cheering in their best clothes.
Despite
this, I was haunted that weekend, two weeks ago. The wreck of the Titanic seemed to call to me, to burden me with
its immense weight, with its 1,514 lost souls.
It felt real to me in a very unnatural way and it was actually difficult
for me to focus on much else. I found
it strange at the time, having, in a macabre sort of way, looked forward to the
anniversary, but I was glad to see it finally pass, without ever knowing why I
felt anything for it at all.
Which
brings me to another anniversary of sorts this month. The week before it had been Easter. I was privileged enough to have been part of the Aberdeen Passion
and so, for once, I felt very strongly connected to the whole event, having, or
so it seemed, relived the final days of Jesus’ life several times that weekend,
albeit from the rather inauspicious role of a Pharisee. In the midst of the all the emotions we
experienced that weekend, excitement and nervousness, sorrow and joy, I
couldn’t help but wonder why I didn’t feel like that all the time.
It highlighted
for me how distant I can feel from the Easter story at other times, or even at
other Easters. After the Titanic
commemoration I found myself wondering, why do I feel connected to a ship wreck
that has nothing to do with me and yet can feel distant when reflecting on the
core history of my faith?
I
thought about it a lot and in doing so realised something quite precious. I was brought back to thinking about a
different night to remember, the night of Maundy Thursday, before Jesus was
arrested. The night of the last supper.
During
the course of that meal Jesus did something very important for people like me,
prone to forgetting the wonderful things he has done. He instituted a sacrament, in which we are reminded of all that
he has done for us, but he didn’t just give us a religious ritual to perform,
or a trial to pass. No. He gave us a meal: a meal to share with
friends. Isn’t that astounding?
Jesus
has always known the full depth of human weakness. He knew that we were lost to sin and deserved punishment, so he
came to earth to take that punishment in our place. He knew that we would struggle to repent of our sins, even in
light of what he had done, so before he started his ministry he who was without
sin was baptised in the river Jordan and repented for us. And he knew that despite all of that, we
would forget and we would let the enemy distract us with other fixations and
ideas, so he gave us a simple, joyful thing to do, sharing a meal with our friends,
to make sure we would always remember the path to our salvation. What a kind, what a gracious God we have.
God
is a God who remembers. That much is
clear to anyone who reads the bible, especially the old testament. His people cry out to him again and again,
‘Remember us, oh Lord!’ and he does, faithfully. And he commands us to remember, over and over again: to
remember the things he has done for us and the commands he has given. Remembering, it seems is an integral part of
both who God is and what we are called to do as Christians, living our lives
following his pattern. But in the communion meal, the bread and the wine, Jesus
body and blood, it seems to me that, once again, God is doing something for us
because we’re no good at it. He is
remembering for us.
I
still don’t know why the Titanic calls to me so much. There are lots of reasons, I suppose, the glamour of the ship,
the portentous period in history, the tales of heroism and cowardice… I don’t know. In the end it’s just one instance in history. One disaster.
And
I don’t know why Easter is sometimes more distant to me than that, an event
confined to the pages of the bible, even though it’s an event which rewrote the
universe and transforms the lives of those that follow Jesus forever.
But I know
that God will keep reminding me, calling me back to him again and again as I
partake of the bread and wine, and for that I am grateful. What does it say to you?
