Sermon 11/23/19: Remembered (Seminarian Sarah Krolak)

Seminarian Sarah Krolak

Last Sunday of the Church Year

November 23, 2019

Remembered

I have been singing in choirs since preschool. I took piano, violin, and voice lessons. And one year of clarinet in 4th grade. I learned how to take music off the page and make it come to life. But the most important thing I learned over those years was not the mechanics of singing. It was not technical perfection.

No. The most beautiful part of music, in my opinion, is the embodied experience.

Every time a choir gathers together to sing, we are one choir. We collectively make music as a group, gathering our voices together into one sound -- that we all hear together, though it’s made up of many voices. And our many voices come from many bodies, many minds.

Every single person in the choir brings their own perspective. We are all having a different experience when we’re up on that stage, even though we are all in the same place, working toward the same goal. We are moved by different moments in the music, are worried about different parts of the song, have different pieces of our own lives that manage to weave their way into our performance.

Sometimes we show up and sing on some of the worsts days of our lives, and we pour our hearts into the music that surrounds us and heals us. Because if we need to hear something that is healing… someone else does too.

You see, our stories intersect with each other. It’s not only the choir combining all of their own stories into song. Every person sitting in the audience also brings their own lives into the concert. We don’t always get to know the stories of everyone in the room with us. We don’t know what in their lives led them to this moment. But we hope that what they need to hear might be found our song. With the music, our stories fill the air.  

In our text today, we hear a story that is familiar to us. It’s a song that has been sung and heard through the ages. In the New Testament, we hear multiple accounts of Jesus’ death, each told from a different perspective, though undeniably part of the same story.

Luke is not the only Gospel to mention the two criminals crucified alongside Jesus. But instead of mentioning them in passing, Luke places us at the foot of the cross, and has us overhear a conversation with them.

I imagine the crowd is loud, the people are mocking. Through the din, we hear Jesus ask God, “Forgive them, for they know not what they are doing.”

The soldiers are casting lots, deciding who gets to take his clothing before he’s even gone.

The volume is rising, the sneers of the people growing more and more pointed. “If he was really God’s chosen one, he’d be able to help himself right now.”

One of the criminals joins in on the mocking. If Jesus is the Messiah, he should be saving all of them. But the other criminal rebukes him, pointing out that he is in no position to judge as they’re all in the same boat… Except that they’re “getting what they deserve” and Jesus is being punished unfairly. He then addresses Jesus, asking “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

Jesus responds, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”

I wonder about the parts of this story that we don’t get to overhear. About the intersecting stories of all the people surrounding Jesus that day. The stories of the people standing by, watching. Of the leaders, scoffing. The soldiers, mocking. The criminal, deriding. The criminal rebuking. What stories do they carry with them, outside the frame of this text?

Their individual stories may not have been recorded or witnessed by the author of this text, but their stories still matter. They are still a part of the overarching story that ties these people all together. That ties all people together: the story of God’s love, and grace, and forgiveness.

You see, Jesus last words in Luke show that even on the worst day of Jesus life, in the midst of excruciating pain, God incarnate extends forgiveness. Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.

And even while being tortured, Jesus shows up for the least of these. For the criminal beside him. We don’t know the story of this person. Don’t know who he is, what led up to this moment of his life, how he got here. All we know is that he did something that lead to him being crucified, and that he and Jesus, while on the cross, turn to one another.

And they share their stories with one another, in the midst of the pain.

He asks Jesus to remember him. And Jesus will remember him.

That truth now defines this person. Jesus will remember him, and he will be with Jesus in Paradise.

This interaction on the cross shows that openly sharing our lives with one another pulls us across all of the boundaries we have created (and have been created for us) and links us together in God’s grace. There is no story that God does not remember. God remembers the criminals, the soldiers, the disciples, the onlookers – every perspective, every song sung, every story told or observed.

And God remembers our stories, too. Our stories matter. Our stories are bound together by God’s grace. In the act of sharing and receiving stories, we’re participating in a symphony – this healing music both surrounds us and emanates from us. Because if we need to hear it, then someone else does too.

And so we share our stories and receive the stories of others. We remember and we are remembered.

The stories shared on the Transgender Day of Remembrance this past week matter. The stories of our beloved trans siblings who have died at the hands of bigotry and violence this year matter. And the stories of resilience shared by the living and breathing trans community that is still here matter.

The stories we receive in the wake of trauma and violence matter. The stories told from all the literal and figurative borders of our lives matter. Stories of separation and loss, of injustice and pain, matter.

The stories we share with each other here, every time we gather around the table, every time we catch up with each other downstairs after worship. They matter. The stories of those who have been sharing their testimonies with us matter, and all of your stories matter.

The stories of your everyday lives, extraordinary and mundane. Your work and vocation. Your family. Your passions. Your experiences. Your conflicts. Your resolutions. It all matters.

Our stories matter to God. Even when we feel like we are on the cross, we are remembered. Because there is no story that God does not remember. Every mistake, every heartache, every sorrow, every joy, every promise, every epiphany. Remembered.

Let this be our story and our song: we are loved and remembered by God.

Amen.