I Will Not Forget You

Sermon by The Rev. Andrew W. Walter

Isaiah 49:8-16a

 

 

From the reading of Isaiah: Can a woman forget her nursing child, or show no compassion for the child of her womb?  Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you (Isaiah 49:15).

Those words from Isaiah were spoken some 500 to 600 years before the time of Jesus to the people of Israel exiled in Babylon.  The exile was a national nightmare for the Israelites, and like many individuals and nations before and since who have undergone such trials and tribulations, the people of Israel cried for answers to those mystifying questions – where is God in all of this?  Why has God forsaken us?  Isaiah’s response was that God was still present in their lives.  It was more likely that a mother would forget her own child than God would abandon His people. 

Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you.

God was still with them.  God had not forgotten them.  That was the thrust of Isaiah’s message – offering hope to the people of Israel – but with his words, Isaiah was also making another point, one much more subtle and even accusatory.  He was drawing a contrast between the nature of God and the behavior of the Israelites: God had not and would never forget His people; but in the past, they had forgotten God.  While they lived in the Promised Land, life had been good for the people of Israel.  The kingdom flourished.  There was peace and stability.  The economy grew year after year.  And in their ease and comfort, the people of Israel turned towards other gods, those false idols of money and status and privilege.  They became blind to the inequalities and injustices that existed in their country.  They turned from their relationship with God forgetting all God had done for them – the exodus from Egypt, the law given to Moses, the Promised Land.  The people of Israel had forgotten where they came from and who they were. 

Knowing our own personal and national history connects us to the very essence of our being and by extension to the God who created each and every one of us.  Not all that long ago, we were living in the City while I attended seminary, and one day we decided to take a day trip out to Ellis Island.  My maternal grandparents, my mother and her three sisters all came through Ellis Island and we wanted to see their names inscribed on the Immigrant Wall of Honor.  The ferry carried us across the harbor, passing the Statue of Liberty bearing her famous words, “give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to break free…” and I realized she was speaking of my family.  She was telling me my story.  I remember arriving at the wall, staring at the name of my grandfather, Edward Wallace, a tough ol’ Scotsman who left the highlands behind in order to find a better life for his family in this country, and my son, James Edward Wallace Walter, running his finger over the letters of his great-grandfather’s name, connecting with a part himself that he never knew.  As past and present came together that day, I felt and I think we all felt, intimately and powerfully surrounded by the presence of God for whom time and space is no boundary.      

This weekend we celebrate Memorial Day, and we all have the opportunity to experience that connection with our Creator by recalling our collective past and remembering who we are as a nation.  Memorial Day began in the years immediately following the Civil War, and is the day set aside to honor those American men and women who have died in military service.  From the battles of Lexington and Concord in 1775 to the current conflict in Iraq, the lives of those who died serving this great nation tell our story – our hopes and our dreams, our successes and our failures, our triumphs and our tragedies.  By remembering those who lost their lives, we are able to learn more about ourselves and about the God by whose divine providence our country was founded and flourished. 

No one has benefited more than I from the sacrifices of those men and women who we honor tomorrow.  Not old enough to remember the Vietnam War, never called to serve, I have lived a life of relative ease and comfort in this land of the free due to the sacrifices of previous generations.  So I am ashamed to admit that for a substantial part of my life, I took that life and freedom for granted, never giving Memorial Day much thought in terms other than as the beginning of summer, a day that marked the opening of the pool season, a day for playing a round of golf, a day to have a cookout with some friends. 

I came to this realization several years ago while watching the documentary film The Civil War produced and directed by Ken Burns.  Burns has spent his life making documentary films that tell our American story.  Baseball, The Brooklyn Bridge, Lewis and Clark are just some of the titles of his films, parts of our past that he has brought to life.  It was The Civil War though that had a tremendous impact on me, and the epiphanic moment came when the narrator read a letter written by a Union soldier, Sullivan Ballou.  Ballou was born in Rhode Island in 1829 and was educated at Andover and Brown.  He served in the Rhode Island House of Representatives until the war between the states broke out, and he entered the military.  On July 14, 1861, stationed at Camp Clark just outside Washington, DC, Ballou wrote this to his wife: 

My very dear Sarah:
The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days—perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more . . .

I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the Government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and sufferings of the Revolution. And I am willing—perfectly willing—to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt . . .

Sarah my love for you is deathless…and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me unresistibly on… to the battle field.

The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them for so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grown up… If I do not [return my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name…

One week after writing, Sullivan Ballou was killed during the first Battle of Bull Run.  He was only 32 years old. 

Some time during the day tomorrow, where ever you are and whatever you are doing, take the opportunity to remember who we are and where we come from; remember those who died giving us the life and freedom we enjoy every single day, but more than that, take the opportunity to remember the holy and gracious God from whom all blessings flow, the God who is always present with us, the God who gave His only Son that we might have eternal freedom. 

Remember…so that Isaiah’s words might be our words:  Can a woman forget her nursing child, or show no compassion for the child of her womb?  Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you.

Amen.