An Idle Tale

An Idle Tale

The Rev. Dr. Fred. G. Garry

But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb, taking the spices that they had prepared. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they went in, they did not find the body. While they were perplexed about this, suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them. The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, ‘Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.’ Then they remembered his words, and returning from the tomb, they told all this to the eleven and to all the rest. Now it was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women with them who told this to the apostles. But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them. But Peter got up and ran to the tomb; stooping and looking in, he saw the linen cloths by themselves; then he went home, amazed at what had happened.

Then he took the twelve aside and said to them, ‘See, we are going up to Jerusalem, and everything that is written about the Son of Man by the prophets will be accomplished. For he will be handed over to the Gentiles; and he will be mocked and insulted and spat upon. After they have flogged him, they will kill him, and on the third day he will rise again.’ But they understood nothing about all these things; in fact, what he said was hidden from them, and they did not grasp what was said.

Babe Ramsey sat in the last pew one seat in from the middle aisle stage left. She never missed a Sunday. In her late eighties, she was a slip of a woman dressed in tasteful wool suits with a handbag to match each outfit. She drove a large car recklessly around town, not on purpose—she had a hard time seeing.
The empty seat next to her was for Hartmut. Babe saved his spot each Sunday even after Hartmut died six years ago. Her devotion was unwavering. On a Sunday morning after a tornado tore up the town, Babe came to church. Even though there was a hole in the roof, no power, and trees were strewn all about town, she was there, sitting one seat in from the middle aisle in the last pew. We called to her, we the other remnant who braved the roads; we called to her, Babe, come join us, sit with us. Everyone was gathered in the first few pews. Babe moved up three pews and sat one seat in from the middle aisle.
On my first visit with Babe, I realized something about her memory. She could recount events of long ago, regale me with stories of her life with Hartmut, and offer castigation of her son Dean for slights decades old. But she had no ability to remember what happened 15 minutes ago. About every fifteen minutes Babe would shudder and it was as if the last fifteen minutes never happened. Babe suffered from mini strokes.
I saw this as an opportunity. If I sat with Babe for an hour, we could have the same conversation four times. We could perfect a chat. And that is what we did. Every fifteen minutes she would shudder and say, "so how are Kathy and the kids." That was my cue to start over, to try again with better descriptions, and better stories.
I got a call from Dean one day. He was at his mother's house, and he needed me to come over. When I arrived, it was clear that Dean and Babe were in one of their famous rows. Dean was a highly accomplished professor of landscape architecture, but with his mother, he was an onery kid. He might be six or sixty. Dean wanted me to convince his mother to give up her car. This was not going to go well.
I listened to them argue for quite a while. Dean kept trying to make sense; Babe kept saying the same thing every fifteen minutes. Finally, I asked Babe a question. Knowing the car had not been driven for months, I asked, "Tell me what you did today." At first, she thought this was ridiculous but soon she described a series of errands all over town in her car. She even stopped by the church, but I wasn't there. "And then I came here, and Dean is trying to take my car away."
I asked Babe to excuse Dean and I, "We need to chat in the kitchen." He tried to plead his case with me, but I said, "You need to leave her car in the garage." His face strained. "You need to take the battery out, but never move the car. I will know if you do." Dean was not one for compromise with his mother, so I said, "Look, she drove all over town without leaving the house. Leave the car in the garage. Streets are safe, your mother is safe, and there is no more shouting." The car stayed in the garage until Babe passed. She drove each day never leaving the house.
Do you remember what he said?
He told them he would suffer but they didn't understand.
Memory is fascinating. Knowledge is intriguing as well, but nothing compared to memory. We are engulfed in memories; we are a ship afloat on a sea of memory. Babe Ramsey gave a great insight into how memories are a complex confluence of the body and the soul. More important she was a window into how different memories can be, how they come to be or pass away.
Marcel Proust did a great turn with his Remembrance of Things Past or Search for Memory. Writing just before and after WWI all of Proust's stories are based on a theory. Memories are alive and they come to us. We can call out to them, try to remember, we can try to push them away, try to forget, but in the end, it's up to them. Memories are alive, they come and go on their own.
Perry Smith was the first person I knew whose Alzheimer’s came before his body wore out. He was in his early 70s and fit as a fiddle. Which meant he would roam and cause his family all types of worries. Once he showed up in my office, which is a good five miles from his home. He knew the way, knew where he was, but he had no idea why he was there. I told Perry, "I think Sally would want to be here too if we are going to chat." He agreed; I called Sally, his wife, and she came right over quite relieved as the search had been going on for a few hours.
On a different occasion, I went to Perry. We sat in his sunroom and he walked me through the painful ordeal of his time in a German prisoner of war camp. Perry accounted in awful detail the cruelty of the Nazi guards, the friends he saw die in his arms, the fear, and strangely, the cold. Perry kept going back to frozen creeks and snow and not having enough clothes. My feet felt cold to the bone just listening to him.
I thanked Perry for telling me these stories. They felt like a privilege, a trust. As I left, I thanked Sally for the coffee and said, "that was quite an account. I had no idea Perry was a prisoner of war and suffered such cruelty. So hard." Sally turned ashen; she narrowed her gaze and said, "he told you about being in the war; he told you about being a prisoner?" Before I could answer she said, "I have been married to Perry for 50 years and he has never spoken a word about what happened. Not once."
In the years since, and speaking with others like Perry, I have come to see the erosion of the mind with Alzheimer’s lets loose memories, memories kept locked away are now unbounded. It is as if the ability to keep them at bay, to keep them hidden, goes away. Terrible memories of war and captivity and loss come to call and hang out and intrude on coffee in a sunroom making your turn ashen.
Do you remember what he said?
He told them he would suffer but they didn't understand.
Socrates believed not only in the difference of memory and understanding; Socrates also believed they are different parts of the soul. He believed there are three parts of the soul: memory, understanding, and will. Memory, he believed, was the driver of the soul, the true source of power, the most important. He thought understanding was like a wild horse in need of taming.
The great philosopher believed memory was important because in each of us, there is all that is good and true and beautiful. Already there. We just need to remember. We become free, become powerful, if we remember what is good, true, and beautiful. Not understanding, memory.
On three occasions Jesus told his disciples he would suffer and die but be raised. In Matthew and Mark, he even tells them where to meet him after he is raised. Luke says Jesus told them this, but they didn't understand. They didn't know what he meant.
In the garden, the two men, or two angels, ask the women the great question of the gospel, "do you remember?" They didn't ask the women to understand; they didn't try to explain the resurrection. "Do you remember?" And then, "they remembered." This is important to what comes next. The women went and told the eleven what they had seen and heard, but the disciples took this as an idle tale. This was beyond what could be understood. This was not true. They tried to understand; they didn't remember.

Given how much value we put on information and knowledge and proven theory, the idea that memory is more important, well, shouldn't make a lot of sense. I get it. But the key to the resurrection is remembering Jesus is alive. Understanding, knowing, proving: they don't help a lot. The resurrection is not something to figure out, to apply like a law of physics to determine an outcome. Like the angels in the garden, proof and explanation is of little help. Remember, Jesus is alive and so are you. In the water of baptism, we remember. At the table, he says do this in memory of me. At the garden, the question is not "do you understand?" The question is "do you remember?"
I was a real jerk to a fellow in Galilee once. To verify this, I recounted the exchange with my son, Ethan. He confirmed. Yeah, you were a jerk.
I was frustrated and a bit annoyed. We were touring the site known as the Shrine of the Beatitudes. This is one of the most beautiful places in the Holy Land. All the folks from our bus gathered in one of the private gardens and I offered a teaching about the Beatitudes, and how they are like a path to freedom. First, you descend and then you rise. You are poor, bereft, and meek; and then you are satisfied, merciful, and pure in heart. You see God in all.
The place was so lovely. You stand in a garden looking over the Sea of Galilee and it transports you 2000 years and the words of Jesus find an echo in the spring grass and rolling hills and the shore. Lost in this I was unprepared for the fella from Wisconsin. On our bus, there was a group of very evangelical, literal-believing folks who seemed surprised to find Presbyterians so far from home and so close to Jesus.
The fella from Wisconsin asked me a question. He said, "Is this the place?" At first, I thought he meant the place where Jesus spoke the Sermon on the Mount. Trying to explain the difference between the site of devotion as opposed to the site of history, he cut me off. No. Not where he spoke the sermon. Is this the place where he will return? Is this the place?
It was not my best moment. I was annoyed. Here I just spent all this time showing the need to trust the path of losing life to gain it, becoming less to become more. All this is a matter of risk. You must be willing to lose all, lay aside all confidence to remember what is true and good and beautiful, to be born again. And here was this fella trying to figure it out, to determine it, to be sure about what would happen instead of trusting what was. He was trying to understand the resurrection of Jesus instead of trusting the memory, he is alive; he lives in us. Remember: he is risen.
Is this the place? he asked. I paused and thought for a second and then I said to him, "No. This is not the place. It's another place." With that, I walked away. This is when Ethan said, "Yeah you were a jerk."
I am sorry for that. It was the beauty of the place, to be there, it was not something to understand, to determine. It was a place to remember, blessed are those who mourn; they will be comforted.
On Easter Sunday it is good to remember. Understanding? Not that much. Remember: he is risen, and so are you. Amen.