St. John’s Episcopal Church
Tallahassee, FL

Ezra 1:1–8
Nehemiah 8:1–10

This sermon was part of The Year of the Bible—a yearlong initiative in which all sermons, classes, and formation for all ages followed a parish-wide journey through the entire Bible. With the bishop’s permission, we used a custom lectionary: two readings drawn from that week’s section of Scripture, plus a psalm and the regularly appointed gospel of the day.

In our Year of the Bible,
we have come to a crossroads.

In fact,
we might say today is
“Turn the Page Sunday,”
because today is the day on which
we have reached the end
of the Old Testament.

Next week,
we begin the Gospels,
and even as we go through
the season of Lent,
we will start next week
with the stories of the little baby Jesus,
and then we will watch him as he grows,
and walk step-by-step with him and his disciples
all the way to the cross on Good Friday
and to his glorious resurrection on Easter.

But today is special, too,
because today is a culmination
and a beginning.

You’ve probably noticed through the year
that every once in a while
I try to give you just a quick-and-dirty
1-minute recap of the whole Bible—
all the major movements up ‘til now—
and I’m about to do it again
because a.) it’s important to see how it all hangs together
and b.) we are Episcopalians, and we know that
hearing something over and over
is how God writes it on our hearts.

In the beginning,
God created heaven and earth.

God made Adam and Eve.
All was good—until we lost our way.

God chose Abraham
to bless the world through his family.

From Abraham came Isaac,
then Jacob,
then the twelve tribes of Israel.

They were enslaved in Egypt
until God sent Moses
to lead them to freedom.

They became a nation
but wanted kings.
Some were good—most were not.

The kingdom split.
The people forgot who they were.

God sent prophets,
but the people would not listen.

Eventually,
foreign powers overtook them,
and they were scattered in exile.

And so, today, we land on
Ezra and Nehemiah,
two of the final prophets
of the Old Testament.

In the book of Ezra,
we are told how King Cyrus of Persia
has an unexpected change of heart
and finally tells God’s people
they are now free to go home to Jerusalem
and begin to rebuild their lives.

In the book of Nehemiah,
we hear how Ezra unrolls the scroll,
and stands before the people,
and basically does a Miqra—
a public reading of the entire Torah—
because he knows that
as they return home—
as they begin to rebuild their lives—
it will not work
if they do not remember
who they are
and whose they are.

And y’all,
that’s the whole thing.

Reminding.
Rehearsing.
Retelling.
Recalling.
Reclaiming.
Remembering
who we are
and whose we are,
lest we forget.

This is part of why
you are an Episcopalian . . .
because you know
that repetition and remembering
is how God writes our story on our hearts,
and danger lies around the corner
when a people forget their story.

This is why it’s important every Lent
for us to pray the Great Litany . . .
those old, old prayers
that still abide and affect us
in this new, challenging world.

This is why every Lent
we hear and rehearse
the Ten Commandments every Sunday.

Heck, this is why we have Lent at all.
Not to punish ourselves—
not to heap guilt—
but to return to basics
and remember what matters most.

This is why we’re doing
the Year of the Bible,
to remind,
to rehearse,
to retell,
to recall,
to reclaim,
to remember the story from which we come.

This is why Jesus goes into the wilderness:
to remember who he is.
Even as the devil tries to throw him off track,
he recalls the words of scripture
and remembers what is really true.

This is why every Sunday
whether it’s Eucharistic Prayer A, B, C, or D—
we hear the story of our salvation
one more time
before we have Communion.

You know that part every Sunday
where Jesus says,
“Do this for the remembrance of me?”

In Greek, that moment has a name:
it’s called anamnesis.
It’s the opposite of amnesia.
It’s the act of remembering . . .
remembering
who we are,
and whose we are.

This is why we have Christmas.
This why we have Good Friday
and Easter
and Pentecost
and All Saints.

This is why we have
baptisms
and funerals
and church on Sunday.

This is why we don’t just make stuff up as we go.

What Ezra and Nehemiah knew—
and what you and I continue to know—
is that the whole thing rests on us
reminding,
rehearsing,
retelling,
recalling,
reclaiming,
remembering
who we are
and whose we are.

I’m going to close with a story
that is admittedly not mine to tell.

I heard a bishop tell this story in a sermon,
and with apologies and gratitude to him,
I share it with you today.

He had just laid his mother to rest
after a long journey with dementia.

He used to visit her regularly
at the facility in New York.
He’d walk in and say,
“Hi Mom, it’s me—your son.”

She’d look at him and say,
“My son?”

He’d say,
“Yes. It’s me—your son.”

Some of you in this room
know what that’s like.
You know the pain
of loving someone
who can’t quite remember you.

So, after a few visits,
he decided to tell her the story again.

He’d start each visit
reminding her of her life,
retelling family stories,
and eventually,
it became like a little liturgy:
“Hi Mom, it’s me—your son.”

He began bringing old photos on his iPad—
images from her childhood,
her marriage,
family memories.

Then he remembered how,
when he was a kid,
she had an upright piano
moved into their tiny New York apartment.

Her favorite song was “Clair de Lune.”

He said,
“She wasn’t great at first,
but she practiced and practiced.”

So he brought a Bluetooth speaker.

After each visit,
he’d give her a blessing,
then play “Clair de Lune.”

Sometimes she’d hum along.
Sometimes,
with her eyes closed,
she’d raise her hands,
mimicking the fingering.

The songs
get written
on our hearts.

Mother Leslie and I
were talking recently,
and she said,
when visiting someone who can’t remember much,
start with the Lord’s Prayer.

It’s usually in there.
Written on the heart.

So here’s the thing.
Here’s the truth of our lives today.

As we come to this juncture—
this turning of the page—
between the Old and New Testaments,
with prophets like Ezra and Nehemiah
urging the people of God to remember . . .

As we enter Lent,
a time to remember who we are
as God’s people . . .

The truth is this:
God has been writing the story of our lives
and the music of our souls
onto our hearts
for a long, long, long time.

That’s why you’re here.
That’s why you like it here.
That’s what keeps drawing you back—
to tell the old, old story
of Jesus and his love.

This is why we are here—
during this Lent,
during this life,
during this existence—
to rehearse,
to remind,
to retell,
to recall,
to reclaim,
to remember
ONE MORE TIME . . .

. . . so we never forget
who we are
and whose we are.

Amen.