Sunday Morning Meds -- Remembering

Ancient poster for a reading at Dordt

“You thought I was altogether like you.” Psalm 50:21

Years ago, when I was a teenager, my uncle—distinguished Uncle Ward—came to visit. I was in high school, and he took me golfing. I’d fooled around with golf clubs since I was ten, I’m sure, but my family was never part of the country club set back then, and actually going to a course would have been, well, out of the question—somewhat frivolous use of our money, my father would have assumed.

After nine holes, my uncle wanted to ride out in the countryside around town, the town of Oostburg, Wisconsin, where I was growing up, and he had, maybe 35 years before. His career had led him afar from his geographic roots, and I could tell that it was a joy for him to reminiscence while touring the old haunts.

“Now go out west of town,” he told me, and I did, then followed the river. “There,” he said. “See that path through the field?—if you follow that road, you’ll come to a swimming hole.” He was overflowing with memory. “Ever been there? Great place—we used to have so much fun.” And then he was gone, lost in memory.

I was likely at the very age he was remembering himself being. I remember thinking it odd that he could be so emotionally attached to a bend in the river I’d never seen, even though we’d both grown up in the same neighborhood. There’d been spectacular fun there years before, but no one I knew ever frequented that place. He knew the world in which I was growing up, but it was almost a different country.

Yesterday a friend of mine who also grew up in Oostburg, Wisconsin, came back here to his home on the edge of the plains. Even before he left, he was down because his parents had decided to move across the lake to Michigan, and he was afraid that this Oostburg visit might well be his last.

It’s a rite of passage I know. When my parents left the house in which I grew up, some kind of emptiness descended, even though they were simply moving across town. But years ago already my uncle had prepared me for that leave-taking, when I witnessed his reverence for a spot on the river I’d never visited.

The gulf which divides reality and perception is sometimes immense. The town my uncle knew wasn’t the place where I was then growing up, nor is it the place my friend doesn’t want to forget. We’re all diaspora finally; none of those Oostburgs exists today.

The worlds we imagine aren’t the ones we live in. Similarly, I suppose, the God we imagine isn’t necessarily the one who exists through time and eternity. In a psalm that’s frequently shocking, here’s yet another line to make us sweat: “you thought I was altogether like you.”

He’s not what we think—that’s what he’s reminding his listeners. Not much is, of course; but you can bet he’s not. He’s altogether divine, and if what he says throughout the Old Testament is Him talking, he is certainly no teddy bear. The fact is, we really don’t know him.

Perhaps I find that disconcerting because I’ve created an image of him in my own mind as a genial gentleman really into forgiveness.

“You thought I was altogether like you,” that God says.

Yes, I think I have. I just hope--by faith, by grace--I’m right.