Steadfast Love to the 1,000th Generation
a sermon based on Exodus 20:1-17
by Rev. Randy L. Quinn
   
Any of us who were little boys and any parents who had little boys will remember the pockets full of 'stuff'. I remember filling my pockets with the things I found on my way to school, on my home, or just in the backyard. There were rocks and bugs, string and yarn, and even gum wrappers and chunks of wood.

That may not be when it started, but I realize I still collect 'stuff'. And I suspect I'm not alone. In fact, many of you can probably identify with the kinds of "stuff" I have in my office. Most of the things are fairly simple. Each brings with it a particular story or memory:

© There is the pen set on my desk with the label that says "From Your Friends at First United Methodist Church -- Vallejo, 1983." It was given to me when I left California to attend seminary.

© Hanging on one wall is a piece of barn wood with the "TVP" brand on it that was given to me when I served three churches in Kansas. They were part of the "Twin Valley Parish."

© On top of the bookcase is the rock church that I use as a book end. It was given to me as a Christmas gift from the Riddles the first year we moved here.

There are lots of other things as well. Some are large, some are small. Most are fairly inexpensive. But I also have things at home that tell stories. Most of them are kept in a box or packed away where only I can find them, and like most keepsakes, only I understand them. I brought some of them with me. Do you mind if I show you?

© First, there is this stained glass cross and flames that I keep hanging in the window in my office. It was given to me by the Lee Memorial United Methodist Church in Norwich, Connecticut. I had been the volunteer youth worker and this was their way of thanking me when I moved in 1980.

© There are these two acorns. There used to be a third one, but I planted it. The tree is now growing near the end of our driveway. I picked them up during a weekend retreat in Chicago in 1991.

© This green ball came off a valve from the submarine I was on. The valve had failed a test BEFORE we went to sea; finding the failure probably kept us from ending a trip at the bottom of the ocean.

© Here is a name plate from my first car, a 1956 Chrysler.

© What do you think about this? It's a piece of purple construction paper cut into the shape of a heart with a taped up tear in it. This was given to me by a couple of high school friends who were sledding with me on Christmas day, 1971. After several runs down the hill, we all got on the sled. I was on the bottom and when we hit a rock, my wrist was sprained. They gave me a "purple heart" for being wounded in action.

© Even this basket has a story to tell. It's the first basket I ever made. I made it at Holden Village earlier this year.

There are other things I've saved over the years, too. I'm sure some of you have too. I've saved pressed flowers and special rocks. There were sea shells and even a lock of hair from an old girlfriend. Probably the most unusual was an old typewriter eraser that was given to me by the girl who sat behind me in our High School typing class. (I never remembered to bring one with me and was always borrowing hers, so at the end of the school year Adrienne gave it to me.)

What are the things you keep?

What stories do they tell?

Surely someone has a story?

(Allow for several people to share their stories)

It's interesting that over time the memories fade, but the keepsakes bring them alive again, don't they? And when we are honest, most of us recognize that many of our keepsakes will have little or no value once we die because the story will die with us.

Over the past several years, Ronda has encouraged me to look again at the things I keep and the stories they tell. And one by one, I've finally let some of them go. I threw away the lock of Carol's hair. I even threw away my typewriter eraser.

But once in a while, the memory itself becomes­ lost and forgotten. When that happens, it's time to get rid of the keepsake, too.

Take this blue ribbon, for instance. It was in my box of things. For the life of me, I can't tell you why it was there. I'm sure it had meaning at one point in time, but it's now lost. So I suppose it's time to throw it away.

It's also true that some keepsakes carry corporate memories. That's part of the reason we have memorials in our church. It's why we have names in the pew Bibles, to help us remember the stories of our past.

I'd like to suggest to you that the Ten Commandments are the same type of thing. They were given by God as a reminder of the covenant. Like most of our keepsakes, they were kept in a box that was carried around for generations.

I don't watch late night television. In fact, my definition of late night is anything after 9:00. But someone told me this week about a recent show in which Jay Leno went out into the street and asked people about the Ten Commandments. He apparently learned that very few people knew many of them. Some couldn't name a single one.

And I'm not surprised. I've read about similar polls as well as scientific polls that report the same thing. But I'm also not surprised because I don't believe the context of the Ten Commandments is one that presents a universal law for all people everywhere. They are intended as a reminder of the covenant between God and the people of Israel, a covenant that binds God to them, them to God, and Israelite to Israelite.

They are not like the Code of Hammurabi, an ancient set of laws that were found on a kiosk for all to see. The Ten Commandments were not public laws, they are part of the religious heritage of one particular people.

Like the things we've talked about this morning, the Ten Commandments were written on stones that were kept in a box. It had special meaning for the people who knew the story.

We know the story and, according to Paul, we are included in the story, so the Ten Commandments have particular meaning for us as well. But we cannot expect others to value them unless they know the story, too.

It seems to me then, that our task as Christians is to tell the story of God's faithfulness to us, God's "steadfast love to the thousandth generation" (v 6).

I don't know if we should take the promise literally or not, but if we assume that a generation only lasts 20 years (some would argue it's 30 or 40 years), God promises to continue to love us for 20,000 years. And if the scholars are anywhere near correct, this promise was made about 4,500 years ago, so God is obligated to love us for at least another 15,000 years.

And that's a long time.

Longer than any of us can imagine, and longer than any of us will remember. The Ten Commandments are keepsakes for us, for our children and their children after them. They are reminders of God's faithfulness to us and a call for our obedience to God.

But if we don't tell the story, God will be the only one who remembers 10,000 years from now.

Let's tell the story.

Let's tell our story.

Let's tell God's story.

Amen.