Who will resurrect my memory when I’m gone? A human life is so very short compared to other creatures. The ancient turtles in the sea who live beyond a century. The bare winter trees writhing against the sky as they reach toward the heavens, these make a human life seem so very short. What is to become of us who have no children, who leave no legacy in DNA. Will Ancestry.com suffice? Will a stone in a cemetery somewhere be the one reminder that I lived and loved and laughed and cried and died?
Who will resurrect my memory when I’m gone? Will the work I do mean anything to those born this year, this decade, this century? Time passes quickly in the age of media and technology and science. Time is the one thing we cannot ever control. It is the thing we ought to value most. It is the currency that we spend with each breath, such a limited amount allotted to us and we know not the length of our days.
Who will resurrect my memory when I’m gone? Will my horror over sarin gas attacks make any difference? Will anyone care that I grieved over racism and classism and misogyny and the rest? I want my life to make a difference. I want to make the young ones think so they’ll have the chance to care, too. I want to make folks think about what they believe, to interrogate their own assumptions and question the rhetoric of the powerful.
Who will resurrect my memory when I’m gone? Every single incarnation of the Christ that comes after us builds on the generation past. L’Dor v’dor, from generation to generation we move forward, bit by bit, toward a better understanding of the diversity of God’s love. The stories of my faith have lived for millennia and they will survive for millennia more. I will live on in the stories as Mary and Martha live, as Deborah and Miriam, and Bathsheba live on.
We tell the stories, we remember the ones who went before us. Our faith is built on God with us, God incarnate, God’s love remaining beyond death. They remembered, we remember, we are remembered because we remember them.