The Monarch butterfly is given a remarkable destiny. Many Monarch butterflies must travel over a thousand miles to get to their destination oasis. Due to the short life span of monarchs, it will take them four generations to get there. Adult monarch butterflies fly one leg of the journey, and lay eggs in that place before they die. Their offspring hatch and are born into the world after their parents have died. They are born without any direction from their parents or the generation before. And this is the remarkable part. They, in time, go through the growing pains of becoming a monarch, growing their wings to their full length. Then they instinctively fly the next leg of the journey. The direction is ingrained in their DNA. They carry the direction of home in their blood, in their bodies. And they follow the same pattern as their parents – they lay eggs and die. And those newly-hatched butterflies will instinctively, without any outside direction or guidance, find their way home, flying the next leg of the journey.
When they arrive at the destination oasis four generations later, here is the crazy part – these butterflies will repeat the same process.
They will lay eggs, die, and the next generation flies back to where the fourth generation just came from. This cycle will continue for eternity, as long as there are monarch butterflies. They will fly over the course of four generations to an oasis. Then they will return four generations later to the place where they started. And then it begins all over again.
I ask myself as I hear of this remarkable journey – Where is home for these monarch butterflies? At first glance you may say the oasis, but they only spend one generation at that place. I think home for these monarchs is not found in a specific geographic place. I think that home is always inside them, and they only discover this on their way, as they take the next leg of the journey. Home is not a static place, but a direction requiring action and commitment and great trust. There is a trust found in these butterflies that though they will never meet their children, that they carry the knowledge of home, and without that internal compass they will find their way. They will not be led astray.
It makes me wonder if this also true for us. They say that history repeats itself.
I wonder if we are covering the same ground as generations past, traveling through phases of experiences, experiencing shades of the same growing pains as past generations. It makes me wonder if home for us is also something that is instinctively inside us guiding us toward an oasis, a birthing place for the next generation. It makes me wonder if sometimes we can only know this truth of home when we feel we are in exile, trying to move and get toward where we want to be.
The literal translation of Jerusalem is a place of wholeness. A place of wholeness. A place where we feel whole. This is worth remembering. Psalm 137 expresses the pain of living in exile. The Jewish people had just witnessed the destruction of the temple, and they are held in captivity in a strange land, mocked by their captors. They have no place of worship, no city, no place of safety. They are trapped, surrounded on all sides by people who mock them, trying to drive home the point that their religion and way of life is over – it’s impotent. It has been stripped of all it’s power. The holy site and the people who made that site holy are desecrated and falling apart in grief. They literally sit down and cry.
They cry not just for themselves but their children. They cry as they wonder how their children will continue to be Jewish. They wonder how they will find their way home. And they come up with a path toward home, a refrain that will be passed down from generation to generation – We remember. Two words that have changed the course of history and led to our very church existing today – We remember. And when the next children are born, the elders instruct them to remember. I’m sure some of these told their elders – I actually don’t remember. I’ve never seen the temple. I’ve children never been to Jerusalem. And then they are told with confidence – Jerusalem, this place of wholeness and connection is always with you, no matter what. It is in your blood, in your body, in your soul. You remember this place of wholeness just by being born – trust this. Trust this.
Home is found right here, and on the way to – through the journey in and out of exile. In our own country we have been Babylon. African slaves who were taught about Christianity recognized their plight in the Psalms. They recognized Psalm 137 – By the waters of the Mississippi they wept.
They wept for what was destroyed, what was lost, committed that they would remember their wholeness, come what may. Even if they died, their children would go on remembering. As our country fractured their families, trying to fracture their souls, they would persevere doing the quiet and consistent work of remembering.
My memory is actually not very good. I speak with my siblings, and they can speak in great detail about times that I only have a vague recollection of. But this is not the kind of memory I’m talking about. I’m not talking about simply remembering the past. I’m talking about remembering who you are when you’ve lost all sight of yourself and your place in the world. I’m talking about a kind of memory that has the capacity to remember the future, not just the past. It’s a memory that holds a compass that we feel in our bones about where we’re called and who we’re called to be. I’m talking about a kind of memory that says you are home, and always on the way toward home.
To persevere is to remember. We know the way just by being born, even if we feel we are lost. Even if we feel cut off, in exile, and feel our life is a mockery, a mockery of what could be.
That is the time to remember – while the tears are still wet on our face. While we sit down without any clear answer, and we’re full of grief and resentment and pain, we must remember. The future depends on our ability to remember.
I love the Torah because like the Psalms, it shows us that it is possible find wholeness in the midst of pain. It’s possible to be in exile and feel rage and grief, and still know deep down we will persevere. At the end of the Torah, Moses is about to die, and God takes Moses onto a broken hill and shows him the promised land, the place he has been struggling to get his people to his entire life. And after that vision of the promised land, Moses dies abruptly, and the Torah ends. It ends with the reader wondering if the people will make it after his death to the promised land. Will they find their way home? I like to imagine Moses lying on that broken hill, as he lay dying, not in fear but trust – trusting those children to take the next leg of the journey, knowing the direction is very clear. All they have to do is remember.
