September 10, 2005
Rev. F. Ryan Laughlin

I consider it a great privilege to be with you this weekend. Thanks so much for inviting me. This is my first time back to West Point since I graduated ten years ago. My second visit will occur in a few weeks when I join my class for our 10 year reunion. As excited as I am, I must confess a bit of trepidation – mostly because ten years is a long time to remember names. The chances are pretty good that I have forgotten more than I have remembered. However “nametag-dependent” I may be for that weekend, I have been greatly encouraged this weekend as I have witnessed just how well and honorably the members of the Class of 1965 remember each other. Your presence here this morning is further proof of the fact.

I suspect my fears of forgetting are not all that uncommon. Because within all human hearts lies a common longing: to remember and to be remembered. It is this longing that has been so visibly expressed in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina as multitudes who have lost everything are now asking, ‘Who will remember us?’ Thankfully, many have answered them. And it is this same longing that is expressed by King David in the wonderful words of Psalm 8:

When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, the son of man that you care for him? You made him a little lower than the heavenly beings and crowned him with glory and honor.

When David reflects on the grandeur of the heavens and the glory of the nighttime sky, he is faced with a question: ‘Why, God, would you remember me? I am so frail, so small, so finite. And You and Your creation are so majestic. Who am I that You would even have a passing thought of me?’ It is the cry of one who longs to be remembered in the midst of the vast universe. And, this morning, we reenact that same pattern together. But, rather than looking to the heavens, we look to the earth and reflect on the reverence of this place and the far-reaching depths of our own memories. As we do, we are faced with the same question as David: ‘Why, God, would You remember any of us? Why have You called us here to remember fallen friends? What is it about us and them that merits remembrance at all?’

I find David’s answer to be somewhat unexpected, given his stature. For David could have offered many merits of his own: he was a king, after all, and a great one at that. He was a heroic soldier, as well. We also know that he was a published poet, a father, a husband, a son – he was all of these things. And there is little doubt that this class could rightfully boast similar qualifications for remembrance, if not more. What’s striking, however, is that David does not mention one of these credentials. Not one. Instead, he finds his answer outside of himself. Listen to his response again: What is man that you are mindful of him, the son of man that you care for him? You made him a little lower than the heavenly beings and crowned him with glory and honor. This response demonstrates a great truth for all of us: that our fears of being forgotten vanish when we contemplate the greatness of God’s love for His creation.

What, then, does this Psalm teach us about why we have gathered here this morning? It teaches us that our longing to remember each other is right. It is good. It is even godly. For in remembering the departed members of this class, we celebrate their glory as unique masterpieces cherished by God Himself. In honoring them, we pause to listen once again to the profound majesty of each individual composition of our Lord. This Psalm also teaches us that each one of us gathered here is forever in the mind of the One who made us, the One who is ever with us, the One who will not let us go.