Athazagoraphobia is not defined as a clinical condition by the American Psychological Association. Neither is it a word made up by Mary Poppins. It’s a term that’s been coined to describe the fear of forgetting someone or something. But it is also the fear of being forgotten. You’ll find that the term also includes not only the fear of forgetting and being forgotten, but also the fear of being ignored or replaced. Some, but by no means all, sources identify athazagoraphobia as an “irrational” or “morbid” fear. This remains to be seen, in my opinion. Some people do not believe athazagoraphobia is a real thing, since it has no authoritative clinical definition. For my purposes, I am going to accept that athazagoraphobia is real enough - and it certainly seems so to me. Whether the church at large suffers from athazagoraphobia, I can’t say for sure, but I think we should consider the possibility.
Scholars have pointed out for decades that biblical literacy in America is remarkably low - people just don’t know the stories, names, and places of the Bible; stories, names, and places that once were widely known and shared across many cultures. Not long ago, I mentioned in conversation with a friend the story of Moses and the burning bush; my friend looked at me a little confused, and informed me that he was not at all familiar with what I was talking about. On an individual basis, we might diagnose the situation as a deficiency of biblical literacy, but on a societal level, I think the issue may be somewhat different. I wonder if what we have, as a society, is the beginnings of a case of collective memory loss. And I begin to worry about what happens when as a culture we forget the stories (and names, and places) we once shared. I begin to wonder if we are losing our memory. And it fills me with a measure of worry, and anxiety, maybe even some fear.
Among the most important memories that the church possesses is the memory of the Last Supper, when Jesus took bread, blessed it, broke it, and shared it with his disciples and said, “This is my Body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” And he took the cup of wine, and blessed it and shared it and said, “This is my Blood of the new covenant, which is shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins. Whenever you drink it, do this in remembrance of me.”
Here at Saint Mark’s, Jesus’ command to “Do this” echoes powerfully in our ears and our hearts. And we tend to follow Jesus’ instructions rather deliberately and somewhat fundamentalistically here. Every day, more or less, since 1884, a priest has come to an altar here, with at least one other person, to follow those instructions; to “Do this” in remembrance of Jesus.
And, because the bread and the wine are the elements of the Mass, and because we take great care with those elements when they have been consecrated, even reserving the bread in a golden Tabernacle, you could be forgiven for thinking that the church’s great interest is in protecting those elements: the consecrated bread and wine.
But really, there is a matter of possibly greater significance for the church, and that significance is becoming more and more evident to me, the more I realize that it is in peril. Possibly more important than regarding, honoring, venerating or holding on to the actual consecrated elements of bread and wine, the church’s great interest is and ought to be to hold onto the living memory of Jesus’ presence with us.
Churches like ours have often been afraid to speak of the living memory of Christ, because the word and the idea have a complicated history for us. To speak of the Sacrament as a “memorial” is to place it on the lowest rung of the Sacramental ladder. And, you know, we like to be near the top of the ladder at Saint Mark’s. And in our corner of the church, we believe that there are many dimensions to remembering, and that this memory is a special category of memory - the term we use for it is “anamnesis” - a kind of remembering in which the past becomes immediately and fully present to us, and the thing we are remembering becomes more than a memory, it becomes real in the here and now, as time folds in on itself, and Jesus becomes really, truly, and bodily present to us, so that he can really be with us, and we can really be with him.
It is this real and living memory of Jesus that the church is interested in preserving, protecting, and continuing, because the memory is more than a memory: it is the real and sacred Presence of the risen Christ. But sometimes, trying to hold on to this memory can feel like trying to hold on to the smoke of incense. And in a world that does not remember Moses at the burning bush, it feels to me like we are in danger of losing this most important memory, too: the memory of Jesus giving us his Body and his Blood, and instructing us to “Do this in remembrance” of him. How can anyone believe in what they can’t remember? Or how can we bask in the Presence of One whom we can’t remember?
It is not irrational, I don’t think, to take note that many of the cultures that once held tightly to the memory of Jesus’ offering of himself, have been forgetting that very tradition, a tradition that shaped so many different and varied societies. And losing this memory isn’t merely a case of forgetting certain events, and particular words and actions associated with them; it’s not just forgetting the story of the Last Supper. To forget this memory, is, in a very real sense, to begin to forget who Jesus really is, not just who he was.
And when I take note of my own fear that the world may be forgetting who Jesus is, I begin to understand the need for the coinage of a term like athazagoraphobia. And I realize how clinically appropriate the term seems for me. Because I am not only afraid of the world forgetting who Jesus really is - I mean who Jesus is in the here and now, not only who Jesus was back in the first century - I am not only afraid of the loss of this memory; I am also afraid of the church being forgotten, ignored, or replaced. And I believe this fear is not at all irrational.
Ironically, the antidote for my athazagoraphobia has already been given to us, and is contained within the very gift I fear we will forget. The treatment could not be simpler: Do this. Do this simple thing - take bread, take wine, bless them, and share them - and do it in remembrance of Jesus. Do this. Do this. Do this.
We do this at Saint Mark’s every single day. And as long as we do, we stave off my potential case of athazagorophobia. For Jesus is with us here every day, truly present, as he promised to be. Oh, the church may be ignored, and even replaced in people’s hearts and in our social standing, but Jesus will not be forgotten, as long as people gather to do this in remembrance of him.
Doing this is much easier than catching the smoke of incense. We do as Jesus told his followers to do: we take bread and wine, we bless them, and share them. And he is really and truly here with us; he is not forgotten, and neither are we.
Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
The Solemnity of Corpus Christi, 11 June 2023
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia
