While away with family this summer, I read Timothy
Beal’s powerful and challenging book, When Time is
Short: Finding Our Way in the Anthropocene. In some
ways, it was an odd selection for a vacation read. Beal
is a professor of religion at Case Western Reserve
University, and the book, in the words of one review,
is “an invitation to face our collective finitude.” In other
words, you are going to die. Me too. All of us.
This may seem morbid, and that is particularly the
case when denial of death is so ubiquitous among
us. Did you happen to see the Barbie movie this
summer? The turning point in the movie comes when
the illusion of perfection is pierced. It happens in the
middle of one of those glittery dance parties that
you can imagine whether you’ve seen the film or not.
Music is pulsing at the Barbie Dream House. Heads
are bobbing. Smiles are on every face. And Barbie
gleefully raises her voice above the noise to say, “Do
you guys ever think about dying?” The music cuts
out. The record player screeches to a halt. Silence in
the crowd.
Ignoring the reality of death is a constant temptation
among us. And yet we do think about dying, and the
truth is that acknowledging our inevitable demise is
one way we clarify our current priorities. It is as true
for individuals as it is for the whole human family.
How would your decisions, your words and actions,
your relationships change if you believed your time
was short? What kind of clarity would it bring to your
life if you held always in your heart the reality that it
would end? How might it change our collective and
communal behavior if we welcomed this as a topic of
conversation and reflection?
The Old Testament Psalmist poetically names the
brevity of life this way: “Our years come to an end like
a sigh…they are soon gone and we fly away.”
When this brief chapter of earthly life is complete,
what does remain? What will endure?
I confess this may seem like an incongruous theme
for the launch of our annual commitment campaign,
when we ask you—members and friends of Second
Church—to give generously so that the ministry of
this congregation will long endure, will grow and
thrive for decades yet to come, for centuries yet
to come, to continue the work of our church. Why
give your money away when everything you love is
coming to an end regardless of what you do? Why
not, to quote another part of the Good Book, “Eat,
drink, and be merry?”
This morning’s scripture narrates the end of Joseph’s
life. We picked up the story just after the death
and burial of his father Jacob, the patriarch of the
family, father of the twelve tribes of Israel. You
might remember that Jacob’s obvious preference
for Joseph provoked the jealous and angry actions
of his brothers, who considered briefly killing him
before ultimately selling Joseph into slavery in Egypt.
Through a series of dramatic twists and turns, Joseph
becomes prince of all Egypt. And eventually, his
brothers and his father end up there as well, refugees
from the severe drought and famine in their homeland
of Canaan. When Jacob dies, Joseph weeps for
40 days. He then carries his father’s body back to
Canaan for burial. When Joseph returns to Egypt, his
brothers fearfully await his next move.
That fear is well-founded. The brother they
traumatized now holds power over their future, their
families, their very lives. In a dramatic and ironic twist
of the narrative, the brother they sold into slavery
now hears his brothers say, “We are your slaves.” And
anyone who has read this far in the story would not
be shocked if Joseph had those brothers imprisoned,
sent packing, or worse. But something has changed
in Joseph, something his brothers do not expect. You
can hear it in his words. The brothers run to Joseph.
They beg him to forgive them, to remember their
father, and to act with compassion for his sake. And
when he hears them, Joseph, that abused brother and
viceroy of all Egypt, begins to weep. It is perhaps the
most poignant moment in all of scripture. He extends
forgiveness. He promises to care for his brothers and
their children in the land of Egypt. And in a wonderful
example of scriptural understatement, the author of
Genesis neatly summarizes the encounter, “In this
way he reassured them.” If the removal of a death
sentence offers reassurance, Genesis is spot on.
But why? Why did Joseph do it? What has changed
in him?
I think I know. I think Joseph has learned that time is
short. Sigmund Freud said that the most important
day in the life of any man is the day his father dies.
And having lost his own father, Joseph begins to
consider what kind of legacy he will leave. Think of
this: Joseph has now achieved far more than he ever
could have imagined. He has risen to the heights of
power in the greatest empire in the world. He has
acquired immense wealth and privileged status. His
life would be deemed nothing but success by any
earthly measure. It’s time for the eating, time for the
drinking, time for the merry making. But burying his
father reframes Joseph’s perspective. Stepping back,
he sees the providence of God at work in his life:
“Even though you intended to do me harm, God has
used it for good…” And now Joseph will use the rest of
his life to do the good that has been done for him.
This moment of reconciliation between estranged
brothers commences a final chapter of Joseph’s
story, focused entirely on leaving the world better
than he found it. Joseph lives to rock his greatgrandchildren on his knee. He passes on the promise
that God will lead them out of Egypt. He asks his
brothers to carry his bones to the Promised Land,
the final resting place of his beloved father. And
so, Joseph’s wild and winding journey leads him all
the way back to what always matters most. He dies
surrounded by the family he preserved, the family
whose future he secured.
Wow. What a story. Joseph’s life becomes a testament
to what will last. And it is not privilege. It is not
power. It is not possessions. It is forgiveness. It is
relationship. It is faith and hope and love.
So back to us. Next Sunday in this space, we will be
invited to offer our commitments to the church for the
year ahead. They’re a symbol. A symbol of the hope
we hold. A token. A sign of the world we want to leave
behind. Why? Why do we give?
I’ll speak personally. With the passage of time, I am
increasingly convinced that the work we’re doing
together is of immense importance. When our family
considers the call to be good stewards of what we
have, this ministry, this church, takes priority because
we know the impact it has. We see with our eyes
and know in our hearts the daily efforts to nourish,
support, and empower our neighbors. We hear with
our ears and listen with our souls to the stories of
lives transformed here by an encounter with the
living God. We know that many in our community
depend on the mission of Second for sustenance, for
partnership, for hope.
But there’s more than that. I think it not too dramatic
to suggest that what we are about in here is ensuring
the future of a faith that is both broad and deep
enough to offer a compelling vision to the world. I
think this because I’ve heard it three times in the
last ten days. I heard it from a teenager, from a new
member, and from a seasoned elder. Their comments
went something like this: There is a deep frustration
about the way Christian faith, this gift that we have
received, is being used as a weapon or a wedge to
divide us from one another. There is grief and anger
over the co-opting of scripture for the purpose of
self-promotion or to claim God’s own voice for our
particular cause. One of these members confessed
that he struggles to call himself a Christian for fear of
the baggage that it carries. But he continued, “Then,
I come to Second, and I worship and I serve with this
community. And I am reminded what following Jesus
is actually about.”
We give to support that vision, that mission, that
impact, that future.
Look, none of us is promised another day. That reality
hit home two weeks ago when a friend and colleague,
who served as pastor of Highland Park Presbyterian
Church in Dallas, died in his sleep. Bryan was fortyfour years old. He was physically strong. He leaves
three young children. At his Memorial Service, his wife
Alyson described how Bryan made the most of the
time he was given, having no idea it would be so brief.
When time is short, priorities come into focus. How
should we live? Not a decade from now or after
retirement or when the grandkids are grown. How
should we live right now? What kind of faith will find a
home in the hearts of our children right now? In what
ways are we called to serve and to give, not in the
future, but right now while it’s still in our hands?
Just a few minutes after I finished reading Timothy
Beal’s book, our six-year-old son Ben and I were
walking one of the trails in Montreat. We came
across a stone, a large stone on the pathway with a
dedication plaque. A memorial to a boy who loved
Montreat and died far too young. Unfortunately for
me in the moment, Ben is learning to read. And so,
he asked lots of questions. Lots of questions. I did
my very best to explain in a way I thought he could
understand, and I thought I had mostly succeeded
when Ben fell silent.
We continued walking, but then nearly an hour later,
still walking the trails, Ben turned to me. “Dad, when
you die, I want you to turn into a graveyard so that
I can remember you. And when I die, I will be in the
same one since we are buddies, okay?” He continued,
“This is making me cry a little, so I don’t want to talk
about it anymore. But I’m not scared about it.” As you
might imagine, the rest of the hike was pretty quiet.
Yes, our years come to an end like a sigh. You will die.
I will die.
Our time is so short. Our call so clear.
So, this week, consider what has been placed in your
hands. Do your part to secure a future for the faith
that has inspired you with a message that the world
needs to hear. Live in the knowledge of life’s brevity
and beauty, and do not be afraid. For God’s hands
hold us all.