Lent 4
March 10, 2024
All this I laid to heart,
examining it all, how the righteous and the wise and their deeds are in the
hand of God; whether it is love or hate one does not know. Everything that
confronts them is vanity, since the same fate comes to all, to the righteous
and the wicked, to the good and the evil, to the clean and the unclean, to
those who sacrifice and those who do not sacrifice. As are the good, so are the
sinners; those who swear are like those who shun an oath. This is an evil
in all that happens under the sun, that the same fate comes to everyone.
Moreover, the hearts of all are full of evil; madness is in their hearts while
they live, and after that they go to the dead.
But whoever is joined with all
the living has hope, for a living dog is better than a dead lion. The
living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing; they have no more
reward, and even the memory of them is lost. Their love and their hate and
their envy have already perished; never again will they have any share in all
that happens under the sun. Go, eat your bread with enjoyment, and drink
your wine with a merry heart; for God has long ago approved what you
do. Let your garments always be white; do not let oil be lacking on your
head. Enjoy life with the wife whom you love, all the days of your vain
life that are given you under the sun, because that is your portion in life and
in your toil at which you toil under the sun. Whatever your hand finds to
do, do with your might; for there is no work or thought or knowledge or wisdom
in Sheol, to which you are going.
Again I saw that under the sun the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to the intelligent, nor favor to the skillful; but time and chance happen to them all. For no one can anticipate the time of disaster. Like fish taken in a cruel net, and like birds caught in a snare, so mortals are snared at a time of calamity, when it suddenly falls upon them.
We are nine chapters in. By now, we can see what Ecclesiastes is up to. This unusual book was written by a philosopher. He surveys his life and determines it is both successful and empty. On one page after another, he sweeps off the table everything he once thought important:
- Pleasure: “Whatever my eyes desired, I didn’t hold back. And it became like reaching for a puff of smoke.”
- Achievement: “I accomplished so much, worked so hard, climbed so high. Then I discovered it was like chasing the wind.”
- Money: “I worked hard for my money. I chased after my money. I couldn’t get enough of my money. I loved money. Then I discovered nobody loved me.”
How sad. He had the promise of a good life, a rich life, a successful life, and it ran through his fingers like sand. He didn’t lose it. He still had all of it. Yet it didn’t mean as much as he thought it would. Now he looks back, he reflects. What did it all mean? All the promise, lost in its achievement. Quite sobering.
The scholars tell us the book of Ecclesiastes was composed four or five hundred years after King Solomon, but to us, it sounds like Solomon could have written it. He had plenty of pleasure – the Bible says seven hundred wives and three hundred girlfriends. I don’t know how he got an hour of sleep. He had piles of wealth, much of it inherited; Jesus once referred to him as “Solomon in all his glory.” And he was wise.
His wisdom was the gift of God. According to the Biblical account, which was composed by one of his subjects, God was so impressed by King Solomon, that God said, “Ask for whatever you want, and I’ll give it to you.” Solomon thought long and hard. Anything he wanted! He could have said “give me more of what I already have,” but he didn’t say it. He could have said, “Give me revenge over all my enemies,” but he was too confident to make that his prayer. The king could have said, “Let me live forever,” but he knew better.
Instead, Solomon prayed, “Lord, make me wise. Wise enough to rule over your people. Wise enough to know the difference between right and wrong. Wise enough to look under the surface to see what is true.”[1] God was pleased to grant him that request. In the Bible tradition, there was nobody as rich or smart as King Solomon.
And now, in Ecclesiastes, we hear the critique that comes if someone is richer and smarter than everybody else. If I might summarize it this way, if you are richer and smarter than everybody else, you still end up like everybody else. As the sage says in his own poetic way, “I saw that under the sun the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to the intelligent, nor favor to the skillful; but time and chance happen to them all.” All of us end up the same.
Do you have a sense of why we are working through this text in the season of Lent? It is so honest. Honesty strips the varnish off our furniture. In the light of truth, there is no pretense, no privilege, no superiority, no escape from the inevitable.
There’s that lady that landed in the personal care home. They sold her large house and moved her into a twenty-by-twenty-foot room. She was able to bring a few favorite antiques. There’s a new tennis bracelet on her wrist, a gift from the son who said he hoped to visit but hasn’t gotten there yet. Her daughter brought the cranberry sweater with the designer logo. She seems to be doing well.
Yet this afternoon, nobody is responding when she hits the call button. She taps it again, and again. Mutters, “I deserve better than this.” Taps the call button once more, and an overworked staff member appears at door. “What can I get you, Sugar?” she says. The angry lady glares at her, laser beam eyes drilling a hole in her caregiver’s head. Then she mutters, “I don’t remember. I can’t remember.”
Life has a leveling force. Despite the advantages of some, nobody gets much of an advantage. Ecclesiastes knows this. “All the streams empty into the sea,” he says, “and the sea is never full.” (1:7) Everything runs downhill. That’s not always negative. Sometimes it can be OK.
A man stopped by to complain with his pastor. Not to complain about the pastor, at least, not that time. No, he was upset by somebody he saw on television. As he described the object of his scorn, “That tyrannical old man gets way too much attention. He’s a scoundrel and not worthy of it.” He went on like that for ten minutes. The pastor listened.
After blowing off a lot of pressurized steam, the man suddenly chuckled. “What is it?” said the pastor. “Well, it just occurred to me that someday the one I despise will go into the ground like anybody else. And every afternoon at 4:00, a visitor will walk his poodle. And precisely at 4:05 each day, the dog will pause at that ugly man’s grave, lift a leg, and anoint it.” They had a good laugh over that one.
Why should any of us think we are better than that? Ecclesiastes says, “All this I laid to heart, examining it all, how the righteous and the wise and their deeds are in the hand of God. The same fate comes to all, to the righteous and the wicked, to the good and the evil, to the clean and the unclean, to those who sacrifice and those who do not sacrifice. As are the good, so are the sinners; those who swear are like those who shun an oath… The same fate comes to everyone.”
Do you ever think about these things? I do because my work requires it. Death is the recurring companion of the pastor. After a few hundred funerals, you cease to fear it. Yet each singular loss remains real. Each departure diminishes us.
Sometimes I’ve hiked three blocks up the hill and walked among the tombstones. Each stone marks a story. Each name is a saint. Each dash between the dates is a lifetime. It is good to greet my silent congregation and remember each one.
What stories they have told! The widowed schoolteacher who
never had children of her own but left an impression on a thousand adopted
grandchildren. The henpecked man who finally found peace when he laid down for
the last time. The jovial funeral director whose cancer went undiagnosed until
it was too late. The pretty woman whose husband never paid attention to her,
even when she was slipping away. The teenager who decided he had enough of his pain.
The ancient couple that died within hours of one another. The young infant who
never had a chance.
These stories are the stuff of our lives. My job
is to make grief official, bear it with their survivors for a while, point them
through the long sorrow, and suggest God’s presence in the thick of it. I would
be lying if I did not confess how my work as Grief Officiant quietly affects
me. John Donne said it right: Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in
mankind.[2]
It helps to walk among the stones. In time, each
story loses its shock but not its value. Wisdom is learned from the dead. We
calculate what is important by paying attention to the lives that passed before
us. We learn to love by seeing the incalculable value of each child of God. The
wise ones number their own days.
I stop at the stones whose stories I know.
"Hello again," I say. "We miss you. We wish you peace in your
silence." They smile on us, these quiet saints. Their troubles are over,
their joy fulfilled. After that, I say farewell. I depart a different
man. Love changes me.
Do you ever consider these things? Of course you do. Ecclesiastes speaks the inevitable conclusion today, “Eat your bread with enjoyment. Drink your wine with a merry heart, for God has long ago approved what you do.” Then my favorite line in the whole book, “Enjoy life with the wife whom you love, all the days of your vain life that are given you under the sun, because that is your portion in life and in your toil at which you toil under the sun.” Love your wife; or love your husband, or in the refrain of songwriter Stephen Stills, “love the one you’re with.”
Let love be the legacy that remains. Let love be expressed in the gifts that we provide for the future that outlasts each of us. Have you heard the poem “Epitaph,” by Merrit Malloy? I think someone should read it for me when my time concludes. Goes like this:
When I die give what's left of me away
to children and old men that wait to die.
And if you need to cry,
cry for your brother walking in the street beside you.
And when you need me, put your arms around anyone
and give them what you need to give me.
I want to leave you something,
something better than words or sounds.
Look for me in the people I've known or loved,
and if you cannot give me away,
at least let me live in your eyes and not in your mind.
You can love me most by letting hands touch hands,
Letting bodies touch bodies,
and by letting go of children that need to be free.
Love doesn't die, people do.
So, when all that's left of me is love,
give me away.
I’ll see you at home in the earth.
Do you ever think about these things? It’s the fourth Sunday in Lent, time to consider them.
Let me offer a brief vignette as a way of rehearsing the benediction. It’s not my benediction, it’s from a friend who has dropped out of contact. We were in the same preachers’ group for twenty-five years, studying at the same table, sharing our lives, swapping jokes and lies. I love that guy, but Alzheimer’s has wiped his memory clean. When he was a pastor, he blessed his congregation with the same benediction each week. He stood with his hands in the air, looked into the faces of friends, enemies, and strangers, and repeated the same words every Sunday.
It’s not my
benediction, and it wasn’t his benediction either. He found it in the journal
of the Swiss philosopher Henri-Frederic Amiel. Nevertheless, that benediction was
my friend’s gift to me, so I make it my gift to you: “Life is short, and we have
never too much time for gladdening the hearts of those who are traveling the
dark journey with us. Oh, be swift to love, make haste to be kind!”[3]
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