Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever you had formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God… You sweep [man] away as with a flood; they are like a dream, like grass that is renewed in the morning: in the morning it flourishes and is renewed; in the evening it fades and withers… So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom. -Psalm 90: 1-2, 5-6, 12
Sitting in my room alone one night during RA training, tiredly trying to organize contacts on my phone, I didn’t expect death to knock on the door. Perhaps that’s an uncharitable way to describe my friend who kindly came to drop off some Dot’s Pretzels, but our ensuing conversation did eventually lead to the subject of death. In light of a recent death in the Grove City College community, we discussed how each conversation we have with a particular person (or anyone) may be our last, and on this topic my friend suggested something profound: every time we run into a friend on campus, share a meal with a mentor, or engage in a rich conversation like I did that night, that is a celebration–a celebration of God’s gracious gifts of life, community, and love. The next morning, reflecting on that conversation, I thought of Psalm 90, that ancient, formidable, deeply wise Psalm which orients us toward our finitude and can lead us to celebrate our days of toil and trouble. Death is so very easy to forget; we’re young, and we have countless days. Between now and that day lie a seemingly infinite amount of time and numerous opportunities.
How can we number our days when they are so many? Yet death is never far away. Art, public tragedy, and personal experience bring us face to face with that great, grim fact, and though such awareness is healthy, it may lead to other dangers. Hopeless nihilism and the rejection of meaning are misled but reasonable responses to death; on the other hand, facing death may drive others to an abandoned hedonism, trying to “get the most out of” our few days here on Earth. Psalm 90, though, protects us from either extreme. It tells us that God is our dwelling place–our holy judge Who is rightfully angry at our sin, and a loving Father who gives us a home. The psalm calls us to fix our eyes on an eternity full of meaning and responsibility. It also shows us how few are our days and how futile our attempts to control our lives and achieve our version of “success.” Ecclesiastes would call this “a striving after wind,” like trying to catch smoke with your hands and put it in a jar. Just so is the man who thinks he can, by his intelligence, diligence, or power, fundamentally change his world or the world. “What happens to the fool will happen to me also,” and “What has a man from all the toil and striving of heart with which he toils beneath the sun?” This truth might be especially healthy for us Grover Achievers to imbibe.
In his book on Ecclesiastes, Living Life Backwards, David Gibson argues that Ecclesiastes offers us the opportunity to live in light of death, thereby receiving life as a gift, instead of striving to gain from it. Even as Christians, we live in a broken world where we will be forgotten and our legacy will seem to have left no lasting impact: “A generation goes, and a generation comes, but the earth remains forever.” Our labor in the Lord is not in vain, but it will not always seem successful to us. Instead of studying and serving and living to the max in hopes of gaining something in our standing with God or others, or even in hopes of building an enduring legacy, we can let go of control and find peace in the reality of our finitude. This will allow us to receive work, food, friends, and God’s love as the delightful gifts that they are.
When we begin to make such a shift in thinking and living, sobered and guided by the news of our death, we celebrate. Interrupting friends are no longer interfering with our gainful work; they are blessings sent by God for a short time only. Difficult schoolwork no longer wastes my precious time, but is an opportunity to exert the faculties I’ve been blessed with, delighting in effort and a job well done. Worshipping and communing with God is no longer a distraction from important work or pleasure, but it is the great eternal work and pleasure, which will rightly order and enliven all toil and enjoyment in this life.
Such celebration, though it may seem naively optimistic, does not come from shutting our eyes to evil or simply pretending that all is right with us and our world. Ecclesiastes tells us, “If a person lives many years, let him rejoice in them all; but let him remember that the days of darkness will be many. All that comes is vanity.” What a stark and strange contrast! Psalm 90 combines the same seemingly discordant messages. Though it asks, “Who considers the power of your anger, or your wrath, according to the fear of you?” it also prays that our hearts, tuned by the dirge of death, might know the presence and satisfying love of God, and therefore break into songs of rejoicing: “Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love, that we may rejoice and be glad all the days of our life.” The awful news of sin, pain, and death do not obscure the good news of God’s grace in the here and the hereafter, and celebration is warranted not by a life which ignores these things, but which clings to hope in the awful and the ordinary.
The conversation with my friend did not become morbid or tragic because we mentioned death— instead, it transformed from a minor pleasure to a celebration of God’s blessings bestowed yet again on undeserving sinners. It became also a participation in the example of Christ Jesus. Jesus was not rushed, nor did He waste time; he lived celebrating in hope. He spent decades increasing “in wisdom and stature and favor with God and men,” which is a comforting thought for those of us impatient at how long we’ve spent growing in wisdom and stature. He also intentionally retreated to slow down and pray and then wore Himself out healing and preaching. He came to do His Father’s will, not to achieve or create His own meaning or soak in all the pleasure He could, and He was constantly aware of His impending death. He wept and lamented, but He also celebrated at weddings and banquets and holidays, and He told parables about killing the fattened calf and angels rejoicing in heaven over one sinner saved. Moreover, His life was filled with the awareness of the joy set before Him, which allowed Him to endure even the cross. He knew that His story ended in celebration, and He offers us the same perspective, making our mundane blessings into opportunities to taste and celebrate a tiny fraction of the festive joy we await at His return. Our death is still evil in itself, and it ought to teach and humble us, but it has lost its sting because of Jesus’ Resurrection power which we celebrate Lord’s Day by Lord’s Day.
So as I sat through RA training and its many meetings, quickly becoming overwhelmed at the prospect of faithfully executing that role as well as many others, my evening conversation remained in my thoughts, reminding me to view this time as a celebration. I could celebrate a college whose Res Life vision is fixed on glorifying God and loving students. I could celebrate my friends who surround me at college. Each day I can celebrate another pink sky behind Harbison—another twenty four hours to delight and work and discover. It is not my task to force that time to obey my agenda; I can humbly receive it and spend it joyfully and faithfully. In so doing, I live in light of my death, knowing that one day, united in Christ with all of God’s people, we will celebrate free from the specter of death: “[God] will swallow up death forever; and the Lord God will wipe away tears from all faces, and the reproach of his people he will take away from all the earth, for the Lord has spoken. It will be said on that day, “Behold, this is our God; we have waited for him, that he might save us. This is the Lord; we have waited for him; let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation.”
