As I write these words I'm reminded of Harold Schweizer’s book, On Waiting. An idea that he proposes is that when we are waiting for something, time is passing us by. Or at least, that’s what we think. But time doesn’t pass us by. Actually, he says, we are the ones that are passing by.
Mortality, the sense that time happens, that we are in time, and that our time will end, is responsible for much anxiety. The writer of Ecclesiastes had the same feeling. All is vanity. It’s all meaningless, because, in the end, we’re all going to die: “A generation goes, and a generation comes, but the earth remains forever.” (Ecclesiastes 1:4)
And yet during our march past the constant, watching eyes of time, we are all destined, for at least one moment in our lives, with a confrontation with "The Truth". The truth of our mortality, our helplessness, and our sinful nature measured against the standard of the law of our Creator.
Maybe that’s what enlightenment is; an awareness of our mortality accompanied with a deep acceptance of grace, a paradoxical mix of futility and providence, that hope resides despite the justice that our choices require. I wonder if at those moments, those crucial intersections where if, we cast our will upon the giver of life, the face of Time smiles at our mortality, and rejoices at our rescue.
There's an ancient story from the writer of the verse that opened this blog. It is said that King Solomon, in his infinite wisdom, sought a way to remind himself of life's impermanence. He asked his advisors to craft a ring with an inscription that would hold power no matter the situation, whether he was riding the heights of happiness or the depths of despair. The inscription they chose was simple yet profound: "This too shall pass."
A more modern retelling of this same philosophy was observed by General George S. Patton, “For over a thousand years Roman conquerors returning from the wars enjoyed the honor of triumph, a tumultuous parade. . . and a slave stood behind the conqueror holding a golden crown and whispering in his ear a warning: that all glory is fleeting.”
I recall a moment at a celebration service for one of my good friends, one moment my mind and heart was consumed by loss, and the next, a completely unrelated thought crossed my mind. A carnal thought about where I was going to eat dinner after the service. And though it was a jarring moment, it was a human moment. It was a reminder that even in our most profound suffering, our minds and bodies are still moving through life. Passing by the face of time. And that's where a sort of beauty lies. The fleeting nature of things doesn't mean we're at the mercy of change—it means we're alive in it. It means there is a tomorrow, no matter how dark today might feel. And no matter how complex, and possibly hopeless the challenge in front of us seems, we can climb it, one step at a time.
