As preached at Georgia Pastor’s School, July 18, 2024

I saw a picture of myself recently from last July. I was standing, with my oldest Jackson, at Mercer University’s stadium, chaperoning an excursion with Jackson’s marching band to see a professional drum corps. We were excited. Life seemed in order. I was a year into my appointment at Mulberry Street UMC and finding great success. Dana, my wife, and both my children were well settled into their school. We had a house we loved. All seemed wonderful.

Little did I know how much was about to change.

Lying in a hospital bed just five months later in December, Dana got a text from the hospitalist, a friend of ours who was attending to me. He reported that tests showed I had mild heart failure. This was in addition to other organs that were showing signs of failure, a common side effect of pneumonia.

I’m forty years old. I was otherwise in good health. I exercise regularly. My diet could use some improvement but it’s generally good. And I had mild heart failure. I found myself thinking, lying in that hospital bed, “this is how pneumonia kills people.”

I was very sick with what I called my infection sandwich, trying to keep a sense of humor. I had two strands of antibiotic-resistant sinusitis, bronchitis, pneumonia, RSV, and mono all simultaneously. My body was so weak it would not fight back against these diseases. I’d gotten sick with COVID at the end of September and, with my body unable to fight back fully against it, COVID led to the antibiotic-resistant sinus infections which led to pneumonia. Along the way, in my weakened state, I picked up the RSV and mono viruses.

That mono virus I eventually passed to my oldest son, Jackson. His body handled the virus very poorly, such that he missed all of the second half of eighth grade.

Six months after that photo from last July, my son and I had both lost our health. Three months later, I lost my position at Mulberry before I was ready to relinquish it and after the appointment season had ended, leaving me with no option for a new appointment. Thus, since last July, I have lost and regained my health, my oldest has lost and regained his health, and I have lost my job, now finding myself having to reimagine my career.

And to all of this, Qoheleth, the Teacher, the author of Ecclesiastes would say vanity, a chasing after the wind, vapor, “havel.” Live life in light of death.

I find Ecclesiastes so very relevant to our lives. Let’s hear Qoheleth’s old story for this new moment: selections from chapters one and two of Ecclesiastes.

Scripture: 1:2, 12-14, 2:18-25

Live life in light of death.

Back in 2021, Mulberry hired a church consultant, John, to find their next senior pastor. This was at the bishop’s recommendation and, in January of 2022, John’s work resulted in recommending me for that position.

Just a few weeks later, John and the bishop invited me to a gathering with church members. This was before I’d begun my appointment there but after it was confirmed; a chance to meet and greet. As John was introducing me to the congregation, he called me, “your new, young, hotshot, pastor.” I wondered what a hotshot pastor is? I’m still not sure, but I was definitely uncomfortable with this designation! I slid down in my seat a bit as all eyes turned to me.

Perhaps John had been reading my resume too closely. I am well educated, as are most of us in this room. In fact, some would say, including a dear friend of mine, that I am overeducated. We all heard my bio on Tuesday, with its list of accomplishments. In the words of another friend of mine those accomplishments, and $3, will buy me a cup of coffee.

Contrasting with John, and more in line with my punny friends, Qoheleth, the author of Ecclesiastes, would say all of my accomplishments are meaningless, vapor; in the words of our scripture: vanity, a chasing after the wind; in Hebrew, havel.

Qoheleth says that all of this is utterly meaningless. He uses the word havel over and over again. Your bible may translate that word as vanity, meaninglessness, but it most closely relates to vapor. Imagine the scene of getting out of the shower. There’s steam, vapor, in the bathroom. And consider how quickly it is gone. That’s what Qoheleth says life is like: vapor, here for a moment, then quickly gone.

And within the lifespan of vapor are all our accomplishments, our education, our positions, our titles, our awards, and our accomplishments; how we built up a church, the committees we served on and chaired, the prestige or positions of influence within the Annual Conference we have gained; all of it within that infinitesimal lifespan. In the grand scheme of things, all of this is here for just a few seconds, and then gone.

So Qoheleth says to chase after these things, to seek to earn them, to try and build up our resumes, to labor and toil so hard trying to gain position or influence, is utterly meaningless, vapor, havel. Qoheleth says life is short. It’s vapor, here for a moment and gone. What we do will quickly be forgotten. What we accomplish will not long be remembered.

What do we do with this?

We know tradition says Qoheleth is Solomon. More likely, someone wrote as Solomon after his death, but speaking as Solomon, the author speaks to legacy. He talks about becoming wealthy, wise, having everything he could ever want and having built up a rich, stable, kingdom. Solomon had taken Israel from a bit of a backwater to a respectable Kingdom, one visited by larger kingdoms, growing wealthy off the trade that went through their borders between the larger kingdoms of Assyria and Egypt.

Solomon had accomplished quite a lot. And so, he speaks to his legacy, stating how he had worked to build one up. He thought it wise to build a legacy, to leave something behind for his children and his subjects. Only to later realize that legacy building was a chasing after the wind. Utterly meaningless. He notes that he has no control over his successor and rhetorically asks, “who knows if he will be foolish or wise?”

He calls his work to build a legacy havel.

What would make Solomon feel this way? What would lead Qoheleth to record these words? Isn’t this depressing?

Then, while we’re asking those questions, let us consider Qoheleth’s final statement in the scripture we read: “There is nothing better for mortals than to eat and drink and find enjoyment in their toil. This also, I saw, is from the hand of God, for apart from him who can eat or who can have enjoyment?” This is where that medieval phrase chanted by knights as they went on crusades came from; one chanted by many a college student since: eat, drink, and be merry; for tomorrow we die!

All this is pretty dark! Or, perhaps it’s hedonism; pure pleasure seeking since life is hardship and meaningless, so we might as well eat our fill, drink our fill, and not worry about tomorrow. Maybe Qoheleth isn’t dark at all; maybe he’s an ancient parrot head, recommending being a cheeseburger in paradise. Escape our pain, escape hardship, go sit on a beach, drink our fruity beverage, and look for our lost shaker of salt.

While this may strike us as odd, discomforting, depressing, foolish, or something like that, let us admit that Qoheleth has a point. Life is hard. We don’t have as much control as we think. We can work to build a legacy, for example, only to have it squandered by those who come after us. History is replete with stories of children who squandered a family fortune. Solomon’s story was that way. A civil war broke out after Solomon’s death. In the end, the kingdom divided into Israel and Judah. The two kings, both Solomon’s children, squandered the legacy, wealth, and stability that their father gave them. Turns out, they were foolish.

I imagine many of us can relate to this idea of a legacy lost. We’ve seen successors at appointments reverse our hard work. It’s tough to see that! I have certainly lived this reality of a legacy lost. I threw myself into ministry with Mulberry. In eighteen months, we accomplished quite a lot for the citizens of Macon and across Georgia. And, we generally had a good time while doing it!

Then, I got sick. Then, Jackson got sick. Eventually, I was diagnosed with primary immunodeficiency, wherein my body lacks vital proteins that form our immune response. Basically, I don’t make antibodies, so my body has no memory of prior disease. There’s medicine that fixes this issue by infusing those missing proteins. I’ve been on it now for three months, which is why I’m fully restored to health. But it took three months from diagnosis to get insurance to approve this expensive medication. As I waited in late April, just before approval and the beginning of treatment, I lost my position as senior pastor at Mulberry.

This, of course, happened after all appointments were done, leaving me with no option for a move. And complicating matters, the sheer number of churches who have or are in the process of disaffiliating leaves me with no future in the South Georgia Conference. Suddenly, not only did I not know where I would work next, but my entire career trajectory and goals were in question and probably lost.

The legacy I was working to build as a pastor and member of the annual conference was threatened and may now be lost. I’m having to reimagine my entire career.

And so I am living the reality Qoheleth shares with us this morning: we don’t have as much control as we think. We can work to build a legacy, like I was doing at Mulberry and in South Georgia, only to have it lost. And the things we spend so much time working so hard to do can be upended in a heartbeat.

Perhaps all of our effort, all of our work, all of our toil and trouble as it says in the scripture, is truly meaningless, a chasing after the wind, vapor; havel. We put great stock in the power and influence we gain in the appointments we serve and the positions we hold with the annual conference. We take great pride in what we’ve done and hope that it will lead to bigger and better things. We all want to leave a legacy that our churches and those we lead will remember.

But Qoheleth says all that is havel. Live life in light of death.

What do we do with this?

Let’s take Qoheleth at his word to live life in light of death and consider my funeral.

One day, perhaps this week, perhaps a day forty or even fifty years from now, but most likely somewhere in between, I’ll die. When a friend of mine comes to eulogize me, when she or he stands in a pulpit somewhere to remember my life for those who have gathered to hear that remembrance, what will she say?

Will she say that, in 2021, I was awarded some award by the Emory Alumni Association? Will she recite my list of degrees earned? Will she review the list of churches I served? Will she give an accounting of the community leadership positions I held, the boards I served on?

Will she note all the things I did in eighteen months at Mulberry? Will she speak to the accolades and accomplishments on the resumes I’m sending out right now, trying to find a job?

No. None of that will matter upon my death. I won’t be buried with my degrees and my accomplishments. My awards will go in a box somewhere, stored in a forgotten corner of some relative’s house. My degrees will be forgotten in that same closet. And one day long after I’m gone, some great-grandchild will discover those things, say they’re kind of neat, and throw them away. That’s life. All of that is vapor, havel.

This may sound depressing. But it’s not: it reveals what really matters in life: our impact on each other, the relationships we have, the way we loved each other.

When my friend comes to do my funeral, I hope that she will have plenty of ways to share that I loved on my family, on my friends, on my churches, on those whom I served, to be able to recount a legacy of love. For how I love others, how I care for others, how I share the light of Christ that lives within me, is what really matters in this life.

And keeping that in focus, keeping what really matters in this life in focus, comes from living life in light of death.

Prior to December, I lived life in light of my accomplishments. I strove for greater influence and position. Then, facing my own mortality in that hospital bed back in December, suddenly, none of what I had accomplished, none of what I had achieved, none of the striving and the hopes for future achievement, mattered. What mattered was whether my children knew how much I love them, whether I had set them up for success if I had died in that hospital bed, whether or not those whose lives have brushed up against mine are better because they encountered Christ in me.

To live life in light of death is to become clear about what really matters in this life.

Let us consider our funerals. What do we hope is remembered about us by those whom we leave behind? Our accomplishments, degrees, accolades? Or how we loved our children, our grandchildren, our nieces and nephews; how we loved the people at our appointments, how we cared for others, took the time to listen, encouraged and sustained those we love when they were weak. I dare say, all of us hope to be remembered as loving, kind, thoughtful, caring people who made a real difference in the lives of our family, friends, and appointments.

This is what it means to live life in light of death. To get focused on what really matters in this life, and put our emphasis and energy there. To leave behind, as the old hymn says, “our disappointment, guilt, and grieving, seeking new paths and sure to find Christ is alive and goes before us, to show and share what love can do.” What love can do, not what we can do when we wield power or influence, not what we can do from big steeples, not what we can do with large staffs, not what we can do when running a part or all of an annual conference, not what we can do serving on a delegation, not what we can do, but how we can “show and share what love can do.” To live life in light of death is to get focused on what really matters in this life: showing and sharing what love can do.

I’m reminded of a book called, Pappyland, by the sports writer Wright Thompson. In the latter half of the book, Thompson quotes Thomas Merton, sounding a lot like Qoheleth. The quote says, “Why, then, do we continue to pursue joys without substance…Because the pursuit itself has become our only substitute for joy. Unable to rest in anything we achieve, we determine to forget our discontent in a ceaseless quest for new satisfaction. In this pursuit, desire itself becomes our chief satisfaction.” (p. 167, as quoted by Thompson in Pappyland).

In that moment of reading, those words resonated deeply. I knew I was unable to rest in anything I achieved. Too often, prior to December, the pursuit itself was my joy; in other words, I stayed busy without questioning whether I needed to be busy because being busy was where I went looking for much of my joy. The desire to build, create, foster influence and reputation, had become my chief satisfaction.

I thought about how, when I was appointed to Mulberry, I had reached the top of the appointment ladder. We clergy have that bad habit of ranking churches and I had reached the top of the ranks, and done so at a young age. I figured I would find contentment, no longer striving for greater things. I was wrong. I could not rest in that achievement or any others. Desire itself, the need to stay busy, the need to keep achieving, had replaced true sources of joy.

The author uses this Merton quote to note that, for too many of us career-focused types, the striving for things becomes the chief focus of life, sometimes even to the point that we don’t know why we’re striving anymore. We seek to build things, like careers or reputations or influence, not even sure at some point why we’re still building, still striving, still pursuing. At that point, as Merton says, the act of striving, pursuing, working so hard, has become “our only substitute for joy…our chief satisfaction.” As the modern day poet, Van Halen, put its, “working so hard to make it easy,” noting in their song Right Now that working so hard never does make it easy.

We keep moving and stay busy, always doing more, because it’s all we know to do and the only way we know to find joy. But in reality, the striving crushes and distracts from true joy in this life. The striving is havel, and like Ecclesiastes says, living such a life of striving is unsatisfying, unhappy, a chasing after the wind, toil and trouble along the way, a misuse of our vapor lifespans.

This is life in light of death: focusing on what truly matters, recognizing that the rest is merely havel. This means that, my current lack of an appointment and wondering what will be next for me vocationally is havel. The insecurity I feel and instability I’ve known with all the upheaval of the last several months is also havel. Even the suffering and hardship I’ve experienced is havel. What matters is how well I have loved, how I have “shown and shared what love can do,” especially during such times of hardship, suffering, instability, and grief.

I find Ecclesiastes so incredibly relevant for today. It’s certainly an old story, but Qoheleth has new wisdom to impart to us. When facing stressors at work or at home, when life gets hard, when there’s toil and trouble all along the way, let us pause and ask ourselves if what we’re stressing about, what we’re toiling after, what we’re striving for, what feels like a hard yoke and a heavy burden, life’s crushing load, might actually be havel.

When facing disaffiliations, when struggling with a budget that just won’t balance, when facing declines in membership, giving, and attendance, when people are mean, when committees make wrong-headed decisions, when people in authority fail us, when we don’t get the position we wanted, when we do finally attain what we wanted, when working so hard to gain position and influence with the annual conference, when fearing losing that position and influence because of a new episcopal area, when working so hard to make it easy, when facing all these struggles, let us ask ourselves, “will this be remembered at my funeral?” No! None of those things will be remembered at our funeral. Unless, they became vehicles to show and share what love can do. That’s life lived in light of death.

Qoheleth says to us today that powerful, freeing, word: havel. These things will not be remembered at our funerals. What will be remembered is how we loved through this time of insecurity and instability, how we loved through our power and influence, how we made people feel. Do the people entrusted to us know we love them, know we care about them, do they know Christ’s love through us? Those things will be remembered at our funerals.

But if we keep our focus on life’s crushing load, with our forms bending low, it will prevent us from showing and sharing what love can do. Ultimately, we were put on this earth, each of us, to reflect the love of Christ into the world, believing in its transforming power. When we take on toil and trouble along the way, when we overemphasize our own importance, when we overemphasize the importance of our work, when we strive too much to climb ladders and gain power and influence, we inhibit and diminish our ability to love.

Sitting in my hospital bed, knowing I had mild heart failure, I had to get real about what’s havel in my life and what is not. Asking myself, “will this be remembered at my funeral,” gave me freedom. Even in the loss of my health, my job, and my entire career trajectory, I realized none of what I thought mattered the most will be remembered at my funeral. No one will care that I served at the top of the appointment ladder, only to get pushed off the ladder. What they will care about is how I loved, how I showed and shared what Christ’s love can do.

So, I asked myself how I could show more love to my family, to my friends, to the people who were loving on me through our slow burn crises, to the members at Mulberry reeling from my sudden and late ejection and, hardest of all, how I could show love to Mulberry’s SPRC members.

That is what will be remembered in the infinitesimal span of my vapor-based life.

Live life in light of death.

I wonder this morning, what loads we need to put down, resting beside the weary road? What prevents, inhibits, our ability to show and share what love can do? What seems super important but is actually havel?

Bring those questions to the communion table. There, we find the sustenance we need to live out God’s love. There, we find the wisdom we need to know what’s havel and what actually matters in this life. There, we find how to best make use of our vapor-based lifespans. There, we know how to answer the question, will this be remembered at my funeral?

And as for everything else, those things that will not be remembered at our funerals, to quote Qoheleth, “eat, drink, and be merry!” Find joy in the things God has given you. Focus on those core relationships and give them your undivided attention. Tomorrow, we may in fact die. To find pleasure in loving relationship, to know the joy of getting to live out a calling, to experience the satisfaction of a job well done, to enjoy good food and drink, these are simple pleasures, and in them, we find the gift of God’s grace; we learn better how to love.

So let us, then, “with the Spirit’s daring, step from our past and leave behind, our disappointment, guilt, and grieving,” our striving for position and power, our toil and trouble along the way, our incessant need to prove ourselves to others, “seeking new paths and sure to find Christ is alive and goes before us, to show and share what love can do. This is a day of new beginnings. Our God makes all things new.”

Live life in light of death. Show and share what Christ’s love can do.

Amen.