Several years ago, I led a men’s retreat in the north

Georgia mountains. Our theme for the weekend was

taken from Parker Palmer’s book Let Your Life Speak,

which creatively uses the changing seasons as a

governing metaphor for the rhythm of our lives. The last

morning together, before worship, we reflected on which

of the seasons best described our lives in that moment.

One man, recently retired from a long and successful

career and recovering from an unexpected health scare,

spoke up immediately. “I identify with autumn,” he said. “In

fact, it is the perfect description for where I am.” I asked

the man to say more, and he did so succinctly. He said,

“I’m in the fall of life, which means I’m not done yet. But if

I want to do it, I better start soon.” His words have stayed

with me. In the book, Parker Palmer describes autumn

this way:

“It is a season of great beauty, but it is also a season of

decline: the days grow shorter, the light is suffused, and

summer’s abundance decays toward winter’s death.

Faced with this inevitable winter, what does nature do

in autumn? She scatters the seeds that will bring new

growth in the spring – and she scatters them with amazing

abandon. In my own experience of autumn, I am rarely

aware that seeds are being planted. Instead, my mind is

on the fact that the green growth of summer is browning

and beginning to die. But as I explore autumn’s paradox

of dying and seeding, I feel the power of metaphor. If I

look more deeply, I may see the myriad possibilities being

planted to bear fruit in some season yet to come.” i

Paul, writing from the autumn of his life, understood this

paradox personally. His language in this letter is unusually

intimate. Paul addresses the letter to Timothy, “My

beloved child.” He writes, “I am grateful to God…when I

remember you in my prayers night and day. And recalling

your tears, I long to see you.” As a good mentor, Paul goes

on to encourage and instruct Timothy throughout the

letter, offering wisdom on life and ministry.

But then, in this final chapter of a heartfelt letter, the

apostle turns from counsel to reflection. And here, his

language shifts. We find a side of the Apostle Paul that

we rarely see in his epistles to congregations or his

passionate debates with other church leaders. “The time

of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight. I

have finished the race. Timothy, do your best to come to

me soon…come before winter.”

These words have resonated through the centuries. In

October of 1915, Clarence McCartney, then pastor of Arch

Street Presbyterian Church in Philadelphia, preached a

sermon on this passage. He titled it “Come Before Winter.”

He was drawing from the final verse in the King James

Version: “Do thy diligence to come before winter.” From

1915 forward, Clarence McCartney would go on to preach

that sermon forty times in forty years, always in October,

first at Arch Street and then for two decades at First

Presbyterian Church in Pittsburgh. And, every year, each

October, the sanctuary filled with worshipers hungry to

hear familiar words most could recite from memory.

Listen to McCartney’s reflection on Paul’s phrase. “Before

winter or never. There are some things which will never

be done unless they are done ‘before winter.’ The winter

will come, and the winter will pass. The flowers of the

springtime will deck the heart of the earth and the graves

of loved ones, perhaps the grave of a dearest friend. There

are golden opportunities on this autumn day, and soon,

they will be forever shut.” When McCartney preached the

sermon for the final time, just a year before his own death,

he closed with these words, “Come to thy God in time;

youth, manhood, old age past, come to thy God at last.”

I’m not done yet. But if I’m going to do it, I better start soon.

Paul writes in the autumn of life. He addresses one whose

future is filled with possibility but also uncertainty. What

should Paul say to Timothy? What should one generation

convey to the next? Remember Parker Palmer’s

description—autumn is a season of decline and the

perfect time to scatter seeds with abandon. You see, the

beauty of the season comes in the opportunity for a kind

of courageous generosity, daring hope. Paradoxically, the

fall is a season of new life and fresh possibility.

I think of how in this place, this congregation, Second

Church, we have the opportunity to learn from the gifts of

age and the maturity that comes only through experience.

And how those among us who find ourselves in the

autumn of life have the witness of Paul, who chose not to

fade quietly, but instead boldly invested in the generation

that was to follow.

Among the best books I’ve read in recent years is Falling

Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life.iii The

author is Father Richard Rohr, and he suggests that

our lives can be divided in half. In the first half of life,

we seek our identity. Or, as Rohr writes, “We create the

container of our lives.” But the second half of life is where

the adventure begins. In Rohr’s words, “We build the

courage to ask, ‘What is all this for? What am I supposed

to do with this? What is the purpose of my life?’” It is at

this turning point, whenever it comes, that we make a

choice about the impact we want to have with the time

we’ve been given, the legacy we want to leave. Rohr

puts it plainly, “None of us go to heaven alone. Or hell, for

that matter. We hold each other, and we hand ourselves

over to one another.” The second half of life is all about

recognizing that our lives are not just about us. They are

about the people we lift up, the wisdom we pass down,

the grace we extend. The writer David Brooks describes

this as the second mountain, when “life moves from

self-centered to other-centered.” Those on the second

mountain have “committed themselves to a cause, to a

people, to a faith.”

Paul writes to Timothy from the second mountain. Paul

is not done yet, but he has no time to tarry. To those in

the autumn of life listening today, I want to risk a pastoral

word of admonition. Occasionally, I hear someone of more

advanced age say something like this: “I’m just glad I’m

not a young person today.” Or, “With the state this world

is in, I’m not sad at all to be leaving it soon.” Now look. It’s

an understandable sentiment. But from the perspective

of one who hopes to have a little time left, I want to plead

with you this morning. Do not renounce this world. Do

not abandon its future. We desperately need those in

the second half of life who choose to keep sowing and

building for a future you may not see. We need wise souls

who have shifted from achievement to commitment, from

individualism to interdependence. We need you, given the

gift of age, to have the courage to keep growing, to keep

listening, to keep speaking up for the vulnerable, to keep

living the way of Jesus Christ. Jesus, who never stopped

widening the circle or calling his followers to do the same.

Yes, we need you.

In many congregations it is common to say that the

youth are the future of the church. It’s a good line, but

it’s not the whole truth. The truth is that the future of the

church depends on those in the autumn of life planting

seeds in the time that remains. The future of the church

depends on you who run this race to the very last step,

who pass the baton with a spirit of hope in those who

follow. The future of the church depends on elders whose

faith has been tested in the fires of experience, who have

both the patience and the urgency that come with the

passage of time. When one of you who have faithfully

sat in these pews for many years make room for a first-

time worshipper, you are offering a profound gift. When

one of you who still knows how to tie a tie and wears

one on Sunday morning, when one of you people high-

fives a child wearing her basketball uniform, you are

making a difference here. When you whose faith was

formed decades ago choose to hear the voices of new

generations and open your heart to change, the future of

the church is made possible.

Bill Enright served as pastor of this congregation from

1981 to 2004. I’m going to embarrass Bill by sharing

that he will be 90 years old this December. And almost

every Sunday, what Bill says to me is, “My favorite part

of coming to church is the number of people I don’t

recognize here.” The spirit of those who have planted

seeds for a future, who now pass the baton to those who

will follow.

The end of Paul’s letter is interesting. It includes a list

of names, and admittedly it is a bit of a tongue-twister

for English speakers. But I love to read them. I love to

read the names of Prisca and Aquila, the household

of Onesiphorus. I love to think about Eubulus sending

greetings along with Pudens and Linus and Claudia.

Those names belonged to real people. When Timothy

read those names in Paul’s letters, images would have

come to his mind. Faces and stories, experiences shared.

You see, these were people Paul and Timothy knew and

loved. And the truth is we know them too. Their names

may be different, but their witness is the same.

And they’re the reason you’re here. They are the reason

I am here. I am here because Aunt Gloria (not my real

aunt) rocked me in the nursery and kept me in her home.

I’m here because Uncle Ralph Moore (not my real uncle)

gave me sticks of Juicy Fruit chewing gum in the pews

to keep me quiet. I’m here because Ms. Julia Wetmore

taught me to sing the songs of faith. I’m here because

Miss Lena Cooper gave me a hug every single Sunday

and offered to be my local grandmother if the school was

having a Grandparents Day breakfast. I’m here because

of the saints, the ones who prayed for me, taught me,

encouraged me, slowed me down when I was running

too fast in the hallways, laughed at my childish jokes. I’m

here because of the household of Onesiphorus. I’m here

because of Prisca and Aquila and Eubulus and Claudia.

I’m here because someone else took seriously their call to

show up in my life. And I would imagine that you are here

for the very same reasons. Take just a moment now to

think of those saints on your journey. To say their names

in your mind. To remember their faces, the experiences

you shared. They made space for you and your faith to

grow. They have finished the race. They have received

their reward. And now you are called to take their place.

You see, those blessed with the gift of age are the future

of the church.

Paul wrote to his beloved child in the faith, Timothy, “Do

your best to come to me soon.” And I hope Timothy made

the trip. I pray that there was reunion before winter. We

need each other. We always have. Seeds scattered in

autumn will bloom in the spring. One generation to the

next. This is how faith lives on. This is how hope endures.

Amen.