While away with family this summer, I read Timothy

Beal’s powerful and challenging book, When Time is

Short: Finding Our Way in the Anthropocene. In some

ways, it was an odd selection for a vacation read. Beal

is a professor of religion at Case Western Reserve

University, and the book, in the words of one review,

is “an invitation to face our collective finitude.” In other

words, you are going to die. Me too. All of us.

This may seem morbid, and that is particularly the

case when denial of death is so ubiquitous among

us. Did you happen to see the Barbie movie this

summer? The turning point in the movie comes when

the illusion of perfection is pierced. It happens in the

middle of one of those glittery dance parties that

you can imagine whether you’ve seen the film or not.

Music is pulsing at the Barbie Dream House. Heads

are bobbing. Smiles are on every face. And Barbie

gleefully raises her voice above the noise to say, “Do

you guys ever think about dying?” The music cuts

out. The record player screeches to a halt. Silence in

the crowd.

Ignoring the reality of death is a constant temptation

among us. And yet we do think about dying, and the

truth is that acknowledging our inevitable demise is

one way we clarify our current priorities. It is as true

for individuals as it is for the whole human family.

How would your decisions, your words and actions,

your relationships change if you believed your time

was short? What kind of clarity would it bring to your

life if you held always in your heart the reality that it

would end? How might it change our collective and

communal behavior if we welcomed this as a topic of

conversation and reflection?

The Old Testament Psalmist poetically names the

brevity of life this way: “Our years come to an end like

a sigh…they are soon gone and we fly away.”

When this brief chapter of earthly life is complete,

what does remain? What will endure?

I confess this may seem like an incongruous theme

for the launch of our annual commitment campaign,

when we ask you—members and friends of Second

Church—to give generously so that the ministry of

this congregation will long endure, will grow and

thrive for decades yet to come, for centuries yet

to come, to continue the work of our church. Why

give your money away when everything you love is

coming to an end regardless of what you do? Why

not, to quote another part of the Good Book, “Eat,

drink, and be merry?”

This morning’s scripture narrates the end of Joseph’s

life. We picked up the story just after the death

and burial of his father Jacob, the patriarch of the

family, father of the twelve tribes of Israel. You

might remember that Jacob’s obvious preference

for Joseph provoked the jealous and angry actions

of his brothers, who considered briefly killing him

before ultimately selling Joseph into slavery in Egypt.

Through a series of dramatic twists and turns, Joseph

becomes prince of all Egypt. And eventually, his

brothers and his father end up there as well, refugees

from the severe drought and famine in their homeland

of Canaan. When Jacob dies, Joseph weeps for

40 days. He then carries his father’s body back to

Canaan for burial. When Joseph returns to Egypt, his

brothers fearfully await his next move.

That fear is well-founded. The brother they

traumatized now holds power over their future, their

families, their very lives. In a dramatic and ironic twist

of the narrative, the brother they sold into slavery

now hears his brothers say, “We are your slaves.” And

anyone who has read this far in the story would not

be shocked if Joseph had those brothers imprisoned,

sent packing, or worse. But something has changed

in Joseph, something his brothers do not expect. You

can hear it in his words. The brothers run to Joseph.

They beg him to forgive them, to remember their

father, and to act with compassion for his sake. And

when he hears them, Joseph, that abused brother and

viceroy of all Egypt, begins to weep. It is perhaps the

most poignant moment in all of scripture. He extends

forgiveness. He promises to care for his brothers and

their children in the land of Egypt. And in a wonderful

example of scriptural understatement, the author of

Genesis neatly summarizes the encounter, “In this

way he reassured them.” If the removal of a death

sentence offers reassurance, Genesis is spot on.

But why? Why did Joseph do it? What has changed

in him?

I think I know. I think Joseph has learned that time is

short. Sigmund Freud said that the most important

day in the life of any man is the day his father dies.

And having lost his own father, Joseph begins to

consider what kind of legacy he will leave. Think of

this: Joseph has now achieved far more than he ever

could have imagined. He has risen to the heights of

power in the greatest empire in the world. He has

acquired immense wealth and privileged status. His

life would be deemed nothing but success by any

earthly measure. It’s time for the eating, time for the

drinking, time for the merry making. But burying his

father reframes Joseph’s perspective. Stepping back,

he sees the providence of God at work in his life:

“Even though you intended to do me harm, God has

used it for good…” And now Joseph will use the rest of

his life to do the good that has been done for him.

This moment of reconciliation between estranged

brothers commences a final chapter of Joseph’s

story, focused entirely on leaving the world better

than he found it. Joseph lives to rock his greatgrandchildren on his knee. He passes on the promise

that God will lead them out of Egypt. He asks his

brothers to carry his bones to the Promised Land,

the final resting place of his beloved father. And

so, Joseph’s wild and winding journey leads him all

the way back to what always matters most. He dies

surrounded by the family he preserved, the family

whose future he secured.

Wow. What a story. Joseph’s life becomes a testament

to what will last. And it is not privilege. It is not

power. It is not possessions. It is forgiveness. It is

relationship. It is faith and hope and love.

So back to us. Next Sunday in this space, we will be

invited to offer our commitments to the church for the

year ahead. They’re a symbol. A symbol of the hope

we hold. A token. A sign of the world we want to leave

behind. Why? Why do we give?

I’ll speak personally. With the passage of time, I am

increasingly convinced that the work we’re doing

together is of immense importance. When our family

considers the call to be good stewards of what we

have, this ministry, this church, takes priority because

we know the impact it has. We see with our eyes

and know in our hearts the daily efforts to nourish,

support, and empower our neighbors. We hear with

our ears and listen with our souls to the stories of

lives transformed here by an encounter with the

living God. We know that many in our community

depend on the mission of Second for sustenance, for

partnership, for hope.

But there’s more than that. I think it not too dramatic

to suggest that what we are about in here is ensuring

the future of a faith that is both broad and deep

enough to offer a compelling vision to the world. I

think this because I’ve heard it three times in the

last ten days. I heard it from a teenager, from a new

member, and from a seasoned elder. Their comments

went something like this: There is a deep frustration

about the way Christian faith, this gift that we have

received, is being used as a weapon or a wedge to

divide us from one another. There is grief and anger

over the co-opting of scripture for the purpose of

self-promotion or to claim God’s own voice for our

particular cause. One of these members confessed

that he struggles to call himself a Christian for fear of

the baggage that it carries. But he continued, “Then,

I come to Second, and I worship and I serve with this

community. And I am reminded what following Jesus

is actually about.”

We give to support that vision, that mission, that

impact, that future.

Look, none of us is promised another day. That reality

hit home two weeks ago when a friend and colleague,

who served as pastor of Highland Park Presbyterian

Church in Dallas, died in his sleep. Bryan was fortyfour years old. He was physically strong. He leaves

three young children. At his Memorial Service, his wife

Alyson described how Bryan made the most of the

time he was given, having no idea it would be so brief.

When time is short, priorities come into focus. How

should we live? Not a decade from now or after

retirement or when the grandkids are grown. How

should we live right now? What kind of faith will find a

home in the hearts of our children right now? In what

ways are we called to serve and to give, not in the

future, but right now while it’s still in our hands?

Just a few minutes after I finished reading Timothy

Beal’s book, our six-year-old son Ben and I were

walking one of the trails in Montreat. We came

across a stone, a large stone on the pathway with a

dedication plaque. A memorial to a boy who loved

Montreat and died far too young. Unfortunately for

me in the moment, Ben is learning to read. And so,

he asked lots of questions. Lots of questions. I did

my very best to explain in a way I thought he could

understand, and I thought I had mostly succeeded

when Ben fell silent.

We continued walking, but then nearly an hour later,

still walking the trails, Ben turned to me. “Dad, when

you die, I want you to turn into a graveyard so that

I can remember you. And when I die, I will be in the

same one since we are buddies, okay?” He continued,

“This is making me cry a little, so I don’t want to talk

about it anymore. But I’m not scared about it.” As you

might imagine, the rest of the hike was pretty quiet.

Yes, our years come to an end like a sigh. You will die.

I will die.

Our time is so short. Our call so clear.

So, this week, consider what has been placed in your

hands. Do your part to secure a future for the faith

that has inspired you with a message that the world

needs to hear. Live in the knowledge of life’s brevity

and beauty, and do not be afraid. For God’s hands

hold us all.