A verse of the Christian Bible says: “There is a time for everything and a season for every activity under heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). In this book of wisdom literature, the writer - a teacher and son of King David - laments over the purpose of life, crying out “meaningless!” He asks questions like: “what does man gain from all his labour? Is there anything of which one can say: ‘Look! This is something new’? It was here already, long ago, before our time.” In his quest for purpose, he questions whether wisdom, pleasure, friendship, riches, or our toil is worth anything in the end. Like millions more, this author probes the point of our existence. If you read the entire book though, the bemoaning teacher intermittently releases an air of breakthrough and wonder - even when we do not understand all that happens. From the outset, the poet refers to the creator, God, and amid his dirge, he declares God “has made all things beautiful in its time” (Ecclesiastes 3:11). I wonder what happened to lead him to such a conclusion? Was it a crisis or simply a gradual revelation? This blog isn’t a Bible study so I will let that question hover. Perhaps, in the end, the how isn’t what matters.
What I think is this. “A time for everything” doesn’t necessarily reveal the meaning for everything but it can set in place a sense of life’s pattern or formation. It is our role to discover life’s meaning within it - beginning with “a time to be born and a time to die.” A start and an ending. Our beginnings often bring us promise, the hope of what can be – a building project, a new job, travel, a baby born. The dawning conjures happy possibilities and we find meaning in what it will look like. It’s the takeoff. Our ‘endings’ bring other emotions. When a project is finished, a trip concluded or a retirement celebrated, there may be great satisfaction AND there might also be the lament of “I should have …”
The most difficult ending for most of us is death, that moment when we cannot escape the truth that there is “a time to die.” Death is a piece of the pattern in life we sometimes try to resist, ignore, or even resent, understandably so. It is often cloaked in sadness, stress, questions and torment – particularly when death, in our minds, comes prematurely. We don’t like death. We struggle with what to do with our sadness. We describe it as a “hole in the heart”. Through hugs, tears, and conversations everyone is trying to ‘say the right thing’ to find comfort from each other, AND through the endless moments of internal silence, we admittedly or subconsciously ask - where is the meaning?
I was recently given a book called “The Prophet” by Kahlil Gibran, a famous work of spiritual fiction in the 20th century, first published in 1923. A poet, philosopher, and artist from Lebanon, Kahlil’s writing is based on his experience as an immigrant to America, inspiring many who feel “adrift in a world in flux”. I read that as “many looking for meaning in life”. The fictional story is about a man named Almustafa who spent 12 years living on an island and had always longed to return to his birthplace. On the day he is finally able to set sail for his homeland, his emotions surprise him. He is thrilled with his dream come true of ‘going home’, elated to travel the seas to the place he had longed for. Yet as he climbed the hill to board the vessel, he is acutely aware of the pain of departure, a stinging ache from leaving the people who had so intimately filled his heart and made his life a burning flame. He was met by a large crowd of islanders, equally torn that he was leaving them. Their final cry was a request for Almustafa to give them one more gift - share his wisdom about the big questions of life – love, family, work, and death – which he did - his last offering to the people he loved.
Intrigued by his artistic prose, I found several pearls in Kahlil’s writing, including his reflection on sorrow. He says this: “When you are sorrowful, look again into your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.” Think about it. Joy and sorrow are intermingled in our lives. They rise and fall like tides of the same ocean and are combined like inseparable grains of sand. If we did not have so much joy, we might not have so much sorrow. If we did not cherish those we love so much we would not weep so desperately when they are gone. While we would not choose the sorrow of departure, we would not want to have lived without the joy. “The selfsame well from which your laughter rises is often time filled with tears. Love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation” (Kahlil).
In the story of Almustafa, he left the people cherishing what the one they loved had spoken to them when he left and also what he had not spoken but simply showed them. This would be the gift they would pass on to their children and their children’s children so that “it shall not perish” (Kahlil). In the broken heartedness of farewell is the gratitude of having loved one whose imprint will remain.
“He makes everything beautiful in its time.” The Creator
Written in honuor and memory of my brother-in-law, Dennis
