The Names on the Tombstones

In college, I belonged to a mentoring group, and once a semester, our mentor would invite us to his house for a whole weekend of home-cooked meals and a crash course in some form of character development. When we had downtime on those weekends, we would take long walks through the cemetery that lay across the street from his house. It was only creepy during the twilight hours when day became night and an eerie fog fell among the tombstones. We would meander through the park, inventing stories about those who lay beneath our feet.

Faceless names etched in stone. That's all they were to us. Not unlike those who appear on a family tree. I know my parents. I knew my grandparents. At the very least, I met two of my great-grandparents. All the rest, going to the Mayflower in one direction and the Irish Potato Famine in another, are nothing more than faceless names branching out in too many directions to count. While I know the character of my parents and the stories of my grandparents, the rest are all in some ways just as meaningless to me as the bodies laid to rest in that cemetery.

Not a comforting thought.

Here is an even more discomforting thought...

I know my children. If God is gracious to me, I will know my grandchildren too. I may even live long enough to meet a great-grandchild. But beyond that, at some point even I will be reduced to a faceless name in someone else’s family tree a hundred years from now. 

The Old Testament book of Ecclesiastes is a reflection on this sour reality. The NIV version of the story opens with the cynical line, “Meaningless, Meaningless! Everything is Meaningless!” Only that is not quite an accurate translation. 

What is far more faithful to the original Hebrew is, “Everything is a Vapor.” Our lives are not meaningless. But they are a vapor—a mist from a spray-bottle that vanishes before it hits the ground. The proof is in the faceless names on tombstones and in family trees. Humanity has walked the face of the earth for eons, and yet the length of my own life is likely to be 80 years, at best. Once in a while you will hear of someone who just celebrated her 126th birthday. But even so, that 126 years is simply a blip on the radar. A puff of smoke wafting up from a candle, disappearing into thin air. A vapor.

And if the Teacher in Ecclesiastes is right—that our lives are a vapor—so too are all the things in life. The pursuit of wisdom, seeking pleasure, honest work—it’s all a vapor; here one minute, gone the next. Wealth, honor, achievement, even the pursuit of justice and a myriad of other things that make life meaningful. It’s all fleeting. It’s all too easily lost. 

The conclusion of the Teacher is not that life is meaningless. Quite the opposite: pursuing and attaining all those things and more make life incredibly meaningful. The vaporous pursuit of pleasure needs to be tempered with something like the Song of Solomon, a vivid (and at moments, a rather saucy!) portrayal of marital love. A man and a woman in marriage ought to draw pleasure from one another, take delight in one another, enjoy one another. But always with the underlying reality that whether we like it or not, even the best marriages have an expiration date. This does not make marriage meaningless. A healthy marriage has the potential to be one of the most meaningful relationships a human can enjoy. But it is a vapor. Here one moment, gone too soon. 

You should do honest work, and do it with excellence. According to Genesis 1, that is what we were designed for. But you should not be so focused on your “toil” that you miss the beauty of everything else life has to offer. Your “toil” is not meaningless. But eventually, retirement will set in, either by choice or by force, and you will discover soon enough that your work is a vapor. 

I run long miles at the forest preserve whenever I can. Why? Because I can. Sickening as it may sound to some, I genuinely enjoy it. “Runner’s High” is a real thing and I draw great pleasure from pounding the pavement for six miles at a time. It’s a therapeutic outlet. Having a bad day? Go hit the trails and 45 minutes later, I’m a new man. I also realize that this body is destined to wear out, or an injury may complicate things and running will be relegated to “that thing I used to do.” Not because running is meaningless. But because it is a vapor. 

Ash Wednesday and Lent are designed to draw our attention to this reality. In fact, the Teacher mixes the “vapor” and “ash” metaphors in his conclusion:

The dust returns to the earth as it was, and the spirit returns to God who gave it. Everything is a Vapor!

Your life is not meaningless. But at some point, your destiny will be that of a faceless name etched in stone, your identity reduced to your birth and death as reflected in a family tree a hundred years from now. 

The first response to all this may be an encouragement to pursue the good things of life—work, relationships, delight, family, wisdom, honor, justice—not in some hedonistic pursuit of pleasure for its own sake, but rightfully recognizing the gifts and blessings of God, temporary as they may be. Those things are incredibly meaningful, and make life meaningful for yourself and others. I will run for as long as my body will let me run, and I will glorify God with every mile-marker I pass. I will also enjoy the wife and children God has given me and work so that life is meaningful for them too. 

The second point would be to serve as a reminder not to become overly obsessed with those things. Pursuing wealth and achievement in your occupation are noble pursuits. But you don’t want to miss your children growing up because you were too busy at work. I will run, but I will not run so long and so often that I neglect other meaningful parts of life.

And third, Ecclesiastes, and the Lent Season as a whole, not only reminds us that our lives are a vapor. They also call us to find our true destiny and identity in the One who transcends the vapor, whose life cannot be reduced to ash. Lent is a summons to put our trust and confidence in the One who takes dust and breathes life into it—to find joy and delight in the God who is joy and delight, whose love endures forever.

Your life is not meaningless, but it is a vapor. From dust you came—to dust you are destined to return. But thanks be to God, in dust we do not have to remain. This Lent, may your eyes be drawn to the God who will always see you as more than a faceless name and who, in some 40 days from now, shows that he restores life to mortal bodies.