This past weekend, as a part of our brief getaway, my wife and I spent two nights in an old farmhouse. The farmhouse dated from 1704 and was partly furnished with antiques.
Now my wife loves antiques; I guess that’s why she puts up with me. So we took the tour of the house, especially the parlor with its twin fireplaces.
The owner showed us two oil paintings he had just bought to hang over the two fireplaces. The paintings were both dated 1844 and were of a man and a woman, presumably husband and wife.
I asked our host if these were his ancestors. His reply was that he had no idea who they were and would just call them his "rented ancestors.” But a family member standing nearby commented that the old gentleman in the 1844 portrait did actually resemble someone in their family. But she went on to say that his companion in the other portrait didn’t look very pleasant, and, in fact, she hoped this lady was not a part of the family.
That set me to looking a little more closely at the two portraits. I saw an interesting contrast. I saw that the gentleman ... let’s call him "Grandpa" …did have a pleasant look. Insofar as you can tell these things from a painting, he looked calm, serene, happy, and contented. He seemed to be a man who, though he had lived a good many years, and perhaps had seen his share of tough times, was still a man with hope and courage and happiness. I thought I could read that on his face.
But if Grandpa was a happy man, I suspect he accomplished that in spite of and not because of Grandma. The woman in the other portrait had a harsh and stern look. Her jaw appeared to have been set in some kind of emotional concrete. Her eyes were narrow, half-closed, as though she suspected you of something. Whatever you did, it was probably wrong. Wasn’t good enough. I’ve known people like that: chronically unhappy, nothing ever quite right, nothing good enough.
There they were. Two pictures on exhibition. Two portraits of people in the autumn of their lives. Well past youth but by no means finished. Portraits of two persons in full maturity, who ought to have many of their life issues settled by now, but, to all appearances, utterly different in outcome. Grandpa happy, serene, content, ready for whatever may come. Grandma sour, angry, dissatisfied, suspicious of whatever may come.
What is the difference? When you get to those autumn years, too old to be young and too young to be old, what will you be? Contented Grandpa or sour Grandma?
Let me point you to two personalities in the Bible who mirror these perspectives. Let me guide you through two passages of Scripture which will shed some light on being either Grandma, unhappy and disappointed, or Grandpa, contented and forward-looking.
The first personality is the unknown writer of the book of Ecclesiastes. The Bible scholars call him Koheleth. Koheleth means "preacher" or “teacher". That’s what he calls himself all through Ecclesiastes. Koheleth in this fascinating Old Testament book sets out to discover what makes for happiness. You’ll remember his very negative conclusion when you hear it. You’ll remember that Koheleth in Ecclesiastes said over and over again, ’”Vanity of vanities, all is vanity". The word "vanity means “empty”. The preacher felt in the autumn of his life, "Emptiness of emptinesses, all is empty."
That’s Grandma. Dour, stern, hostile, unhappy. Empty. All is empty. Listen to Koheleth’s own words: Ecclesiastes 12:1-8. Wow.
Hurry up now, and along side Grandma’s portrait let’s hang Grandpa’s. I really mean Grandpa Paul, Paul, the great apostle, coming toward the end of his career, and, in fact knowing that his execution at the hands of the Roman emperor is not far away ... Paul is also evaluating the autumn of his life. But his perspective is utterly different. Totally opposite. Listen to Paul: II Timothy 4:6-18
There you have them, side by side. Two autumn portraits. Grandma, Koheleth of Ecclesiastes, terribly unhappy, downright morbid. Grandpa, Paul near the end of his life, happy, determined, thankful. What makes the difference?
Wander with me through some snapshots from an autumn album. Examine with me three little vignettes.
I
Page one. The first snapshot in our autumn album is taken of Grandma, seated in a formal parlor, prim and proper to the core. Around her are several other ladies, dressed as she is, in dark and stiff clothing. They are sipping tea, one cup each. They are nibbling at a biscuit, one and only one biscuit apiece. No excess, no frivolity, no lightheartedness; only duty, correctness, propriety everywhere. Ladies whose bodies were encased in whalebone corsets and whose souls were encased in rigidity.
In this snapshot one of them seems to be lecturing the others. I hear her saying, "This younger generation. I don’t know what they are coming to. Why, in my day we never did anything so outrageous." And all the others are nodding their heads in full agreement and are cackling and clucking their disapproval. Their whole stance is, “Nothing is as good as it used to be. Everything is running down, down, down."
In this snapshot they could just as well be reciting the words of the preacher of Ecclesiastes: “The years draw near when you will say, ’I have no pleasure in them’; [when] the sun and the light and the moon and the stars are darkened and the clouds return with rain; in the day when the guards of the house tremble, and the strong men are bent, and the women who grind cease working because they are few, and those who look through the windows see dimly; when the doors on the street are shut .... “
My soul, what a picture, what a dim, grim picture! The unhappiness of their lives is rooted in the notion that everything is on the way down, everyone who matters is dead or dying, every meaningful experience is already over!
Grandma is living in the past, surrounding herself with nothing and no one other than reminders of the past. Her snapshot reveals why she is dreadfully unhappy. She is unhappy for the same reason that Koheleth the preacher is unhappy: they are living in a past that will never return! They are living in the land of never-good-enough!
Grandpa’s snapshot is utterly different. On Grandpa’s album page I see him frolicking in the fields with half a dozen children and young people. I see Grandpa with his coat hanging on a tree branch, his tie loosened, the shirt straining over his well-earned potbelly stained with berry juice. It may be the autumn of Grandpa’s life, but he seems not to have noticed. He seems slightly silly, doesn’t know how to act his age, and it’s wonderful. Grandpa’s portrait suggests that happiness comes from associating with and investing in young people.
Here is the apostle Paul, Grandpa Paul. I’m calling him. His autumn snapshot is instructive. It’s instructive because it shows you who’s not there as well as who is there.
Who’s not there? Most of his old friends are not there, for various reasons. He tells you: "Demas, in love with this present world, has deserted me and gone to Thessalonica; Crescens has gone to Galatia, Titus to Dalmatia. Only Luke is with me ... I have sent Tychicus to Ephesus."
That sounds pretty lonely, doesn’t it? All of the old familiars are gone. Nobody around. But listen to what Paul has in mind. He is not going to be lonely. Timothy (the letter was addressed to the young man Timothy) ... Timothy, young Timothy, "do your best to come to me soon … and get Mark (that’s another young man, Mark) and bring him with you, for he is useful in my ministry.” Come Timothy, bring Mark, and what do I have to share with you? "I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith ... from now on there is reserved for me the crown of righteousness."
Paul the apostle at the end of his life, when he could almost hear the ax-grinder sharpening his instrument, wants to be surrounded by the young people! He wants to invest himself in those who will come after him. And he is a happy, fulfilled, and joyous man!
Happiness in the autumn of life comes not from living in the past and worrying about everything going downhill. Happiness in the autumn of life comes from gathering young people and sharing their joy!
II
Page two. There is another pair of snapshots in the autumn album. Grandma and Grandpa, Koheleth and Paul, teach us more about arriving in the autumn of life.
On page two I see what amounts to a couple of still lifes. I see one picture filled with once beautiful things, costly things. There is a lovely silver necklace, but it has snapped in two and cannot be worn. There is an enormous golden bowl, but it has apparently been dropped and it is battered and broken. Standing on a table there is also a water pitcher, made of fine cut glass, but the glass has been chipped and the pitcher is leaking. Then way in the background of the picture you can make out an elegant carriage. It looks as though it must have been the finest of the fine in its day. But now it has a broken wheel and obviously cannot be ridden.
In the middle of all of these broken objects stands, you guessed it, Grandma, looking her usual unhappy self. Her arms are folded in defiance. Her jaw is just as set as ever, as if to say, “These things are mine, mine, mine, and I dare you to touch them, broken though they may be."
The preacher of Ecclesiastes just before his judgment that all was vanity, laid out the scene for us in his still life picture: "The years draw near when you will say, ’I have no pleasure in them’ …[when] the silver cord is snapped, and the golden bowl is broken, and the pitcher is broken at the fountain, and the wheel broken at the cistern, and the dust returns to the earth as it was ... emptiness of emptiness, it’s all empty."
Yes, and why is it empty? Why is Grandma so unhappy? Why is the preacher of Ecclesiastes so empty? Because they have invested themselves in things, in things that break. They have accumulated stuff and mere stuff doesn’t satisfy.
We’ve heard this truth a thousand times, but it sinks in so slowly ... that, as Jesus said, "A man’s life does not consist in the abundance of the things which he possesses." Or as he said in another place, "Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust corrupt and where thieves break through and steal."
And yet we continue to act as though the mere accumulation of things will satisfy us. We continue to amass more and more stuff in order to be happy. But look at Grandma Koheleth’s snapshot, where everything is broken, nothing works, you can’t use any of it. Emptiness. Emptiness.
And then look across the page at another snapshot. Grandpa’s picture. Paul’s picture. What does Paul want to be surrounded with in the last days of his life? What things will make Grandpa Paul happy?
Timothy, "when you come, bring the cloak that I left with Carpus at Troas, also the books, and above all the parchments." "The books, and above all the parchments." Bring me, my young friend Timothy, the world of ideas. Bring me the world of great thoughts. Surround me with the creations of the mind and the heart. Feed my spirit, feed my soul with the word of truth."
I see Grandpa’s snapshot, don’t you? I see him sitting quietly in a comfortable chair, a book spread on his lap; a well-worn book, perhaps a Bible, at his elbow. And I see him with his eyes closed, digesting a thought, reflecting on an idea, living life on the inside, not just the outside. Given to wisdom that can never be exhausted rather than to things which will tarnish and break. A happy man, a fulfilled man; a man with a future and a hope. A man who can exult, "The day of my departure is at hand … but I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. From now on there is reserved for me the crown of righteousness."
Paul the apostle, in the late autumn of his life, seeing his possessions dwindle down to little more than a cloak. But he will be satisfied if he has his books and his parchments. Happiness comes in the autumn of life not from silver and gold, which can be destroyed, but from honest thoughts and wise counsel, which never will run dry.
III
Page three. There are two more snapshots in the autumn album. Another pair of Grandma Koheleth and Grandpa Paul pictures.
The first two pictures were family portraits. The second pair were still lifes. Now let me show you two landscape scenes.
One of those landscapes is of a bleak, forbidding place. There is virtually no life there. It is a place of barren prospects, cold winds, and icy gales. In the middle of that landscape, barely visible, I see Grandma. I see again that sour, icy face, and it is a face of fear more than of anger, of anxiety more than of stern demand.
It is the face also of the preacher of Ecclesiastes. In the autumn of his life, when he should be finding fulfillment, when he should be settled, this is what is in his snapshot:
"[Then] one is afraid of heights, and terrors are in the road ... the grasshopper drags itself along and desire fails; because all must go to their eternal home, and the mourners will go about the streets." Anxiety, terror, fear, the knock of death at the door.
The picture of sheer unhappiness in the autumn of life. Bad as it is to have invested ourselves only in our mutual complaint societies and not in young people; sad as it is to come to the autumn of life having accumulated things but having amassed no ideas, no wisdom; terrible as all of that is, it is even more terrible to live in fear, to be surrounded by nothing more than your own anxieties. Terrible indeed to live out your days seeing nothing but the tunnel of despair ahead and no light at the end of that tunnel.
Obviously we need another picture. Clearly we need another snapshot. And so I look across the page again from this bleak, desperate landscape in which Grandma Koheleth is imprisoned, and I look at Grandpa Paul.
Paul who does not wallow in despair. Paul who is not afraid, not even afraid to die. Paul who has been injured but is able to forgive and forget. Paul whose autumn landscape portrays a light, a presence, and a glory. In Paul’s autumn landscape I see a man with a hand uplifted in blessing; I see eyes raised to the heavens, beauty all around him. His arm is around someone’s shoulders:
"Alexander the coppersmith did me great harm; the Lord will pay him back for his deeds .... At my first defense no one came to my support, but all deserted me. May it not be counted against them! But the Lord stood by me and gave me strength ... The Lord will rescue me from every evil attack and save me for his heavenly kingdom. To him be the glory forever and ever. Amen."
Grandpa Paul is a happy, contented man because, in the final analysis, he has trusted his God at every point of need. When Alexander betrayed him, he did not need to shut himself behind closed doors and worry; he trusted his God. When his friends failed to show up and defend him when he was on trial, he was not alone; he trusted his God.
You see, you cannot manufacture happiness out of nothing. Happiness is made out of a relationship with the living God.
You cannot capture happiness behind closed doors, hiding, as Ecclesiastes worries, from the terrors in the roads and the mourners in the streets. Happiness is given to those who, like Paul, will venture something, try something, risk something, even lay down their lives for something. Happiness comes to those who trust everything to almighty God, and are content.
Snapshots in an autumn album. Grandma, Koheleth, Ecclesiastes, the picture of a life wasted because it was saved up and scrimped and held so tightly.
Grandpa, Paul, the apostle about to be sacrificed, ready to depart. The picture of a life saved because it was given, shared, thrown out to the love of God.
Snapshots in an autumn album. Which set will you take home?
“Remember now your creator in the days of your youth, before the days of trouble come, and the years draw near when you will say, ’I have no pleasure in them.’”?
Or, “the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. From now on there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness ... The Lord stood by me ... To God be the glory forever and ever."
