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.