I don’t care what they say with their mouths — everybody knows that something is eternal. And it ain’t houses and it ain’t names, and it ain’t earth, and it ain’t even the stars … everybody knows in their bones that something is eternal, and that something has to do with human beings. All the greatest people ever lived have been telling us that for five thousand years and yet you’d be surprised how people are always losing hold of it. There’s something way down deep that’s eternal about every human being. -Thornton Wilder, Our Town
Kingdoms rise and kingdoms fall without exception. Just think of the dynasties of human history. A hundred years ago, the British Empire still controlled over a quarter of the world. What used to be “the empire on which the sun never set” is now barely hanging onto Scotland. Or think of the Michael Jordan years for the Chicago Bulls. The same team that once won six championships in seven years finished 11th place in 2022. As Shelley’s “Ozymandias” faithfully teaches every high school student, each human triumph has a shelf life.
We all crave legacy. Whether it’s through our children, our achievements, or the things we’ve built over the course of our lives, we like to think we will not be forgotten. To be remembered, whether in the history books or in the hearts of loved ones, is a way to stave off death. The temporary quality of something can make us question whether or not it was ever important in the first place.
The reason why civilizations used to completely annihilate each other was not only to rule out the chance of an enemy’s resurgence, but as a point of pride. To blot out the name of one’s enemy was to make them meaningless. Take the city of Corinth, for instance. For years, it complied under Roman rule until its people decided to revolt. Instead of clamping down and occupying the city themselves, however, the Romans leveled it. No stone was left unturned. The message was clear: “We will make sure that nobody remembers you. It will be as if you never existed.”
If not a hostile takeover, time itself will prove to be a worthy adversary. Contrary to the words of Mick Jagger, time is decisively on no one’s side. How many people know their great, great grandfather’s name?
Still, we try to leave our mark on the world. We etch our names on everything from tree trunks to donor walls. We pass on heirlooms to continue our family’s heritage, forgetting that most of our prized possessions are destined for a yard sale (and it’s probably best we won’t see the discounted price tag on that precious fine china). Whatever kingdoms you and I are building right now will one day be, as Johnny Cash said, an empire of dirt.
In time, the details of our lives will fade from memory and record. Even our emails, if they are preserved at all, will be like the fragments of damaged parchment archeologist have found recording curses upon enemies: “Lay Allous low with fever, with unceasing sickness, lack of appetite, senselessness.” Or the (to put it mildly) creepy prayers made for love, “Drag Ptolemais by her hair, by her guts, until she does not stand aloof from me.” Did Ptolemais’ heart melt? Did Allous fall ill and die? We will never know — nor will anyone care to find out.
That’s not to sound callous or unfeeling. My brief stint in ministry has already shown me that I’m hardly an exception to the rule. The word of God will stand forever (Isa 40:8) but Lord knows those who preach it will be forgotten. As the 18th century German, Nikolaus Ludwig, said the role of the minister is to preach the gospel, die, and be forgotten (at this moment, I’m hoping to be one for three, but the day will come when all three boxes will be checked).
Even our concept of God is short-lived in the grand scheme of things. Every period in history has done its best to pay tribute to its deity, from the Pyramids to the Parthenon. In Jesus’ day, the Jerusalem Temple would have been no exception. Standing at 100 feet tall, with impressive parapets, golden doors, and beautiful porticos, it must have seemed like it would stand forever. Even after Jesus warned of its impending doom, no one believed that the house of God had an expiration date. 586 years, to be precise.
Jesus’ own disciples thought they would secure for themselves an eternal legacy, debating as they did amongst themselves over who would sit at Jesus’ right and left hand in his kingdom. They mistakenly believed that being on the right side of history would preserve their names. The irony is that they would be remembered even more widely than Caesar himself, but not for their triumphs or impressive resumes. Their names live on solely because they were chosen to play a supporting role in God’s never-ending story.
All the while, Jesus seemed to know that his own kingdom would be eternal. It would be the only exception to the rule that nothing lasts forever. He doesn’t stop his own impending doom from happening because he knows God deemed it necessary for our salvation. The stone the builders rejected would later become the cornerstone of the foundation of the world. As the hymn says, “Tower and temple fall to dust. But God’s power, hour by hour, is my temple and my tower.”
Only after realizing the enduring legacy of God’s promise can we find a strange comfort in realizing that the things we agonize over are temporal. From our careers, to the most recent election, to the housing market, to whatever is currently on our to-do list. That’s not to say that our daily affairs aren’t important so much as acknowledging that they are waves on an ocean and that the waters are far too vast to see across at any one time.
What does this look like in human terms? Well, to be specific, it looks like George Harrison. Whether or not The Beatles will be remembered isn’t really up for debate these days — their influence transcends historical context — and yet, Harrison could not have cared less about securing his place in history. When asked in an interview how he would like to be remembered he replied, “I don’t care. I don’t care if I’m remembered. Why would I want to be remembered?” And he wasn’t being sarcastic. He understood that his mark on the world would mean nothing to him after he died, that legacy was a false impression of what it means to be a person. You might even say he did not consider equality with God something to be grasped.
In one thousand years (or less), unless an archaeologist stumbles upon one of our personalized Tupperware containers, you and I will probably be forgotten. The friends we’ve made, the successes we’ve had at work, or even the family we’ve raised will be buried along with our names. And yet, although our names will fail to go down in the history books, we can take comfort that they will be written in a book far more eternal (Rev 21:27). Kingdoms may rise and fall, that is, until Thy kingdom comes.
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“There is no remembrance of men of old, and even those who are yet to come will not be remembered by those who follow….
For the wise man, like the fool, will not be long remembered; in days to come both will be forgotten. Like the fool, the wise man too must die!”
Ecclesiastes is the book for our times.
Poignant