Do not put your trust in princes, in mortals, in whom there is no help. When their breath departs, they return to the earth; on that very day their plans perish.
This morning, I’m sitting on my new / old porch on my new / very old home in Homestead, PA. There are different birds waking up the neighborhood, and the neighborhood is very, very different than my monochromatic, mostly mono-cultural Portland neighborhood. I have a cup of coffee, and am making plans for the day. After a week away, I’m again reading my way through scripture, reflecting and writing. Life is very, very good.
My new neighborhood is full of churches – 11 within a four block area, stately old homes, and many homes in disrepair. Apparently, Carnegie lived in this neighborhood, just up the hill from his steel mill which was the largest in the nation for many years.
Where the buildings are constructed of brick and stone, they are mostly unfazed by weather and time. But humanity struggles to fend off the effects on wood – wooden columns, window frames, soffits.
Do not put your trust in mortals in whom there is no help. This neighborhood is full of plans that perished with the death of the planner. Time marches on, and humanities’ grandiose plans can easily be subsumed by that steady march. Many of the homes that are falling apart are occupied by elderly people, who probably worked at the mill. Their dreams and aspirations are crumbling around them, just like the mill crumbled. When they return to the earth, what will become of their plans?
The home we purchased was owned by a mill superintendent, who also owned two neighboring homes, which were rented out, or used for household help. Our house was subsequently turned into a boarding house, with rooms rented out and shared kitchen and bathroom facilities, serving as a rental since the 1930’s. Ah, the history.
With this mix of grandiose and decrepit old, with the stone that’s unfazed and the wood that rots, I’m intrigued by the notion that plans go to the grave with us. Even though the stones will outlive me, my notion of what we’re building in Homestead will perish at some point. I’m not mourning that, but rather aware of the transitory nature of my plans.
We should not put our trust in things mortal, or in the plans that mortals make. As soon as those mortals return to the earth, their fragile plans can be just as vulnerable as the wooden frames I’m seeing.
So what to do? Clearly we need to put our trust in our immortal, all-loving God. Scripture is just one example of things that are God-inspired, and have not perished along with the humans who first scribed the words. God will endure. God’s plans will endure.
And we also live in a specific time and place, full of humans who have plans and roles in our world. While those around us will not endure forever, we can certainly tend and cherish them now. We do this not because we want them to live forever, but because like wood, they need some TLC to weather time and nature.
This morning, I’m thinking about the old houses which surround me, and how they are visible reminders of the plans of my predecessors. Some of those plans absolutely perished with the planners. And some plans live on, through the stewardship of those original plans. The original people cannot help perpetuate those dreams, so in effect the original plans have vanished. We should never presume our plans or the notions of those around us have any staying power. We should not put our lasting trust in mortals, but with God’s help, we can carry on the good work started before our time, and continuing after we’re gone.
No comments:
Post a Comment