I would like to begin with a basic question: Can you give me the name of your great-great-grandfather? How about your great-great-grandmother? The likely answer is a simple no. The names of those on whose shoulders we stand are lost to time. And this is to say nothing about their very lives: what they did to bring in money, what dreams they had, the quirks they possessed, the countless intricacies and experiences of what makes a life a life. Consider your own, dear listeners. As you listen to this episode, you are endeavoring to accomplish something; you hold feelings for others; you have your fears and anxieties. I could go on and on. My point is that just as you are alive now, so, too, were they alive then, and while the details may be different, the very experience of life is not. Individuals hundreds of years ago admired the dawn, fell in love, wondered what the first gray hairs meant. You get my drift.
In a recent podcast, popular Catholic priest, Father Mike Schmitz, reminded his listeners that one day, they will die. This will be the first death. The second death happens when the last person to utter your name dies. After that, you will be no more. Your great-great-grandkids will have no idea what your name was, what you did to earn money, your dreams, your quirks, and so on and so forth. We might conclude that this is merely the way things go and be done with it. However, I propose that a keen understanding of this reality is needed to better calibrate how we interact with others.
Allow me to explain. One person may put a lot of stock in personal reputation. Position and titles are important. Being highly regarded by others is paramount. These individuals are buoyed by what others think. It is easy to see the connection, here, to social media. These applications thrive on outside (and even anonymous) approval. But scripture reminds us that our lives are like a vapor or mist. We are here, and then just like that, we are not. The wise see the pursuit of personal reputation for what it is: vain.
Another person might recognize this, and instead of pursuing approval from others, that person might more fully invest in being known by his or her Creator God, the One that person strives to spend eternity with. People forget, in other words, but God does not. He knows your name and mine and will not forget it.
Fair enough. But what is the takeaway? What do our lives look like if we do our best to be known by God? What is more, how does that change how we interact with others? Other vapors? Other mists?
When I was a teenager, I worked for a time for a man named Keith Meade. He was a widower who lived in town, and he hired me to do odd jobs: mow the lawn, do some weeding, accompany him to Agway to pick up some supplies. Another job was to clean up around the gravestones of his departed family members. We were at the cemetery in Youngsville, my hometown. The sky was a dark blue. The air was crisp and clean. Mr. Meade stood on the side of a hill and etched on the gravestones before and just beyond him was his last name. I stood and watched him take it in. He knew his time was coming. I was too young to realize then that the same applied to me. What is fifty or so years in the grand scheme of time? Our lives overlapped. That was significant enough.
What legacy should we leave to those who will not know our names? Perhaps Saint Joeseph gives us the answer. We must do what we were put here to do. We must love those around us. And we must never forget that this life that comes with reputations and titles and positions, etc. is brief and that the life of the world to come is the permanence of heart and true familiarity with others we seek. We may not know their names now. We surely will know their names then.
