Psalm 90:1-2; 4-6; 10; 12; October 25, 2026
Generally, when putting together the bulletin, I like to find a piece of art for the cover that somewhat matches the sermon theme. It’s an inexact science. It sometimes works. It often doesn’t. But there is something about today’s photo, today’s magnificent photo taken by our own Ginny Gray whilst off the coast of the Outer Banks, that captures it perfectly. About living and dying and the tension of time therein.
Ben please put it up for everyone to see. Isn’t that marvelous? To me, it not only nails the sermon theme, but also time itself. But not just literal time, at sunset, but also that timeless story of a boat which departs our shoreline for another.
Yes, perhaps without knowing it, Ginny captured the essence of this psalm and our imagination of death. No, not the finality of it, but of our hope for the life to come from it. When we too, at our sunset, will be boarded on a ship, leaving the outer banks of this world for another’s coast; whose tides are eternal, whose beaches are infinite, whose sands are illuminated by the prettiest golden hour.
Amen, Ginny! Amen.
Now apparently Ginny took this photo at Nag’s Head. A name I’ve always been mystified by. But while away, I did some research on its etymology and came across a fascinating myth. And as you know by now, I love my myths.
The myth dates to at least 1860, where a writer suggested that the town’s name, Nag’s Head, came from a tradition where locals would tie a lantern around a horse’s (nag’s) neck and walk it up and down the beach so to lure ships towards the shore, whereupon the ships would inevitably crash, such that its treasures could be looted and plundered by those waiting on the dunes.
Now who knows how true that is, but like Ginny’s photo, it spoke to me. Especially about what our Psalmist has to say about life and death and the tension of time therein.
You sweep them away; they are like a dream,
like grass that is renewed in the morning;
in the morning it flourishes and is renewed;
in the evening it fades and withers.
The days of our years are threescore years and ten;
and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years,
yet is their strength, labor, and sorrow;
for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.
Isn’t that just so pretty in its poetry? Doesn’t it speak to you too?
But beyond pretty, to me it perfectly speaks to the reality of our lives down here, in this mortal state trapped in time. Where time goes by much too quickly. And as it goes, wherever it goes, our spirits so often wither along the way.
Yes, our life begins like grass greening and growing with each passing morning, but by nightfall, or the adult landfall at Nag’s Head, we often find that our yard has browned, and we’re left wondering who stole our seeds and scattered them upon the dunes.
It is said that Moses wrote this psalm. And while I very much doubt that, I can see why it’s been attributed to him.
For at the end of Deuteronomy, as we learned in Bible Study this week, Moses is said to die old and full of days, with a last “sigh”, or more exactly in the Hebrew with an “inner groan and moan” — and this last breath comes as Moses watches his people enter the Holy Land while on the other hand he remains trapped on the outer banks watching the ship sail away.
See, God doesn’t allow for Moses to see his life’s work come to a satisfying conclusion (for reasons), and ultimately, Moses is said to be buried in a place that no one could ever find or visit again.
And to me, that’s a particularly haunting ending for one of the heroes of scripture. And yet I’m reminded that’s often how it goes for us and the heroes in our life.
Where none of us are promised shelter from the coldness of pain, nor are we promised tomorrow, or that we’ll see the promised land when we want to.
And yet, my friends… amidst this recognition and tension, Moses writes so teach us to number our days and apply our hearts unto wisdom.
These beautiful words that teach us all to make our days count.
That even as their number grows bigger, that even as their age outweighs our youthfulness, Moses’ prayer for each of us is to appreciate and make the most of whatever we have. Of the time we have been afforded, how little or much of it remains, before we fly away.
—
Now if you paid attention to the podcast this past week, you learned that I was away last Sunday to celebrate my birthday. 45 years old! Can you believe it? I can’t. I’m such a child, fragile in so many respects, and yet here I am, at or already beyond what others would classify as middle age. And what a mind trip that is!
Yet, last weekend I was fortunate enough to be granted a real trip to Arrowhead Lake in the Poconos. Thank you, Wainwrights!
And on Sunday morning when you were all brushing your teeth getting ready for worship, I took to their lake in one of their kayaks. And with my friend Eddie, together we set sail for another coast, in search of our friend Sean, who in his own kayak had drifted out of sight.
But where Eddie was smart, I was foolish. For where he got himself a heavier boat properly sized for his adultness, I boarded a much lighter vessel made for younger limbs. Ben, please put up the photo if you don’t mind.
Ah yes, there I am in all the glory of the sundolphin — feet hanging out, toes in socks pointed northward. But look how happy I am in my middle-age youthfulness!
Now, it should have occurred to me that entering and exiting the sundolphin wouldn’t be easy. And that due to its size and weight, and my own height and age, I would feel every movement of the water, and therefore, would tip left and right at the whim of the east or westerly wind.
And to that point, both Eddie and Sean (who mercifully we found at peace) noted that with every row of my ore I would take in a bit of water. And that the faster I went, the more water I would take in.
Such that even though I was the first to get back to the house, my socks were yet flooded, and my undershirt and pants both cold and wet.
And it occurred to me there and then, much as it does now, that there is a wisdom to be learned. About how what’s lighter is rarely easier, and that what’s faster isn’t always better, and that of course, the quicker we row the quicker it all goes.
But also, and moreover, that even on a sundolphin, which by its very name and nature is completely and utterly exposed to the light, life isn’t made for easy going.
That in our days there is always going to be that tension. That tension in time where amidst the smiles and the laughs, there is yet going to be cold hearts and soggy socks.
Whereas even if from birth we have stood like the tallest blade of grass, at any moment we can be trampled and withered away by the slightest affliction upon our fragile vessels.
But it’s all good, my friends. Indeed, it is well with our souls!
Especially for we who remember to number our days by making them count, remaining thankful for it all.
Amen.
