Mortality (Psalm 90)
Summary
Pastor Dominic Jackson turns to Psalm 90, the only psalm attributed to Moses, to explore its central prayer: "Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom." Moses holds life and death side by side. The God who formed the mountains is the same God who returns us to dust. Dominic shows why that is ultimately good news: our bodies are temporary, but the breath of God within us is not. He also reframes the fear of the Lord. God's power is real and overwhelming, yet it is power for us. Rather than something to dread, the brevity of life becomes an invitation to live wisely, hold fast to the hope of eternity, and give our days to what truly matters.
Questions for reflection
The monks kept a skull on their desks and walked past an open grave each day, not to be morbid, but to stay "joyfully present to the miracle of life." What reminders, if any, keep you aware of your own mortality? How does that awareness change the way you live?
Most of us are tempted to either numb the reality of death or distract ourselves from it. Which of those do you tend toward? What would it look like to face it with hope instead?
The sermon holds up two pictures of the fear of the Lord that miss the mark: the angry "boogeyman God" and the softened version that reduces fear to mere respect. Which were you taught? How does Isaiah 41:10 reshape your understanding?
Think about who is a few stages of life behind you. Who could you pour into this season, whether in marriage, work, or faith?
If you knew you were living in "the good old days" right now, what would you pay closer attention to?
The "Disturb us, Lord" prayer asks God to unsettle us when we've "dreamed too little." Are you ready to pray it and mean it? What might God be inviting you to dare more boldly?
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Dominic Jackson:
I've been reflecting lately on—almost 20 years ago; I'm getting old—almost 20 years ago, I was accidentally appointed as a co-interim lead teaching pastor of a church. This was supposed to be for two weeks. We had hired somebody—or we thought we hired somebody—and they ended up declining the job at the last minute. And so two weeks ended up turning into almost an entire year. The problem was, I was 25 years old, had just become a youth pastor, and, most significantly, I had no idea what I was doing. This became incredibly clear right away.And so the initial ask was, "Hey, do you think maybe you could put together two sermons?" I was like, "I think I could do that. We'll find out together." And before I knew it, I had stepped accidentally into this role.
And one of the areas where it was really, really clear that I had no idea what I was doing was during my first month as a pretend lead pastor: there were actually three deaths in our congregation. Two were elderly folks in their 90s, and it was sad, but it was not surprising. They were loved, and we celebrated their lives together as a church congregation. The third was a little boy, in a tragic accident.
The problem for me was, of the four years I had spent learning and studying the Bible, preparing to do ministry and working towards ordination—in all of my studies and preparations—we had spent exactly half of one class talking about funerals. And the other half of the class, in case you were curious, was talking about weddings and how to officiate those. And the rest of that entire semester—within four years of Bible college—we talked about, like, the Dead Sea Scrolls, and studying the systematic theology of Migliore, and the canonization process between the Catholics and the Protestants, and all kinds of stuff. But basically, I learned a lot about this book. I didn't really learn a lot about what to do with it.
Additionally, due to some other things going on in my life, as well as some tragic events that were happening at the time, I was quietly wrestling with my own mortality. The problem was, everybody was looking at me—this kid—for some answers, to step into this role, to, you know, be a pastor.
One of the few things I do remember about that minimal preparation I had in Bible school, when we were talking about funerals and weddings and things like that, was my professor explaining, "Hey, pastors, when you are invited to a wedding, don't forget to sign the certificate. Make sure to pull the couple to the side at some point and pray over them. And then leave after the first song is played. Nobody wants the pastor watching them dance or enjoy a drink or two at a wedding. So when the bar opens up," he said, "and Lil Jon starts playing, pastor, go home." I'll never forget that. "However, at a funeral," he added, "your congregation is going to look to you for hope, or at least comfort, for stability. And so at a wedding, you should be the first to leave. And at a funeral, you should be the last."
But what do you do when you're a young pastor who has absolutely no idea what he's doing? What comfort can you bring when you yourself—when I—was heartbroken? What stability, when I'm secretly wrestling with the same questions that everybody else is wrestling with? And forget the tragedy for a moment. What advice do you have, young man, for all of the rest of life? You've barely lived any yourself. What do you say to the congregation after the funeral and after the wake, when weeks and months have passed? What advice do you have for the rest of us—the rest of us who have been left behind?
Well, if I was asked that question today, I think I might start by sharing a psalm—today's psalm. My prayer is that same prayer that we hear from the psalmist, which at first might sound morbid, or at least kind of grim: "Teach us to number our days," the writer asks of God. But my hope is that we could see this request the same way that the Bible does—not as something to be scared of or even to mourn over, but instead as great news. Or better yet, good news. Let's pray.
Lord, first, I just want to pray about the subject of our psalm and the sermon from it. I'm just thinking of conversations that I've had in the past couple weeks with people who have lost somebody—somebody that they love dearly. And though I believe that death is not the end, but only the beginning—I believe that there is hope even in the most tragic circumstances, and I believe that you, Lord, defeated death—I want to acknowledge that this doesn't mean that loss doesn't sting, that we do not mourn or grieve. Jesus, we see you weeping at the loss of your friend Lazarus in the New Testament. And whether we see that as an example or just as permission for your followers, you not only have cried your own tears, but you have sat with us in ours. And so, Holy Spirit, help us. Help us to feel permission to experience whatever feelings and emotions we are holding. But I pray, too, that we have the strength and the courage to invite you into those feelings and emotions. And so let this message be an encouragement, a light, a hope, and one that brings us closer to you, Lord. We pray this in Jesus' name. Amen.
Turn with me, if you have a copy of the Scriptures, to Psalm 90. If not, the words will be on the screen. And Psalm 90 is about—give or take—500 years older than almost every other psalm that we have. And it very well might be the oldest psalm that we have. Its author, of course, is Moses, as Katie shared with us in the reading. And Moses, as you probably know, wrote a whole lot. He contributed a whole lot. Five entire books—the first five books of the Bible—are attributed to him. Usually when we think about Moses, we think about him writing records and history and sermons and theology. But what sometimes I think we forget is he was also a poet. And though most of the poems that he wrote you'll find in Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy, there is another poem he wrote, which is Psalm 90.
Psalm 90, "A prayer of Moses the man of God," opens with, "Lord, you have been our dwelling place throughout all generations." Most scholars believe that this was written during the wilderness times, and at times the Israelites had nothing stable about them except instability and the presence of God. It was as if they didn't know what their future held. All they knew was the one who held it. And all they had was basically faith and these little tents that they carried around with them. And every day would be a new place. They wandered and wandered aimlessly for decades. It wasn't a mansion or a castle. It was just enough to keep them warm and to keep them fed. And it may not have been everything they wanted, but it was exactly what they needed: a place of refuge. A transient dwelling place where they met with God each day. And this—this—he would describe as a dwelling place, a place of refuge.
Verse 2: "Before the mountains were born or you brought forth the whole world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God." This is actually easy to miss in our English translations, but in the Hebrew, God is actually given a feminine characteristic here. If you're reading from the NIV—or other translations say, "before you gave birth to the earth and the whole world," right? Or a better translation, if you have a literal word-for-word one, has this description of labor: before Yahweh gave birth, creating the mountains and all that covers the earth.
And the reason that I mention this—obviously he's being poetic here—but the reason I mention this is that throughout this entire psalm, we're going to see Moses holding up two different pictures. One is life, and the other is death. And spoiler alert: he's actually going to show that these are a lot more connected than you might think. But here in verse 2, we see this picture of the God who essentially gives birth—goes into labor with all of creation, creates everything in this world and the life that is found on it. Then in our next verse, he talks about the God who takes that life away.
Verse 3: "You turn people back to dust, saying, 'Return to dust, you mortals.'" The poet T. S. Eliot called this the most terrifying sentence ever written. It would actually inspire his poem The Waste Land—flashbacks to junior high literature, if you studied that, right?—in which he writes, "I will show you fear in a handful of dust." He saw this dust or dirt as a reminder of our mortality, our future, our fate.
But there's also something beautiful about this. The reference, of course, is connected to the first man ever created, from the dirt. He was given the name Adam. And the word for dirt is adamah. So Adam's name literally means "coming from the dirt." If you have a friend named Adam, you could call him a dirt clod, right? And he can't get mad at you. Adam came from the dirt. This was his origin story—humanity's origin story. But it's important to note this was not his identity.
If you're familiar with the Genesis story, it tells us that God took a clump of dirt and crafted it together, right, creating the first human. But what made him more than just a being—what made him really hold on to the image of God—was what God did next, when he breathed his Spirit into him. The word for spirit—which is also, coincidentally, the same word for breath—is the Hebrew word ruach. And it's this breath, this Spirit, that not only gives us life; it's what makes us us.
Because eventually, our bodies will break down. For those who are here today—maybe you're in your mid-30s or younger—one day, just to let you know, you are going to bend down to pick something up, and you're going to throw your back out. And everyone 40 and over is kind of, like, silently nodding right now. And the worst part about it is your friends are going to say, "Were you rock climbing? Were you, like, doing jiu-jitsu? Were you snowboarding?" And you'll have to say, "No, I was picking up the newspaper, and now I'm stuck on the couch for three days," right?
The truth is, even if you don't feel it right now, your body is breaking down. Hey, your body is falling apart—welcome to the Gateway Church, right? How's that for a cheery message here today? But seriously, the truth is, eventually our bodies get to a place where they start to break down. And this, to those who are not full of the Spirit of God, can actually be terrifying. And if this is bad news, we can either choose to be crushed by it or distract ourselves and not think about it. But to Adam and Moses and the disciples, and for followers of Jesus, this was actually good news. One day we will no longer be in pain, and the parts of us that are flawed and broken and hurting will, as Moses says, return to dust. But the part of us that hungers for more, that longs for God's presence—that part will never die. That spirit, that soul, will return to the one who gave it to us.
Let's keep going. Verse 4: "A thousand years in your sight are like a day that has just gone by, or like a watch in the night. Yet you sweep people away in the sleep of death—they are like the new grass of the morning: in the morning it springs up new, but by evening it is dry and withered." Here's what he's saying: time moves incredibly fast. And if we think a year or a decade moves quickly, to the one who holds all of time, this is like a blink of the eye. Or James, in the Epistle of James, compares it to a vapor or a mist that appears for just a short while and then disappears.
Existential encouragement for you on a Sunday morning: your life, and all the things that seem so incredibly important—they are a blade of grass, a speck of sand, in the grand scheme of things. And we can choose to have a few different responses to this information. We can, again, numb it. Drugs, both legal and illegal. Drinking. Trying to distract ourselves. Netflix, playing World of Warcraft all night until you fall asleep, or whatever the cool kids play these days—I don't know. Whatever it is. You could have meaningless relationships, hookup culture. Try to make as much money as you possibly can, hoping just a little bit more will feed what is missing in your soul. Whatever it is—if this is all that we know, how can we not try to fill our days with these things, right? It's the best the world has to offer. Of course we would spend our life looking for more.
One pastor said it this way: if you can't see the sun, you will be impressed with the streetlight. If you've never felt thunder and lightning, you'll be impressed with fireworks. And if you turn your back on the greatness and majesty of God, you'll fall in love with the world of shadows and short-lived pleasures. So that's one option of what to do with our mortality: keep chasing after these fleeting things.
Or—or—we can embrace it as, again, good news, but also an opportunity that we don't want to squander. A reminder: yes, one day we will not suffer. We will not have pain. We will not grieve. Yes, good news. But also, we have a commission for the time being.
On his podcast Live No Lies, John Mark Comer explains the history of the skull imagery—like you'll see on heavy metal album covers or prison tattoos or whatever. He explains that the first artists to ever use the image of the skull were actually monks. And in many old monastic drawings, you'll often see a monk praying at a table, and he'll always have the same things on the desk, right? He's got a candle, he's got his Bible, and he's got a skull, right? Like, in every single one of these paintings, for some reason. And it's important to note, this skull wasn't one that he picked up from Hobby Lobby at Halloween time or anything like that, right? It's actually one that probably belonged to his friend or somebody he knew. So there's that.
Comer explains that the monks didn't do this to be morbid or to be deranged, but to keep their mortality before them. As a reminder: basically, life is fleeting. I'm going to die. I do not want to waste my life on trivial things. Later in the podcast, he goes on to share about a visit to a monastery where he learned that the monks living there walk past the on-site cemetery every single day. It is situated basically right in the middle of where they need to go.
In fact, up until 100 years ago or so, most churches in this country had cemeteries. Like, right next to where the kids were playing baseball, there was a cemetery right there, right? And in a lot of Benedictine traditions, the monks would always leave the last grave open—which is so foreign to us, right? Like, you see insurance commercials for "the unimaginable." Like, what's so unimaginable about death, right? So many cultures embrace this. Well, in the Benedictine traditions, they would leave this last grave open so that every day, the monks would walk by the graveyard, that open grave, and they would think, "Could be me." Not to make them masochists, but to make them joyfully present to the miracle of life.
Or Eugene Peterson says it this way, connected to the call of discipleship—both living to die and dying to live. He says that's the whole spiritual life: it's learning how to die. And as you learn how to die, you start losing all your illusions, and you start being capable of true intimacy and love.
Also worth noting, speaking of our little lives: a major theme throughout the Psalms, which you've probably noticed as we've spent the summer in them, is both how big and how small we are. Not only is life short, but we are, again, a teeny tiny blip in human existence, right? As Cormac McCarthy, one of my favorite writers, has this line: it takes a big enough man to know how small he is. Billions and billions of people. We are a drop in the bucket, a blade of grass, a vapor or a mist, according to the Bible.
And I think this is why another psalmist at some point asked the question—he's reflecting on the vastness of the universe—and he says, "What is mankind that you are mindful of them?" And you could read this one of two ways. A thousand years is like a day to God, right? Our entire existence, a blink of an eye. Or—back to that God who created everything, the mountains, the skies, human beings, all of it—we're tiny. And if you've ever, like, [looked] up at the stars when you were camping, or maybe you stood next to the Grand Canyon or something else—just something you could not explain, you could not give language to—you probably, if you were like me, couldn't help but feel microscopic experiencing this, thinking about how small we really are.
But then the Bible tells us that God created us all with intention, with purpose, with promise. Not only does he know all of our names—mind-blowing, just that alone—he knows how many hairs we have on our heads, right? And more than just knowing about us, he desires—this Creator of everything desires—to know us, and for us to know him. This makes me go from feeling so teeny tiny to feeling huge. The same God Moses is writing about is the same one pursuing you and I.
But we're not there yet. Let's go back to, like, the screamo lyrics of dying and death here for a second, okay? Hop down to verse 10. We'll get back to that Creator in a moment. But for now: "Our days may come to seventy years, or eighty, if our strength endures; yet the best of them are but trouble and sorrow, for they quickly pass, and we fly away." Or, my personal translation: life is short, life is hard, and then you die, right? Seventy, maybe 80, and those years are filled with trouble and sorrow.
And some of you are thinking, "Dominic, I came here to be encouraged this morning." Sorry—take it up with Moses, okay? But also, I do promise there is good news. There's good news for all of us, and there's good news at the end of this message. However, that good news only works if we first acknowledge the bad news: that Moses is right. Our days might be, with few exceptions, 70, 80, maybe 90, depending on habits, genetics, and dumb luck. But also, those years are filled with trouble and sorrow, right? They go quickly, and then we pass to the next life.
Speaking of life going quickly—do you remember being a kid and how slow time moved, right? Like an hour in geometry class, or Saturday morning doing chores. Or perhaps the clearest example, at least for me, was how long it took Christmas to roll around every single year. I remember it would be June, and I'd think, man, when is it going to get here? A break from school, some presents, some cookies, right? All of it. But what I realized is, when I was five, for example, a year was 20 percent of my life, right? Now I'm about to turn 42. A year is 2.5 percent of my life.
And it's almost like you're driving down the street. And this analogy won't work for everyone, because I've driven with some of you, and some of you are really bad drivers. No offense. Just kidding. Just kidding. But by the way, if you have to hit the brake whenever you see the robot speed trap—maybe I'm talking about you. But for the rest of us responsible drivers, it's almost like you're driving down the residential road of life. And when you're 10, you're barely moving, right? Ten miles per hour. You're thinking, I can't wait to pick up some speed. When is this thing going to take off? I can't wait until I'm older and I can do what I want. Stay out all night. Eat all the desserts I want. It's funny what little kids think adulthood actually is. But still—I can't wait. I can eat whatever I want, and I get to get a job, and I could play the lottery, right? Or I could vote or drink—or have to drink before I vote, or whatever, right? You're thinking about how amazing it's going to be.
And then you're 25, and you think, like, I'm juggling a lot right now. I can't wait until—fill in the blank, right? You're in your 20s. I can't wait until I get married. I can't wait until I have kids. I can't wait until I'm no longer in the diaper stage of life. I can't wait until those kids go off to school. I can't wait until I get a good job. I can't wait until I get a promotion. I can't wait until I own a home. I can't wait until I can afford a vacation. I can't wait until my parents get off my back and start treating me like an adult, right?
But then, around the time you're in your 30s, and then 40s and 50s—again, back to the analogy—you're going fast, and you keep thinking, can this thing slow down a little bit? Right? And before you know it, you're doing 75 in a 25, and you start sounding like Moses here: yet the best of my days are not only troubled, but they are flying by. All of a sudden, life is coming at you fast, and you sound like the psalm here.
So this is what I'll just say to all the younger folks in the room—I won't check anyone's ID; I'll let you define if that's you. But let me just say to all the younger folks: don't worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow will worry about itself. Don't try to speed up time. It will get here. Just try to be fully present to the moment you have. And it's interesting, as a dad with little ones—all of those long nights, and all of the things where I was just like, "Oh, I can't wait until this is done"—those are some of the things that I miss the most. And so that's my encouragement to all the younger folks.
To my elders: the Bible is full of folks who did not allow anyone to count them out based on their age. In fact, in first-century ancient Near Eastern Jewish culture, elders were seen as wise and noble. And I just want to say, I think you have a lot of fight left in you. And this generation—just look around—this generation desperately needs you. The church needs you. The world needs you. And so, yeah, play golf, go on a cruise, watch your favorite show, whatever. But also—also—finish the race strong, as Paul says. We desperately need your wisdom and your discernment.
And then lastly, to my peers, all of you middle-aged folks, my advice is simple—just two things. First: don't try to impress your kids with cartwheels in the backyard. Ever. Never a good idea. And also, a couple Tums before greasy pizza. You'll thank me later, okay? No, I'm kidding. But still, here's what I'll say to all the middle-aged folks in the room—and also to the sages in the room, and also to some of the young adults who grew up quickly. This is my petition: one of the best things that you can do is find somebody a couple of stages of life behind you and just pour into that person. Be a lifeline for them.
If you have been married for 6, 10, 12 years and you still like your spouse, I would say find a couple who is engaged and just take them out to dinner. And just open a conversation with them. If you went through a hard divorce, find someone whose marriage just ended. If you are a seasoned teacher or engineer or graphic designer, grab a beer with the intern, right? Here's the main one that I want to focus on: if you have been following Jesus for a decade, two decades, four decades, more—ask yourself, who might I walk alongside on the most important journey they will ever take? And so find somebody. Find someone you can pour into. Life is short, and one of the best things you can do with your life—we see this in the life of Jesus—is give it away.
Let's keep going. Verse 11: "If only we knew the power of your anger! Your wrath is as great as the fear that is your due." Okay, hang on. Pause. Time out. Wait a minute. We have this nice passage about life and death and God creating mountains and God being our dwelling place. But then here comes the fear of the Lord. And right away, some of your church theological triggers just went off. Red flags across the room for some of you.
Well, first: a major theme in Jewish poetry is often holding up two different subjects at the same time—this juxtaposition, right? You'll notice that the poem begins and ends by describing God's favor. But then right in the middle of it, God is angry. What's the deal with that?
Well, when it comes to the subject of the fear of the Lord, I've generally heard this taught two different ways, mainly—both of which I don't think are helpful. I would even say biblical. The first is the boogeyman God, who is wild, reckless, and dangerously wrathful. He hates you. He is constantly disappointed in you. And he is waiting on you to screw up so he can squash you like a bug, right? Sinners in the hands of an angry God. Or simply, this is like, "Eat your vegetables, say your prayers, or God is going to get you." And it's a great tactic to scare children or congregations or societies into doing what you wish. The one who sees all, can do all, and is all out of patience, right? He wants blood, so fear him.
Maybe you grew up in churches where you heard that message every week. And I joke about this, but again, for many, many of you, this is the picture you have been taught of God: a monstrous, militant God who only exists to watch you fail and punish you accordingly. But remember, Jesus is fully God. God always looks like Jesus, and Jesus always looks like God—to quote theologian Scot McKnight. It's an oversimplification of the Trinity and the divine nature of God, but it's true. The picture we have of Christ is not a monster hiding under your bed to see if you remembered to pray that night, so he can get you. That's just not the picture we see of Jesus. So that's one way we talk about the fear of the Lord.
The other is what I'll call, like, the hippie Jesus, right? It's all those verses about fearing the Lord—"Well, it really just means, like, have some respect for him. Maybe be in awe once in a while." Or maybe this will be incorrectly translated as, "Oh, that word fear really just means have some reverence," right? And I've heard that message taught as well. The problem with this is, when you read these accounts in the Scriptures—of the few people who come in contact with God, with Yahweh, before Jesus arrives on the scene and opens a door—whenever we see these accounts, these people are terrified. And it seems like a little bit more than just politeness or being on your best behavior. This seems like a genuine fear.
Isaiah, right, comes in contact with God, and he is terrified. And one of the reasons he's scared is because of his past. He keeps on saying to himself, "He's going to kill me. He is going to kill me. I can't be here right now. I have unclean lips. I have been in unclean places." And he is trembling with fear in the presence of Yahweh.
But there's this powerful speech that takes place in Isaiah 41, where God is talking about how powerful he is. How can you not be scared of that, right? And in that speech, he's addressing human arrogance. If you've ever heard somebody say, like, "When I get to heaven, I'm going to walk up to God and I'm going to ask him all these questions"—well, this idea is basically that we are gods and we are masters of our own fate. And so, addressing that mentality, God goes into this speech, and he says: I'm first, I'm last. I give you every single breath—right, this is my paraphrase of Isaiah. I hold the world together. Don't forget who you're talking to.
And in the past few chapters, he's talking about fear. He's talking about all this power he holds and how the appropriate response to that is the fear of the Lord. But then, in the climax of the speech, he finally gets to the part about humanity, about mortality. More than just, you know, us working—being ironworkers, blacksmiths—more than animals and nature and wind and water, he's talking about us, you and I. And like the other times, he talks about how powerful he is. But instead of following that up with the fear of the Lord, he says something different. What is the response we should have to God's power in regard to us, our lives? Isaiah 41:10: "So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand."
Or like the story when Isaiah is finally face-to-face with God, with Yahweh—he's shaking, terrified. And how does God respond to him? Does he punish him? No, he purifies him. He draws him in. And this same theme is found in the Psalms. It's this idea that the only way we can truly live without fear is to start from a place of what I'd call a healthy fear. Otherwise, our picture of God is much too small. To recognize that God is powerful, and he is giving us our next breath, and he is holding this world together—that might be scary the first time we recognize it. But then when we recognize not only God's power, but that same power is for us—for you and I; it loves us, protects us—then we understand the grace and beauty and strength offered to you and I.
I learned how powerful the ocean was—not when I caught my first wave surfing, right? Not when I was a kid collecting seashells on the beach. No, it was when I almost drowned one time, right? I was held under the water, and that is when I recognized the sheer power of the ocean. But I will say, the next time I was on a boat, at no point did I worry about whether it was strong enough to hold me up. The God who is all-knowing, all-powerful, and could do anything he wants is for us. And so, as Isaiah says—as the Lord says—fear not.
We'll conclude with one more verse. Moses then asks God for help, and this is my prayer for my life too. He says, "Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom." Or your translation might say, "Teach us to live wisely and well." So the question is, how might we number our days? Is this even possible? How can we be fully present and appreciate what we have—the gift that we have—before it's gone? And whether you are here and you're 17 or 70 or 107, how can we number our days? Because the truth is, we all have a number.
Or a different way to ask this question—to quote the great theologian Andy Bernard, the Nard Dog, from the TV show The Office—he says, "I wish there was a way to know you're in the good old days before you've actually left them," right? It sounds like he's reading Psalm 90. So how can we number our days? How can we live wisely and well in the moment we're in?
I think first, do what Moses is doing. Ask God to help us see what we have been given. Every day is a blessing. And many of our friends and loved ones don't have that gift. I know I have lost plenty. So ask God for wisdom. And for those friends that I have lost, that we have lost—those loved ones that I will see again one day—in the meantime, live for them. And I think the best way we could do that is to live for Christ.
Secondly, remind yourself of your mortality, instead of ignoring it, numbing it, minimizing it. You might not have, like, a human skull on your desk at work, right? You'd probably get written up for that. Also, I think it's illegal in Iowa. But still—I think the temptation for many of us who don't work in healthcare or law enforcement, or a place where we see a lot of tragedy every single day—I think for most of us, we aren't reminded of this until something tragic happens. Sometimes it's a news headline, sometimes it's a loved one's text message, sometimes it's a diagnosis. And the reason that this floors us the way that it does, at least for me, is because it's both tragic and something that I forget about—until I don't. And so read the Scriptures, pray about the days you have on this earth, and recognize you too will have a funeral one day. And what I've been asking myself is, what do I want people to say at my funeral?
Third—and this is good news; it's not all bad news—if number two was to think about your mortality, number three is to remember your eternity. One day, every sickness will be healed. One day, every wrong will be made right. And our souls will live the way that we were created to live all along. And hallelujah for that. When we are hurting, grieving, struggling, aging, remember: death is not a dead end. It is a door to resurrection. So hold this close to you.
And then lastly—the last thing I'll say—Moses asked God to help him number his days. I would say one of the ways we do this is simply by living them out. It's that famous Benjamin Franklin line, right, where he says most people die at age 25 but aren't buried until age 75. Moses kept kicking. The disciples went to the grave singing. It's a cliché, but it's true: it's not about the years in your life, but the life in your years.
And so here's how I would suggest that we truly live out our days—no creepy skull on the desk needed, right, or spending the night in the cemetery or anything like that. Here's what I would suggest. Here's what I think Moses would suggest. I share this once a year—you could almost count on it. Every year I share this, and it's usually at the beginning of the year, as a frame, a mindset, a prayer, a petition for how we can move into our next year. But you're going to get it a few months early.
And this is a prayer that you've heard me pray before, and you'll hear me pray again. And it's one that I come to often. It is actually printed out on my desk, in place of where the skull would be. And it is how I would answer Moses and Andy Bernard. How do you know you're in the good old days before you've actually left them? How do you learn to number your days? How do you make the most of this one precious life? Here's a prayer to help you do that.
And I will warn you—I will warn you—don't pray this prayer unless you mean it. Be careful. God will honor your request. He will call your bluff. And sometimes it's not easy, and sometimes it's uncomfortable, and sometimes it's hard, but it is so, so good and so worth it. So here's the prayer. This was written about 500 years ago:
"Disturb us, Lord, when we are too well pleased with ourselves, when our dreams have come true because we have dreamed too little, when we arrived safely because we sailed too close to the shore. Disturb us, Lord, when with the abundance of things we possess we have lost our thirst for the waters of life; having fallen in love with life, we have ceased to dream of eternity; and in our efforts to build a new earth, we have allowed our vision of the new heaven to dim. Disturb us, Lord, to dare more boldly, to venture on wider seas where storms will show your mastery, where losing sight of land, we shall find the stars. We ask you to push back the horizons of our hopes, and to push into the future in strength, courage, hope, and love."
Want to not waste your life? I think a good place to start is praying that prayer. And then in the meantime, here's one more—just a simple prayer to start your morning every day. It is simply to ask, "Lord, what will you have me do today?" And watch—watch how God meets you there. Let's pray together.
God, we know that you have defeated death. We have assurance and hope and faith in that. However, we're still here, and at times our bodies break down, our souls can be downcast, our spirits can feel broken. And so I ask you to join us, lead us, comfort us—but also, Lord, use us as your vessels to bring renewal, to bring reconciliation, to bring redemption to a broken world. Help us to use our days for what is important. And, Lord, whether I personally have 60 years left or 60 seconds left, and this is the last thing I'll ever say—let me praise you, Lord. With my words, yes, but more importantly, with my life. Lord, help us to live today like we're going to see you tomorrow—because one day we will. Hallelujah for that. We pray this in Jesus' name. Amen.