Deuteronomy 34:1-12
Read any good epitaphs lately?
A good friend of ours is the curator of Heritage Museums in Sandwich, MA and a few years ago they hosted an exhibit of the different styles of gravestone carvings, and the breadth of epitaphs that can be found in New England cemeteries. Some were instructive, others poignant, but they all were fascinating.
From the stone of Solomon Cromwell, who died in 1807: “My health was firm. I thought no danger nigh, And quite forgot that Man was born to die. Yet suddenly I fell. My friends, beware, Death comes unlooked for. O repent, prepare.” The stone for Emily, wife of Dr. Thomas Fossett who died in 1830, was not quite so eloquent: “She was, words fail to tell what: think what a woman should be, she was that.”
One of the curator’s favorites, and one that will appeal to animal lovers, was found right among all the other graves of noble people throughout New England: “In memory of my dog, Little Pilot. Then don’t you worry, old comrade, and don’t you fear to die. For out in that fairer country, I will find you by and by. And I’ll stand by you, old fellow, and our love will surely win. For never a harbor shall harbor me, where they won’t let Pilot in.”
When I shared these epitaphs with the congregation I used to serve, the members there shared their favorites with me. On one unnamed grave, clearly a baseball fan, were these words: “One for whom death held no terrors. In life, some hits, no runs, many errors.” And on another: “My dear friend, as you are now so once was I. As I am now, you too will be. So be prepared to follow me.” But someone had written a response to that epitaph and taped it to the headstone: “To follow you I’m not content, until I know which way you went.”
And because I wanted some local epitaphs to share with you, I asked Mary Anne Wallace who gives tours at Evergreen Cemetery to share a few with me. From a Civil War headstone: “Tell Mother I died at my post.” For a two year old girl, these words: “Beautiful, lovely, She was but given a fair bud to earth to bloom again in heaven.” And for her six month old brother: “Sweet Willie unto earth a little while was given. He plumed his wings for flight and soared away to heaven.”
But perhaps my favorite of all the epitaphs I’ve ever seen is the one Benjamin Franklin wrote for himself: “The body of Benjamin Franklin, printer, like the covering of an old book, its contents torn out, and stript of its lettering and gilding, lies here food for worms. But the work shall not be lost; it will appear once more, in a new and more beautiful edition corrected and amended by the Author.”
These epitaphs came to mind as I was pondering the Deuteronomy text this week because at the end of our lesson, we have one of the most powerful epitaphs in all of scripture:
“Never since has there arisen a prophet in Israel like Moses, whom the Lord knew face to face. He was unequalled for all the signs and wonders that the Lord sent him to perform in the land of Egypt, against Pharaoh and all his servants and his entire land, and for all the mighty deeds and all the terrifying displays of power that Moses performed in the sight of all Israel.” (vs.10-12)
And yet, this epitaph stands, so to speak, over an unmarked grave.
There was Moses at the end of a long life, and the difficult work of leading the Hebrew people to the Promised Land. There had been no lack of struggles, setbacks and faith crises. The people had wanted to return to Egypt the minute they got hungry; when Moses tarried up on Mt. Sinai receiving the Ten Commandments, they partied down below and created a golden calf to worship. For forty years they never stopped testing his leadership. Yet through it all, Moses was steadfast, acting with great trust despite his own fear and self doubt. Only once did he complain bitterly to God, and that was surely human impatience rather than sinful waywardness.
And whether because of that momentary distrust in God, or precisely because Moses was to be a model figure for all time to come, or simply because he had accomplished all God asked him to do; just as he gets to the end of the journey, Moses gets a glimpse of the Promised Land but is not allowed to enter it. “I have let you see it with your eyes but you shall not cross over there.” (vs.4b)
Doesn’t that strike you as unfair? That God seems to be unreasonably harsh and unforgiving? It is not the kind of ending some of us would like to write for one of our primary ancestors of faith, a leader who didn’t want the job in the first place, who constantly felt he wasn’t up to the task, and who had to put up with ungrateful, recalcitrant followers for four decades. After all that, to not even get to put one foot over the boundary into the Promised Land?
However, that clearly seems to be alright with Moses. There is no evidence of complaint or anger or disappointment at not being allowed to fully accomplish into what had been his life’s work and dream. Had Moses resented not being allowed to enter, we would know that. He never minced words! The fact that Moses makes no response to God, and expresses no resentment at all, reveals his serenity about his mortality and the peace that pervades his heart.1
What wisdom might you and I take from this story and Moses epitaph? What are the thoughts from Moses’ ending that we might ponder as we continue on our own journeys of life and faith?
For me, the first wisdom that comes to mind has to do with what is sufficient.
It was enough for Moses to have gotten the people to the edge of the Promised Land. It was enough for him to look out over the goal of his journey but not to enter there. It was enough for Moses to have been faithful in the midst of his faults, and to let another lead the people in. Moses had completed what God asked of him; he had done what he set out to do, and if God moved the finish line early, so be it. It was enough.
Will it be enough for us to live our life as faithfully as we can, trying to follow a sense of vocation or yearning, whether or not we could comfortably say it is God’s hope for us or our own desires? And why do we so often think that God wouldn’t want for us what we want? Why do we so often think those can’t be one and the same?
Will it be enough for us to step out on the journey we’ve planned and hoped for, but then have to let go or shift direction for whatever reason – illness, responsibilities, finances, death – and not reach our Promised Land?
Is reaching our goal the reward? Or, can our best attempts at faithfulness be what ultimately defines us; and that the simple faithful dailyness of our living is the best epitaph we could write? How can Moses’ serenity and peace about his ending, even after all the years of hard work and trouble, inform our own journeys of life and faith – especially as we consider our own mortality or the mortality of those we hold dear? How can Moses’ sense of God’s mercy help us as we live with memories, regrets, fears and judgment?
For that is the second wisdom that comes to mind in this story. It is natural to read into Moses’ forced non-admittance into the Promised Land, that God was being extremely unreasonable and unjust; and that the punishment was far too severe for the supposed crime. And it is natural for us, even though we don’t intellectually agree with the theology that God is judgmental and demands payment for our sins; in some recess of our heart and soul we find ourselves still fearing God as much as we try to love God. And fearing having to answer for ourselves.
However, there at the end of his days, Moses knew and experienced God first and foremost as merciful, and as the One who had sustained and strengthened him his whole life through. There was no sense of judgment, only a profound sense of God’s love and blessing. For Moses, God was, and always had been, more than enough.
Dear friends what about us? Can we live with unfinished business and let go? Can we embrace another’s sense of peace even if we don’t want to let them go? Can we trust in God’s mercy rather than be driven by judgment? And as we ponder our own epitaphs, in life… in faith…in death, what will be enough?
1. Texts for Preaching, Year A Brueggemann et al. p. 535