(This is a reblog of a post originally published in 2007, written while I was living in Colorado)
True students of history know how truly small they are. This is
difficult to see in today's society, where everything is catered to my
whims, provided I have a little money. Everything around me can be
customized to my preferences, from the style of the car I drive to the
TV package I receive, to my phone's ringtone, to the height and tilt of
the chair I'm sitting in. This grand cultural force conspires to
give me the impression that it's all about me.
But it's not. And even
those of us who know it's not must strive every day to cut back the
weeds of pride. It's hard not to feel slighted when circumstances don't
go our way, even in small things. But small things constitute reality.
times a week I walk past the Littleton cemetery--at one end are grand
new plots with polished stones, engraved with pithy sentimentalities. At
the other end stand the tombstones of the early settlers, men and women
who died over a century ago. Most just show the person's name and
dates, while a few give a relationship ("father" or "wife") or a station
in life ("pioneer"). Perhaps someone still remembers their stories, but
most will soon pass away into the anonymity of history, remembered only
by a tombstone or a few entries in a dusty town archive. And if we take
a step further back, another hundred years or so, there would have been
very few, if any, American settlers in this region--only its native
inhabitants, the tribes that remember by stories and not by lists. But
those people are largely gone now, killed or assimilated or driven away,
and few remember the names of the men and women who lived and died in
the shadow of the mountains. And how many generations have gone by?
Hundreds? Thousands? Of all that we know of history, we have retained
perhaps a millionth of a percent of all that happened. In the words of
Will Durant, "Civilization is always older than we think; and under
whatever sod we tread are the bones of men and women who also worked and
loved, wrote songs and made beautiful things, but whose names and very
being have been lost in the careless flow of time" (The Life of Greece).
a student of history, it is perhaps natural that I want to leave behind
a legacy that will be remembered. I would wish to emulate the heroes of
the past that fill the pages of my books, and who still speak in voices
of thunder across the ages. And perhaps such a thing may happen for me,
but it is not my destiny to claim. There's the subtle poison of pride
that waits to creep into every such desire, and I must guard against it
with every breath. The truth is, I will probably be forgotten, like so
many good men before me. My tombstone will fade away into illegible
etchings on a crumbling rock, and my body decay into dust. All the words
I ever write may be lost in the whirling, tireless glut of media that
my generation produces. In a century or two even my descendants will
forget my name, and the life that I lived will fade from the thoughts of
men. The writer of Ecclesiastes puts it well: "There is no remembrance
of men of old, and even those who are yet to come will not be remembered
by those who follow" (1:11).
But history is a fluid thing, and even
if one's memory fades away, his influence may remain, the blessings or
curses of a million choices made. A word of kindness that I speak today
might serve in bringing a wandering soul home, even without my
knowledge; a prayer I pray today might raise to salvation the
grandfather of the next great saint who will shake the kingdoms of the
The things we remember about history--wars and kings--may not
be the most important things. In God's economy and God's kingdom, it may
be that a single act of mercy by a now-forgotten individual was of more
historical worth than the whole campaign of Attila, which gave that act
of mercy its context. We shall never know on earth how many of those
forgotten men and women were saints of mighty power and influence, who
through small choices and small prayers changed the course of history.
In short, God can use his children to produce a "butterfly effect" for
his kingdom, and the prayers we pray and the words we speak today might,
next year or a century from now, produce a hurricane of power in the
kingdom of God.
This is what I would like to call "the challenge of
sainthood." Only God can make a saint, both in terms of saving us and
raising us to spiritual maturity, but we have our role too, following
his lead in the dance. We remember the great acts of the saints, the
ways they stood up to change history. But most of those great acts were
occasioned by rare circumstances or were given prominence by the fame
that the person already had. The truth is, many of us will never
encounter circumstances so dramatic that history will be obliged to
remember us. But it is not so great a challenge to respond heroically in
times of crisis; all manner of men can be heroes. If a disaster
happens around us, it is only the shallow and selfish man who chooses to hold back
his aid. Much more difficult is the call to be heroic in all the small
things that no one will remember. I think, perhaps, that I could be a hero when disaster
strikes, but it is much harder to be a hero in the daily course of
life, to order all my steps according to the law of God and the
principles of righteousness. But the latter is a higher heroism, and
that is the heroism that God can use, perhaps even more effectively than
the dramatic sort, to change the world.
The challenge of sainthood,
then, is not what pops into our heads when we think of the great saints.
It is not the grand act of defying a pagan tribe by chopping down their
sacred tree (Martin and Boniface) or of traveling to Egypt to preach to
the Sultan (Francis). Rather, the true mark of sainthood is found in
the quietness of the cell, where the Christian labors and rests in
prayer. The hardest challenge is not external, but internal. To subdue
the flesh every day, to march out against the temptations of pride and
lust and sloth and never to surrender an inch--that is true and saintly
heroism. To greet our brothers and sisters in love and to work for their
good, to labor in prayer for their salvation and holiness--that is the
mark of a history-maker. To order all the small things in our lives
according to the righteousness of Christ--that is an act worthy of the
highest rewards of heaven.
It is no easy journey, as I said before.
It would be much easier, and more pleasant here on earth, to spend our
time looking for grand things to do, things that will be printed in
tomorrow's newspaper. But that is not the rhythm of Christian service.
True Christian service, as all the saints would agree, is largely on the
level of drudgery, of dry places where we yearn for God's presence, and
of taking up the towel to wash our enemies' feet. But if God is truly
working in our hearts, then even that drudgery will be transformed for
us into peace.
And in the end, all of history will be remembered and
redeemed. No act done in secret will be lost in the mists of time. No
prayers will be forgotten. Even if the generations to come lose our
name, even if all our descendents perish and our influence fades away,
God will remember. We are loved by God, and he will not allow his
children to perish. In love he is breathing eternal life into our souls,
and we will rise again. The dust of the world will be recalled, and men
who breathed the air of a younger earth will break forth from forgotten
tombs with shouts of joy. And every word and deed that they ever did
for good, no matter how small, will be seen in radiance, in crowns to be
cast at the feet of One we love.
Nothing is small to us--not because
we are important in ourselves, but because God is important, and we are
important to him. No Christian can possibly live a meaningless life. We
work and pray and live and love for the glory of God, and nothing is
small to us.