There's nothing quite like burying a 50-year time capsule to get you thinking about the big stuff.
Life.
Death.
Legacy.
What am I doing here and does it even really matter?
On Sunday, as part of our church's 300th anniversary celebration members of our congregation wrote personal stories and notes on colorful slips of paper. We then placed them in a time capsule with the intention of having it opened by our church's members in 2073.
Admittedly, the idea of 2073 sent my mind wandering.
Thoughts of climate catastrophes and natural disasters settled in first. Is there any way that this spot where we are burying this time capsule right now will still hold it safely in 50 years?
I hope so, was the honest answer playing in my mind as I looked at my 13-year old son sitting next to his cousins.
It was surreal periodically catching his eye as we moved through the service. The math of 50 years is unmistakable. Fifty years ago my parents were not even married yet. Fifty years from now these two people who have given so much to our church community won't be here to reopen that time capsule.
From my position up front with the praise band there were many times when I felt the tears well up as I looked out over the room of people who have been so impactful in my life. And as I felt the presence of those now gone who once occupied those church pews.
There is something deeply powerful about the way we are all connected through time and space.
I kept reminding myself to fully take in the moment, almost as if pinching myself in order to embrace the beauty of what we were doing there together.
During our service, as members came forward to place their personal notes in the time capsule we sang From the Inside Out by Hillsong United. The chorus felt particularly poignant.
Your Glory goes beyond all fame
And the cry of my heart is to bring You praise
From the inside out
Lord, my soul cries out
On my own paper, I wrote about Joe's death and how that led me to partner with my mom and others to bring the GriefShare program to our church. There have been hundreds of people who have found care and support in that space we created over these last 12 years. Joe's death was awful, but what a legacy it is that God took that worst moment in my life to speak to the worst moments of so many others.
Outside at the end of our church service, we gathered around and sang Great Is Thy Faithfulness as my nephew placed the capsule in the ground. Later that afternoon, my son and his Confirmation Class helped shovel the dirt on top of it, burying all that we had poured into those notes for the next 50 years.
My son and his classmates will be 63 years old.
If I am still alive I will be 95. I thought of this as I looked at the older members of my church and imagined myself in their shoes. I hope my life is held to be even a fraction as faithful and impactful as I have known theirs to be.
The reality is that many members of our current church congregation will have died by the time that capsule is reopened. That's tough to swallow, but if there is any lesson to be taken in from the 300 years of our church's existence, it is that a legacy built on following God endures. Things may look different 50 years from now in ways that we cannot even imagine today, but I believe in God's love and the power of community to meet that moment.
What a special gift it will be for the members of our future church to read the stories of the church of 2023. Fifty years from now, much will likely have faded, but the assurance that God's light is everlasting and that a new generation will be able to have their souls cry out encourages me beyond words.
