It has been said that life is like entering a very long movie that has already started and then learning that you have to leave it before it ends. It is at once an analogy I appreciate and find troubling. As a Christian, it is the reality, and the hope, I profess: “My days are like the evening shadow; I wither away like grass. But you, O LORD, sit enthroned forever; your renown endures through all generations.”(1) Even so, entering a movie already started and leaving before it ends also means that I could entirely miss the point.
Every time I read St. Augustine’s Confessions I seem to come uncomfortably face to face with myself, and with it, the thought that someone has already told my story—or at least very real parts of it. It is this shock of recognition that wakes me to my own pride and makes real the danger of missing the point. In Augustine, as in countless others who have wrestled with God long before me, I am reminded that I am a small character in a much greater story. I have entered a movie that has already started, and to my surprise, it’s not all about me.
What if there is a vast stage full of lives who have wrestled with questions quite similar to your own? Men and women who have gone before you may well have lived with the same doubts and faith, pains and hope. Many have lived aware, often more than we are, of life as it existed before them and time that would march beyond them. Many have lived to “tell the old, old story,” that they might take it in to their own. For they saw with the writer of Ecclesiastes that it is important to realize there is “nothing new under the sun,” lest we miss the sun entirely by focusing only on the shadows we watch it cast. They saw that it is important we see the momentaryness of our lives specifically because there is a permanence to life itself, a story with an end and a beginning.
Jesus once turned to his disciples and said, “Blessed are the eyes that see what you see. For I tell you that many prophets and kings wanted to see what you see but did not see it, and to hear what you hear but did not hear it” (Luke 10:22-23). The disciples were seeing in the present all that kings and prophets looked for at a distance. Yet even those who walked intimately with Christ were not always aware of all there was to see. Chances are good we are missing him too.
If life is like entering a movie that has already started and leaving before it ends, it is important to look both behind us and ahead of us in order to see what is in front of us. There is only one place in Scripture where God is referred to as the “Ancient of Days” but it significantly comes from the lips of one indelibly marked by the present. “As I looked,” says Daniel describing a dream, “thrones were set in place, and the Ancient of Days took his seat. His clothing was as white as snow; the hair of his head was white like wool. His throne was flaming with fire, and its wheels were all ablaze” (7:9). This one addressing God as sovereign over days long before his own is someone who could have been overwhelmed with the small picture of life before him. Jerusalem was in ruins; God’s people were scattered. Daniel could have easily viewed his situation as being stuck somewhere in the middle of a movie he wasn’t happy with, yet he chose to see beyond the troubling scene in which he was living. And he saw the “Ancient of Days” in the midst of the days he was given.
We, too, have entered a story that has already started and we may very well leave before it ends. But we can still live with sight beyond our own—looking back at lives of faith and God in history, gazing forward at all that God has promised, seeing all that God has placed before us. Though the picture before us seems unfair, or life is not what we bargained for, there is a story. Our lives may be like the evening shadow, but they are lived within a greater tale.
Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.
(1) Psalm 102:11-12.