Legends of the Fall

I not only love the season of Autumn but love to contemplate the reasons why. Why am I thrilled by the chill in the air? Why are my spirits lifted by falling leaves? Why does my face light up at the thought of the dawning of the dark? I used to think it was simple nostalgia. In my youth fall represented a glorious season of festivals and celebrations, as well as a glorious season of glorious seasons for my Pittsburgh Steelers. Who wouldn’t love to be reminded by every pumpkin, every red, orange and yellow leaf, of the blessings of childhood? Who wouldn’t follow the fecund scent of rotting leaves all the way back to the hundred acre woods?

I have come to believe, however, that my joy in fall is less due to days gone by, more looking forward to days of rest. Many, I’m sad to say, though I do understand, see in autumn only death. Barren corn stalks, the crunch of acorns underfoot, even the dying of the light all point like the Ghost of Christmas Future to our own graves. For we who believe, however, this is a good thing. Is it possible that I look back to the glories of fall because I look forward to the rest that awaits us?

There will be, in the new heavens and the new earth no more death. This, I suspect, doesn’t mean, however, that there will be no more cycles. Just as our weeks, even in the garden, moved from work to rest, so might our eons in the garden city of the New Jerusalem move from work to rest, to work and to rest. Because work existed in the garden before the fall, albeit free of pain, thorns and thistles, I believe it will exist in eternity. Because our world is so marred by sin, I confess I don’t know what it will look like.

Those of you who are sorry to see Summer pass, well, I don’t get it but I don’t suppose I need to. I would like to invite you to join us in the Fall Party. Pay no attention to the circadian rhythms of commerce, where July 5 is when they start displaying Halloween costumes and Thanksgiving gets swallowed by Christmas. No, wait for that first evening when you, before heading out on that errand, grab a jacket to push back the nip. Wait for the wafting odor not of hamburgers on a grill but leaves being sacrificed as an offering in some neighbor’s yard. Wait for the first time this year you burn your tongue on hot apple cider.

Then, give thanks. Then acknowledge that this is the season of our utter content. Bring in the harvest. Put up the yield. Raise your glasses and your voices in thanksgiving to the Lord of the Dance. And when winter comes, we’ll do it all again.