No one can come to me unless the Father who sent me draws him. John 6:44

Recently I attended another high school reunion – our 55th. We have these gatherings every five years, but because of Covid the last one was four years ago. So, our much anticipated 50th ended up being 51 years after graduation.

Even in the four years since the last reunion, we had lost some classmates, and I don’t imagine we’ll get to the next reunion without losing more. The most recent loss was John, whose passing had shocked everyone – a sudden heart attack in the middle of his workout at the gym, and he was gone.

I thought surely by now my former classmates would be pondering their own mortality, the rapidly passing time, and whether or not there was anything awaiting them after this life. I fully expected numerous opportunities to share my faith in my resurrected Savior.

John’s “celebration of life” was an event attended by hundreds of people. Musicians played classical music, a choir sang “What a Wonderful World,” a soloist sang a Cat Stevens song, and for two hours people reminisced about John – his athleticism, his success in business, his philanthropy, his humor. Stories were shared about this wonderful, funny, successful, athletic, generous person – who has now left this world forever.

I listened for some hint of John’s faith, any mention of God, heaven, eternity, any shred of hope offered to the people there, all of whom will also leave this life very soon. But there was nothing – not even the generic mention of “a better place.”

At the reunion dinner that followed, people talked about how wonderful the service had been. All I remembered was a hollow performance. I tried to express my thoughts to my friend Laurie about the hope of life after death, but she adamantly insisted that by remembering John, in a sense, we’re keeping him alive. I was baffled that I seemed to be the only person wanting more than fading memories of me after I leave this world.

Laurie and I later encountered a couple of people we had known in our school days, who were just saying goodbye to another man I didn’t recognize. This man was unusually thin and frail and was breathing oxygen from a small tank. (I later learned he was in hospice care.) After he was out of earshot, one of the others said, “He asked me, ‘How’s your spiritual life?'” with an expression of amazement that said he thought that was the strangest thing anyone had ever asked him. (I was touched that he had dragged himself to the reunion for one last ditch effort to reach his former classmates before his own departure.)

Laurie laughed, “I’m glad he didn’t ask me!” Then she looked at me and added, “He should have asked Ann!”

The others looked at me curiously, and I responded, “As a matter of fact, the older I get, the more important those things are to me…”

But no one asked me to elaborate. The subject was changed quickly, and the conversation continued as if I had left the building.

During the other events of that weekend, I reconnected with former classmates with a growing awareness of how fleeting time is. The boys who had proudly flaunted their long hair in high school now have much less of it. One of my girlfriends has Parkinson’s. Several of “the girls” didn’t make it to St. Louis, either because of sudden health issues of their own or a health emergency involving their husbands. Some are now widowed. And of course, some we will never see again in this life.

How can they be so indifferent to the speed at which we are all careening towards eternity?

Generally speaking, with a couple of exceptions, which I’ll write about next time, I returned from the reunion feeling let down. And baffled that so many people in this stage of life seem to have no concern whatsoever about the future, even after seeing a classmate “in excellent health” be working out in the gym one moment and gone the next. (Where is John now???) Many had also seen an old friend about to leave this life who is perfectly at peace – God bless him. – but appeared unimpressed.

Back in Louisville, I met with my book group to discuss R. C. Sproul’s Chosen by God. I still struggle with the Calvinistic view that some of us are chosen, others aren’t. But it might be starting to make sense to me in light of recent experience. I’ve long known we can’t save ourselves by our own efforts; we’re saved through faith, not works. But is it true that we can’t even believe without God’s help? According to Ephesians, apparently yes.

“For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God.” Ephesians 2:8

Could it be that most of the people I encountered that weekend had no interest in thinking about God, because they were quite literally unable to? From all appearances, these people didn’t know Him – and didn’t care. Had I been looking into the faces of dead souls? And if they had no ability to even be interested in spiritual things, much less grasp them, that meant there was nothing I could have said to make them interested, unless the Lord Himself opened their minds.

That doctrine always puzzled me before, probably because I can’t imagine being indifferent to God – I have wanted to know Him for as long as I can remember. And as this life’s end is looming on the horizon, I can’t imagine not caring what comes next. But according to Sproul and others, we can’t even care without His help.

I’m still pondering these things, but for now, I have no other explanation.

Prayer: Lord, thank You for giving us the gift of salvation, even though none of us deserves it. Thank You for the gracious gift of faith which enables us to have this relationship with to You, the faith which drew us to You in the first place. Please open the hearts and minds of those we love. Draw them, as well, so that they, too, may find eternal life in You. And help us to be faithful witnesses, even in frustrating times. In Jesus’ name, amen.