Words That Outlast Us

In the hills of Galilee there are olive trees so old that no one alive remembers them young. Their trunks are twisted and hollow, grey as rock, and still every autumn they bear fruit. In spring the slopes around them burst with wildflowers: red anemones, yellow mustard, white chamomile. Within a few weeks the hot wind comes off the desert, and the flowers are gone. The old trees remain.

The prophet Isaiah knew that landscape and that wind. “The grass withereth, the flower fadeth,” he wrote, “but the word of our God shall stand for ever.” He was writing to people in exile. Their city had fallen. Their temple was ruined. The great empire that had defeated them looked as if it would last for ever. Isaiah's message was the opposite. The empire is the grass. God's word is what stands.

It is a sobering verse, and also a comforting one. Sobering, because it tells the truth about us. Our strength fades. Our achievements fade. The things that seemed so important at forty look different at eighty. Even the most famous names are eventually forgotten. We are, as the verse before says, like grass.

Comforting, because it does not leave us there. Something does last. Something is not at the mercy of the desert wind. The promises of God, his faithfulness, his word spoken to his people, go on long after we have gone.

Many older people know this in their bones. A grandfather in Lagos who can no longer read small print, but can recite the Twenty-third Psalm from memory, the way he learned it as a boy. A woman in a care home in Glasgow who has forgotten her children's names, but still sings every word of a hymn based on Scripture. These words have outlasted their eyesight and their memory. They are still standing.

This is one reason Scripture has mattered so deeply to human life. It is not only advice for today. It is a word that holds across generations. Your great-grandmother leaned on the same promises you can lean on now. Your grandchildren can lean on them after you are gone. The words connect us across time in a way that very little else can.

For those who are growing older, this is not a sad thought. It is a release. You do not have to make your own life last for ever. You do not have to hold everything together by your own strength. You can let the grass be grass. What matters most will stand.

And for those who are younger, it is an invitation. Build on what lasts. Learn the words now, while your memory is sharp, so they are there when you need them. Write them on cards. Sing them. Teach them to the children around you.

The flowers on the Galilean hills will bloom again next spring, and fade again. The old olive trees will still be there. And beneath them both, older than either, the word of our God will still be standing.