Carpe Diem!

I used to introduce my seminary students to the Old Testament with a scene from the film Dead Poets Society. Perhaps you remember it. Robin Williams as John Keating leads his students out of the classroom and into the hallway lined with trophy cases and photographs of alumni long gone. He has a student read a few lines of poetry and then invites the class to lean in close to those faded faces staring out from decades past.

"Now I would like you to step forward over here and peruse some of the faces from the past. You’ve walked past them many times. I don’t think you’ve really looked at them.

"They're not that different from you, are they?" Keating observes. "Same haircuts. Full of hormones, just like you. Invincible, just like you feel. The world is their oyster. They believe they're destined for great things, just like many of you. Their eyes are full of hope, just like you."

Then comes the hard question: "Did they wait until it was too late to make from their lives even one iota of what they were capable? Because you see gentlemen, these boys are now fertilizing daffodils."

He pauses, letting that reality settle, before leaning in himself: "But if you listen real close, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you. Go on, lean in. Carpe. Hear it? Carpe. Carpe Diem. Seize the day boys, make your lives extraordinary."

The Old Testament often feels like that trophy case. Ancient languages, strange customs, and genealogies that make your eyes glaze over. We walk past it the way Keating’s students walked past those photographs, acknowledging its presence but never really looking at it. Never really listening.

Isaiah and Jeremiah, Ruth and Esther, Moses and Miriam wrestled with the same fundamental questions we do. What does it mean to live faithfully in an uncertain world? How do we respond to injustice? What do we do with our doubts, our anger, our despair, while still learning how to love, trust, and hope? How do we keep going when everything falls apart?

They felt invincible sometimes, just like we do. And yes, they also failed, compromised, lost faith, and gave up. They are also now 'fertilizing daffodils,' as Keating would say.

But here is what matters: while the ancient prophets wrote the Old Testament long ago, they wrote it for us. Generation after generation preserved the texts because they found in them something essential, even life-giving, that pointed them to Christ.

The prophets who called out injustice and championed the poor still speak to our age of inequality. The Psalmists who gave voice to despair, rage, and joy modeled for us what faith looks like. The narratives of Genesis and Exodus, stories of patriarchs and matriarchs, of slavery and liberation, of wilderness and promised land, help us understand covenant, the Lord's promises, mortal trials, and our eventual return to Him, themes that shape every human life.

Keating's invitation to his students was simple but profound: lean in. Do not just glance or acknowledge, but actually look and listen.

The Chartres Cathedral (Chartres, France)
statues of Melchizedek, Abraham (with Isaac), Moses, Samuel and David

The Old Testament extends the same invitation. Ancient voices whisper their legacy across the centuries, but we have to lean in to hear them, to slow down, pay attention, and resist the urge to dismiss what seems strange or difficult. We have to read with curiosity rather than judgment, with an open heart rather than defensiveness.

I find when I do this, when I really lean in, something remarkable happens. I do not learn just about ancient history; I learn about God's Plan, about what it means to be His covenant daughter, and about how to find redemption when I fall short.

Keating's haunting question lingers: "Did they wait until it was too late to make from their lives even one iota of what they were capable?"

The Old Testament asks each of us a similar question: Will we engage deeply, or will we coast on the surface? Will we let the ancient voices teach us, challenge us, and expand our perspective of what discipleship is? Or will we keep walking past, acknowledging its existence but never really looking and listening?

Carpe diem, indeed. The voices are there, waiting. Whispering their legacy. Inviting us to lean in.