"All is futility," Ecclesiastes often observes, "all is futility."  I thought of this phrase anew a couple of years ago when I was privileged to take in an exhibition of the famous Terracota Warriors of Chinese emperor Qin Shi Huang.  Ordered by the emperor to guard him in his afterlife, these 7,000 soldiers--infantry, charioteers, generals, and more--have stood silently for thousands of years, protecting a monarch long since gone.  Until a farmer, preparing the soil for his summer crop, stumbled upon them in 1974, no one living was aware of their existence.

     

     We marvel at the pyramids of Egypt, their power and majesty; we swoon over the beauty of the Taj Mahal; we find astonishment in the massive crypt of Halicarnassus; and we wonder:  why?  Sure, we do well to remember the departed, and yes, we are grateful to recall their presence in their lives, and yet we are also aware that once they are gone, they are gone.  Qin Shi Huang, the Egyptian pharaohs, and countless other royalty have gone to tremendous lengths to ensure a meaningful afterlife.
         Why?  Because it's so very hard to let go of what we see for what we cannot.  Death hovers before us as a engimatic abyss.  We cannot stop it, we cannot halt it.  It's always with us.    As are we ourselves.  Then why futility?