Death. There is only…death. It is cruel, unforgiving, and
sadistic. It shows no discrimination, striking down the old and young, strong
and weak, beautiful and plain, intelligent and dull, upright and immoral, godly
and pagan. None can withstand its call…a shrill whisper at the end of a weary
life, seemingly passive but unavoidable…or the sharp note of a gunshot, suddenly
ripping a young soldier from all of his hopes, dreams, and fears. Like Hera of
old, once it fixes its jealous eyes on someone, there is no escape. There are
none who can withstand its power. Not Caesar in all his might and oratory, nor MLK
with his vision and dreams. Not Methuselah in his long life, nor Solomon in his
wisdom. As history all too clearly demonstrates, death spares no creed or
nation. All, even the most vibrant, at some point are struck down. There is no
ritual or offering that can soothe its insatiable lust. The most terrifying of
conquerors, the most persuasive of speakers, and the wisest of priests…they all
must answer that darkest of calls.
“No one can confidently say that he will still be living
tomorrow.” Euripides recognized this truth, one which all too often we lose
sight of. Death can be just a diagnosis or accident away. Only when forced to
confront with it do we truly realize its power. It is painful, tortuous. Others
fear it for what it symbolizes: the unknown. But what I have realized these
past couple months is that one of its greatest weapons is not pain or darkness,
but rather separation. Actually, I
think pain and darkness are not so much different as they are symptoms of
separation. The pain as we are torn from our loved ones. The darkness of
stepping away from our world into the unknown.
It has been over 13 years since the wife of a godly man,
good friend to many, daughter to a proud father, and mother to 4 children was
separated from all of them. She passed after years of fighting a cancer that
literally turned the cells of her own body against her. It separated me from my
mom before I even turned 7. It has, is, and will always haunt me in ways I
can’t fully describe.
This semester, I have watched as one of the people I care
about most has suffered an unimaginable amount of pain. Separation from one
loved one after another. Death invaded…striking again and again and again. I have
been pinned to the sidelines…so frustrated by my helplessness. On the rare
occasions that I have talked to people about my mom, they have always agreed
that what I had gone through would enable me to help others when they go
through similar intense pain. But what I’ve realized is that though that is
true to a certain extent, everyone processes pain in different ways. Death has
a way of uniquely burning each of us. And although I would gratefully suffer in
this person’s place, I am not afforded that opportunity. Death has a habit of
being unfair like that.
Sometimes the weight of it all can crush me. The staggering
amount of pain and suffering in the lives of people I care about and in the
world at large. As someone who loves to solve problems and help those in pain,
it angers me that I am so limited in what I can do. I may do one good thing but
in its place, 5 more problems and painful situations appear. Death sees me and
laughs in my face. My feeble attempts to help must be humorous in light of the power
it wields.
But I (and this is by far the most crucial part) am not
alone. If I was, I honestly think there is a good chance I would reject all
restraints and pursue a hedonist lifestyle. If death is the highest power, why
struggle against it? I may as well just enjoy what little time I have. But this
is fundamentally wrong. Death is not the highest power. It was defeated by Jesus
Christ, perhaps the most well-known, yet equally misunderstood person in the
history of the human race. Jesus is a lot of things: the Son of God, the 2nd
Person in the Trinity, the Messiah, the Savior, the only being who somehow
managed to be both 100% God and 100% man at the exact same time. I gave up
trying to understand how it all works with the overused, but nonetheless true
statement that sometimes God’s ways are higher than mine. He writes in
languages I simply don’t understand.
But when discussing death, I think Jesus is fundamentally
something else. At the base of it all, He is The Conqueror. Death’s greatest
accomplishment, the slaying of Jesus Himself, was also its undoing. Just a few days
after His death on the Cross, Jesus resurrected. I really would venture no
guesses as to Jesus’ sense of humor, but if He ever employed sarcasm, I think
this would be the time. Face to face with death: “Nice try fella, but no cigar…”
His essence, His “Godness” could not be conquered. And His victory provides a
power to us that is beyond the scope of our understanding. He took the greatest
of worldly powers and crushed it. Now the scenario has drastically changed.
Death may laugh at me, but then I call upon my Savior, the greatest King and
Conqueror to ever walk this earth. And when death sees Him behind me, I imagine
it turns pale and trembles.
All this provides comfort in a way that nothing else can.
Does it still hurt to witness the impact of all this death? Yes, of course it
does. Is it still a struggle to avoid being completely disheartened and
depressed by the immense amount of pain my friend is in? Yes, of course it is.
Do I still feel helpless? Yes, of course I do. Does any of this change what has
happened? Does it make the pain go away? Do we suddenly not grieve for the
loved ones we have lost? No, no, and no. But it does mean that when death and
pain overwhelm us, and when we are lying on the ground because we are too weak
to kneel, we can mourn and rage and cry in the power of Jesus. We can
acknowledge our weakness and fall into His Strength. I confess that all too
often I can do nothing but tell God that I am vehemently angry at Him for what
He has done to me in my life or to my friend. But even when I am angry,
confused, frustrated, and hurt, God remains. He is. And although this semester
has been far from happy, I can be joyful. I’m not going to fake smiles when I
don’t feel them, but life isn’t about happiness anyways. Even if it was, I can’t
choose to be happy. I can, however, choose to strive for joy. I can choose to
recognize that through all my anger, sadness, doubt, and confusion, Christ is there.
And at the end of all things, is that not all that truly matters?
