Life is lived between death and the hope to beat it. When the walls close in it’s always the impending power of death tapping, whispering, and on rare occasions, pounding on our shoulder. Death doesn’t need to shout. Death doesn’t need to strut. Every time we lose something, something we really cling to, death smiles. Whether it’s a job, a friend, a pet, a spouse, a child, a hope or a dream, when we lose it it’s as if death callously makes the maching chalkboard motion in the air “score one more for my team”.
The only hope in the face of such overwhelming and unmatched odds is the death of God.
On this Holy Saturday morning I spent some time re-reading sections of Alan Lewis’s masterful book on the subject. This quote was worth the time spent:
…Easter Saturday determines not only how we handle our mortality as such, whether we are cowardly or courageous in the face of termination; it is also the measure of our maturity as individuals anywhere upon life’s spectrum. To be mature is not just to live authentically with decay, disease, and bodily death, but to be a person who at any age or stage has died already and so has been raised to life anew, and who keeps growing, through every age and stage, by learning more deeply how to die each day.