News of G______’s death brought to mind the death of my father, my mother in law, recently my aunt, and how many others that I’ve been with as pastor. Each one is different, the rituals bring pattern to the chaos.
I’ve spent the last two months very much “out there” in the kind of chaotic diversity that the Internet seems to foster. Every week I receive multiple letters from individuals from all over the world looking for advice, consolation, or just as face they see on a screen willing to hear them through text. I am astounded by the diversity of ideas, situations, perspectives, schemes to grab life from the tumult.
So much of chatter is intellectual and theoretical. It feels so important, sometimes self-important. We are so full of ourselves and our ideas. Oh how crucial we all pretend it all to be.
Then Death comes through the door, it seldom knocks. It comes uninvited, unwanted. We try to hold it out, keep it at bay. We try to hide but it always, eventually has us, takes us, rips us from our scared and panicked family. It is a brute.
Amid the chatter one man, a humble man, one who doesn’t extinguish the smoldering wick or break the bruised reed is present. In a Christian home the brute walks past this one with scarred hands and side. The brute glances, looks away quickly, and does his dirty deed. The brute is quiet before this humble man. The world lives in terror before the brute but the brute’s only fear is of Him.
Amid the chatter of politics and wars and self-importance this one Son of Man stands quietly, alone, waiting for the Day. We wait for that Day with Him.
