Death belongs to God, but what belongs to death?

Ephesians chapter 2
And you were dead in your trespasses…following the prince of the power of the air…and were by nature children of wrath. But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ– by his grace you have been saved.

Yes, death belongs to God, but what belongs to death?

I was influenced by a sermon from Rev. Fleming Rutledge, given Nov. 2, 2015 and recent personal events to consider the purpose of death– last week my grandmother Mary Louise Garrison passed from death to life at the age of 83. She died in Swansea, Illinois; her husband Wendell and my dad were by her side. Later that afternoon in conversation with my dad, he said that it was the most important moment of her life. I thought this statement to be immediately wrong, at least odd and morbid. But I couldn’t plainly argue it. Said with respect for Mary, his statement begs me to ponder the sanctity of death, and both the gift and debt it awards.

There is a distinction in the New Testament between spiritual death and physical death. Jesus says that incremental physical dying and death conclusively are the only possible ways in which to be with God. It is made clear that one can be dying before our eyes, but raging with spiritual vitality– think of Saint Stephen as he is being stoned to death, lucid, seeing with spiritual eyes unclouded, the glory of Christ in heaven. By constrast, spiritual death is never spoken of as a benefit in itself. Scripture (and our inner voice) confirm this; sin is not in itself the means to God, and we certainly do not draw closer to God when we inflict others with pain and death (physical or spiritual). But when physical death is accepted (death ultimatley or incrementally in our self-sacrifice for the good) it is a tool that can humble us, and in accepting it we are capable of receiving the grace of Christ.

So I ask myself again, what do I owe death for I know in my marrow that it does not love me. Yes, I’m certain that I am in its debt, beyond any hope of leniency. Yet, it still somehow hints to me a promise of life.

To death first, I owe solemn awe – Only subordinate to God, Death, holds the highest place of power in this universe. (FRutledge)

Indeed, ironically, I owe my life to death. In the sense that, all the life I can muster is only relevant if I appreciate the dominion and approach of my own death. We are told (although not enough) that our humanity depends on our acceptance of death (although the quality of this humanity is not made clear in the statement, it assumes that we would cease to be human if we ignore or could avoid death).

Given its power and finality, it should be of no surprise to me that it is a deep well of various and powerful motivation. We can agree that death inspires our best work, our most honest words. It also propels waves of heartache, manic fear, it justifies greed and inflames power. It embodies everything we hate. It is openly despised, and yet it has become increasingly unpopular to publicly admit that one hopes for something else. Death, and maybe economics, are the two most influential forces over our actions. Death is no muse, no poetic theme, or area of study– it is the volatile and flammable ether we cannot escape. We are submerged. We long for it to be unreal, but death is the principal and conclusion of every constraint.

So why honor it with reverence?
Because those who refuse to acknowledge their own present and future death will not be able to recognize the life presently offered them. In the parable of the two sons in Luke chapter 15, Rutledge points out that the biggest threat to the soul wasn’t sin or death in itself. The prodigal son was revived, rather quickly, and brought out of sin and back into the security of his father’s house (despite how flagrantly selfish he had been). The prodigal son’s brother, virtuous and hardworking, was doomed because he perceived himself to be self-sustaining. He refused to admit that he, like his prodigal brother, was sinful, needy, and dying. His refusal of this death (this end of himself) makes love and any sense of peace impossible for him. It’s as if the outer gates are closed to him, yet he’s standing in the middle of the banquet hall. His father addresses this. He says to his son, these gifts I give to your brother, they have always been yours. More importantly, I have always been in your midst– feasts/joy/affection were at your command, but you have never indulged in me! If Jesus is saying here that our lives are small, is death then of any more significance to us?

Jesus Christ demonstrated that life-to-the-fullest was a life of perpetual love and self-sacrifice (or in other terms: death to self). This seems dreadful from my perspective, until I encounter Love and experience those rare and beautiful moments passing through death to an unveiled and harmonious communio with him.

Christ has not only demonstrated the usefulness of death, but he has also secured our victory over it. I confess with the church Christ’s death and resurrection, and in desperation I turn to him and ask him to make me alive. In confidence I can nod to death and I use it for all its good for. I breathe it in deeply and I acknowledge that it is a supreme privilege to commune around the death of a saint.