Consider and answer me, O LORD my God; light up my eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death.
-Psalm 13:3
Long ago, the first man and the first woman were considered by God. They asked, and God answered. Their eyes only knew light, from the God who said let there be light, and death was a word without definition. But stunned by something they’d be better off without, their blameless bodies bit bitter fruit and their open eyes were shut. Scarred by the separating shame of sin, they hid from him who considered them. The world went dark, and they knew death.
Eventually God raised up a nation. Enslaved and berated and cast down and oppressed—they knew death. They felt it in the loss of another friend, they heard it in the cries of exhausted labor, they saw it in the face of a ruler set on snuffing them out. For hundreds of years, it seemed that God had not considered them. It seemed that he would not answer. Toil and strife and sickness and death. Year after year after year after year. But he had. He considered them in the plagues that passed over their homes. He answered with a sandy path down the middle of a divided sea.
God’s people were burdened but also captivated by death. As shiny and deceptive as a golden calf, death looked like beauty to a people with little light in their eyes. Afflicted and afflicting, betrayed and betraying, corrupt and corrupting. Struggling to be free, they put others in bondage. Life was offered; death was chosen. Again and again and again. But God continued to consider. And even when they did not ask, he continued to answer. He spoke through a weeping prophet and ruled by a humble king. He answered prayers of barren and bitter and brazen women.
God considered and answered those walking in darkness. He sent Jesus, who had lightened eyes from the moment of conception, never an ounce of darkness in them. He who brought illumination at creation stepped on soil as the light of the world. Darkness replaced light every place his sandals stood. He himself was the God who considered and answered their prayers—now walking and breathing and eating among them. God from God, Light from Light.
But Jesus also knew death. He knew it in the weariness of his decaying body, in the faces of those cast out of society, in the uncontrollable tears of Martha and Mary. He knew it when the silver was traded and the cup didn’t pass and the crowds cried out for someone else. He knew it when the mockers mocked and the floggers flogged. He knew it when friends fled and leaders failed and enemies rejoiced. He knew it when crucifixion was shouted and the crown was twisted. He knew it when whips pierced his bloody body, when nails stabbed his fleshly hands, when sour wine touched his lips, when all the light left his eyes. Jesus—the Resurrection and the Life—slept in death. For us, God considered him unclean, undressed, unknown, unheard. For us, the light of the world embraced darkness.
Three days later, sunlight streamed over the garden and his eyes lit up again. He was raised. Quietly, faithfully, victoriously—he was raised. Light entered the cave where he was buried. Light entered the eyes of Mary and Peter and Thomas. The Spirit came and the early church exploded and despite darkness the light continued to spread. But soon persecution came by way of thrown stones and murderous breaths. The first Christians knew death. Light blinded Saul on the road to Damascus. The one who made the first Christian sleep in death later faced death all day long for the sake of the light.
The light continued to spread from one nation to many. Today light floods the eyes of mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers all over the earth. The mission of one man goes forth by the hands and feet of many. They speak his words, they give his gifts, they cry his tears. Yet there’s still a palpable grief that the world can’t run away from. Unborn babies and orphaned children and depressed friends. Cancer and suicide. Alzheimer’s and starvation. Car wrecks, overdose, and violence. The church today knows death. We whisper, “I’m sorry” and we cry, “How long?” and we sigh because words are not enough. But God still considers us. Our God still answers us. The church today knows death, but not for long.
Because when Jesus comes like a thief in the night, wrapped in all his glorious light, we will not know death. When we see his face shining like the sun in full strength, when we see his eyes full of light like flames of fire, we will not know death. A memory at best, death will be replaced by life and darkness by light. Loss will give way to fullness, joy will replace grief, confidence will displace shame, and community will overcome isolation. Death itself will sleep in death, its only evidence seen in the scarred palms of a resurrected Messiah. We’ll inhabit a city where God is its light. Feasting and singing and playing and dancing. Heaven will meet earth when the church meets her bridegroom, and we will not know death anymore.
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