Life is nothing but death’s hallway; and our pilgrimage on earth is but a journey to the grave. The pulse that preserves our being beats our death march, and the blood which circulates our life is floating it forward to the deeps of death. Today we see our friends in health, tomorrow we hear of their death. Only yesterday, we shook hands with the strong man, and today we close his eyes. We rode in a chariot of comfort only an hour ago, and in a few more hours the black hearse must carry us to the home of the living. Oh, how closely allied is death to life! The little lamb that plays in the field must soon feel the knife. The cow that lows in the pasture is fattening itself for the slaughter. Trees only grow to be cut down. Yes, and greater things than these feel death. Empires rise and flourish; they flourish only to fall into decay, they rise to fall. How often do we take up a history book, and read of the rise and fall of empires. We hear of the coronation and the death of kings. Death is the black servant who rides behind the chariot of life. See life and death is close behind it. Death reaches far throughout this world, and has stamped all terrestrial things with an arrow pointing to the grave. Stars die; it is said that large and destructive fires have been seen in outer space, and astronomers have marked the funerals of planets-the decay of those mighty spheres, that we had imagined set forever in sockets of silver, to glisten as the lamps of eternity.
But blessed be God, there is one place where death is not life’s brother-where life reigns alone; “to live” is not the first syllable which is to be followed by the next, “to die.” There is a land where the death bells are never tolled, where grave clothes are never put on, where graves are never dug. Blessed land beyond the skies! To reach it, we must die.
It has been an interesting and challenging two years. I am sure that many who read this would say that their lives are more challenging than mine. However, this is not a “pity me” post. Quite to the contrary, my hope is that some who are experiencing difficulties would read this post and be encouraged to worship and enjoy the God of mercy and grace.
It was a little over two years ago that my wife lost her cousin to ovarian cancer. Shortly after that event we found out that her brother had colon cancer that had moved to his liver. He died a bit over a year ago. During that time we found out that my wife had cancer. And, after the proceedures and surgery we found out that the insurance company refused to cover any of the costs. Then, Ruth’s father was diagnosed as having a tumor on his brain. And then, about one year ago my brother was diagnosed with cancer. And then my aunt was twice diagnosed with lung cancer and sarcoma in her leg. In several of these cases, death was the result while in other cases the battle is still ongoing.
On another front, I am reminded again and again that being a pastor is a call to die. Christ died for his bride and I am called to be the protector of his sheep. That demands death.
Why do I mention all this when many who may read this do not know me nor will ever know me? because of what the Lord has taught me repeatedly through these experiences. A dear friend pointed me to a song a number of months ago that has continued to challenge and encourage me when I find I am shrinking my life down to the size of my life rather than seeking to glorify Jesus Christ. It is an old hymn written by William Cowper:
God moves in a mysterious way
God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea
And rides upon the storm.
Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never failing skill
He treasures up His bright designs
And works His sov’reign will.
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy and shall break
In blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.
His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flow’r.
Blind unbelief is sure to err
And scan His work in vain;
God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.