Jesus,
Lord of our imagination, would you take us to the table where, as Death stalked
you, you tell your friends that anyone who has seen you has seen the Father; to
the table where you tell your friends that those who believe in you will do the
works that you do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because you
are going to the Father and will do whatever is asked in your name [that is, in
accordance with his character] so that the Father may be glorified in the Son?
Jesus,
Lord of our imagination, would you take us [in Jesus’ footsteps] to the
courtyard of the high priest’s house, where Stephen sees you, and in seeing you
sees the Father’s glory? Would you take us to the place outside the city walls
where as he lays down his life Stephen [echoing Jesus’ request on the cross] asks
that those who put him to death be forgiven? [Saul’s unexpected future will be
the evidence that Jesus has done what Stephen asks, and indeed more than he
could ask or imagine.]
Jesus,
Lord of our imagination, in the fear and the confusion, would we find ourselves
in you...
This
week we have heard the report that an inspirational young man called Stephen
had his life cut prematurely short in the most traumatic of circumstances –
circumstances that mark all of us
with death, forcing itself upon us. Despite all the stories we tell ourselves
to the contrary, Death itself refuses to die at the hands of human progress or
ingenuity. We try to control Death (that is why we so love the contained
experience of homicide fiction), but it comes for us all, and not only once, at
our end, but over and over in countless anticipations.
Again
and again, the question is asked, “Why him?” or, “Why me?” Again and again, the
questioner falls back silent, under the morphine of distraction and
entertainment, of going along with the crowd, or of telling ourselves that we
stand alone observing something that happens to other people but won’t come for
us.
And
so we bury God, as we go about our lives as if we were super-human, when at
best we are children wearing our underpants outside our trousers, with a
tea-towel tied around our neck for a cape. Children, who can’t really fly. Children, beloved.
If
God brings life out of death – which is the Easter assertion – then our deaths
become places where God is found, where God enters in, where God transforms the
world. Not just our physical death, but all the little deaths that foreshadow
that death. The thief comes to kill and to steal and to destroy, and this is the context within which Jesus
comes that we might know life in its fullest sense. Every time a relationship
between a husband and wife or a parent and child is put to death by a thousand
subtle acts of carefully planned robbery or mindless opportunistic vandalism.
Every time our confidence is put to death by failure or humiliation or
disappointment. Every gainful employment terminated by redundancy, by being ‘surplus
to requirements’. Death runs right through life.
And God is right there. A worldly – horizontal, flat
earth – perspective won’t see him. We need a heavenly perspective: we need to
look up; to look up, and to point others to Jesus.
Our
Easter hope is not that Death is of no consequence, but that the very thing
that so terrifies us has been turned inside-out. Not that Jesus died so that we
don’t have to face Death, but that Jesus died because we have to. That the thing that announces The Ultimate
Separation from God has been turned, against its will, into the way along which
Jesus leads us, rejoicing, into the Father’s presence.
We
see it in Stephen’s martyrdom, which results in the Church being released into
mission; but we also see it earlier, when he dies to a rising reputation in
order to accept a menial task, submitting his spirit to God and receiving from
God the Spirit of grace and power that works great wonders and signs through
flesh and blood.
We
see it afresh this week in the life of a young man whose dying, by degrees,
opened a gate for God to move in and through those who looked on; and whose
death, when it came, opened a floodgate of grace and power he could never have
imagined.
Ironically,
every time we deny or fight Death in our lives we unintentionally resist the
God who longs to bring life out of death; we resist the Holy Spirit who filled
Stephen to the full. This message is counter-cultural and counter-intuitive, because
we fight so hard to keep Death at bay. But it is good news, because Death is
universal.
So,
where are you facing Death today?
And,
what will you ask Jesus to do, in or through your present situation, by which
the Father might be glorified?
For
those who want to take things further:
Jesus
calls us to repent and believe. Repentance means taking on a new perspective, embracing the
perspective of heaven rather than that of the world. It involves initial observation,
deeper reflection and lively discussion. Believing
means living out heaven’s perspective in the world. It involves making a new
plan, putting in place those who will help us to live this way, and then
stepping out in faith...
Observation:
Where are you facing Death today? It might be in big and obvious ways, or small
ways.
Reflection:
Can you think of anyone whose story is recorded in the Bible who had a similar
experience of Death? Or someone known to you, whose faith you admire?
Discussion:
In what ways have you experienced God bringing life out of death in the past?
What did that new life look like? What has Jesus revealed to you through these
times?
Making
a Plan: What will it look like to embrace Death? For example, it might mean
laying down a role you have served in – or taking up a role you have resisted. And,
what will you ask Jesus to do, in or through your present situation, by which
the Father might be glorified?
Being
Accountable: Who will help you to stick to your resolve in the face of Death?
Who will be there to weep with you over the pain of death...and there to
rejoice with you over the new life God will bring to birth?
Taking
Action: Depart in peace, having seen the Lord.
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