I just got a phone call letting me know that someone related to one of our church families has passed away. It was not wholly unexpected, but even so is still difficult and sad. And I had already received a phone call earlier today that a lady from our church who had been in hospital recovering from a stroke passed away late last night. Again, this was not a surprise, but that doesn't make it any easier. In addition to this, there are others in our church who have recently had surgery and others with serious health concerns. All serve as a reminder that our bodies are not always our friends. I'm only 35 and it's easy to think that I have a long life ahead of me. But when I see a young man 15 years younger than me going through chemotherapy and surgery, a long life is not something I can assume will be mine. We never know when our limbs, organs, bones, and flesh may betray us. We are frail creatures, living in earthen vessels.
So many people in this world live only for this life. They put all their eggs in the same earthly basket. Considering how unreliable most things in this life are, including our own bodies, that's a scary thought. I know that when I look at all the people around me who are sick, it can almost overwhelming. It can be discouraging. Sickness, disease, illness, injury, and, ultimately, death. None of it seems natural to me. It seems, instead, profoundly wrong.
I think of those Jesus healed, of the throngs of disease and demon ridden people who swarmed him: "When Jesus heard what had happened, he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place. Hearing of this, the crowds followed him on foot from the towns. When Jesus landed and saw a large crowd, he had compassion on them and healed their sick (Matt. 14:13, 14)." Even Jesus couldn't get away from it. Yet he had compassion. Well, he was the Son of God; he is compassion in bodily form. Jesus, too, it seems, recognized the profound incongruity between God's intent for creation and creation as it was: fallen, broken, misshapen, and in need of redemption.
I don't usually go about my days with a profound sense of my own mortality. I'm not sick. I feel mostly well. I have no major health problems. My physical body faces few limitations beyond those common to most. But I never really know. I could find myself facing MRIs and frightening diagnoses at any time. The funny thing is, I'm not sure why it seems to take something life-threatening to make us realize how frail we actually are. With rare exception, we live as though we are immortal, as if nothing we do to our bodies will ultimately bring us harm. No wonder those occasions when death is staring us straight in the face, whether in the mirror or through the eyes of a loved one, we find ourselves so much more vulnerable. And open. Open to the fact that God has something better in mind for us. Between creation and new creation there is a great groaning, a waiting for God to renew and remake, remold and reshape, to bring his purposes to completion. Paul speaks of this: "We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption, the redemption of our bodies (Romans 8:23)." And so the only way that I can see to put up with all this groaning--the pain, trials, illnesses, frailty, physical sufferings, diseases--is to trust that God, through Christ, will indeed redeem these earthen vessels in which we live. It's also the only way to deal with the groanings of those around, those whom we love, who in reminding us of our mortality also point the way to our hope, and "if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently."
So many people in this world live only for this life. They put all their eggs in the same earthly basket. Considering how unreliable most things in this life are, including our own bodies, that's a scary thought. I know that when I look at all the people around me who are sick, it can almost overwhelming. It can be discouraging. Sickness, disease, illness, injury, and, ultimately, death. None of it seems natural to me. It seems, instead, profoundly wrong.
I think of those Jesus healed, of the throngs of disease and demon ridden people who swarmed him: "When Jesus heard what had happened, he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place. Hearing of this, the crowds followed him on foot from the towns. When Jesus landed and saw a large crowd, he had compassion on them and healed their sick (Matt. 14:13, 14)." Even Jesus couldn't get away from it. Yet he had compassion. Well, he was the Son of God; he is compassion in bodily form. Jesus, too, it seems, recognized the profound incongruity between God's intent for creation and creation as it was: fallen, broken, misshapen, and in need of redemption.
I don't usually go about my days with a profound sense of my own mortality. I'm not sick. I feel mostly well. I have no major health problems. My physical body faces few limitations beyond those common to most. But I never really know. I could find myself facing MRIs and frightening diagnoses at any time. The funny thing is, I'm not sure why it seems to take something life-threatening to make us realize how frail we actually are. With rare exception, we live as though we are immortal, as if nothing we do to our bodies will ultimately bring us harm. No wonder those occasions when death is staring us straight in the face, whether in the mirror or through the eyes of a loved one, we find ourselves so much more vulnerable. And open. Open to the fact that God has something better in mind for us. Between creation and new creation there is a great groaning, a waiting for God to renew and remake, remold and reshape, to bring his purposes to completion. Paul speaks of this: "We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption, the redemption of our bodies (Romans 8:23)." And so the only way that I can see to put up with all this groaning--the pain, trials, illnesses, frailty, physical sufferings, diseases--is to trust that God, through Christ, will indeed redeem these earthen vessels in which we live. It's also the only way to deal with the groanings of those around, those whom we love, who in reminding us of our mortality also point the way to our hope, and "if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently."
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