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A poem by Emily Dickinson:
Because I could not stop for Death
Because I could not stop for Death – He kindly stopped for me – The Carriage held but just Ourselves – And Immortality.
We slowly drove – He knew no haste And I had put away My labor and my leisure too, For His Civility –
We passed the School, where Children strove At Recess – in the Ring – We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – We passed the Setting Sun –
Or rather – He passed us – The Dews drew quivering and chill – For only Gossamer, my Gown – My Tippet – only Tulle –
We paused before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground – The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –
Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horses' Heads Were toward Eternity – Because I could not stop for death. We’re too busy being ourselves, making our plans, living our lives. We don’t factor in death. That’s absurd. That’s morbid. Death doesn’t fit into our schedules. Isn’t death our greatest enemy? Isn’t death final? Because I could not stop for Death – He kindly stopped for me – Emily Dickinson personifies death. He kindly stopped for me. How is death kind? The inevitability of death looms over us. As surely as night follows day. Regardless of whether or not we’re able to stop for death, all of us have an appointment that will be kept. A great cloud of irony and paradox swirls around death. On the one hand, no one wants to die. But who truly wants to go on living indefinitely or even forever as we are in the here and now, in this world? Who wants to go on year after year paying taxes – which, by the way are the only other certainty in life. Who wants to go on year after year either working at a job, or being retired? Who wants to go on year after year with aches and pains, sickness and disease, traffic jams, things that break, spoiled milk. Yes, there’s all kinds of good things in life, too, but we can’t have them without all the other things. But then, who wants to die, either? It is not the inevitability of death that we should notice, but the necessity of death. God allowed humans to die out of His great mercy, as well as punishment for sin. Once humanity had fallen, natural immortality would be the one utterly hopeless destiny for us.
And yet Jesus calls our attention to the necessity of death: in order for a seed to bear fruit, it must fall into the ground and die. And Jesus died. And His death bore much fruit. Without His death, we would be lost. Jesus spoke of His crucifixion as the means by which He would draw all humanity to Him. It is by His death that we are saved. As Christians, we are to die with Christ. In fact, we are to do everything that Jesus did. It’s almost as if the Christian faith is like a synchronized swim team. Jesus is the lead and all Christians synchronize their movements with Him. Jesus preached the Gospel. We preach the Gospel. Jesus fed the hungry. We feed the hungry. Jesus healed. Through us, He continues to heal. When Jesus dives down into the dark depths, we dive down with Him. And when He rises again, up to the light of the surface, to breath again, we rise with Him. A certain kind of death is necessary for us as Christians. We are to die to self. That thing within us, that could not stop for death, that part of us that is too busy loving our lives in this world must die. Something in us must die in order for us to live: there’s that paradox again. Without death, we cannot live. We must surrender. The self must be crucified. The raising of Lazarus is one of Jesus’s signs in the Gospel of John. It may also be seen as a forecast of His own impending death. Jesus told us that He can only do what He sees His Father doing, and that His Father and He are always at work. These signs, these miraculous acts of great power over nature and even death itself reveal to us the mind, heart, power and intention of God. When we see Jesus weep, we see the broken heart of God. When we see Jesus raise someone from death, we see God’s intention for all of us. When we see Jesus healing, we see God restoring what was lost. Death is necessary, but it is by no means final. It doesn’t matter how kindly it may stop for us.
Jesus led the way. His soul was troubled at the prospect of his death on the Cross. The thought of asking His Father to deliver Him from it crossed His mind. As a man Jesus had a self. It called to him. His self wanted to preserve itself. It wanted to survive. But Jesus went to His death anyway in loving obedience to His Father’s will and out of love for us. Courage does not mean having no fear at all. Courage means being afraid and then doing what must be done anyway. We began Lent on Ash Wednesday with a mark of the cross on our foreheads to remind us of our mortality. “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” And we are to mortify our sinful nature. Starve it so that it dies. Deny ourselves as Christ denied Himself. During Lent the things we give up are much more symbolic than real. When Lent is over, we go back to the things we gave up. Dying to self, denying oneself is a lifetime proposition. It is a way of living. Instead of living according to our own will, we live according to God’s will. It’s living as though life and the world are not about us. It’s all about God. It’s living as His representative on earth, not mine. It’s living so that others see Him and come to know Him. John said, “I must decrease, so that He may increase.” And so must we all. And that takes a certain kind of death. We die with Him in order to rise with Him. Because as surely as day follows night, Easter follows Good Friday, and life eternal follows our momentary death. Amen.
