Death's Victory

Hi. I’m Death. No, really.

I’m older than you think I am. Seriously. The reputation I get is so bad now, you’d think I was born when Eve bit the apple. Or whatever kind of fruit it was; it’s been so long I can’t remember. Anyways. People forget that the Tree of Life was there before the Fall. Even without sin, man wasn’t going to live forever yet. He had the chance to, sure, but part of being human is being mortal. It’s what makes you what you are.

So, when He first breathed His Breath into Adam and Adam became a living soul, I was part of the deal.

It’s different with things like us. By “us” I mean, you know, those non-physical things that you can’t see or touch and all the rest. Our creations are more off-stage. You don’t see them in Genesis 1 the way you see the physical things being made. So while He shouted out the physical, He whispered us. So there, as He was making Adam and breathing that new, unique and incomprehensible life that only Man has, I felt myself being made alongside. He stroked my invisible head, as it were, and warned me not to take things too personally. Then He called me by name. “Death,” He called me. And Death I am.

I was sad when Adam and Eve fell, really I was. I wouldn’t have minded if they’d eaten from the Tree of Life at all. But they didn’t. I waited a long time, but after a little more than 900 years, it was time. I took my time with everyone back then, thinking I was doing them a favor. But longer life is more opportunity to sin, it seems, or at least back in those days. I don’t know about now. So when things got so bad that the Lord was weeping, I was ready. I swept over the globe, surfing the flood waters, taking both man and beast that hadn’t boarded the ark. When it was done, I cried. I cried a lot. But it was okay, because He was crying too.

So, after that I just tried to look at it like a job. People live, and they live for as long as they’re made to, and then, well… me. It’s like I say, every time some asks “why now?”: You get a lifetime, same as everyone else. No more, no less. But then everyone was afraid of me. Self-preservation instinct, or something? I don’t know why. Like I said, being human equals being mortal. Tolkien got it. Really, all fallen and sinful like that? Without me the world would have been tragic. I think He knew that too, and that’s why He kicked them out of Eden, to keep them away from the other Tree. But then…

It was a long time, you know? No one knew when it was going to end, not even me. And I was getting so tired of it all. It was a hard job, keeping tabs on every one alive like that. Exhausting is bad enough, but when you add “thank-less” to that, it’s unbearable if you think about it too much. So I didn’t think about it. I happen. That’s it. I settled into a routine and carried on. When someone was born, I’d be there, and He’d tell me how long, or how, and I’d just know. Then I’d come back at the right time.

At every birth, I was there.

So I knew. I knew. I felt it. Even the physical world knew, so on my end, you couldn’t miss it. Now, I’m confined to the sphere of the Earth, and I don’t see much of the area beyond it. But when He came down into it, you couldn’t miss it on our side. Like a fire, He was, coming down—you’d think the world was about to burn from the spirit-side-in. But it didn’t. I don’t know how He did it, but suddenly He was human. Or Human, I should say. I felt Him being born. So even before I got to Bethlehem I was already sweating bullets. Oh no. No. No no no no no no. NO. It couldn’t be. It didn’t make sense.

I got to Bethlehem and knelt before His cradle. It was Him, I knew, but it was hard to believe. Here, this little pink and screaming ball of flesh, the same as every other baby I had ever seen (which is all of them)—the Lord? My Lord? I had heard that voice before; it had called me “Death” and I was. Now that same voice, reduced to the screaming wails of a wet and hungry infant.

He was. I could smell Him, feel His heart beating like every other heart ever beat, heard His lungs pumping like every other lung ever pumped. And I, the stopper of hearts and lungs and brain impulses,… it couldn’t be. This was God. He couldn’t die. But He could. I knew He could. I’m Death. I know these things.

With His little baby hand, He patted me on the head the way His Father had those years before in Eden, and whispered my name comfortingly. Then He cried, like all babies cry. And I cried like a baby, too.

He told me to stay in Bethlehem while He escaped. I did. That day…. I’m sorry, I can’t talk about that day. Suffice it to say, It had ceased to be just a job.

Fast-forward. Friday. I… I… I saw the blood pouring from every sweat gland, and they hadn’t even found Him yet. “If it be possible,” He prayed, and I prayed right there with Him. I wanted with all I was to be somewhere else, anywhere else. But I had to stay for the whole thing. With each blow I felt Him coming closer to me. I wanted to run, to simply say, “NO!” and not take Him. I’m Death. What if Death wasn’t there, huh? What then? But I didn’t dare.

He hung there on that cross, pouring and dripping like so much meat, and I still didn’t want to believe it was Him. It’s not like there hadn’t been other crucifixions before. I should be able to handle this. But this was Him. There He was, God-in-flesh, wholly Man. And humanity equals mortality.

I hemmed and hawed and delayed as long as I could. Then I took Him. He was dead. For the first time, I wished that Death were someone else. I pulled Him to me like a mother hiding her child, and I screamed and cried. I kissed His forehead where the thorns had pierced, and wrapped my arms around Him, feeling the hole in His side. He hugged me, and it tickled when my hair went into the holes in His palms. I rocked back and forth all Saturday, holding Him and wanting to let Him go but not daring, curled up in a fetal position and only kept sane from His touch. He didn’t say anything, but He didn’t need to. I knew He understood, and that was enough comfort.

Then, slowly, He drew away. I gasped and reflexively tried to hold Him, but He was too strong. He smiled and began to glow. Then I realized what was happening and let go, laughing. I watched as His body coloured and heard the heart and lungs pumping, and knew nothing would ever stop them from pumping. I was undone. He was too strong for me to hold Him, and I was never happier.

“Oh Death, where is thy sting? Oh grave, where is thy victory?”

Every so often I go back to that tomb and see it empty, and remember. This is my victory: my defeat by Him. And now for those who trust Him, I have become the Door by which they go to Him. That’s not so bad. Pretty darn good, even.

He submitted to me, and by that He conquered me. No, not conquered—subsumed. “Sweet death,” I’ve been called, “beautiful death.” Maybe. But in my heart, I’ll always be His death. There is nothing sweeter or more beautiful. I cling to that old rugged cross. I’m not stupid. Whenever they stare at the cross and remember me, it’s not me, not lil’ ol’ Death they love. They’re looking past the cross and past me to Him behind us. He’s the reason why it’s called “Good Friday,” really. Celebrating lil’ ol’ Death? Death is undone; I am nothing without Him. But then, none of us are.

So now I wait. Because when He comes back, even the endless things will end. A new universe, and He said that there would be no more Death. I can’t wait, you know? No Death. I’ll finally get to join Him in that rest He started on the seventh day. That’s all we really want, isn’t it? To rest.

Oh, for that new Heaven and new Earth… my Sabbath.

Well, I’ve said enough.

See you soon.