A Grief Yet Unreconciled
It is on cold days such as today when Death rears its ugly head and reminds me of the cursed words of the Creator. From dust I came; to dust I shall return.
The fate of the beasts of yore and of the men of today is the same. Birth. Decay. Death. New life. It is the story of the universe that the Maker has penned since the beginning of Creation.
It is on these ghastly days that I sympathize greatly with the YEC theologians. Though they lousily interpret the natural data; though they adamantly argue with fallacies; though they laughably exhibit a persecution syndrome. They really have no need to go to such great lengths. All they need to do is point to any gravestone; any corpse; any carcass; any fossil; and ask you to brood over the thought that the Creator would call this story “good”.
The terribly irony, of course, is that my personal disgust of the natural order actually vindicates the Creator’s attribute of ultimate goodness. How can malevolence fashion benevolence? It is as illogical as something autonomously coming from nothing.
It is thus to Him that I turn to in search of a reason for this heavier side of things. After all, in the days when He roamed the Earth in our form, He never seemed fazed in the slightest by Death. He simply called it Sleep; Rest.
But sleep and rest are transient. One goes to sleep only to wake up again. One rests only to be rejuvenated again. Certainly, the Maker was foretelling of that day that we all anticipate. That glorious day – which He also penned at the beginning of creation – when He shall return in magnificent form and complete His act of re-creation.
Without a doubt, the seasons will carry on. The words of the Creator will be fulfilled. I will continue to hope for the future.
But I cannot help but pause on days like this, perplexed about the role of the antagonist in the story of Creation. Maybe Love cannot be fully expressed without Suffering. Maybe we cannot experience Gain without first having experienced Loss. Perhaps there cannot be a New Creation without an old creation founded on Death.
I have found no fully satisfying answers. Maybe I never will on this side of Eternity.
All I can do is humble myself, remembering that I am of like age as Ian. The tree that will bear my casket is likely to have been planted already. My days are numbered. I will join him in slumber in due time.
My dry bones will join the ranks of those like him who patiently await the return of the Creator.
“Behold, I tell you a mystery; we will not all sleep, but we will all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet; for the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be transformed….”
1 Corinthians 15:51-52 (translation unknown)