The Dead Can’t Be Killed

Growing up with a chronic illness, she never realized how precarious her life was. 

Until, that is, the night 18 years ago when her frailty solidified with a single threat. From the dark, a diabolic voice announced this simple promise: 

“I’m going to kill you.” 

She heard the voice clearly, understood it with certainty. She could no more deny it than she could deny her trembling limbs. 

Seized both by low blood sugar and bone-deep dread, she believed the words without question. She lay prostrate, writhing. 

It was all she could do. 

In a state of extreme low blood sugar, the brain prioritizes systems to maintain life. It steals glucose from muscles, convulsing them both to fuel itself and to maintain the heart and lungs. It pauses memory and reasoning, reverting to basic survival.

It does not permit any argument. It does not allow positive thinking, deep breathing, or calm meditation. 

It is too late for that, and all systems focus solely on survival until the blood sugar rises again. 

So hearing the voice, the murderous threat rang true enough to be believed. She moaned in painful uncertainty, forgetting who (and whose) she was. 

(Sometimes, friend, we need others to remember for us.)

Her husband of five years did not forget. He did all he could to feed her sugar, to no effect. He worked for long minutes turning to what felt like days. 

Her body continued to convulse. She could not walk. She could not speak. She could not even cooperate. 

She breathed, and that was all her body would allow. 

But her husband was no mere man. He was not stuck in fear and futility. He was (and is) a man of God, ruled and reigned and loved by the Creator, and he realized with sudden fury that this was a body battle and a spiritual battle. 

Unaware of the verbal threat, he nevertheless had a moment of clarity, announcing to the darkness: 

“You spirit of death, I rebuke you in the name of Jesus.”

Instantly, she stopped convulsing and sat up, speaking the name of Jesus. She watched the threatening presence flee, sensed the darkness cast out by that single spark of light. 

She remembered who she was, and she knew the threat was a lie not only because she was still breathing, but also because - 

you can’t kill what’s already dead (Rom. 6:3-4). 

And you especially can’t kill what’s dead and risen (Rom. 6:5-9).

Amen. 

From the Back of the Room: An Observation

From the back of the room, my eyes fill with tears. Every Sunday, without fail. 

Years ago, I cried for the shame of my captive body. I cried for the crashing blood sugars and the fearful unknown, forcing the need to escape quickly and quietly. Forcing the seat at the back of the room.

Now from my quiet spot in the back, I cry for joy, grateful for the best seat in the house. Because only there can I see what I do. 

From the back of the room, I see friends sharing stories, laughing, embracing. I see the bonds of family forming, holy ties between those married with children and those single, between those with grown grandchildren and those with babes snuggled to chest.

From the back of the room, I see dads hold small children, moms rub the shoulders of teens. I see parents provide instruction and discipline. I see small children turn in their seats, seeking the eye of those behind them. I see them rewarded with peek-a-boo from those who sit alone and smiling. 

From the back of the room, I notice that here in this ordinary, holy place we sit stiller and quieter and nearer than at any other time. I notice the arms around each other, the hands clasped together, the embrace of grandmas rocking grandkids to sleep. 

And I notice generations squeezed in the same pew, announcing to the church and the world and the great cloud of witnesses that what God formed in the beginning - the man and his wife and all their fruitfulness - continues now, and always will. 

I notice the sermons walked out in the feet on the ground and the knees on the floor. 

From the back of the room, my eyes fill with tears because this routine, this simple observance of the Lord’s day together, speaks a word against all the hopeless, lonely nihilism of our day. 

And from the back of the room, I remember how the world is transformed in the coming together and even the celebration as we depart:  

“Let us go forth into the world rejoicing in the power of the Spirit.” 

Let us take with us what we’ve found in this place. Let us remember that we are in Him and in this, all together. 

Amen.