This weekend was Bishop Wilbur Choy’s funeral. Like so many episcopal elections in the Western Jurisdiction, his was historic as the first Asian American elected a bishop in the UMC.
This has been a season of
death. From COVID’s claws to nature’s fury to war’s destruction, the cloak of
death weighs heavy. Lent, too, is a season where the specter of death is
uncomfortably close. It begins with the imposition of ashes, marking and
reminding us of our mortality. It ends in the darkness of a tomb.
We can’t escape death. We
are marching towards it our entire life.
And while the final death
blow is ever before us, throughout our life we experience little deaths.
Relationships change. Our bodies change. The world we once knew is no more.
Death is entwined with life.
Some deaths are needed and welcomed: killing off tumors, germs and
viruses or habits and relationships we finally realize are hastening our
demise. Others are unwelcomed, unexpected, and feel unwarranted. Yet, these,
too, hold surprises for us.
Helen Keller once said: “Death is no more than passing from one
room into another. But there's a difference for me, you know. Because in that
other room I shall be able to see.”
We who follow a crucified yet resurrected Christ know that death
is not final. There awaits, on the other side of every death, new and fuller
life. Of this, the apostle Paul writes, almost mockingly: “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?” (I Corinthians
15: 55)
What are the things within
you that are preventing you from the promise of new life? What can you, must
you let go of to receive the blessing of resurrection?
