Occasionally I have asked my friends when they think they will die. I get a range of responses. To some the question is acrid and odious. It speaks of a far off day, one they barely accept as reality. To others it is a mere irrelevance. Death will come in their ripe old years, a quiet visitation once they have drunk deeply of life's pleasures.
To others, and I amongst them, death seems vaguely imminent. Not that I imagine I will die tomorrow or even next week; but I never deeply believe my hair will go grey, or I will hold a grandchild in my arms. At the turn of each new year, I wonder if this is the year when the impending storm will make landfall.
There have been moments in my life when I have felt particularly beset by the inevitability of my death. It will descend on me in the afternoon, or late at night. It does not happen often but I do not forget the times it does. It is always because I am tired: lacking sleep, sick, worn down by doubt or sin. It grips me in a kind of paralysis. It has no content. It is just an awareness my mortal consciousness will end.
I guess this is a kind of existential pessimism. It isn't a massive factor in my life but it does affect me.
The inevitable swell
Every so often another thought grips me. It is the thought of another inevitability, but one far greater and more beautiful than death. These are quiet moments when I feel the swell of a tide set in motion millennia ago. I feel the momentum of something profoundly good, and glorious. Those moments come not with tears, barely even with what could be named conviction. It is not more than an awareness.
I am suddenly aware that I am, by no fault of my own, deep within a story far greater than my own. I am caught in a stream. I know its source and destination. It is the tide of grace; irresistible, inevitable grace. It flows from Ancient God, through a cruel tree to a distant tree, whose leaves are for the healing of the nations.
Frederick Buechner says the Gospel is a fairytale; and it is in these moments, in the distant lands, at the farthest reaches of my belief, that I realise the Gospel story is my story and—incredibly—my story is happily ever after. I know 'life itself is grace'. A deep peace descends.
The peace speaks
The wheels are in motion. The tide has turned. An irresistible series of events are unfolding and by some unknowable mystery they are in my favour. O the knowledge that all is grace! Inevitable grace.
What danger does my doubt pose? If my heart does not feel, if my mind does not understand, if my hands will not obey—even yet there is no fear. A mighty ocean surrounds me and my feeble rebellion is soon quelled. In this ocean I know His love is eternal.
His love is eternal.
His love is eternal.
His love is eternal.
Your love, O Lord!
Your love. Your love is eternal.
James MacLeod lives in Sydney and is starting life as a commercial lawyer.
James MacLeod's previous articles may be viewed at http://www.pressserviceinternational.org/james-macleod.html
