Consciousness of Death

and the abundant life

Photo by Olivia Anne Snyder

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I was 22, waiting in the Atlanta airport for a plane to Johannesburg, South Africa, about to embark on a 36-day mission trip that covered half the continent. In one hand I had Thomas a Kempis's The Imitation of Christ, which told me to practice “mindfulness of death,” and in the other hand I had a thick stack of papers from the Peoria County Health Dept., which furnished my imagination with all kinds of interesting ways that I could actually experience death: stumbling into warfare; being attacked by rabid dogs; falling into the hands of nefarious individuals; contracting a deadly disease; and more.

Thus, my trip began with—and was colored by—a feeling of dread and heaviness.

Added to my consciousness of death was the feeling that I was a completely incompetent missionary.

From the Atlanta airport onward, I would look at people and think, “what if God wants me to witness to that person?” This thought would be accompanied by a sinking feeling that I was not currently witnessing to that person, and that I had no idea how to go about witnessing to that person.

When our truck stalled at a campsite called Upper Hill (nicknamed “Upper Hell” by some, due to its overflowing toilets), our team hung around for days and days, waiting. I was worried that we weren't doing any ministry yet. I talked to my tent mate—an older woman of 30—and she said, “Maybe God doesn't want us to do any ministry yet. You need to pray and ask God what He wants.”

This was absurd to me; of course God wanted us to do ministry. That was why we were there!

I wandered off and found some traveling Israelis. I engaged them in conversation, and then I gave them my testimony and (I thought) a compelling presentation of the Gospel. They listened politely, and then they more or less tore my testimony and my Gospel presentation to shreds.

Finally, we got our truck moving, only to have it break down two or three more times. Thus, we traveled across half the continent. It was an interesting trip, and not entirely unproductive. I learned a lot and had some amazing experiences that I treasure to this day.

But I was feeling depressed much of the time. I would stay awake through the night, listening to the roosters (who seemed to crow at all hours), writing desperate entries in my journal in front of the dying fire.

I finally confessed my desperation to one of the ministry leaders. It was on a day that we were looking at mountains and beautiful waterfalls. She gave me a gentle rebuke: You have so much darkness in your mind and heart that you're not able to enjoy God's creation.

It was that pesky ol' consciousness of death: I was so conscious of it that I could not live well; I could not find God; I was in a state of emotional and spiritual paralysis.

The thief comes only to steal, kill, and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.

There I was—feeling like I needed to preach the Gospel—when I barely understood the Gospel myself.

I didn't understand grace. Of course, I could rattle off a definition and half a dozen Bible verses on the subject—but I didn't understand it experientially. I didn't understand the love of a Father who waits and watches for the return of His wayward child. I didn't know the joy of being saved from sin, only the fear of falling into it.

I was a bit like the elder son in the prodigal son story, if the elder son had been a nervous, incompetent female with a touch of OCD.

I aspired to deserve the favor of God. But it was a lost cause. You don't deserve God's favor; you recognize your unworthiness and receive His love gratefully.

Like so many of us, I have been both the prodigal and the elder brother at different times in my life. Both the prodigal and the elder brother are great examples of how not to live; in fact, both are experiencing a kind of living death.

The prodigal thinks he is living his best life now. But beneath the parties and the fun and the pleasure, there is a persistent, nagging sense of his own mortality, while he becomes more and more of a slave to the sin he indulges in.

It is devastation—privation--hunger--that finally bring him to his senses.

The elder brother, in striving for rewards and favor, is possibly caught up in bitterness, envy, pride, and a false, merit-based religion; he is unable to enter into the beauty and joy of the life in front of him.

For both the prodigal and the elder brother, the way to the abundant life Jesus talks about is a relationship with the Father. That is, accepting and enjoying the love and forgiveness (and all the parties!) He freely offers. Laboring in His vineyard then becomes a joyful collaboration with him, not an attempt to earn favor and rewards.

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Now, in middle age, I think I finally get the value of Thomas a Kempis's exhortation that we meditate often on death. None of us knows how long we have to live. In my case—best case scenario—I have lived at least half of my life already.

The thought of death is sobering, even scary. Sometimes it feels tragic because I have not begun to accomplish the things I hoped to accomplish. Part of me cries out, like the speaker in Dylan Thomas's poem, Rage, rage against the dying of the light!

And then, when I recover from that thought, I begin to feel that the best way to live with a productive consciousness of death is to live fully in the abundant life that Jesus Christ purchased for me by His sacrifice on the cross. To savor the beauties and joys and to treasure the people. To be more fully present.

To labor in God's vineyard, and to fight for the good of those who will come after me.