Before a big fat hairy caterpillar can fulfil its unlikely destiny, and take to the air on beautiful, reckless wings of little more than coloured tissue paper, it must first undergo a radical and terrifying metamorphosis.
Before a caterpillar can take to the air, it must first take to the grave. It must first build its own burial chamber; it must cocoon itself within. It must first undergo a kind of death.
And “in that sleep of death what dreams may come”? (Hamlet: Act 3, Scene 1)
What dreams of flesh melting like wax… flowing… coalescing… reforming… according to some new and unknown design? What dreams of “identity”, of “personality” and its every possession, evaporating like water – viewpoints… priorities… motivations… concerns… and every familiar way of thinking, slowly ebbing away and being supplanted by something frighteningly new and disturbingly alien?
But when those exquisitely patterned wings finally open and catch their first summer breeze, does the butterfly even remember that it once crawled in the murky shadows far, far below?
In Matthew 10, we find the very first mention in the New Testament, of the cross.
10:38 And he that taketh not his cross, and followeth after me, is not worthy of me.
And I guess it’s true to say that no-one “follows after” Jesus for very long without the spectre of death rearing its ugly head at some point along the way. In fact, I guess it’s true to say that death, every bit as much as life, or birth, is at the very centre of the Christian message.
The man who said, “I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly” (John 10:10), also said…
He that findeth his life shall lose it: and he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it. (Matthew 10:39)
Death.
It’s the “elephant” in the room that no-one likes to talk about.
But death casts such a long shadow, and we live under it, from the moment we take our first breath, to the moment we breathe our last (Matthew 4:16).
Death is a visit to the vet’s at age seventeen. The needle entering just above the paw. Her body relaxing ever so slightly. Looking in her eyes, and they looked just the same. How could that be!? They talk about the light going out of your eyes, don’t they? But her eyes looked just the same.
Death is struggling to read the small print at age forty-seven. The same eyes look back at me from the shaving mirror, but how did they get to be in my father’s face!?
Christians talk readily enough about the “new birth”, about being “born again”. But birth is only one half of the universal equation. Before the new life can begin, the old one has to come to an end. Before there can be a rebirth, there must first be a “passing away” (2 Corinthians 5:17).
Remember, the man who said, “Ye must be born again” (John 3:7), also said…
Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit. (John 12:24)
Unless a seed falls into the ground and “dies”, it will always be nothing more than a seed. Jesus was clearly referring to his own imminent death, but I believe he was also taking about you, and me.
A caterpillar carries deep within its genetic makeup, the potential to become a butterfly. Deep within the caterpillar-life, there is another life-principle just waiting for the opportunity to manifest itself. But that butterfly-life can never be realised, unless the caterpillar-life first makes way for it. There will never be a fluttering of butterfly-wings, until that hopelessly earth-bound caterpillar “falls into the ground and dies”.
By the same token, deep within you and me is the potential to become something radically – perhaps even frighteningly – different. That potential is not locked up in our genetic code, but entered our hopelessly earth-bound lives from the outside, at Bethlehem, and at Calvary. Deep within this “mortal flesh”, has been planted another life-principle – Christ-life: the very essence of God himself – just waiting for the opportunity to “manifest” itself (2 Corinthians 4:11).
But that Christ-life can never be realised, unless this human-life first makes way for it. There will never be a golden head of wheat swaying in the breeze, until that shrivelled brown seed “falls into the ground and dies”.
For a Christian, death is not a one-time deal. Death is not a one-off, and hopefully far-distant, future event. Death is not an end, but a process.
Referring to the way that he literally lived in constant danger of his life, Paul said, “I die daily” (1 Corinthians 15:31). But in a sense, as Christians, we too must learn to die daily, and to daily be reborn.
To die daily. To die hourly. To die continually. Moment by moment. At this very moment. As I write. As you read.
To die. And in that death, to be reborn.
To die to every viewpoint and priority, every motivation and concern. To die to “personality” and its every possession.
And then, when all seems lost, to see that “personality” miraculously take to the air, resurrected, renewed, transformed, set free, to be what at heart it was always meant to be.
And when this human-life finally steps aside, and the resurrection-life of Christ lifts me up to “heavenly places” in him (Ephesians 2:6), does that “new creature” in Christ (2 Corinthians 5:17) even remember that it once crawled in the murky shadows far, far below?
