Fear and Death

Last updated on: October 21, 2014 at 8:13 am by Anne Kennedy

Fear and Death 2014-10-21T08:13:00-04:00 Anne Kennedy

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Not to be overly morbid, even though that’s exactly what this will be, horribly, overly morbid, but as I reread my post yesterday I did notice that I happened to mention crucifixion and beheading. So rightly, some pointed out that being martyred is surely a good choice…well, not a choice, but not terrible if it happens to you. I mean, our Lord is the primordial, preeminent martyr, the Lamb that was Slain. To follow in his way was a promise. Some would die gruesomely for not being willing to deny him, and many thousands have. In fact, said Jesus, if you aren’t willing to die, to die even in a horrible way like the cross, then you’re not worthy of him. We’re supposed to count the cost, to look at it in the clear light of day and decide whether we think he’s worth it or not. This necessarily narrows the scope of those who will be willing to be called Christian. Are you willing to die? No, well then, Jesus won’t be interesting to you, because his way does begin with death, though it doesn’t end there.

I think what I’ve been circling round is the question of fear. I am so, as the babu says in Kim, feaaarful. I am afraid. Oh ah. So veeeery afraid. I sit with all my immediate access to all the news of all the world at every moment of the day, able to read of the violence and devastation and ruin everywhere, and I become fearful. I don’t want to die! And I don’t want to be persecuted! Even as a Christian, even though I know the promise of suffering, I don’t want it. And lately I’ve had the sense of the west as a great vast number of kind, interesting, exhausted people who are like sheep being led to the slaughter.

I had a wave of sadness wash over me when we were lately in the airport waiting to fly back home from Texas. I had a book open in my lap but I was distracted because of the kind but irritating delta lady with a microphone. She announced every few minutes that the plane would eventually take off. Wanted to take her aside and whisper, in a gentle way don’t you know, that we had all heard the announcement and we understood that everything would be ok, and that if she wanted to have a coffee or a lie down, that would be fine. But I refrained and instead watched all the people coming and going, their brows furrowed, the lines deepening around their eyes as we all sat there. The anxiety comes from having no ability to chart your own course in an airport situation. Reduced to the level of an animal about to be slaughtered, who is meant to be kept as calm as possible before the awful moment, you have to stand in long lines and be spoken to you as if you were dull. And, after removing your shoes and other offensive articles, you have to adopt the posture of a criminal, your hands over your head and your legs spread apart. My soul chaffed. I haven’t committed a crime, I muttered, but not too loudly because the TSA gentlemen had already yelled at me for not moving more quickly. I didn’t want to actually get in trouble, being in a place of already feeling in trouble, by virtue of my desire to get from one place to another quickly.

So there we are, all of us having raised our hands in surrender, and the delta lady is shouting at us that it’s all going to be ok. And we’ve all agreed to be there. All of us. Money has been poured out like an oblation to the god of the air, that we might fly through his realm. And there’s nothing we can do. We don’t have any power over ourselves once we’re in there. Just like we can’t do anything about Ebola infected people getting on airlines. There’s nothing we can do. Nothing at all that we can do. And that place of powerlessness is a place of fear.

I think ordinary Americans are not use to this feeling. We’re used to doing whatever we want whenever we want to do it. We’re used to complaining loudly and having the people we’ve elected change at least the appearance of what they’re doing, even if nothing actually changes. I guess that’s the problem. For an over weaning long time, it’s only been the appearance, without any actual change. So when people like me say, “I hate Republicans and Democrats” it’s because we finally caught on to the ruse. But there’s still nothing we can do. Shouting and throwing everyone out of office isn’t going to change anything, I don’t think. And so I fear. Like a sheep, like a traveler in an airport, I look above at the storm cloud, brewing and blackening and growing, and I become afraid.

But I’m a Christian. And I’m commanded not to fear. Do not be afraid, says Jesus all the time. And I look at his stark cross, standing between me and the cloud, and mutter, yeah yeah yeah. Look where not fearing gets you, dead. That’s me being faithless and fearful. Not actually watching the beheadings of people by ISIS but just seeing the still before shot, scrolling quickly through facebook to avoid automatically playing video clips, reading only half of the articles about pastors being subpoenaed in Houston, avoiding it entirely to watch a video of a kitten meeting a hedgehog for the first time. It’s faithless and fearful. I’m supposed to look at the cross and be strengthened, to look there and see that the person who willingly dies, who is killed violently by the rage-full godless hate of one, or the statist calm political correctness of another, that his death illuminates the weakness of evil and the perfectly just love of God. The question is, in the midst of this fear, will we who have counted the cost, who have already said yes, will we actually die, not just spiritually, but will we die the way Jesus promised? If we do, then the hope is that the fear will shift to the one doing the killing. What can you do with a people who will die? What can you do when fear hasn’t taken over, the way it’s meant to?

And that’s that, for today, unless I unthread it some more.

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