The Day of Death is Better than the Day of Birth

Merry Christmas!

You must remember that you are Christ’s. You did not choose him. He chose you. Anointed you. Still calls, is gathering and enlightening you: sanctifying you, setting you apart, dragging you from the dregs of flailing, dying, decaying lunacy and into the blessed illumination of his eternally good and gracious mind.

It is not for you to stoke the fire. You are only to run your engine on what your God is surely stoking. You cannot expect to muster your own spirit. You didn’t make it. You can’t keep it without permission. So believe it when Christ Jesus tells you that he has already, also, along with this, already given you his.

So read the Bible like it is true, like you are covered by the blood of adoption as an heir, like you are a very Son of the King. You know that though wisdom’s honesty be grave humor at times, this dark horse is far superior to the mad song of fools who chase the evaporating glories a temporal laugh.

Nothing is less funny than yesterday’s joke.

So if you would grow in wisdom this holy Adventide, then when you look in the mirror, know you are looking death in the eye.

Do not flinch. Do not hold back. Peer into the darkness. See the darkness peering back. There you are. Everything. Nothing. And in a moment: gone, forgotten, dust.

This is the key to happiness: there in the lightless depths of your mask, or that which you so often pretend is a mask, behind the smiles trained to hide the fear, under the lines creased from all those unstilled doubts, remember that according to Jesus:

  1. He doesn’t care anymore.
  2. He still wants you to make good use of this life.
  3. This adventure should be undertaken in view of its certain end: the knowledge of dusty frailty.

Maybe I’ll die today. It’s a pleasant thought. Not in itself, but in everything else which follows. For if I were to die today, the value of what I’ve already got is enhanced one hundredfold, since all that I’d have is now.

Let your garments always be white, and let your head lack no oil. Ecc. 9:8

Till angel cry and trumpet sound,

Rev. Fisk