The Bride Wore Black
by R.C. Sproul Jr.

Nothing, in our modern age, dies more swiftly than a metaphor. Under the bright glare of the enlightenment they wilt and droop, their petals shriveling up like a metaphor under a hot lamp. Those of us who have learned the art of reading have likewise learned the diabolical craft of simultaneous translation, reshaping what we read into what we can understand all in one fell swoop, sucking the marrow of poetry until we are left with but brittle bones. John the Baptist says, "Behold the lamb of God" and we hear, "Look at the propitiation for our sins." Of course Jesus is the propitiation for our sins. To deny such is certain death. But there is so much more in "Behold the lamb of God" than there is in "Look at the propitiation for our sins." But we're not through yet. In case someone doesn't yet understand our abstraction, we create another, ironically using a metaphor that's not even in the Bible, "See, what he's saying is that our sins have been transferred to Jesus' account, and His righteousness has been transferred to your account." Account? When did I get an account? I don't remember getting an account. Suddenly the lamb of God has become an accountant and we think we're getting closer to the truth, rather than farther away.

It's bad enough that we turn word pictures into mere words, but we do the same with real bread, real wine, and real presence. This is my death, that covered your account. This is my life, that is deposited into your account. We likewise put to death living water. The sacrament of baptism too often becomes a non-celebration of what it isn't. We're so eager to separate ourselves from Rome, which is a good thing, that we separate ourselves from the sacrament, which is a bad thing. It's no wonder we confuse the Baptists. They think what we're doing is about the parents, precisely because we think it's all about the vows the parents make. Three minutes of what we're not doing by the pastor, three minutes of vows by the parents, and three drops of water for the baby. It's all sounds, no fury, signifying precious little.

Of course our friends on the other side, sacerdotalists of varying stripes, likewise have a problem with metaphor. They don't take away what the symbol signifies, but instead take away the symbol, and make it all too real. If I said, "Life is like a hamburger…" they would reach for the ketchup. Baptism isn't an object lesson, as they rightly object, but neither is it magic.

We are baptized into Christ. The center isn't the prelude, nor the vows, nor the baby, nor the water. The center, as always, is Jesus, and our union with Him. We are metaphor-fisizing this child's relationship with Christ. The child is consecrated by the Holy Spirit (and thus pouring is fine), living in Christ the living water, dying with Him, and being raised again with Him. From one perspective, a dead baby is being made alive. From another, equally valid, a live baby is being put to death.

Which means in turn that we are the living dead, vampires, zombies who walk the earth precisely because we eat the living flesh of Christ, eager to bring others into the fold. Jesus turns the ugly specter of death into a mask of joy, and we still turn our faces away. We reduce His call to die to something as safe and innocuous as "Don't be selfish. Share the remote control" and go on living as we always have. We deaden our consciences by killing the words, making metaphors into mere morality machines. But we are not merely called to stop being selfish. WE'RE DEAD, PRAISE HIS HOLY NAME! We cannot rejoice that we live in Christ until we rejoice that we have died in Christ. Wither He has gone, in Him, we too have gone. Because in Him we died, in Him we are raised, not once but twice. We are indeed raised from the dead, able to die no more. But we are likewise raised on high, ascended, lifted up, seated in the heavenlies whence we too will come to judge both the quick and the dead. We, in Him, have been humiliated and glorified, brought low and exalted.

Once the faithful servants of Christ were called "these who have upset the world." No, they didn't cobble together a voting block to protect the pledge of allegiance. No, they didn't upset the world by filling stadium seats with promise keeping men. They did it by their refusal to pledge their allegiance to the "republic" of their day. They did it by filling stadium floors with their own corpses. They were able to shake the world precisely because they were already dead. Imagine you were imperial Rome. What could you do to this burgeoning sect? Enslave them? They were already slaves, bought with a price. Humiliate them? They were already brought low. Kill them? There's the rub—they were already dead. They lived as if that day were the first day of the end of their lives.

This is what defines us as a people. We are the fellowship of the dead. And this is why we cannot be stopped. Only the dead can call the dead to die, and then to live. Only the dead can call the dead to pick up their crosses, and to follow Him. Only the dead can call the dead to put to death the old man, and to live as those who have already died. And only the Spirit of life can give life to our dead words, making them not a metaphor, but a true sword that slays the dead, that they may die, and join us. The dead shall inherit the earth. All the rest will be merely forever dying.

Death has made us what we are. May we learn to revel in it. May we learn, as the dead, to pray this for the dead: "If I should wake before I die, I pray the Lord to shut my eye. Death to my will, death to my sin, death in my Lord, new life begin."