Don't Fear the Reaper

Dear Death,

Must say you must be the world's most polite stalker. When I was born, there you were, though you didn't intrude yourself. You just sort of hung around in the background. I'm not sure anyone else, save perhaps the doctor, even saw you. When I was a boy riding my tricycle this way and that, you sat on the fence nearby and watched liked some sort of indulgent babysitter. You sent no threatening notes, no morbid poems, no dozen black roses. When I hit my teens, I began flirting with you. Surely you would think such would call a stalker out. But you hung back, content it seemed, to be seen but not heard. In my twenties I had learned to ignore you. Though I never looked your way, still you were there, silent, and still stalking.

Now of course I see you in my rear view mirror. I'm learning to be mindful that objects in the mirror are closer than they appear. Better still, I'm learning that that is a good thing. I feel your icy breath on my neck, and can do nothing but turn my head, and gently whisper in your ear, "Bring it on."

It was that melodramatic Hamlet that pondered aloud:

But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?

Though his complaints were comparatively petty, life is, in truth, hard. The scourge of sin not only flays our skin, but its blackness darkens our hearts. That is, we suffer not only the slings and arrows of the sins of others, but consume ourselves in our own sin. This is why young Hamlet looked at you as a tempting lover, day-dreaming the dreams of night. You offered solace, comfort, and peace, for sin would die with him. The restraint, however, was the unknown. Suffering is cruel, but may, he feared, be crueler on the other side. Suffering he saw. You he saw. But he could not see across the great divide, and so with one hand beckoned you, while with the other he bid you wait. Indecision's a killer.

Pity poor Hamlet. What he saw he saw as true. But what he missed was all that mattered. How his wisdom failed him when he spoke of the other side as "the undiscovered country." I have been there, brought there by Him who had gone there and come back. He has blazed that trail twice. First, He condescended to come here from there. Then, you did not embrace Him, but He you, and back He went to the Emperor Across the Sea. Three days later He returned, never to die again. But forty days later still, and He crossed the Rubicon once more. This time He went to prepare a place for me.

That place, however, is not merely empty and waiting, for I travel there each week. It is my Sabbath home. Each week this same Jesus returns for me, and takes me there. Oh I hear your objection. I know your complaint. You think me as ignorant as Hamlet, for I see as through a glass darkly. But Dark One, consider how bright He is. I see enough to know where I would rather be. I concede that I know not what I will become, but I do know that I shall be like Him, for I shall see Him as He is.

Which, in turn, helps me see you for what you are. Your black robe, the rusting scythe, the empty hood and the bony finger have become to me about as frightening as a child in a sheet, with two little eye holes cut out. It is you that are a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. You are but a player upon a stage. But you even lack that level of dignity. You are not Shakespearean thespian. You are instead just a silly marionette, your strings as visible as a rope. Whisper "Boo" at me all you want, and I will laugh in your face. You ought to wear the brightness of a harlequin, with the jingling hat of the fool. Or better still I see you in your silly costume, but instead of looming over me, you're on your hands and knees, desperately and comically looking for your sting. "Where is it? I know I left it around here somewhere."

Romeo and Juliet are together in eternity. But they are likewise one in the land of the living. That is, our Groom is lord of both heaven and earth. He has both brought us up to Him such that we are seated in the heavenlies now, but has also promised that lo He would be with us always. Thus when you, again according to His orders, and in His timing, use that scythe to separate my soul and body (and that, of course, only for a time) the important thing is that you will likewise rip the scales from my eyes. You can't kill me. I'm already dead. All you can do is restore my sight. All you can do is help me to behold the Groom. Fear that? I long for that. For me to die is gain. Sacrifice me, and you simply end my sacrifice, and hasten me to my reward.

Why don't you go pick on someone your own size? If your goal is to feed upon fear, why not feed upon those lean souls that are dead already, those who know not my King? They will quiver and fear. I know it's not as much fun, for they tremble at the falling of a leaf. But it's your only hope. Knock yourself out, while you still have time. Don't ever forget, friend, what's in your rear view mirror—the one true Horseman of the apocalypse. He's closer than He seems. And He's coming for you. Ask not for whom the trumpet tolls; it tolls for thee. Have a nice day.

In the King's Service,

R. C. Sproul Jr.