Death Thou Shalt Die

Dennis Cagle died on Saturday night. He was our family friend, father to Ashley, Austin, and Chelsea, three friends who my brother Jesse and I spent hours upon hours with in junior high and high school. Pastor, teacher, a man whose home was filled with hospitality, he was humorous, intelligent, witty, affectionate and a master of words. It is so strange to think that I will never see him again, hear his booming voice call me "Brooklyn," or receive his firm handshake. It is so strange to think of his kids...fatherless. It is so strange to think of these last years of his life in which I have not known him. He was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer a few short weeks ago and now he is gone. How quickly life is over.

I have thought a lot about death in the last years because of another friend's long ongoing battle with cancer. We have talked about it, prayed about it, wrestled over it. It's a hard thing because everyone reacts to death differently. We are confronted with our mortality, our lack of control, and our spiritual nakedness. About a year ago I read the Holy Sonnets, a group of poems written by John Donne when he was facing death. The title of my blog comes from his poem in this series, Holy Sonnet XIV. "Batter my heart, three-person'd God." I hope you read it someday. These poems resonate with how I wish to struggle with death. They feed me, even in the face of death, which is really the culmination of The Fall's curse on our lives. When I went to New City Fellowship, every Easter and every funeral they would sing the victorious song that says, "Death has Ended. Death has Ended, Death is swallowed up in victory." Like all parts of our fallen world death contrasts Christ's offer of redemption, restoration, and victory! Death has indeed ended!

HOLY SONNETS.
X.
by John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ;
For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture[s] be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke ; why swell'st thou then ?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And Death shall be no more ; Death, thou shalt die.