Life from death
is perhaps the most powerful motif in all of Scripture. It begins, of course,
with “In the beginning,” and goes right on through to the resurrection of the
saints and the new heavens and new earth. The image of life appearing out of
death is moving because it’s absurd, eschewing reason in favor of imagination
and meaning. The doctrines of Paul are wonderful and challenging and true and
good, but greater meaning is found in our Savior’s resurrection from the dead and
the promise that he is the firstborn among many brethren.
God saw that the
earth was without form, and void. He caused life to spring therefrom. The
ground itself was to produce the beasts of the field; the dust of the earth was
to make man.
Moses knew the
power of life springing from death. Aaron’s rod that miraculously budded,
life-giving waters flowing from a stone, even the blood of the lambs covering
the doors of the Hebrew people all portend the gospel.
But then there
is Abraham. No mortal figure in the Bible is more stunning than father Abraham.
The great patriarch of the Jews, the man who would kill his own son because he
believed that the God of heaven would resurrect his boy if only he was obedient
to the divine command, Abraham knew of life coming from death. And the courage
that lifted his dust-caked sandals and burdened heart up the imposing mountain
in Moriah came from experience. For Abraham had seen life appear from death,
even in his own house.
When we read the
story of Isaac’s miraculous birth, we think of it in terms of a miracle in
Sarah’s womb. Indeed, it was that, but it was more. The ancient near east view
of reproduction thought of the man’s semen as being a “seed” that was planted,
so to speak, in the woman. It’s easy to see why they had this view, given what
they saw in agriculture—the barley seed falls to the ground, where it grows
into more barley. So the thought was that the woman was akin to the soil and
the man would, ahem, plant his seed in the woman, thus the thought of earth as
a “mother” in the ancient world. So when Abraham impregnated Hagar, it was
clear at that point that Sarah was the only issue---she wasn’t fertile, but
he was. 
Some thirteen
years after the birth of Ishmael, God promised Abraham that he would conceive
again, this time with his barren wife. Abraham was understandably incredulous,
asking how a 99 year-old man could sire a child. Paul rightly understood
Abraham’s response as his recognizing that his loins were dead, as was Sarah’s
womb. The birth of Isaac was a double miracle. Powerful, because it was
impossible; meaningful because it was absurd.
In my own life,
I have twice seen life come from death, with both the adoption of my son and
the pending birth of my daughter. We cannot conceive. Yet life came into our
home through the miraculous placement of a hundred dollar bill, a substitute
court reporter, and a dozen other events providentially woven together to form
one cohesive miracle. Life first appeared, not in a delivery room surrounded by
nurses, doctors, and the sterile equipment of the modern birth, but in a
run-down McDonald’s in a small East Texas town, where flies had infested the
dining area, eight television screens blared some talking head griping about
the economy, and an elderly woman ate a cheeseburger while her husband, donning
a mesh-back ballcap perched on his head like he was a 1980s trucker, hunted one
of the flies with a napkin. A miracle delivery in an utterly normal, ho-hum,
everyday place: precisely the kind of miracle God seems to love most.
And life has
come again, though my body was, like Abraham’s, without life, God “quickeneth
the dead, and calleth those things which be not as though they were.”
Two lives where
life could not be. These miracles within my household typify the beauty and
majesty of the gospel. They shout, “Jesus saves” in a way didactic reasoning
never could. The miraculous in our everyday lives represent God’s way of
preaching the gospel to the world. This is why we are not simply told that God
can win battles, we are instead given the book of Joshua. The mechanics of the
resurrection are never recited; we are told of Lazarus and the
magnificent-yet-puzzling, dare I say mystical, statement, “I am the
resurrection.” Justification is not only explained in forensic terms; we have
the life and the Passion of our Savior.
The ancient
formulation of the holy and transcendent is that which is good, true, and
beautiful, elements with which we are all very familiar, though not necessarily
trained to see. And we are blessed to live in a world where the transcendent
can appear in our communities, our churches, and our homes and yet somehow be
normal. Here we see the power of the child’s imagination. A black bunny
appeared in our backyard last year. My wife and I were fascinated with it, as
it came back three or four days in a row. But our son, then two years old,
thought it was no more interesting than the squirrels, the birds, or the
newspaper that magically appeared on our walk each morning. It wasn’t that he didn’t
have an appropriate appreciation for the rarity of a black bunny rabbit.
Rather, he was already fascinated by the beauty of our world. In his mind, “Why
shouldn’t a black bunny hippity-hop over to our azaleas?” Our unwavering parental
focus on the black bunny for a few days served to remind us how numb we had
become to the robin’s chirp, the squirrel’s scamper, and the morning dew
glistening on a red rose. The world is amazing, rich, and mysterious.
It didn’t have
to be so. The world didn’t have to be a place where flowers bloom, where food
tastes good, or where music could ring forth from a dead tree fashioned just so
with some strings. The world didn’t have to be a place where the parentless can
find a mother and father, or where the barren could both adopt and conceive. And
it certainly didn’t have to be a place where sinners are glorified, to be
conformed into the image of Christ; where we are invited to participate in his
divine nature. But praise God it is!
“Thy life’s a
miracle; speak yet again.”
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