Serve God and Die

Hospitals see no shortage of dramatic events, from life-saving procedures to heartbreaking diagnoses — but the two most definitive are birth and death. As a chaplain, I’ve been struck by how alike these seeming opposites can be. These processes are medical, physical, messy, yet deeply spiritual. We long to manage them, from their location to their timing, but they resist prediction and evade our control. The sequence of events can be blindingly fast or excruciatingly slow; either way, the result is world changing and irrevocable. I once sat with the extended family of a baby who was being taken off of a ventilator. She was expected to pass quickly, but she lived another half hour, breathing shallow breaths in her parents’ arms. It felt like an eternity before they brought her to the family room, where everyone wanted to hold her.

Indeed, much Christian imagery turns on the parallel of birth and death — and the idea that both have something to do with salvation. One poignant example comes in Luke 2:22–40 when Mary and Joseph bring the baby Jesus to the temple to “present him to the Lord.” This story [celebrated by many Christians with a feast day on February 2]  rounds out the narrative of Jesus’ world debut, introducing him at the symbolic center of Israel’s history and devotion. But as we will see, it’s also rife with references to death.

Jesus’ arrival on earth as a real human baby is the predicate of the good news. As C. S. Lewis puts it in Mere Christianity, “Enemy-occupied territory — that is what this world is. Christianity is the story of how the rightful king has landed, you might say landed in disguise, and is calling us to take part in a great campaign of sabotage.” But, to the dismay of any would-be glory seeker, this landing happens not by plane but by birth (at an inconvenient time, in an unglamorous place), and the campaign reaches its pinnacle not through military triumph but through the helpless death of its leader.

In this “campaign of sabotage,” the temple serves as a sort of divine headquarters, the place an adolescent Jesus will identify as his Father’s house (Lk 2:49). In John’s Gospel, Jesus begins his public ministry by cleansing the temple of corrupt merchants and money changers (2:14–17). He foreshadows his resurrection with a cryptic statement about rebuilding the temple in three days (2:19). But in Matthew, Mark, and Luke, this dramatic table-turning episode comes as Jesus enters Jerusalem for the last time, initiating the sequence of events that lead to his crucifixion. By telling us this temple story from Jesus’ infancy, Luke is beginning to prepare us for the grand arc of the gospel.

When Joseph and Mary arrive at the temple, they are greeted by two grandparently figures, the prophets Anna and Simeon, who know right away just how special this little one is. Guided by the Spirit, Simeon takes the month-old Jesus into his arms and sings his gratitude to God:

Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel. (Lk 2:29–32)

Then, in nearly the same breath, he declares that this child’s life will stoke fear and anger in those who wish to maintain their earthly power. Jesus will make enemies of great men. Foreshadowing the grief that Mary will feel at the foot of the cross, Simeon tells her, “… a sword will pierce your own soul too” (2:35).

Simeon immediately recognizes this vulnerable infant, sees his future as a vulnerable victim, and somehow concludes from this that God’s mighty act of salvation has begun. Having seen this, he is filled with joy — and free to die.

Jesus’s arrival on earth is significant because in him, God is fully present with humankind, shining a light on every part of us — the parts that long for illumination as well as the parts we’d prefer to hide. For Jesus, being fully present in a world of suffering and sin means offering himself in service to all who need him, touching lepers, washing feet, and ultimately giving his life in agony on the cross. What does this narrative mean for those of us aspiring to follow him? What, for a Christian, is the good life?

Though we know little about Simeon’s life before this moment, we find an apt example of Christian success in St. Stephen, one of the seven original deacons and the first Christian martyr. (Very encouraging, right?) Acts 6:5 describes Stephen as “a man full of faith and the Holy Spirit” — much as Luke describes Simeon as “righteous and devout … and the Holy Spirit rested on him” (2:25). Stephen, too, sees Jesus — not as a newborn, but in his resurrected form — and sings God’s praises at the time of his death.

Stephen is one of seven individuals chosen to fulfill a new role being inaugurated by the disciples: the role of deacon. The deacons, whose name derives from the Greek word for “servant,” are tasked with feeding neglected widows in Jerusalem. While the apostles focus on preaching the word, Stephen and six others will dedicate themselves to waiting on tables (Acts 6:2). But Stephen’s humble role is by no means an indication that he is weak or disposable. Instead, Stephen is said to be “full of grace and power.” He continues to spread the gospel, and, like Jesus, does “great wonders and signs among the people” (6:8). And as Stephen stands before the angry crowd about to stone him, his eyes see God’s salvation, and he is thus dismissed in peace:

But filled with the Holy Spirit, he gazed into heaven and saw the glory of God and Jesus standing at the right hand of God. “Look,” he said, “I see the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God!” (7:55–56)

The Triune God reveals Godself to Stephen, fully and brilliantly, just as God shows up on earth through Jesus. This is the strange and comforting premise of Christianity, that human existence is dignified by the indwelling of God, who was humble enough to undergo the twin processes of birth and death, yet powerful enough to add a third: resurrection. The tomb becomes a womb, and Christ, “the firstborn from the dead” (Col 1:18), models how our own perishable bodies will one day put on imperishability (1 Cor 15:53). We see God stoop to the dust, and we see humanity ascend to the right hand of God.

Simeon’s solemn warning to Mary, Stephen’s violent demise, and indeed the story of Christ himself highlight the cost of discipleship and the brutality of mortal existence. We live in a world of birth pangs, disasters, and disease, a world where there is such a thing as perinatal hospice. In this world, there’s no reasonable hope for us to build the temples we desire — let alone rebuild ourselves. There is no hope for lasting greatness, nor even security, here. But servants of God like Simeon, Anna, Joseph, Mary, and Stephen find unshakable joy, and so can we: to see Jesus is to know that dying in him is infinitely better than living for oneself.

So when we think of Jesus’ birth, ministry, death, and resurrection, it is right that we should sing, “Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace … for my eyes have seen your salvation.” It is right that we should look to Stephen, who dedicates himself to feeding Christ’s lambs, and at the time of his death is assured of new life. It is right that we should seek to give of ourselves, not hoping to be martyrs, but convinced that neither life nor death can separate us from the love of God. In this alone is freedom and prosperity. Whether we meet the divine under fluorescent hospital lights or the rays of the Levantine sun, to serve God and die is a good life indeed.