Death and Life at Work in Me

“We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that his life may also be revealed in our mortal body. So then, death is at work in us, but life is at work in you.” (2 Corinthians 4:10-12)

What does it mean to carry about in our body the death of Jesus? I believe it is about the laying down of our lives, as modeled by Jesus. He emptied Himself of His glory; He laid aside His heavenly home and His immediate, intimate communion with His Father and came to live among us as a servant. He spoke of and demonstrated the principle that if anyone would be great, he must be a servant of all—quite the contrary to what we instinctively imagine.

In speaking of His life and death, He said, “I lay down my life. No one takes it from me; I give it away.”

Some years ago, my husband encouraged me to learn to give myself away. (Perhaps he saw that as an introvert and a writer, I tended to have an inward and self-centred focus.) It has been a journey, doing as he suggested—a quietly thrilling adventure.

A friend commented the other day on the scripture “faith worketh by love” (Galatians 5:6). The context in which he spoke made me think of our interaction in the Body of Christ—and out in the world. It made me think, too, of the scripture that says, “Though I have enough faith to move mountains, if I don’t have and demonstrate love, I have nothing” (1 Corinthians 13:2, my version). Faith cannot exist or operate in a vacuum; it must be used and lived out among other people. And it must happen in an attitude of self-sacrificing love, that of laying down one’s life.

This laying down of my life is not to be inspired directly by the needs of those I see around me, although that is certainly part of it. But the needs are many; they are, in fact, overwhelming, and God doesn’t call us to answer primarily to needs; He calls us to answer firstly to Him. As I walk in communion with Him and listen for His voice, I often hear Him say, “Do you see that person? Do you see that situation? Go. Now. Quick, before the opportunity is gone. Offer yourself and what you have to meet the need.”

I experienced such a thing just last Sunday. I was making my way from the truck to the main entrance of the church. Greg was lagging behind somewhere, talking to someone, but I was hurrying against the cold. It was a biting -30°C.

As I pulled open the door, I glanced behind me and saw a minivan pulling up to the sidewalk in front of the church. I recognized the woman driving, a young mom with four small children, aged two, three, four, and five. I know that her husband does not attend with her at this point in time. What a brave young mother, venturing out in this weather! It stirs my heart that she is so eager to get to church with her little ones. Obviously, she was pulling up right in front to expedite getting her children inside quickly and out of the awful cold.

Suddenly I heard the Lord in my heart, saying, “Go. Help. Now!”

I hurried to the near side of the van as Mom began pulling kids out, starting with the oldest girl and the little boy. They were all still in their pyjamas, with jackets hastily pulled on and still unzipped. Even Mom was in just a pair of pyjama pants and a light sweater.

(The apparent fact that she hadn’t even had time to properly dress the kids or herself lent the scene an even more noble and pathetic perspective to my eyes. I didn’t find out until much later that it was Pyjama Day at Sunday School. I think God must have had a little chuckle over my interpretation.)

I scooped up the little boy and hustled along beside his older sister, quickly covering the dozen or so strides to the door. Before I had quite reached it, I heard a wail behind me. The youngest girl had taken just a couple of steps when, obviously, the cold had hit her. She stopped short, jacket gaping, and dropped her head, loudly communicating her discomfort and confusion.

Hastily setting the little boy down inside the foyer, I told his sister to look after him. Then I ran back to pick up the littlest girl and accompany the middle girl to the entrance and into the welcome warmth. Mom would be busy for a few minutes parking the vehicle.

I surveyed the small group. The five-year-old looked quite together, but among the others were snotty noses, grubby faces, and dishevelled hair. There seemed to have been a quick trip through the Drive-Thru at McDonald’s, as evidenced by the half-eaten hash-brown still clutched in the hand of the youngest.

How well I remember those busy, exhausting days when my own kids were small, reflected in my poem “Weeds & Wildflowers.” In part:

Dress the kids and feed the kids and try to wash the clothes
Soothe a tiff; wipe up a mess; blow a dirty nose
Every day was overflowing with a thousand little chores …

I was grateful that I had felt moved that morning as I’d left the house to grab an extra-large handful of Kleenexes, and as always, I had my trusty little spray bottle of colloidal silver with me. I sat down on the floor in the middle of the foyer and opened my purse.

At the Farmers’ Market, I seem to have become known in a small way for this particular ministry: after first asking permission, of course, I love to clean up a little face, finding great delight in the heavenly countenance that soon shines through. In fact, this very family one day was passing by, saying hello, when the oldest girl, evidently remembering something from a previous visit, asked, “Do you like washing kids’ faces?”

“I sure do,” I answered. She pointed to her brother, who at a quick glance appeared to be in need of a spit and a polish, so to speak. But that particular day he had darted shyly behind his mom and evaded me and my ministrations.

But not today. He allowed me to blow his nose and spray and clean his dear little face. Then I blew another nose, scrubbed another face, and rummaged a small brush out of my purse with which to tackle the serious bedhead sported by the youngest. I worked away at the tangle and marvelled as it slowly yielded into fine, blonde curls.

The whole time, there was a great love and joy coursing through me. I could feel the presence of Jesus. One of the ushers was hovering nearby, and I sensed that he felt the Presence also. He seemed very touched. “Good on you!” he said.

But I knew the credit did not belong to me. If I was left to myself and my own inclinations, this would never happen. I wouldn’t even have noticed the need. If God hadn’t nudged me, I would have been caught up in conversation with a friend by now, oblivious. My behaviour did not spring out of any particular goodness of my own; it sprouted out of the death and life of Jesus at work in me. In dying to myself—carrying in my body the death of Jesus—and so becoming more aware of people around me, the life of Jesus is also revealed in me.

As I now read that passage in my Bible once again, I see, just before it, a verse that explains further: ^“But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us” (2 Corinthians 4:7, KJV). The glorious life of Jesus is the “treasure” we carry in our “earthen vessels,” these bodies that God originally formed out of the dust of the ground. When we let the death of Jesus work in us, that Life streams out from us to those around. The power manifested is so clearly contrasted with the human life from which it flows that it is obvious the glory and praise belong to God, not to us.

Jesus talked a lot about death. “Except a grain of wheat fall into the ground, it remains alone,” He said, describing His life and His imminent death (John 12:24). But, He explained, if it allows itself to “die,” to fall into the ground and be buried, it will spring up again and reproduce itself many times over.

Jesus said that if someone seeks to “save” her life, to protect it, to hoard it to herself, she will lose it. Her hopes and dreams will slowly shrivel away without ever producing their full potential. If, however, she gives up her life, gives it away for others, laying it down for Jesus’ sake, she will “find” it: she will be surprised by fulfillment and joy that she somehow thought would pass her by when she chose this principle of self-sacrifice.

If I continually carry with me “the death of the Lord Jesus,” living in a constant state of relinquishing my own will, listening for God’s voice, and serving others, the life of Jesus will also be revealed in me. That is, people will see the life of Jesus in me. They will be drawn to Him, ministered to, by Him, through me. And I, having, “died,” feel His life flowing through me, and it brings life into my mortal body. I find myself infused with joy and energy and what the French would call raison d’etre—a reason for existence, a purpose for being, a meaning for my life.

If I live for myself, I am like that grain of wheat, essentially alone, living spiritually cut off from others around me. But if I allow myself to fall into the deep, dark, rich soil of God’s providence and purposes, I find myself alive after all: more alive than ever before and enriched a hundred times over.

Through this dynamic in me, the life of Jesus is set in motion in others; then as they, too, come to understand, they let the death of Jesus work in them also, which paradoxically leads to abundant—and eternal—life.

That I may know him, and the power of his resurrection, … being made conformable unto his death. (Philippians 3:10, KJV)