CHAPTER 6

WHEN GOD’S STORY BECOMES YOURS…

YOUR FINAL CHAPTER BECOMES A PREFACE

THINK ABOUT IT!

Do you remember that old movie The Princess Bride? If you’ve never seen it, watch it soon. It’s an awesome story that’s really about telling awesome stories. It ends the way all the best stories do: “And they all lived happily ever after.”

Modern storytellers work hard to keep their stories from ending so neatly. “Real life is messy,” they say. “People won’t buy it if everything turns out exactly right in the end. It won’t ring true. It will feel like some kind of fairy tale.”

But while some of us appreciate a good, dark story that reflects our messy world, most people also love stories with happy, feel-good endings. We want to believe everything will come together and everyone will be okay. And that is exactly the ending God promises to those who live their story inside of his by trusting in Jesus.

Are you expecting to live happily ever after… after this life is over?

CARL MCCUNN, AN AFFABLE TEXAN WITH A LOVE OF THE outdoors, moved to Alaska in the late 1970s. He took a trucking job on the Trans-Alaska Pipeline, where he made good money, fast friends, and concocted an adventure that still stirs bewilderment in the forty-ninth state.

At the age of thirty-five, he embarked on a five-month photography expedition in the wild. Friends describe how seriously he prepared for the quest, devoting a year to plan making and detail checking. He solicited advice and purchased supplies. And then, in March 1981, he hired a bush pilot to drop him at a remote lake near the Coleen River, some seventy miles northeast of Fort Yukon. He took two rifles, a shotgun, fourteen hundred pounds of provisions, and five hundred rolls of film.

He set up his tent and set about his season of isolation, blissfully unaware of an overlooked detail that would cost him his life.

He had made no arrangement to be picked up.

His unbelievable blunder didn’t dawn on him until August. We know this because of a hundred-page loose-leaf diary the Alaska state troopers found near his body the following February. In an understatement the size of Mount McKinley, McCunn wrote: “I think I should have used more foresight about arranging my departure.”

As the days shortened and air chilled, he began searching the ground for food and the skies for rescue. He was running low on ammunition. Hiking out was impossible. He had no solution but to hope someone in the city would notice his absence.

By the end of September, the snow was piling, the lake was frozen, and supplies were nearly gone. His body fat began to metabolize, making it more difficult to stay warm. Temperatures hovered around zero, and frostbite began to attack his fingers and toes.

By late November, McCunn was out of food, strength, and optimism. One of his final diary entries reads, “This is sure a slow and agonizing way to die.”17

Isolated with no rescue. Trapped with no exit. Nothing to do but wait for the end. Chilling.

And puzzling. Why no exit strategy? Didn’t he know that every trip comes to an end? It’s not like his excursion would last forever.

Ours won’t.

This heart will feel a final pulse. These lungs will empty a final breath. The hand that directs this pen across the page will fall limp and still. Barring the return of Christ, I will die. So will you. “Death is the most democratic institution on earth…. It allows no discrimination, tolerates no exceptions. The mortality rate of mankind is the same the world over: one death per person.”18

Or, as the psalmist asked, “Who can live and not see death, or who can escape the power of the grave?” (Psalm 89:48). Young and old, good and bad, rich and poor. Neither gender is spared; no class is exempt. “No one has power over the time of their death” (Ecclesiastes 8:8).

The genius, the rich, the poor—no one outruns it or outsmarts it. Princess Diana died. Michael Jackson died. John Kennedy died. We all die. Nearly 2 people a second, more than 6,000 an hour, more than 155,000 every day, about 57 million a year.¹⁹ We don’t escape death.

The finest surgeon might enhance your life but can’t eliminate your death. The Hebrew writer was blunt: “People are destined to die once” (Hebrews 9:27). Exercise all you want. Eat nothing but health food, and pop fistfuls of vitamins. Stay out of the sun, away from alcohol, and off drugs. Do your best to stay alive, and still, you die.

Death seems like such a dead end.

Until we read Jesus’ resurrection story.

“He is not here. He has risen from the dead as he said he would” (Matthew 28:6 NCV).

It was Sunday morning after the Friday execution. Jesus’ final breath had sucked the air out of the universe. As his body seemed to be a-moldering in the grave, no one was placing bets on a resurrection.

His enemies were satisfied with their work. The spear to his side guaranteed his death. His tongue was silenced. His last deed done. They raised a toast to a dead Jesus. Their only concern was those pesky disciples. The religious leaders made this request of Pilate: “So give the order for the tomb to be made secure until the third day. Otherwise, his disciples may come and steal the body and tell the people that he has been raised from the dead” (Matthew 27:64).

No concern was necessary. The disciples were at meltdown. When Jesus was arrested, “all the disciples forsook Him and fled” (Matthew 26:56 NKJV). Peter followed from a distance but caved in and cursed Christ. John watched Jesus die, but we have no record that John gave any thought to ever seeing him again. The other followers didn’t even linger; they cowered in Jerusalem’s cupboards and corners for fear of the cross that bore their names.

No one dreamed of a Sunday morning miracle. Peter didn’t ask John, “What will you say when you see Jesus?” Mary didn’t ponder, How will he appear? They didn’t encourage each other with quotes of his promised return. They could have. At least four times Jesus had said words like these: “The Son of Man is being betrayed into the hands of men, and they will kill Him. And after He is killed, He will rise the third day.”20 You’d think someone would mention this prophecy and do the math. “Hmm, he died yesterday. Today is the second day. He promised to rise on the third day. Tomorrow is the third day… Friends, I think we’d better wake up early tomorrow.”

But Saturday saw no such plans. On Saturday the Enemy had won, courage was gone, and hope caught the last train to the coast. They planned to embalm Jesus, not talk to him.

When the Sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices so that they might go to anoint Jesus’ body. Very early on the first day of the week, just after sunrise, they were on their way to the tomb and they asked each other, “Who will roll the stone away from the entrance of the tomb?”

—MARK 16:1–3

Easter parade? Victory march? Hardly. More like a funeral procession. It may have been Sunday morning, but their world was stuck on Saturday.

It was left to the angel to lead them into Sunday.

There was a violent earthquake, for an angel of the Lord came down from heaven and, going to the tomb, rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothes were white as snow. The guards were so afraid of him that they shook and became like dead men.

The angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay.”

—MATTHEW 28:2–6

God shook up the cemetery. Trees swayed, and the ground trembled. Pebbles bounced, and the women struggled to maintain their balance. They looked in the direction of the tomb only to see the guards — scared stiff, paralyzed, and sprawled on the ground. Hard to miss the irony: the guards of the dead appear dead, while the dead one appears to be living. Take that, Devil. Remember the famous play on Nietzsche’s statement?21

“GOD is DEAD!”

Nietzsche.

“NIETZSCHE is DEAD!”

God.

The angel sat on the dislodged tombstone. He did not stand in defiance or crouch in alertness. He sat. Legs crossed and whistling? In my imagination at least. The angel sat upon the stone. Again, the irony. The very rock intended to mark the resting place of a dead Christ became the resting place of his living angel. And then the announcement.

“He has risen.”

Three words in English. Just one in Greek, the language of the New Testament. Çgerthç. So much rests on the validity of this one word. If it is false, then the whole of Christianity collapses like a poorly told joke. Yet, if it is true, then God’s story has turned your final chapter into a preface. If the angel was correct, then you can believe this: Jesus descended into the coldest cell of death’s prison and allowed the warden to lock the door and smelt the keys in a furnace. And just when the demons began to dance and prance, Jesus pressed pierced hands against the inner walls of the cavern. From deep within he shook the cemetery. The ground rumbled, and the tombstones tumbled.

And out he marched, the cadaver turned king, with the mask of death in one hand and the keys of heaven in the other. Çgerthç! He has risen!

Not risen from sleep. Not risen from confusion. Not risen from stupor or slumber. Not spiritually raised from the dead; physically raised. The women and disciples didn’t see a phantom or experience a sentiment. They saw Jesus in the flesh. “It is I myself!” he assured them (Luke 24:39).

The Emmaus-bound disciples thought Jesus was a fellow pilgrim. His feet touched the ground. His hands touched the bread he was serving. Mary mistook him for a gardener. Thomas touched his wounds. The disciples ate fish that he cooked. The resurrected Christ did physical deeds in a physical body. “I am not a ghost,” he explained (Luke 24:39 NLT). “Handle Me and see, for a spirit does not have flesh and bones as you see I have” (verse 39

NKJV).

The bodily resurrection means everything. If Jesus lives on only in spirit and deeds, he is but one of a thousand dead heroes. But if he lives on in flesh and bone, he is the King who pressed his heel against the head of death. What he did with his own grave he promises to do with your coffin: empty it.

A curious thing happened as I was rewriting this chapter. While reading the above paragraph, I heard my computer signal an email arrival. I stopped to read it. A friend had just returned from the funeral of his ninety-six-year-old aunt, and he wanted to tell me about it.

Max,

Until about a year ago, you couldn’t keep up with my Aunt Wanda. Seriously—she had such energy you just couldn’t believe it. Her eyesight was failing so completely that her energy almost made it dangerous to go unfamiliar places with her. Her eyes couldn’t see the crack in the sidewalk that she was about to trot over at ninety miles an hour!!!

About a year ago she started having difficulty breathing. The doctor found a mass in her chest that was almost certainly cancer. But at ninety-five there was little reason to do surgery — even exploratory. The better plan was to keep her comfortable.

It was only in the last three days of her life that the mass became painful to the point she needed medication to fight the pain. The pain became so severe so quickly that she was given enough morphine to sedate her and basically keep her in an unconscious state.

But as she began to pass from this world into the next, her sight became clear, she was released of the pain, and even in her unconscious state, she began to have conversations with those that had gone before her. She saw her mother (who was her best friend) and talked to her. And, my favorite part, she saw my dad and their brother.

My dad and their brother (Uncle Marvin) were constantly playing practical jokes on their sister (Aunt Wanda). She always referred to them as “the boys” or “those boys.” I have no idea what they did or how they greeted her at heaven’s door, but whatever it was made her laugh so hard that she literally pulled her legs up to her chest and doubled over laughing. “I can’t believe you boys! Oh my goodness… you boys!” She literally took her last breaths laughing. I can’t wait to find out what she saw. But she saw something grand!22

You will too.

Will you die laughing? I don’t know. But die in peace, for certain. Death is not the final chapter in your story. In death you will step into the arms of the One who declared, “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die” (John 11:25–26).

Winston Churchill believed this. The British prime minister planned his own funeral. According to his instructions, two buglers were positioned high in the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral. At the conclusion of the service, the first one played taps, the signal of a day completed. Immediately thereafter, with the sounds of the first song still ringing in the air, the second bugler played reveille, the song of a day begun.23

Appropriate song. Death is no pit but a passageway; not a crisis but a corner turn. Dominion of the grim reaper? No. Territory of the Soul Keeper, who will someday announce, “Your dead will live, your corpses will get to their feet. All you dead and buried, wake up! Sing! Your dew is morning dew catching the first rays of sun, the earth bursting with life, giving birth to the dead” (Isaiah

26:19 MSG).

Play on, bugler. Play on.

Danielle — Even though death can be a wonderful thing and an absolute celebration, it is most certainly a loss. It’s sad, painful, and it’s just not fair. When I think about death, I just cringe at the thought of it because I think about the people I love leaving me. I can’t imagine going through life without them. But then I think about Jesus. And the love God has for me. And my heart just melts. It is so comforting that those who trust in Jesus get to stay forever in a place like heaven. And even better, that I’ll get to see my Savior, the one who shed blood and suffered so much for me. I’ll get to see Jesus face-to-face! And that in itself is all it takes to get me excited to go to heaven.

DON’T JUST SIT THERE…

Make a quick list of three stories in which the hero dies in the end. Circle your favorite one. Think about how the end of that story would feel different if the hero believed (or didn’t) that he or she would immediately be in heaven with God.

If your parent is a Christian, ask them how life would be different if they didn’t believe they would be resurrected to a new life after they died. How would they live if they didn’t believe in an afterlife in heaven? Why?

Thank God that because Jesus was raised from the dead, you will be too.

Ask God to help you not to fear dying, but to look forward to living forever with him.

Ask a friend or two if they would take more or fewer risks in life if they believed differently about what would happen after they died.

Grab any book nearby; the bigger the better. Open it and hold the very first page between your thumb and finger. Think about the reality that this page represents your whole life on this side of heaven and the rest of the book represents just the beginning of the rest of your life, your real life, in eternity.