The scene beneath me withered. It was like the eclipse when the sun went out and left the earth, flourishing in full summer foliage, withered, brittle, false. Also I saw on a winding road in a dust dance the groups we had made, how they came together, how they ate together, how they met in this room or that. I saw my own indefatigable busyness – how I had rushed from one to the other, fetched and carried, travelled and returned, joined this group and that, here kissed, here with drawn; always kept hard at it by some extraordinary purpose with my nose to the ground like a dog on the scent; with an occasional toss of the head, an occasional cry of amazement, despair and then back again with my nose to the scent. What a litter – what a confusion; with here birth, here death; succulence and sweetness; effort and anguish; and myself always running hither and thither. Now it was done with. I had no more appetites to glut; no more stings in me with which to poison people; no more sharp teeth and clutching hands or desire to feel the pear and the grape and the sun beating down from the orchard wall.
The Waves, Virginia Woolf

In the course of thinking about life, we have examined what it means to set aside our interests to pursue true freedom in Christ, we have looked at death as having become part of our purpose in living, and we have seen the concept of ultimate truth as an essential step in the process of understanding our relationship to God. I want to investigate another philosophical component of life: what it means to be human.

Humans are without a doubt the most maddening creatures in all existence. We combine some of the greatest aspirations with the very basest of actions. We think, and dream, and hope, and plan, and conceive of the grandest structures and the most intricate schemes; only to erect these monoliths of accomplishment on the graves of those luckless souls who were trampled beneath our ambitions. We put together vast assemblies and forge our bonds of fellowship in the name of progress, promising happiness and fulfillment to all when we reach the shores of the new world; only to watch disinterestedly as our compatriots fall by the wayside one by one without ever receiving what they toiled for. We put forth all our energy to mold the world into our image, to raise our flag on the timeless summit, to leave a truly indelible mark on creation that will say for all time “Jeremy was here”; only to be relegated at the end of our mad dash for fame to a neglected grave in an obscure field, unwillingly burdened with the insignificance we so unfeelingly dealt out to others. Surely the angels wonder at us that we do not comprehend the futility of our rebellion. But invariably we do not; or if we do, we suppress the thought of it for the few blinks of an eye that our life is. And another generation springs up to do the very same thing after us. And the voice of the Preacher calls out into the emptiness: All streams run to the sea, but the sea is not full; to the place where the streams flow, there they flow again. All things are full of weariness; a man cannot utter it; the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.

To be human is to combine in yourself the very image of God and the very picture of fallenness. That such staggeringly beautiful realities as love and faith and joy and thought and triumph could coexist with the sickening realization of our own capacity for hate and unbelief and despair and chaos and defeat is perhaps the most visible proof (to the human soul) that there is a holy God against whom we have sinned. And death is the ubiquitous and unforgiving reminder that that proof is true.

Death does not really change anything, as though our situation would be fundamentally different without it. Our enmity with God is the root of the problem, and death is merely the punishment for our crime; and as we saw recently, it is also the tool God uses for our redemption. But as humans we begin to realize the seriousness of our situation when we perceive its onset. I am 32 years old now. I can push just as hard and accomplish just as much as I could when I was 22, but the difference is that I pay for it now. My body aches and my strength wanes, and I feel in myself the grim truth that this body is not immortal. If God is gracious I may make it another 32 years, but by then I will be slower yet. Add another decade or so and my light will be faded, the veil drawn over my existence. And what will I have accomplished? Will the strands of meaning in my life be visible in the fabric of eternity? Will all that gave me pleasure in being human continue, when I am human no longer?

For humanity as we know it cannot go on. We have received our terminal decree not only as individuals, but as a race. The incongruity we see in our lives is onerous to us because we are made in God’s image, and were not created to be so. How much more unspeakable a thing must it be to him! How bitter it must be to see that which he created to be Very Good, twisted and torn and beaten into the shape of a creature that does not need him (as though there could be such a thing), hastening from one poisonous undertaking to another in the short span of life. Living we claw at each other and pour the dust and ashes of materialism over our heads, and dying we shake our fists at him. No holy God would let such an existence be sustained. But thanks be that we have a God who is merciful as well as holy, who chose to redeem us instead of utterly destroying all that he had made.

And redeem us he does. There is a new humanity that began at the Resurrection, and which for each of us is being smelted in the fires of Christian affliction. We are given glimpses of it in the Old Testament, with ideas of the law being written on our hearts and freedom for the captives and the circumcision of the heart, but in the New Testament it is unveiled in all its beauty in the person and work of our Lord Jesus Christ. Instead of a tension between grandeur and corruption, we are shown the highest glory set against the most sincere humility. Instead of malicious ambition pursued to the detriment of others, a dedication to their flourishing over and above one’s self. Instead of an assembly of evildoers, each hoping he will be the last one standing, we see the family of God. And instead of a life spent desperately trying to heap more sand on the castle we hope will commemorate our achievements for all time, there is burned on every page of the Book of Life the everlasting image of One who quietly surrendered his time, his means, his love, his friendships, his preferences, his hopes, his dreams, and finally his very life for the sake of those he loved.

This new humanity is not to be attained to without suffering. The writer of Hebrews speaks of the necessity that he who brought many sons to glory should make the founder of their salvation perfect through suffering. Our perfection in the sight of the Law comes through his obedience and was accomplished at the cross, but our perfection into his image as we live the Christian life comes through the faithful work of the Spirit of God. That is why Hebrews goes on to say that he who sanctifies and those who are sanctified all have the same origin; and why he says that Jesus Christ is not ashamed to call us brothers. For we are born of the same miracle that he was (who can be born again from his mother’s womb?), and we live by the same power that sustained him (every word that comes from the mouth of God), and we will die with the same hope that he did (not to go into holy places made with hands, but to enter heaven itself).

We have not come to a mountain that may be touched and a blazing fire; to darkness, gloom and storm; to a trumpet blast and a voice of condemnation that we cannot endure. We have come to Mount Zion and the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem; and to thousands upon thousands of angels in joyful assembly, and the church of the firstborn, whose names are written in heaven. And there is a voice there we know, for it is our Master’s voice; and he calls our name, and joy springs up unbidden in our weary souls, and we are made new. Against you I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding, O Death! is his battle cry and his alone, and he will overcome the grave for us, for he is the First and the Last. Blessed are those who leave behind what they were to find themselves forever in him.

Author: Jeremy Vogan

My name is Jeremy Vogan. I live in Staunton, VA with my wife and four kids. I love to write, and seek to honestly explore the intellectual and emotional implications of following Jesus as a deeply broken person in a twisted, cruel world that is full of veiled beauty and meaning. Writing is part of how I faithfully look for Jesus Christ to someday make all things new. I'd enjoy hearing your feedback! JV