Under Constant Observation

There I was, waiting for the hearse to arrive, and though it was a beautifully cool summer’s day, God reminded me, through the finality of death, that I’m under constant observation.

We are never fully our own. Ever. Though life tempts us with the thought, our control is ours, it isn’t.

Then I read Psalm 139. Read it right here. If we read this psalm and get any idea other than we’re under constant observation, we’re probably missing something. Sure, we have the assurance of God’s radiant Presence in our lives, and we’re never beyond his care, and he that knows me knows me with an incomprehensible knowing. In other words, with more of a knowing than I can be aware of.

All of that.

But there is more.

Nothing we do, and nothing that is done to us, escapes his notice or knowledge. Nothing.

Everything we previously thought was secret will be shown in the light. Every justice and injustice we do in secret is done in the full vision of the One who sees everything. Every little and good deed he notices.

Why then would we pretend that we’re getting away with anything when we’re not so good. This may not be very encouraging to you, but at least it’s the truth. There are unknowable dimensions all about us in this spiritual of spiritual lives.

The Christian’s theology might as well be believed, for it has not only grown into the world’s religion, it protects us from an unconscionable outcome — that God might judge us severely and damn us to hell for the dark secrets we hold and the travesties we’re performed. Thank God for the cross of Christ!

When I’m reminded that I’m under constant observation I’m thankful. This is because I’m given important information about the potency of the moment; that I might ‘show off’ a little before the Almighty — that translates into not letting my left hand know what my right hand is doing (see Matthew 6:3-4), which are the best of secrets saved only for God’s knowledge. To conceal a good deed from humanity.

In doing secret things that are holy, especially prayers, I’m shown the eternality of God’s Presence, and by eternality, I mean how God is absolutely and cosmologically ever-present at all times in all ways, always!

Death is a reminder of this indelible truth:
we come into the world,
and, then just like that,
we leave the world.

That is a tremendous thought that ought to wake us immediately from our spiritual slumber.

The fact that the world was here, and as far as we’re concerned, always was, and the fact that the world will be, and as far as we’re concerned, always will be, and yet we’re here for just a finite time, suggests there is something bigger than us overseeing it all, overseeing us all.

The idea that I can look at a tree or a beach or even a street or a building and see that they were here before me and will be here after me makes me feel appropriately small.

The fact of my death reminds me that I must trust it.

Death is the invitation to learn how
to surrender before that act is demanded of us.

Death teaches us profound wisdom
if only we will avail ourselves of its lessons.

Death has its purpose in reminding us that we’re not God. Death is instructive. And though there is no sense in fearing death, this fear too is something also of an invitation to overcome.

Most of all, death teaches us
that we’re under constant cosmological observation.

The certainty of death teaches us
that everything we ever did or didn’t do has significance,
for every human being is aware
of the possibility of judgement.

Why then do we live pretending that life doesn’t matter?

Image: The Helix Nebula Courtesy NASA/JPL-Caltech