As humans, the abrupt end of life is hard to imagine, yet we face it nearly every day in some form or another. You can’t help but wonder—what is its essence, what is its meaning? Perhaps the meaning is too deep to grasp. So, we explain it away, or some even curse its invention. But to curse the invention is to curse the inventor, isn’t it? For it was once said, “In the day you eat the fruit, you will die.” It was unwise to test that command. We imagine the source of life would never follow through—but He did. Everything that comes forth from His mouth is a sure thing, as certain as gravity, as constant as orbits, as fixed as the laws of the cosmos. Therefore, the law of death had to be litigated, tried, tested, and finally overcome. Only the wisest of the wise could break through the contract of death.
People die every day. The famous make headlines, their passing etched into memory. But what of the unfamous—are their deaths any less meaningful? What of the child that dies in the womb—are they any less important? To some, perhaps. Yet the notion of meaning itself is a mountain we all strive to climb. And of all things that touch us personally, death is often the peak, the one reality towering over all. It is unavoidable—like gravity, like wind, like a sneeze. And like a sneeze, you feel it coming on. It knocks at your door, it slips into your dreams.
Where then is the comfort of death? Even the greatest Stoic trembles before it. Yet when the process is complete and the body lies still, the emptiness strangely turns toward comfort. For now the true meaning is unveiled: the ruach, the spirit, has departed. The contract’s terms have been fulfilled in the form of a lifeless body. Naturally, the mind turns toward hope—the music is still playing, though they are no longer dancing to life’s tune.
“Do not murder” is the command. But do we listen? Why hurry the ultimate contract? Even the murderer cannot escape fulfilling it eventually. Young and old, rich and poor, wise and unwise—none escape. It feels so final, so absolute—but is it?
Will there come a day when we may ask death, “Where is your sting?” Only a true conqueror could defy such odds. Yet what if that conqueror already exists? At first, He may appear like a crack in the wall of a darkened room—light seeping in from the other side. And then the choice is upon you: patch the crack, or tear down the wall. To patch it means you trust only your own wisdom—you will not bend your mind toward myths, legends, or fables. But another, humbled by curiosity, tears down the wall at the very sight of the light. For humility moves one to investigate, to inquire, to admit that their own wisdom may be flawed.
So, is life important? And if so, why? Who declared it important, that it must exist at all? Perhaps it is the same One who took it away, deeming us unworthy of it. Calm your nerves. Breathe. You are alive—for now. Yet I urge you: investigate humbly. It will not be easy, and your comfortable norms will be challenged.
Dedicated to the Family of Charlie Kirk