On being dead or alive, part 2

 

I have no conscious recollection of being dead, I was too young, and now, though I will inevitably experience dying, I shall never know what it is like to be dead. But, theologically speaking, dead was what I was, from my birth in November 1972 until my baptism, when my missionary parents were home on furlough, in September 1973.

At birth, I was severed from my mother, and from God. Not that I was in any way unacceptable to God, any more so than the umbilical cord was cut on account of my being unacceptable to my mother. Birth is a necessary separation, from God and neighbour, or state of being dead. But just as I was placed on my mother's breast, so we might get to know and trust one another, so also was I placed on God's breast. As she watched over me, so too did God.

At my baptism, at St Mary’s Broadwater, I crossed, with Jesus, from death to life. And ever since, I have been learning from him what it looks and sounds and smells and tastes and feels like to be alive. And that will take eternity, and it so happens that we have the time.