The Late Days of Orion--February 14, 2020

The Late Days of Orion--February 14, 2020

"We know that Christ, being raised from the dead, will never die again; death no longer has dominion over him. The death he died, he died to sin, once for all; but the life he lives, he lives to God. So you also must consider yourselves dead to sin and alive to God in Christ Jesus." [Romans 6:9-11]

Betelgeuse is dying... and with it, so is the last of my illusions that the things that seemed liked they'd last forever would actually endure.

You might have heard the news story somewhere along the way recently.  Scientists who watch the skies have been noticing that Betelgeuse, the red super-giant star that makes up the left armpit of the constellation Orion (the Hunter), has been dimming.  Like, really, really, dimming.  It's even noticeable to the naked eye.  A lot of astronomers think this supergiant star is getting ready to go supernova and explode. (Or, in a quirk of Einsteinian physics, that it may already have exploded but that the light from the explosion hasn't reach our eyes yet, because it is 600 light-years away from us). And when it happens (or when our Earth-bound eyes finally see that it has happened), Orion just won't be the same.  

Eventually, over a matter of months once the big explosion lights up the sky as bright as the full moon, the remnants of Betelgeuse will fade like dying embers in a hearth.  And maybe our eyes won't be able to see the shape of a human figure in the pinpoints of light that remain of Orion.  Maybe this hunter that human imaginations have been picturing in the sky for as long as civilization itself won't be recognizable any longer.  Maybe future star-watchers will think they see new images in the sky... maybe it won't look like anything at all.  It's mind-boggling, but it is quite possible that this star, which has been in the night sky for longer than there have been human beings around, will vanish in our lifetimes.  We may well be living in the late days of Orion.

And to be honest, that's a rather sad thought to me.  More than that, it's frightening.  It's scary to consider the very real possibility that the things we took for granted as permanent and unchanging might one day be gone.  It's unnerving to think that an object twenty times more massive than our sun could vanish from the spot in the night sky where it has kept constant vigil for all of our lives--and the lives of all our ancestors.  And it is unsettling to realize that if the very heavens are not as permanent and fixed as we wished they were, then all the other structures and figures we assumed would last forever could be shaken or taken away, too.  

A cosmos without Orion in the night sky means there could be a world without the institutions we have relied on, or without the old norms and principles we thought would endure, or maybe even without the people we were sure were dependable to make everything turn out all right.  It's just like the line from the old Fleetwood Mac classic: "I've been afraid of changing, 'cause I built my life around you." There are some pretty important fixtures--people, things, ideas, and institutions--we have all built our lives around, after all.  And it is scary to consider that the things we assumed were solid, were unchanging, and were unshakable, could all become only the memory of afterglow before our very eyes.

There's no pretending that this isn't the age we live in.  All the time, we are being reminded how things aren't "the way they used to be."  All the time, the norms and standards we thought would prevent the worst from happening reveal they are crumbling.  All the time, the people we counted on to be fixed points in our lives reveal themselves to be unreliable, shaky, or simply not who we thought they were--sometimes even the faces we see back in the mirror.  Like James Baldwin put it, "A civilization is not destroeyd by wicked people; it is not necessary that people be wicked, but only that they be spineless."  Every time I look up at the night sky and spot Betelgeuse there in Orion's shoulder socket, I am reminded that even the things I thought would be there forever may just vanish--and maybe we are watching them start to fade right now.

When you realize that everything else we might "build our lives around" (to use Stevie Nicks' phrasing) could be shaken, at some point, you start asking questions about God, too.  If the very stars in the universe can be put out like snuffing out a candle, then what gives us confidence that the life we are promised in Christ will not flake out on us.  If the institution called "church" doesn't look like it used to... or doesn't seem to command the same perch of influence it once had... or doesn't seem as reliable as we imagined it once was... then how do we know we can count on the Christ the church says it is centered on?  What gives us reason to believe that Jesus will really be able to come through for us and deliver on the promise of life for us when even supergiant stars eventually succumb to the power of death?  If one of the brightest stars in the night sky for all of human history is fading out before our very eyes, what gives us assurance that the One we name as "the Bright and Morning Star" and "the Light of the World" will not vanish like Orion's shoulder?

This seems to be the very question Paul has in mind when he thinks about the kind of life that Jesus brings.  And for the apostle Paul, it is Jesus' own death that gives us confidence in his power for life.  Paul says that because Jesus has already died and been raised, he cannot die again.  He is no longer subject to the power of death--and because of that, he can make promises that really are building our lives around.  Betelgeuse can't promise that--it still has to deal with its own death.  Orion can't promise that, either--the mighty hunter will have to stare down his own mortality.  All the other institutions, structures, norms, and even civilizations of history will have to come face to face with their own expiration dates.  But the executed-and-risen homeless rabbi named Jesus has something that none of the world's empires or the galaxies biggest stars have: Jesus has the wounds of his own death still marking his body.  And because he has come through death, we have the confidence that he can give us life.

That's why he's the one worth building our lives around, despite all the other people that change in life and landslides that shift the ground underneath our feet.  Jesus is the one who will not let us down, because he has already faced the moment where we let him down and let him get strung up--and he has come through it.  Jesus' death is what assures us of our resurrections, because nothing can stop him any longer.

Maybe that's the long and the short of the good news we need right now.  Nothing can stop Jesus any longer.  Not the failure of our institutions, not the changing of norms we thought were fixed, and not the collapse of the safeguards we were sure would endure.  When they crumble--and they do--he keeps at it.  When they fade--and they will--his light keeps on shining.  When the others we built our lives on prove unreliable or fickle--and that happens, too--Jesus remains, because the worst that can happen to him has already happened.

On the days when I can't bring myself to put my trust in anyone or anything else, the apostle seems to say to me, "Safe bet.  I wouldn't trust any of them, either.  But Jesus is risen from the dead--you can count on him."

And I can.  Every time, I've learned, I can.  Even in these late days of Orion.

Lord Jesus, reach out your hand to us and let us build our lives around you, where everything and every one else proves shaky.  Let us trust in you to bring us to life.