Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday 17 September 2025 at 06:30
The Quiet Loss of Life
Picture yourself in a laboratory. Beneath the lens, a single cell pulses with energy. It is alive, vibrant, filled with possibility. Then, suddenly, it ceases. What has disappeared? Only one among trillions, and yet something essential has slipped away. We call it "life" but we cannot grasp its meaning. No experiment, no human skill, can summon it back. Its life has ended, leaving us with mystery and silence.
I have been reflecting on this because, just over a week ago, my own body faltered in a way that nearly carried me into oblivion. I know the moment will return; it comes for all of us. When it does, I hope to stretch out my arms and whisper, as Stephen the martyr once did, “Heavenly Father, receive my spirit.”
It will happen to you too. Just like that cell under the microscope, one day you will slip quietly from this world.
That truth casts a sobering light on the way we live. The silly arguments, the grudges that harden into bitterness, the endless scramble for wealth or recognition—how hollow they seem in the face of our mortality. The hate and hostility that people indulge in, not pausing to consider that death will one day demand them, will surely leave them wanting in the eyes of their Creator.
And yet, the Scriptures remind us that even the smallest losses matter. Jesus spoke of sparrows sold for almost nothing, yet not one falls to the ground without God’s awareness. Life, however overlooked by others, is noticed. Life is valued.
Stephen, as stones rained down upon him, did not cling desperately to survival but entrusted himself to Christ with the words, “Receive my spirit.” His fragile life was slipping away, but he believed it was secure in God’s hands. Centuries earlier, Job had asked the haunting question: If a man dies, will he live again? His answer was not despair but hope—he would wait for renewal. Both Stephen and Job faced mortality with the conviction that life is not extinguished but kept, safeguarded in what Scripture calls the Book of Life.
We did not kindle the spark within us, nor do we sustain it. Life is gift, not possession. Which leads us to the deeper questions: What does it truly mean to be alive? And inseparably, what does it mean to be human?
The Scriptures sketch a picture that invites us to ponder. To be human is first to be beloved creation. The psalmist marvels that the Maker of stars and galaxies should care for us, crowning us with honour. Our smallness does not render us insignificant; it highlights the care of God. To be human is also to be moral beings, shaped by the breath of God breathed into us, endowed with conscience and choice. Sometimes we stumble, sometimes we shine, but always our freedom is part of our dignity.
At the same time, we are dependent yet eternal. The psalmist reminds us we are dust—frail, fleeting, easily broken. And yet Ecclesiastes tells us eternity has been set in our hearts. That paradox—mortal yet made for more—defines how God sees us. Fallen, yes, prone to wander, yet redeemable through Christ, who calls us not merely sinners but sons and daughters, capable of renewal and reconciliation. And finally, we are stewards and witnesses, entrusted with the earth and with each other, called to reflect His justice, His kindness, and His humility.
Life is quiet, often overlooked, yet immeasurably precious. To see it rightly is to recognize that the cell beneath the lens, the sparrow in the sky, the neighbour beside us, and even our own breath—all are gifts sustained by God. We live in the tension of fragility and eternity, dust and spirit, loss, and hope.
And so, I ask you to consider: in the brief time you are given, how will you live?
For what is the hope of the godless when he is cut off, When God requires his life?
Will God hear his cry When distress comes upon him?
Will he take delight in the Almighty? Will he call on God at all times?
The Quiet Loss of Life
The Quiet Loss of Life
Picture yourself in a laboratory. Beneath the lens, a single cell pulses with energy. It is alive, vibrant, filled with possibility. Then, suddenly, it ceases. What has disappeared? Only one among trillions, and yet something essential has slipped away. We call it "life" but we cannot grasp its meaning. No experiment, no human skill, can summon it back. Its life has ended, leaving us with mystery and silence.
I have been reflecting on this because, just over a week ago, my own body faltered in a way that nearly carried me into oblivion. I know the moment will return; it comes for all of us. When it does, I hope to stretch out my arms and whisper, as Stephen the martyr once did, “Heavenly Father, receive my spirit.”
It will happen to you too. Just like that cell under the microscope, one day you will slip quietly from this world.
That truth casts a sobering light on the way we live. The silly arguments, the grudges that harden into bitterness, the endless scramble for wealth or recognition—how hollow they seem in the face of our mortality. The hate and hostility that people indulge in, not pausing to consider that death will one day demand them, will surely leave them wanting in the eyes of their Creator.
And yet, the Scriptures remind us that even the smallest losses matter. Jesus spoke of sparrows sold for almost nothing, yet not one falls to the ground without God’s awareness. Life, however overlooked by others, is noticed. Life is valued.
Stephen, as stones rained down upon him, did not cling desperately to survival but entrusted himself to Christ with the words, “Receive my spirit.” His fragile life was slipping away, but he believed it was secure in God’s hands. Centuries earlier, Job had asked the haunting question: If a man dies, will he live again? His answer was not despair but hope—he would wait for renewal. Both Stephen and Job faced mortality with the conviction that life is not extinguished but kept, safeguarded in what Scripture calls the Book of Life.
We did not kindle the spark within us, nor do we sustain it. Life is gift, not possession. Which leads us to the deeper questions: What does it truly mean to be alive? And inseparably, what does it mean to be human?
The Scriptures sketch a picture that invites us to ponder. To be human is first to be beloved creation. The psalmist marvels that the Maker of stars and galaxies should care for us, crowning us with honour. Our smallness does not render us insignificant; it highlights the care of God. To be human is also to be moral beings, shaped by the breath of God breathed into us, endowed with conscience and choice. Sometimes we stumble, sometimes we shine, but always our freedom is part of our dignity.
At the same time, we are dependent yet eternal. The psalmist reminds us we are dust—frail, fleeting, easily broken. And yet Ecclesiastes tells us eternity has been set in our hearts. That paradox—mortal yet made for more—defines how God sees us. Fallen, yes, prone to wander, yet redeemable through Christ, who calls us not merely sinners but sons and daughters, capable of renewal and reconciliation. And finally, we are stewards and witnesses, entrusted with the earth and with each other, called to reflect His justice, His kindness, and His humility.
Life is quiet, often overlooked, yet immeasurably precious. To see it rightly is to recognize that the cell beneath the lens, the sparrow in the sky, the neighbour beside us, and even our own breath—all are gifts sustained by God. We live in the tension of fragility and eternity, dust and spirit, loss, and hope.
And so, I ask you to consider: in the brief time you are given, how will you live?
For what is the hope of the godless when he is cut off,
When God requires his life?
Will God hear his cry
When distress comes upon him?
Will he take delight in the Almighty?
Will he call on God at all times?
Job 27: 8-10
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