I come from a family of many cousins. As a kid, I even remember thinking there were too many cousins! Not even recognizing everyone at a family reunion. That kind of thing.
However, I never thought I’d lose 4 of my cousins—1 on my mom’s side and now 3 on my dad’s side—before I hit 35.
This past week, my cousin Robin Steele left for work at 6am and didn’t even make it a mile down the road before he was killed by a drunk driver (who later died in the hospital).
It makes no sense. Robin was 45 and he leaves behind two young children (you can donate toward their future here).
Why did this happen? Who drives drunk at 6am? Why Robin? Why couldn’t guy have hit a telephone pole instead?
The questions keep coming. And, though the temptation is strong to rush to answers, I don’t think we should do that.
Evil and Death are senseless. As I said in a sermon once:
Evil is incomprehensible. It is the impossible possibility—a headlong dive, away from the source of Life and Light, into the arms of nothingness and darkness. It makes no sense! Therefore, some neat and tidy “answers” to the problem of evil can themselves be evil—by trying to explain that which cannot be explained! Don’t offer or seek such “answers.” It’s better to remain silent, or to cry out “Why, God? Why?!” Job did. Jesus did.
There’s no answer, especially not on this side of eternity, for such a senseless, untimely death. Instead of explaining, I think we should lament. We should grieve. Christ himself wept at the death of a loved one, and so can we.
I’ll confess that I did not know Robin very well, especially not while growing up. He was 11 years my senior. One of the older cousins, while I was one of the youngest.
It wasn’t until I was grown, with kids of my own, that we really interacted. And a few things struck me.
First, Robin clearly cared about people deeply. Especially his children. He seemed like a really fun dad who would do anything for his kids. And, especially compared to introvert ol’ me, he seemed to know everyone, so many friends!
In fact, for better or worse, Robin seemed to care about most things deeply. He was pretty passionate and outspoken online, and we didn’t always see eye to eye on things. Got in a few arguments in the comment sections.
But, you know what? Robin was always encouraging to me even when we’d disagree. He’d brag me up to other people (“my cousin’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met”). He’d chime-in with encouragement on getting back into shape in my 30s.
I’m so glad we ended things on a good note, by reassuring each other that we loved each other, despite our disagreements. And that our last interaction wasn’t an argument. It was a brief chat about Bible translation recommendations and other resources. The last message I got from him was “This is amazing. Thank you so much!”
I just thought we had more time. To build a real friendship, to hang out, to do things with our kids together. All these things I didn’t get around to doing because I assumed we had plenty of time.
I wish I’d encouraged him more, that I’d been as upbeat and positive about him as he was about me. That I’d let him know I appreciated his example of being a caring father, of taking care of your health and your friendships as you got older.
I wish we’d had more time.
But, we don’t.
None of us knows how much time we have left. Before disease or disaster takes us away from those we love.
Death is terrible because it breaks our relationships and our promises. Every promise we make to each other is, as theologian Robert Jenson put it, “rendered conditional by the future of death.”
I hate death, and I bet you do, too.
I won’t attempt to explain death. But I do take solace in following a savior who hates death as much as I do. Who has suffered death and, as absurd as it sounds, defeated it. And whose promise of life—given from the other side of death—is therefore unconditional. Here’s the full paragraph from Jenson:
That for Jesus death is past and not future, means that the future from which he comes is the last future, that the spirit in which he is present is the Breath of the Kingdom, that the gospel-word that is his address is an eschatological judgment. For whereas all the promises we make one another are rendered conditional by the future of death, Jesus’ resurrection makes his intention for us unconditional. All my commitments are iffy, for I commit a future I do not surely have. Jesus’ commitment to us is rescued from conditionality and cannot but triumph utterly; such a triumph, vice versa, must be the conclusion of the entire human enterprise.
Still, for the time being, at least, we live with each other in the land of the dying. Not knowing how long we have left with each other. It’s good to remember this, and to live each day in light of it.
I miss my cousin Robin. Until I see him again, I’ll try to speak more words of encouragement, even to those I disagree with. To care about people deeply, and to let them know I care.
And, in defiance of Death (the bastard), I close with John Donne:
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
If you can, go donate to Robin’s kids here.